Occasionally yours truly performs a public service/waