Should I Give Up, Or Should I Just Keep Chasing Pavement

And then there was this Night...

One would think at a certain age no matter the trouble and chaos we create in our teens and early twenties, by the time 30 is knocking we all sort of fall into this place of maturity whether we realize it or not. Our credit cards get paid off and our cars become nicer and faster and our jobs suddenly seem secure and locked. We look now to finding a mate and having a family instead of chasing after one night stands and filling our closets full of shoes we can’t afford. We attend work meetings and have someone do our taxes and use Groupon as a smart way to financially dine on Friday nights. But, some of us aren't quite there yet. Or more, we are still the same 18 year old binge drinking and drunk sexting pervert, just in designer jeans and with a higher credit card limit: Regardless, this “group” finds themselves in limbo, a constant struggle between adult yin and party time yang. 

 

And in limbo is exactly how I felt as I lay on the cold hard pavement, fully sprawled out, head resting on my purse, tears streaming down my face. I continued weeping like a child and cried even harder when I realized I had to pee. It was a Thursday night and I was drunk and alone and stuck on the other side of town. I had literally hit sidewalk rock bottom.

Let’s start from the beginning: I have a good job. And I work with super smart people. That being said I have a ridiculous amount of responsibility and stress placed on me each and every day. So, when my bosses proposed a small raise with the opportunity to do 2 jobs at once I immediately began googling the proper way one cuts oneself to make it seem like a suicide, yet keep the body alive long enough for a co-worker to find them writhing under their desk. But, being the pussy I am, I put the razor blade down and accepted the challenge AND swallowed my new 3 hour round trip commute to our satellite offices located in Hawaii.

Luckily my new work load made the time fly by but after 4 weeks of 18 hour days, 7 days a week, plus the long hours spent chain smoking in my car, I was fucking exhausted and looking to blow off some steam. The night of wrap everyone propositioned going next door for a celebratory drink. Now, I don’t know where you come from, but I have never in my life ever celebrated with just the one toast – even when I was in a high chair enjoying my first birthday you can bet your ass I was washing down my mini sheet cake with a liter of yoohoo. Homie don’t play. 

However, having not done well at my last 2 or 13 work functions I decided to class it up and show these people I was a working adult who could handle a night of slow sipping with the bosses. I enjoyed a casual glass of bubbles in the office and planned to walk over to the bar with everyone for one quick celebratory drink. 1 chard, 2 sips, finito. But, before I knew what was happening an older colleague of mine ushered me into a dark corner of the office to have a shot to us! Oh great, just what a crack head needs, a barrel full of crack. I tried declining the half glass of patron that was being offered up in the shadows but gave in as he talked of his deceased granddaughter and how much I reminded him of her. He had never been prouder of a young woman and her work and dedication to a project. FUCK. The next thing I knew I was on guilty glass number 3 and my lips were officially numb. I licked the rest of the salt off the rim as we both wiped our eyes, swallowed my lime wedge whole and told him I’d see him Monday. I had had enough to drink and the last thing I needed to do now was take my worm sucking ass to a bar.

I had quite a walk back to my car and began in hot pursuit - Steamy tequila smoke tendrils curled out of my nostrils and the fresh air made me feel clear as I entered the elevator bank excited to make my 2 hour trek home. Once in I ran straight into yet another co-worker. Hey! Where the hell are you going? Oh, I'm going home to let me dog out. Home? Home is for quitters! Before I had time to protest he punched the elevator back down to the first floor and looped his arm through mine – Upon entering the bar, I scanned the room and saw the entire team throwing back drinks and getting rowdy. Ce la vie. When party fate comes aknockin’ you gotta fucking answer the call. Plus, I had the company credit card in my back pocket.

Rounds of chardonnays and kettles and soda were ordered at my discretion, as I became court jester to my work kingdom. I made sure everyone in the room had 3 more drinks than I as I sipped water in an attempt to be a lady – I was already feeling quite groovy from my tequila shit storm from earlier so needed them to catch up and fast. After I saw at least 75% of staff take down the hard stuff I began my fun. Chardonnay after chardonnay, pool was played, and ping pong was executed and then ass grab was on the menu. Bosses were on assistants and managers were on interns. Everyone was feeling loose and I held the plastic keeping it all together. After feeling like I’d had one-teen drinks too many, I appreciate me in moments like this: 1 more drink Waz, and well, you are either going to be crying, puking, or breaking up a marriage. Put the drink down, chug 20 waters and go home to bed. You may pass McDonalds but do not pass go and do not collect that drink at the end of the bar.

 

Luckily being the boss I am I had worn my six inch Michael Kors boots to work that day to really show the people not only my camel toe but that I too could work in heels and still kick ass. As I paid the enormous tab and filled out the tip portion in Mandarin and the signature in Swedish, I Pirate-walked out the door without saying good-bye to anyone. (Note: The Pirate walk is done by one who exits an establishment dragging ones foot behind oneself, heaving their shoulders forward in an effort to gain momentum to move or rather walk, while drooling slightly from whichever way the neck is slightly cocked. I usually lean left. This is because my left boob is bigger.)

Out the bar I go hobbling and heaving my heavy work bag and lap top case behind me, suddenly looking out and staring at 4 parking garages. Logistically there are only 2, Pirate Wazzy sees 4. As I moved on in my enormous wooden boots each step felt harder and more Danish than the next as the tequila and bubbles and bottle of chardonnay kicked in. Dammit, I knew I should have had those spicy wings to soak up this bullshit. Finally after a half blacked out amount of time I made it to the elevator banks - Next task, find my car. I fell into the elevator cab sweating and sunk down to a seated position as it rose to the top. Crawling out on my hands and knees lugging my bags behind me, I hoped a car wouldn't fly by with his lights off and behead me like the bad wench I was. Finally making it to my feet I two-stepped across the dark top floor garage and Dougied into my car. I immediately jammed the keys into the ignition and fired her up. Nothing. Maybe I did it wrong. I pinched my nipples and focused my Asian looking baby blues and tried once more. Key in ignition. Foot on brake. Twist key right. Fail. FUCK!! I only had 1 hour and 12 minutes to get home and order a Papa before they closed (Papa as in John, not as in someone I sometimes meet up with on the weekends from Sugardaddy.com to collect an allowance – Oh and ladies, you’re welcome. It’s a real thing).

I decided to take a step back and re-examine my situation. In doing so I suddenly realized how light my keys felt. Removing the key from the ignition, to my horror I saw the battery had fallen out making it USELESS! Without the battery I could not properly unlock the car meaning I could not properly start the car and drive it into the ocean. Somewhere in between me walking the plank and leaning like a Cholo I had busted them. Before I had time to panic my car began doing the screaming for me – the alarm kicked off ringing and wailing. So, I handled this like any single white female: I cried, and screamed, and beat my steering wheel and eventually lay my body on the horn in defeat Rihanna style. After realizing no one was coming to my rescue and I was all out of cigarettes I switched to my next option: Call my girlfriends from work and make it their problem. Dial. Ring. Voice Mail. No one was picking up. They must be pirating too. Finally one of the girls answered - I began choking on my spit and inhaling my tears as I tried to explain my situation, starting with the tequila and dead granddaughters. I got 15 seconds into my story and blurted out one dead girl ghost moan when there was silence on the other end – my phone had died. At this point I actually felt worse than Rihanna and waited for the cops to come.   

When they didn't show up I decided to move onto plan B. I grabbed all of my belongings and made the long trek back to the elevator bank. At this point my face was so red and swollen from crying, I looked like the love child of Hitch and The Crow. I took the bank down to the first floor searching for a friendly face and noticed the entire lot was dead – no lights or people but I did see a guard shack off in the distance about 3 miles. I felt like Don Quioxte drunk and schizophrenic as I began yet another long march sans Sancho Pancho. I finally arrived at the shack winded and heaving, doubled over in my heels, face a mess, smelling like the remnants from a Lindsay Lohan bath. The guard looked at me half scared half worried as I begged him to call me a cab. My phone was dead. My car was broke. My $300 heels were grated down to a piece of mozzarella. The kind guard agreed to call me a cab. He also recommended waiting with me so I didn't get arrested or taken to Compton to play rodeo clown to a dog fight.

We walked another mile to a busier intersection and the minutes kept ticking by for this rogue cab. Realizing it was going to take a while I threw my exhausted defeated body down onto the sidewalk, boots in the air, and rested my head on my bags. Arms folded I began to cry again, like a sad, bloated child. No cab and no pizza. This sucks. After 30 more minutes of waiting and no naughty texting as my usual form of drunk entertainment, I’d had enough. Sitting upright I looked desperately over at the guard and asked him where the hell was my cab! Did he even know how to call a cab company? Did he even know how to use a cell phone? (At this point I had also taken off my bra) Sir, I am a WO-MAN sitting on a cold sidewalk waiting for a ride I can’t afford! I am a college graduate!! I HAVE A BACHELORS DEGREE!!! He looked at me hard letting me get out every word and black tear, then responded: Ma’am. If I were you I would be a little nicer. I’m the only friend you have right now and I can turn and leave your ass, out here, in the dark. Understand? I laid back down one vertebra at a time, and silently continued to cry. Another 30 minutes passed and my cab came. I peed a little then jumped in elated. I looked over to thank the guard but he was gone.

I rode all the way home looking out the window and wondering why these things always seemed to happen to me. Another $80 cab ride home alone, another giant receipt to explain to my bosses. I looked over at the clock. 2 AM. Papa was closed.  

The next day I sent my assistant to get my car after explaining a more convenient version of the story. During my lie, another assistant passed by and stopped in to listen. He shamefully admitted he had seen me and heard my alarm go off but due to the enthusiastic rendition of “Push It” I was performing for myself he decided it best to let me be.

Later in the day my bosses came in to congratulate me on a job well done. The room was spinning as I stood to shake their hands, steadying myself on my desk. I gave them my best hangover smile and felt the giant bar receipt in my back pocket as they walked out, thanking god they hadn’t noticed I was in the same clothes from the night before, minus a bra but plus an eye patch.

Cheers to Great Intentions and Crocodile Tears,

WAZ

Pride-A-Palooza

And Let’s Not Forget About This…

Every year I go directly to the back of my closet and dig up the most obnoxiously bright and festive thing I can find, dust off my feather boa, sharpen my eyeliner, and apply more glitter than a girl could dream of. I wake up at the ass crack of dawn and begin the process of binge drinking and morphing into a beautiful drag queen. This time of year is known as Chicago’s very own Gay Pride Festival. It is typically 100 degrees and there are what feels like 2 million people cooking in the narrow streets of Boystown, all trying to catch a glimpse of the dancing queens. For those of you that have been, you know that it’s a whole different world, and once you cross Clark Street there is absolutely no going back. All the streets are shut down and the only way to get across is by having all the gays huddle up to catapult your body across one of the parade floats, hoping to catch some ass mid-flight. Just picture thousands of people grinding in the streets, strangers hugging strangers, and expect to be told how beautiful you are all day long. From a bird’s eye view it looks like a giant glittery rainbow farted on the North side of town.

I have had my face painted by a lesbian clown, have earned my body weight in dick-shaped beads, sought out and kissed the one and only straight man in the bunch, and have been groped by the best of ‘em. One year I even ran into an unexpected guest on the train. I was sitting with my 3 best girlfriends and minding my own while taking pulls out of a bottle of Wolfschmidt vodka, when suddenly I was slapped upside the head. Ready to turn around and verbally assault someone’s face, I heard “What the hell are you doing here lady!?”(in a smokers voice so deep that she woke up her own cat 50 miles away.) HOLY SHIT! HEY GRANNY!!! I’m going to Gay Pride, what about you?! She roared back, ME TOO!! We clinked vodka’s and high-fived so fiercely that everyone around us now knew we were pre-gaming family style on the 8 AM train.

With all of that being said, there is still one particular year that stands out above all the rest. I decided to bring my friend who was about to pop her Gay Pride Parade cherry. Not really knowing what she was in for, she had the right attitude going into things: A non-judgmental mind and a liver that was open for business. We drank our way into the homosexual chaos and loved every minute of it. We saw the dykes on bikes, approximately 300 sweaty nut sacks, and a variety of questionable characters. Mission accomplished. When the parade came to and end, there was nothing left but mounds of garbage littering the streets and thousands of drunk people doing somersaults through it. We had seen enough and were ready to take the party back to our hometown dive bar where we felt safe and secure in case one of us decided to nap on a stool  Wiping the glitter out of our tear ducts, we attempted to hail a cab. After 45 minutes of walking in the blistering heat and knowing that we had approximately 20 minutes to catch our train, we clunked our dome pieces together and thought up a brilliant plan.

From a distance we spotted a strapping young Hindu that just so happened to be driving an ice cream truck. At this point it was so hot out that I was running a sweat shop between my boobs and this ice cream truck could have been a mirage. Strutting our boiling bodies towards him we were now in 100% prostitute mode. I was completely over walking and we knew if we had any chances of catching that train, our new friend Gudakeysha was our only hope. Two Dora the Explora’s and a Choco Taco later we had finally convinced our main man Ke$ha to take us for a ride. My friend jumped in the passenger seat and without hesitation I opened the gate to the back and made myself right at home next to all the freezer compartments. It was all of 38 seconds before I had my body hanging out of the little window and was chucking ice cream at anyone’s head that was covered in beads. I felt the need to tell every homosexual how fabulous they looked and that the ice cream cone that was coming 40 mph at their face WAS ON ME! You’re welcome! Guda was begging for me to stop throwing away all of his frozen treats free of charge and to please put things back the way they were. Snoopy’s were mixed in with Incredible Hulks and Ninja Turtles were now sharing a bin with the Sponge Bob’s but I didn't care. His shit was a mess, and it was all thanks to me. I yelled back at him, HEY LISTEN GUDAKEYSHA! DON’T EVER TRUST A DRUNK GIRL WITH YOUR DAIRY BRO!! He agreed with me as we pulled up to our destination. Feeling bad about almost ruining all my fun, we hugged it out and he offered up a snow cone on the house as a peace offering. We politely declined and sprinted up the ramp only to find that he had taken us to the wrong station. Son of a Hindu! We missed our train!

With 2 hours to kill until our next ride rolled through, we decided to hit the streets for a cold brew. On our way we met a nice lesbian couple that we learned had been hitched for over 14 years. It was no secret that they were into us and offered to buy as a drink while we waited for our train. One beer quickly turned into a barrel and the next thing you know we were all dancing to Michael Jackson’s Greatest Hits. (Side note: This was right after Michael hit the pavement so we had the entire establishment in tears and up on their feet honoring all of the King of Pop’s best moves -including the bartender). What started out to be an innocent cocktail turned into us unraveling 14 years of marriage simply by smelling of sweet summer corn and knowing all the words to Man In The Mirror. I admit I did notice wife # 1 undressing us with her eyes but thought nothing of it as I continued to raise my arms perfecting the“Thriller” choreography. How sexy could dancing zombies in bloody stitches really be? Well, wife #2 did not appreciate our grace and taught arm movements either and shit got really awkward as she called wife #1 out on all the inappropriate gestures that were directed towards us young fawns. My friend and I found this to be the perfect opportunity to bolt- Well, look at the time!? Ladies, it has been a pleasure and thank you so much for the dance. As the one licked her lips, I grabbed my friends hand, covered her eyes, and sprinted towards the train station. We made it just in the butch of time, and couldn't wait to get back to share our scandalous voyage as homosexuals.

Cheers to Hot Fudge Hitch Hiking  and Butch Break Ups,  

Ti-Bag 

Kirb Your Enthusiasm

Remember When…

Once upon a night, 2 girls went out drinking and looking for men. These were fine girls and they tipped back their beers at the local pub trying to acquire interesting male conversation. Having no such luck the night trickled on without success. As the moon hung low in the sky and the barkeeps began closing down shop, the uninteresting men quickly disappeared into the distant hills to their wives and whores. The girls had no other choice but to button up their petty coats, pay their tabs respectfully and retire to their bungalow. At this particular time, Ti was the gracious host and Waz was buying sleep in the comfort of her underground lair.

The two girls enjoyed a stiff nightcap in their sleeping gowns, then blew out the candles, and kissed each other good night. They dreamt of men and interesting conversation and longed to be entertained.

As the golden morning began stretching its rays, light flooded the windows illuminating the quaint space. Luckily the girls had had SO much of the fizzy drink, they slept through the suns birth. It wasn't until the loud thick knock at the front door that they did startle.

WHO THE FUCK IS IT? Ti squawked in a voice deeper than a baritone sax hitting an F/E sharp. (The 2 birds tweeting sweetly outside her window also died immediately) The front door sprang open as he stepped into the landing – a tall strong looking man wearing cargo shorts and thick leather boots and a cherry stained cotton shirt. His intricately gelled hair appeared confident and unmovable, his diamond earrings nearly blinding the girls as they were hit with an odorous wave of Axe: Phoenix and Abercrombie’s Fierce. MY NAME IS JASON LADIES, AND I’M HERE TO SHOW YOU MY KIRBY.

WHAT THE FUCK IS A KIRBY? Ti squawked yet again as she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her side table and lit one with her breath. I stayed quiet, tucked behind her body shivering with no pants on.

The man took Ti’s “casual cigarette in bed bit” to mean, come on in. Down he thudded the 16 steps from the front door to the front of the bed where the two of us laid mystified and confused. Before either of us had time to speak the gentlemen outreached his hand for a proper handshake then immediately swung the 80 pound vacuum he had attached to his back around his shoulders and head, nearly missing our toes. THIS LADIES, IS A KIRBY AND YOU TI, HAVE EARNED YOURSELF A FREE CARPET CLEANING.

The two of us took a scan around the apartment looking for carpet (the scan took less than 3 seconds total) The only carpet in the entire 250 sq. foot space were the dirty stairs leading up to the front door. Pointing in that direction I suggested Jason start there as I fished under the covers for my leg sleeves. EASY LADIES, he said. I'VE GOT THIS.

Having fully now woken up and examining the situation at hand, a few things ran through my mind. He was either A, here to kill us, B, we had met him last night and accidentally agreed to an AM threesome or C, Ti had now resorted to inviting “vacuum salesmen” over as a way to get lucky. I chose D, none of the above, he was here for our entertainment. I immediately shot up and grabbed a half full bottle of Rashid Wallace champagne from the night before and poured Ti and myself 2 coffees. After finding a suitable outlet Jason began cleaning and as we finished our rotten booze he had stairs 1-16 shining bright. He smiled at us elated as we clapped for our hero.

A small bit of sweat hung on his brow and as he wiped it away, the body spray embedded in his skin ignited the room and I swear I saw a flame in his eye. Jason asked what was next. What was next? There was nothing else to clean! This place looked and smelled like Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s basement: cold, carpet-less  and full of lotion - Well in that case, I chimed in, can you please go get us some more champagne at the gas station? I've got quite the headache and we are both dreadfully thirsty. Jason said he’d sure love to but couldn't on account of the fact that he’d gotten a DUI just a few weeks back so he wasn't allowed to purchase alcohol – he did however know a great restaurant down the road that didn't card and had $2 Natty lite on tap. Half tempted to accept the offer we decided we needed to know more about Jason before we got into a vehicle with him and his suction machines.

With the two of us still tucked in bed we asked if his vacuum cleaned furniture. He said it did and within minutes like a magician, he attached several small pieces and a hose to the Kirby. Ti made a move to clean off her chair so Jason could have a fresh canvas to paint on, but Jason insisted on stripping it himself. We were all shocked when he finally got down to the last layer of dirty clothes and pulled out a human body. Jason was so cool about it as he walked it up the stairs and laid it in the drive way to grow back to life. Back to the chair he came, forearms flexed, hips and torso in position. Within minutes the chair too looked and smelled as good as 2007.

Jason was now on a roll – there was no carpet or piece of furniture too big or too small for him to tackle. He had seen and de-stained it all. Though he was doing this free of charge, the confidence he gained from his hard work was priceless. With beer brunch still on the table we decided to keep Jason around a little while longer. Before he knew what we were going to ask he accepted the challenge and began cleaning Ti’s mattress with us still in the bed. Rolling from side to side, we expertly kept our hands and feet out of Jason’s intricate path. He cleaned the entire mattress head to toe, front and back, flipping bodies and pillows to do a job well done, while we laid by comfortably enjoying the gentle yoga flow. This guy was a pro. He twisted the hose from left to right, removing unnecessary pieces and stacked them in his belt as his eyes landed on a special stain. Suddenly Jason reached deep into his back pocket and pulled out a foreign looking piece – a piece used so few and far between in the Kirby world most would have mistaken it for arsenal or Tupperware. He took the plastic-like shell and fitted it to a secret nozzle then pressed a hidden button under the belly of the vacuum. The Kirby giggled. It was ticklish.

The sound that came next was menacing and the man was maniacal. He saw the stain at the end of the stripped bed and we all knew it had to go. Plunging the secret piece into the soft springy dough he began kneading and rolling the mattress likes a baker at a bread race. Hand over hand he sawed machine into the cottony flesh and to everyone’s amazement the stain began to lift. Shade by shade it softened until there was only a faint glow left behind – but this wasn't good enough for Jason. No, he wanted more. He pressed the secret button one more time and the machine began vibrating almost uncontrollably – there was no stopping him. Pressed up against the headboard Ti and I held hands and closed our eyes as turbo booster met mattress and to everyone’s horror it cut right through the cotton down to the spring. Jason had gone too far. He immediately jerked his arm back alarmed at his own strength, eyes wide as he wildly screamed out NOOOOO, but it was too late. The Kirby damage had been done. Our screams were silent as we knew in our heart of hearts the mattress was dead. Jason dropped the secret piece of machinery as if it had a mind of its own and pressed his hands to his hard pecks. His reputation was ruined and so was our nap.

As the dust settled there wasn't much left to say. Jason packed up his belongings, his pale face long and sad. We stayed in bed and placed a blanket over the new hole. We didn't think brunch was a good idea anymore. Or, carpet cleaning.

On his way out Jason offered us a 50 % off deal on a new machine plus a chance to sit on his back as he did push-ups as a special thank you. Though it was a hard bargain we had to refuse. He handed us business cards and looked up with puppy dog eyes. We pointed to the door for him to leave – he knew what he had done. The moral of the story is, if a strange man comes over to shampoo and deep clean your rug, just make sure he doesn't get overzealous and get stuck in a tight space.

Cheers to The Boy who Cried Brunch and Mattress Munching,

WAZ  

The Cupid Shuffle

So this happened last night…

Any single woman automatically breaks out in hives the minute her alarm clock goes off on the morning of February 14^th. Their bodies go into system overload and it takes 24 hours to power down and reboot. Watching their co-workers receive flowers and candy and bullshit all day is enough to put any single gal on suicide watch. I almost knocked a bouquet of flowers out of some bastards’ hands earlier in the day but unfortunately my “morals” kicked in. Most women deny that they are going home after work to throw on their ex-boyfriends sweatpants then eat 3 pounds of chocolate covered anything and proceed to wash it all down with 2 bottles of Pinot and some NyQuil. Well I will never be that girl. I would obviously replace the chocolate with 7 layer burritos from Taco Bell (buckets-o-mild on the side please).

 I decided that I wanted this Valentine’s Day to be extra special. I was picturing a night filled with chocolate covered jagerbombs and a bouquet of cigarettes. Rather than making a noose out of my best linens, I realized that would just be a waste and I should probably find something better to do with my time and my bed sheets. I decided to invite my buddy down to the city so that I would have someone to distract me from watching Titanic on repeat all night while reciting every word. You know who you are LADIES, we are all guilty of doing it. I often find myself having spitting competitions with the dog over my third story balcony. He always wins because he has mastered the art of arching his back while being on all fours, which to my surprise really gives him an advantage. I laugh and call him Jack, with a cocked head he looks at me, but I know there is no confusion. He thinks I make a great Kate Winslet. But that’s neither here nor there.

I thought, why not do the respectable thing and hit the streets for some strange ass. I wanted to embrace being a single woman of 2013 and once again show Chi-town what they KEEP missing. I’d like to call it a Valentine’s Day rebound, but in reality I wasn't rebounding from anything. There hasn't been a backboard in my life for well over 2 years. Ti-Bag: 0 Life: 117. Take me off the bench coach, I’m about to ALLEY OOP this city. After draining an entire bottle of wine, I was feeling overly confident and ready to bat my lashes for some free drinks. My friend and I ended up in Wrigleyville at a bar that looked like it had some potential. We spotted an open booth across the way that happened to be right in the middle of all of the action. Dancing, mingling, rounds of shots - things were looking very promising.

I ran to the bathroom and filled up our Diet Cokes with the water bottle of whiskey I had smuggled into the bar. We sat there for about 15 minutes singing every word to Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, but not one person was feeling our groove. I looked around at all of the eligible bros and honey dips and wondered why they weren't feeling our vibrations. DUHH! We looked like we were on a date! Oh hell no, it was time to go our separate ways. We gave each other some pointers, hand hugged, and moon walked to opposite ends of the dance floor. After giving it some serious thought, I ended up playing the “girl alone at the bar” card. It’s Valentine’s Day, this girl’s drink is almost empty, she looks vulnerable - come and get it you idiots!

Fast forward three minutes – BOOM! Out of my peripheral vision I see the first shark swim up to the bar getting ready to approach me. He was okay, but nothing to write home about. The bottle of wine I had inhaled earlier told me that I could do better. I politely nodded and turned my back to him acting like I was getting a funny text. Oh goody, here comes sorry sap number two. To my surprise he looked like a young James Franco and I wasn’t about to pretend text with this one. Jumping into my go-to character (Betty “Rizzo” in Grease), I act tough letting them know there are definitely worse things I could do than accept a drink from a boy or two. When it came time to leave, he asked for my digits and I went about my night. The whiskey had definitely kicked in at this point and I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. When I got home I received a text from “RED IVY” which was the bar we were at and apparently how I had named my suitor. I texted Big Red back and the next thing I knew he was headed over in a cab. I did what I do with every male guest I have over; I take the edge off by hosting an extremely competitive dance off in my bedroom. In between the worm, the sprinkler, and the tootsie roll I sipped on the cocktail he had made for me. Ivy brought over a bottle of nothing good. When it hit my lips it tasted like a concoction of all of his household cleaning supplies with a splash of red Gatorade. I didn't seem to mind, as I was too busy perfecting my version of the running man. After working up a sweat, we decided to catch our breath by sucking face and doing our very own rendition of the running man. I will spare you the details, but what came next was my so called “Valentine’s Day 3 pointer”. I felt like Jordan in game 6 and it was definitely something to write home about.

At 8 AM we decided to unlock lips and I called him a cab. I noticed that my best bud was no longer on the couch- he typically leaves right around the time he hears the gun go off for the dance competition. Red Ivy told me that he had to get home to write a term paper. I said, oh good for you! Going back to school is very honorable and something I wish I would force myself to do. He said, “Well I didn't go back, I am a student, at Columbia College”. With a confused look on my face, I continued to listen, terrified at what was coming next. “I live in the dorms there right off of State Street.” Uggghhh, son of a bitch. I told him I was very familiar with those dorms, 9 years ago to be exact. That would explain the sweet vermouth he brought over for me to choke down and why he was wearing an Abercrombie polo. He was too young to realize that vermouth was just an ingredient for a Manhattan and not an actual mixer you just causally sip on. This guy just gave me 4 cavities and a license to cougar. Without asking anymore questions, I told him to call his mom back since she had called 9 times, threw his ass in a cab and wished him well with his studies. You know things are bad when you find yourself with someone that sleeps on a top bunk and keeps requesting that you play a remix by one of Kiss FM’s DJ’s. I have become one of the terrifying red dots on your computer screen when you pull up your neighborhood's sex offender list.

Cheers to Heart Shaped Suckers and Co-ed Sleepovers, 

Ti-Bag 

A Letter to a Neighbor

Dear Black Man who sits in a wheelchair outside of my apartment:

Sir, I feel we all have certain rights living in this country but you, you have crossed a line. Sitting outside of my apartment each night when I go out to walk my dog has got to stop. You are not there in the morning when I stumble out to make sure I didn't crash my car the night before. You are not there in the afternoon when I come home from work to enjoy a midday white wine spritzer. Do you sit in your apartment and wait for my Jeep to pull into its spot after my long work day, then wheel yourself downstairs and promptly perch on the sidewalk awaiting my arrival? And why do you always wear the same Denver Broncos jersey? No matter rain or shine there you sit, limp ankles crossed, loyally sporting hot orange fatigue. How many of those things do you own or are you really doing that much laundry? Is that how you fill your days washing and drying the same jersey? Please note, I do not like sports or the color orange or anything referring to or in the proximity of Denver, Colorado. I’d very much prefer you to wear a nice button down. Or, maybe a soft cotton V-neck. Try cobalt blue – it will bring out your eyes. 

And why, the second you see me coming down the stairs do you whip out a fake flip phone that I’m not even sure ever worked and pretend to be talking “business”. Who could you possibly be conducting business with outside in the dark? I never see you write anything down and you don’t even have a calculator or a briefcase. You do however have black Fila swish pants. And snap pants. And hammer pants. I highly doubt you are making plans to “have your lawyer look over the papers” or are weary of “the spike in your competitors sales” wearing such leisure bottoms.

More importantly, don’t think for one second I don’t notice you on the weekend nights rocking hair gel – just because I don’t have to work the next morning is no reason for you to get fancy. I don’t want a ride, I will not take a seat, and never again ask me to push you around. I won’t be swayed by your average looks and Acqua Di Gio for men. And if I have to tell you one more time that my dog is named after Steve Martin the actor NOT an ex-boyfriend I will gladly uproot your kickstand or let some of the air out of one of your tires. (I will tell you which tire first so you don’t roll off the curb too quickly or hit a parked car) Sexual harassment is inappropriate whether one’s limbs work or not. However, thank you for the stick of gum the other night and for complimenting my ass in my skinny jeans. I've been doing lunges.

Sincerely, Apt. 4103

WAZ

Rinsing Florida down the drain

 Remember When…

One adolescent summer, 12 of our friends decided to stay in an upscale community at a friend’s beach house down in the athlete’s foot of the US - the sunny city of Fort Myers. Being underage and without fake ID’s, we remained super chill, knowing damn well that the boys wouldn’t disappoint in the booze department. One full week of no adult supervision and horny teenagers? When does our plane leave?!? Upon arrival, we all settled in and unpacked (Side note: All the girls shared one room upstairs with 2 twin beds and a pull out couch. Unpacking consisted of pulling out our bikinis and a toothbrush). We immediately cannonballed into the pool one by one and started shot gunning a case of Milwaukee’s Best. This was the good life.

As the week blurred on, and the garage started to fill up with never ending compost that consisted of cheap beer and empty cartons of smokes, we felt the need to heat things up. After a long and stressful day of floating on a raft sipping on deliciously blended fruity drinks of fresh strawberries and gasoline, Waz and I felt it necessary to rinse the chlorine out of our hot pockets. Being a team player in a house full of people, we thought it would be best to just jump into the shower together to save hot water for the rest of our buds. Without hesitation we grabbed a few beers and dove right in. She said “You know what would make this even more fun?” Our telepathic senses kicked in full force and before she could even finish her sentence, I had the beer bong in hand and was down on one knee. Both buck naked with soap in our eyes, Waz did me a solid and filled that bong to the rim. We had it down to a science: I shampooed her hair while she hit the bong and vice versa. If everyone felt comfortable enough to wash their best friend’s body, water bills would be cut in half. It was actually quite genius and made shower time way more fun - or so we thought. We had so much fun sucking down soapy beer that it ended up happening 4 nights in a row. One of the boys did not appreciate this, and proceeded to beat the door down in a jealous rage. Did you really think calling us lezzy’s was about to offend us and ruin our beer bong bubble bath? NOPE!!! I said, “Where is the Pante...” as Waz reached for the Pantene Pro-V for damaged hair and squirted a quarter size dollop on my scalp. She knew what I liked.

After one of our eco-friendly showers together, we thought it would be fun to get 

out of the shower and out of the house to see what the sophisticated youth of Florida had to offer. We ended up at a party where our friend’s cousin introduced us to a group who resembled the entire Miami Dolphins football team. A party full of black men that were clocking in at about 320 was just what the doctor ordered. We were completely out of our element and loving it. There were men holding up beer bongs that could have scratched the moon, but with all of our recent shower experience, we wrapped our lips around the tube and sucked it down like a boss. Blending right in, we continued to participate in all of the Beer Olympic events until the party was starting to wind down. As the night wore on, Waz ended up getting into an extremely uncomfortable stare off with a hefty gal inhaling a box of Kix in the corner. When I had to break the news to her that Precious had won, she admitted defeat, and our night came to a close.

It was a success: We made new friends, asked for some autographs, and swayed the whole way home until we reached our twin size bed, which already had 2 girls in it. Fuck that noise. Being the princess that I am, I went downstairs by the boys and found the only spot open that actually had a pillow and a blanket. I cuddled up next to my friend and immediately passed out. As the sun starting coming up, both him and I were abruptly woken up by what sounded like the Titanic’s ship whistle warning us of an ice burg straight ahead. Scared shitless, he yelled “What in the hell was that?” Just having woken up myself, I was also confused as to where that noise had come from. Whatever it was, it shook the picture frames off of the walls and blew out the guest bedroom window. When I realized that the fog horn had actually come out of me, I started to sweat. I ripped enough ass that the people of Florida could have mistaken it for a hurricane warning. I put my hand on his chest and a finger to his lips and whispered “Shhhhh, go back to bed. It was nothing.” After feeling like I was going into cardiac arrest, I fell back asleep and went on with my vacation like it was just a bad dream, never speaking of it again.

The next day, waking up with no hangover whatsoever, all the ladies decided to throw on some lip gloss and head to the clubhouse. It was our last day to be complete fuck-ups with zero remorse, and since the boys decided to go boating, we had nobody there to hold us back. Our flight was scheduled to take off at 4 pm that day, so how much damage could we possibly do? To our surprise, we met a nice pedophile in his mid-forty’s who just so happened to be a “pro-golfer”. We noticed him making eyes at us, so we took out our rape whistles, threw our friend with the biggest tits at him, hoping he would take the bait. SCORE!! The next thing we knew endless rounds of fruity shots arrived before us and our 2 drink minimum turned into us drying out the bar. $500 on his tab and 46 missed calls later, the boys showed up to take us to the airport, and they were far from pleased due to the state we were in. Since we had declined all of their calls asking us to come help clean the house and pack, they ended up having to pack all 14 of our suitcases for us. In the middle of ordering us another round, I felt a very pissed off ‘finger tap’ on my shoulder. Having no choice but to leave our tequila shots with training wheels behind, we fell off of our barstools and stumbled to the SUV. Each guy grabbed a gal and buckled her into a belt. Also as a precaution, they felt it necessary to staple our plane tickets and forms of identification to our sarongs. Good thinking fellas.

By the time we got to the airport, each person moved through the airport like a quadriplegic. After suffering through security, we had about 30 minutes before our plane took off. Being the ladies that we are, we spent those precious minutes making out with the public toilets. My friend and I were projectile vomiting so hard that it was actually hitting the tacky Floridian backsplash and nowhere near the porcelain goddess. I begged the girls to go without me, offering them all the money I had in my pocket to just step on my neck and end it. Unfortunate for everyone else, I made my flight. Just my luck, I ended up with a middle seat next to a fat stranger and one of the girls. To make matters worse, my old coach from high school was vacationing in Fort Myers as well and ended up sitting in the seat directly behind mine, with her newborn child on her lap. PERFECT! What are the odds of this happening - I was now living my worst nightmare and she was getting drunk off my fumes.

As we took off I began feeling dehydrated from my bathroom activity, so I restlessly waited for the beverage cart to come around. I felt like I was having an out of body experience and if I didn’t get all the water on the plane, they were going to have to fly my ass home cargo style in one of the caskets below my feet. I repeatedly buzzed the flight attendant, begging her for a shot of life. She calmly told me that they were prepping the beverage cart and I would have some water in no time. What felt like years later, the bitch finally showed up, and feeling the need to add to my anxiety, she hands me a fucking Dixie cup with a teaspoon of tepid liquid. After snorting it, I handed it back to her and asked for another. Agitated, she re-filled it for me and kept rolling down the aisle. My girlfriend next to me was pretending to sleep so I would stop asking her to buzz the attendant over for endless amounts of agua. I was not about to wait for her to cave, so I pressed her button feeling very sneaky. Still shitfaced, “Pssssst! Mam, my friend here would like some water. She’s real thirsty”. The attendant looked over at her “sleeping” body and knew I was behind this. After causing a huge scene, which involved a waterfall of tears on my end (tears I couldn’t afford to waste), I finally convinced her to bring me my own water bottle. I chugged the one thing that could save my life, flipped American Airlines the bird for their hospitality, then ripped my friend’s pillow from under her head and knocked myself unconscious. After we landed, I felt like a whole new woman as I jumped off the plane. The limo picked us up, we lit a joint, and reminisced the whole way home. 

Cheers to Humidity and Tearless Shampoo,

Ti-Bag

The Grinch Who Stole Dave Matthews Band

Remember When…

If you grew up in the Midwest, by the time you hit the 8^th grade one of your friends’ stoner brothers had at one point turned you on to America’s greatest classic rock band – Dave Matthews or DMB or the symbol “dancing Nancy” if you were an expert. After years of making the 2 hour trek up to Wisconsin’s beautiful Alpine valley (and by beautiful I mean a soggy ass hill made wet by gallons of cheap beer, underage tears, and hot hormonal piss) Ti Bag and I were coming up on our 13^th concert, and had had enough of the tie dye and the bong hits and the three hour electric violin sessions. The jig was up and well, senior year we were not jumping off the Dave Matthews satellite bridge just because everyone else was.

As time grew near and the heat of the Chicago summer became further unbearable, we caved. Our plan was to join our caravan of 20-something idiotic friends and enjoy the 2 day festival without tickets to either show. The day to take off came and we packed my Mom’s Navigator with enough weed, pringles, and Natty Light to keep Snoop Dogg’s entourage chill for a week.

We rolled into the green pastured parking lot listening to Dave, and cheersing beers to Dave, while hitting a sweet bong, well, named Dave. We set up camp, tailgating like hundreds of others and began to party. Too many beer bongs later, the sun was in the air and we began to sweat. Our buzzes turned into sloppy drunks as we all zombied into the arena dehydrated but with bladders full of fizzy draft. Suddenly in our foggy haze Ti Bag and I remembered – shit, we didn't have tickets. WHAT A COUPLE OF IDIOTS! I didn't drive all the way here and loan out my Mom’s car for clam bake sessions and secret midnight hand jobs with strangers for nothing. Our friends waved a boozey good bye as they coughed and sputtered into the show – Ti and I stood in front of the metal detectors and watched on longingly like small disappointed children, still too short to ride the Iron Wolf.

Back to the Navigator we went hand in and hand across the hot muddy grounds, cursing our choice AND our stupidity at gambling away our doc martins to a couple of underfed hippies who wanted to arm wrestle. Let’s try and jump a fence, she said. No, we aren't that tall. Let’s try and run right past security, I chirped. No, none of them are cute enough to search our lady parts in case we got caught. Make a party of our own until our friends exit the show after Dave’s 3^rd encore, of the same song, lasting 90 minutes or more, most likely involving a remix version of “Back to Being Friends?” YES! High fives all around.

We now had several hours and a couple of acres of land to wreak havoc on. We put our sweaty heads together and thought, “WWAGD”, what would a groupie do? Suddenly it came to us - Steal all the beeeeers! And that’s just what we did. We ran back to the Nav and grabbed 2 kids’ sleeping bags from the back trunk as booze holders. (Side note: Either one of our guy friends planned on luring 12-year-olds back to our camp ground for a “s’more” or these guys were packing their sweaty ass balls into the same hot cum sacks they’d been using since their camp counselor touched them in Indian Guides) Either way the bags were thin and light and could hold a lot of goodies. What are goodies you may ask? Please reference the below video as we begin this montage (Goodies Montage)

We decided to first crack into broken down broncos and pick-up trucks with open tail gates. The dumpier the car, the drunker the customer, the more likely they were to leave the goods outside. Full cases of warm PBR and unopened plastic bottles of Skol plus a few unsmoked one hitters left us elated. This lot was our oyster and the beers were ours for the taking. Once our sacks became too weighed down we ran back to the Nav and dumped our jewels. The first round was successful but we knew we could do better.

Next it was onto family style vehicles: explorers, mini vans, and a few safe dependable Hondas donned with “Proud Cary Grove Mom” stickers on the back window. Suddenly our loot appreciated in value. We began to delight in the world of Bud light, Miller light, Marlboro light and weed that no longer resembled cat nip or old man dryer lint. Our bags began to overfloweth with a variety of middle class libations. Once full we dumped the sacks, then headed out on our most important mission.

Our last trek out we decided to hit the richies – Beamer, Benz, or Bentley, my cup is never empty. OK but let’s get real – this place is filled with a bunch of smooth move hippies raging on a hill who hate the man and refuse to manscape. The nicest vehicle on the lot was my Mom’s. The next best option included a few rogue land rovers, 1 Saab (douche) and a smattering of Audis driven by 18-year-olds who jacked their Dad’s car, in hopes of getting pussy. These were the gold mines: Handles of Absolute, boxes of 100’s on the passenger seat, actual potted plants fresh for the taking, and full coolers bursting at the seams with clean chilled gas station ice and an assortment of Coronas. There was even a satchel of limes neatly diced. That’s it – we had taken it all and we were exhausted: Our bare feet cracked and full of mud, our fingers and palms burned raw from pulling the kiddy sleeping bags across the half grassed lot. We arrived back at the Nav and unloaded our earnings then began to count our stock.

As I got up to beer 192, I heard a Pssst from behind me. I turned in the dark and was face to face with a couple bros: 2 brunette brothers, around the age of 30, one swaying awkwardly and looking like he could yack at any minute. Shit, we’d been caught and now we were going to jail for, well, stealin all the beeeeers! I started stuttering as I tried to explain the madness behind our thievery when the bro who didn't look like he was going to yack presented us with 2 tickets. You want them – My brother’s pretty sick. SURE! How about $20 for both. ABSOLUTELY. I dove into my purse and handed them the dough. We immediately locked up the Nav, slicked a quick bra, then sprinted toward the metal detectors. We were let into the concert immediately as I jumped on my hot pink Nokia and called the troops.

Halfway past the sluts to the right and the Abercrombie models to my left we found our friends, bobbing and swaying to the white people grooves. Dave was still playing “Please Bartender” and we rounded out the chorus with him. Finally, we were in the show, with our peeps, where we belonged. I inhaled the green smoke and the beer and the sweat and realized it would be my last time standing among friends, enjoying the Crash album live frontsies and backsies. (To explain: Dave likes to play the Crash album in order from song 1-10, then mixes it up by taking it home, song 10-1. It’s always a crowd pleaser and only takes 6 ½ hours to get through)

I finally felt relaxed after my 2 hour Cross Fit work out, closed my eyes and devoured the music. Just when I thought I had finally entered my zone I felt thick arms and shoulders encompass my legs. Suddenly I was lifted over someone’s head, and thrown over their shoulder like a sack of beeeeers. Without even getting a glimpse at the mad man’s face, the thick tree trunks below me began their long gallant sprint down the hill as I bumped along behind shrieking and crying for help. With my arms outstretched and fingers extended I prayed someone, anyone, would STOP the wild stranger before we Crashed (no pun intended) or I peed.

With no one in sight to help I accepted my fate of death at Dave. Really I deserved it. I had just looted every car, truck and cooler in the vicinity. I was going to die here – on this hill, wearing bad denim. Before my perfect accomplished life had time to flash before my eyes, I saw a blonde boy bound down the hill, jaw open and arms swimming freely. Suddenly his limbs extended ten feet and his hands flew out like inspector gadget – the BFG was on the move and the gourd under my hips had no idea. I felt the gentle giants’ long fingers slip under my arms as he ripped me away from the ogre, tucking my body under his pits like airmail, then sprinted back up the hill to safety on legs longer than most. He placed me back at my rightful spot on the grass and handed me a beer. Dave had just concluded a long winded yodel embellishment then jumped straight into “Back to Being Friends”. I threw my arms in the air, exuberant. (Side note: We get it, Dave. You’re pals who want to fuck but still remain friends in the morning when you wake up awkwardly next to each other, yet you still want to kick the bitch out before french toast time. Just be honest with her and stop with the tom foolery poetry.)

When the show ended, we all walked back to the lot and piled into my SUV, people gasped and questioned the stolen goods on board. Plastic and aluminum and glass were practically toppling out of every door and window. To fix the situation we each began our own personal journey of alleviating some space. Pop, twist, uncork, pour: Sooner than later items were eliminated as we stretched out and made room for limbs to sit and buckles to belt. Our 18 year old bodies intertwined as we smoked and laughed and threw cartel out onto the grassy floor. Hey Waz, it’s too quiet in here, yelled one of our friends. I reached over to the CD player and turned on Dave as I took a pull from the bottle of Skol. No one complained. It was the last time.

Cheers to Beer Kidnap and Summers Ending,

WAZ

Wayne's World

And then there's this... 

Last Thursday my ever so charming roommate decided to set up an appointment with AT&T to switch over our internet providers, but failed to mention it. He is all about the dollar bills, so is typically out the door to get to work as I am just getting into bed from the night before. I was busy drooling onto my pillow and dreaming about what I would do if I had Bieber alone in my bathroom with a curling iron and a bowl of hot wax, when my buzzer rings. Perfect. I quickly bring the hair styling session to a close as I go from girlishly delighted to T-Rex mad - who is responsible for ruining my waxing session? With my eyes sewn shut, I army crawl to the door and greet the intruder with an extremely aggravated “YEAH?” (Imagine how deep this could come across had you been a smoker for 15 years, a drinker for 13 and burned an inch of meat off your esophagus due to putting hot sauce on all items edible). The bro says he’s from AT&T and is here to hook up my net. So naturally, without asking questions, I buzz him up. For all I know this man could be Fidel Urbina.

Side Note: For those of you who aren't up to speed, Fidel Urbina is a wanted fugitive running loose in the Chicago-land area for the past 15 years accused of raping and murdering numerous women. He’s successfully remained on the FBI’s Top Ten Most Wanted list and I’m pretty sure I made out with him the other night at a bar in Wrigley.

Back to the story.. After drowning my eyes with illegal contact solution, I quickly realized I had just let Xhibit enter the apartment. For a second I thought he was here to pimp my ride, but to my disappointment, he left his rims at home. He introduced himself as Wayne, and gave me the whole spiel on how he would disconnect my old services and hook me up AT&T style – what a professional. I cautiously led Wayne into my bedroom where all of the ports were conveniently located behind piles of dirty clothes and a pizza box or seven. His need to dig through my shit to find the proper outlets delayed his work, so we got to talking. At this point he was attempting to move around furniture, fold and hang my laundry, then dove fist deep into a pile of panties and delicates to connect the first wire. Lil’ Wayne’s job was becoming more arduous as time went on.

A quick set up suddenly turned into a 3 hour chill session. Before I knew it, he was calling me “T” and we were chain smoking cigs on the back deck, menthol of course. It had completely slipped my mind that he was my cable guy and my internet was still nowhere near being hooked up. Though after 13 years in the business, Wayne certainly had some tales to tell and I had nothing but time. He started off by telling me when he installed cable for Miss Iowa (circa 1992).

“T, she answered the door wearin’ nothin’.. but.. water. So she was all naked, rubbin her titties on my back, trying to see what wires I was connecting, and I was just trying to wait for my boner to pass”.

What a gentlemen.

His story began to build as did his excitement – The next thing I know he’d added voices and plot lines and props. Hand over fist he expertly continued on using my Mormon boss’s laptop, a black lace brassiere, and all 7 of my pillows. In his florescent uniform, he was perched on all fours dry humping my futon, impersonating how Miss Iowa wanted her “monkey” punished. Raising a brow, I quickly clarified that “monkey” was another word for pussycat. He pushed back into child’s pose exhausted as his story came to a close. I exhaled delighted and spent, wanting another cigarette.

After he left, I showered his stories off of my body, lit a candle and said a prayer, then went on about my day. It’s safe to say I now have high speed internet, a new best friend named Wayne, and can tell you anything you want to know about Miss Iowa’s monkey.

Cheers to Perfect Strangers and Monkey Business,

Ti-Bag

Boss by Day, Nacho by Night

So this happened last night…

I went out the other night with a friend for 2 quick glasses of chard then planned to be home in bed before Conan. As we sat at the bar and drained our first glass over a thrilling game of “fuck, marry, kill”, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I spun around quickly to see my boss (Nuts), and before I could squeak out a high pitched “What are you doing here” his lips were in my ear as we engaged in the awkward boss/co-worker social tango.

There was no time to protest as he drug my friend and I into the back section of the restaurant where lo and behold, half of the office sat over an elegant dinner of salmon and boring work conversation – I plopped down in between 2 of my bosses and tucked my napkin into my lap giving my friend the “this should only take a minute” look. Suddenly bottles of wine arrived and I gulped to the beat of those around me to loosen up and relax – so much for 2 drinks. 4 glasses and a couple hours later I was slurping mussels while indulging in both a dry white and a fruity red, calling my bosses Sons of Bitches from across the table. Every other tooth was stained red as I kept both hands occupied by taking sips from every glass on the table.

As the double fisting persisted, all work convo had ceased. We clinked glasses and hooted and hollered over “Which intern’s face would you most like to sit on” and “If you were to go crazy and bring a gun to work who would you shoot first”. I was on fire with my answers and these people loved me. I no longer cared my night had almost been ruined. I was part of the boss club now and finally admitted that I had been the one who jammed the $4,000 copier. Phew, that felt good to get off my big chest. The night began dwindling down as we drank the bar dry - the bill arrived appearing 4 four feet long and the boss to my right handed me her credit card to pay. I squinted at the bill with my good eye, signed with my bad hand, then threw the check to the waitress, boss style.

Back at the valet I leaned against the stand and fumbled with a cigarette – these people had to know I smoked like a boss, valeted like a boss, and tipped like a boss. I double gun winked the group shouting out, “See you sons of bitches tomorrow” and hopped into my ride. Man I was cool.  

My red and white liquid dinner had left me famished so I decided to treat myself to some light fare from Taco Bell – 2 volcano tacos, 1 small nacho, 1 cheesy quesadilla and a sierra mist on ice please: the classic standard. As the sloppy bag of hot poop came through the window I knew something wasn't right – I reached into the bag and pulled out the hot orange shell, inspecting it first then biting down deep. DORITOS taco? No bueno, Ese. This ain't no beefy volcano! I immediately saw red and not just because a Taylor Swift song simultaneously came on the radio. I backed my car up a few feet and righted myself with the drive-thru Hermosa. Yo! I ordered a volcano taco, not a Doritos taco – What, did you think, I wouldn't notice? The woman responded back in what appeared to be lazy Spanish: No, si, sorry, you go now, puta! Locos tacos pintos FRITOS! I looked at her cross eyed as I tried to crack the code of her native tongue while cheesy Doritos dust filled the cracks of my mouth. As her Spanish became increasingly foreign I gave up on ever receiving the volcano. 

I pulled out of the drive-thru with force – how could that Madre make such a simple mistake, I thought aloud, as I greedily bit down into my second Dorito disaster. The cheese and grease became one with my steering wheel as I careened home, allowing 1 chip dip in the nacho cheese cup at each stop sign I ran. Pulling into home safely I slammed my car into its spot and jerked the stick into park – hard. Taco Bell lady had pushed me too far and man was I feeling loco.

As I tried to turn my car off I realized the key wouldn't wiggle out of the ignition– examining my situation further I noticed in my fit of rage, I had broken the piece that slides the shifter into the different gears. Shit – broken shifter, worthless keys, wrong tacos. Could this night get any worse? Why did I feel like the whole world was against me? So, I did what only a boss would do. I hoovered the rest of my meal, left my car unlocked and unsanitary, then marched upstairs bowlegged to pass out in my clothes and deal with the mess and mild sauce in the morning.

Cheers to Broken Dreams and Being a Boss,

WAZ

Cheeseburger in Paradise

Remember when…

It all began with an order of nachos and a couple of sliders. It was just an ordinary Tuesday night and the girls were looking for some action. After grabbing a bottle of Skol from the local Shell, Waz popped the top and we pulled from the bottle all the way down Randall, finally landing at our destination, Cheeseburger in Paradise, for karaoke night. Being the shy girls that we are, we began with a Journey song to ease into things, followed by a riveting rendition of Sheryl Crow’s “Strong Enough to be My Man”. At that point we were ON FIRE so we decided to sing the entire album “Fly” by the Dixie Chicks. Believe it or not the manager and customers did not appreciate our 3 hour session, so we were booed off stage and asked to step down.

 

Due to all the singing and performing it was now time to wet our whistles. Cran and vods were thrown back, one after the other thanks to the awesome fake ID’s we had. We began to sing from the sidelines, cheering our fellow karaoke-ers on, proving our background vocals were just as strong as our main stage act. Suddenly we became a “disturbance” as dance moves were added and more drinks were ordered. Our night was about to come to a close but our tab was not.

Suddenly 2 women approached us wearing staff uniforms – Cheeseburger and Paradise fun governors. We immediately looked at one another and knew we needed to get out of here. Throwing in one last high kick, we inhaled our final gulps of cheap liquid and stormed out of the restaurant leaving behind a full, unpaid tab, running straight for Waz’s jeep. Inside we fumbled around with seatbelts and keys and radios. The next thing we knew we were being attacked on both sides – big pounding fists punched at our windows. It was the 2 women from CIP begging us to turn the car off and come inside, insisting we had stolen a purse from the ladies room. Foolish! We would never do such a thing. And who were these waitresses trying to accuse us of such things – even if we were cross eyed and drooling drunk. I knew in my heart of hearts there was only one thing to do at a moment like this so I uttered the one word that came to mind. I looked Waz straight in the eye and yelled DRIVE!!!

Waz’s eyes rolled into the back of her head then suddenly snapped open. Her foot jammed the pedal all the way down to the floor, knuckles gripped tightly at the wheel. Now, instead of taking the road like a normal driver, we decided to take a short cut straight through a ditch and across a frozen pond in between On the Border and The Claddagh Irish Pub. Her silver Jeep Nancy Kerrigan’ed across the icy pond, dismounting onto Randall, executing a full 360, then nailed the landing.

Minutes later (I think) we safely arrived at home, made some more nachos, kissed each other good night, then went to bed unharmed, unhurt, and musically unappreciated. In the morning we woke up like usual at 8 AM sharp, steamed our best business suits, and headed to work together thinking back at how successful our night had been. Unfortunately, this was only our version of the story.

Later that night, after a back breaking day of playing solitaire in the office and intermittently puking in the office pot, we entered the house ready to indulge in a home cooked meal when we see Waz’s P-units parked at the kitchen table with contracts drawn up. Oh shit – this ain’t no chore chart ladies. You’re in trouble. Apparently, the night had gone a little more like this:

It turns out we left our underage tab open after being thrown off the stage and out of the bar – the two women banging on our car were the managers of CIP and they didn’t accuse us of stealing anything, they didn’t want us to drive home, well, completely fucked up. And to make matters worse, we didn’t exactly glide over a blue placid lake, we took out an entire quadrant of the landscape at Algonquin Commons: bushes, flowers pots, and thick shrubbery. The cops were then called due to King Kong and T-Rex being on the loose and showed up at the house. Waz answered the door in a t-shirt and assured the gentlemen everything was swell, made them a cup of chamomile, and gave them great directions back to the 90.

In all the commotion parents were woken up, F bombs were exchanged, things were denied, Waz got slapped in the face, I cried “don’t slap her”, she got slapped again, we made some more nachos, then I slapped her, and then we hopped up the stairs to bed, dreaming about our future careers in the country music industry. Not remembering one second of this, we needed proof so Dad took us out in the garage and showed us the damage we had done to the Jeep: half of the tires were missing and there was a shark bite in the back bumper (most likely from a creature lurking in the bottom of the lake). It was then we knew we had done wrong and had no other choice but to sign the contract drawn up by the parents: We promised to stop drinking, to go to church every week, and to stop making nachos in the microwave without proper Tupperware as the cheese splatters and sticks and is impossible to get out.

A few days later we went back to that Paradise to say our apologies and pay our rogue tab. This time it was a male manager – he was cool and aloof and drank a gin and tonic. He shrugged, no biggie, he’d been there too, and accepted our $20 tip. Our next stop was to the police station where we planned to be cuffed and read our rights – 2 DUI’s served straight up please. Instead the chief of police was sweet and jovial as she handed over our 2 New Jersey ID’s telling us to have a nice day and thanks for visiting Illinois. We really thought we had learned our lesson as we said good bye and god bless and headed straight to the bar.

Cheers to nachos and burning rubber,

WAZ & Ti-Bag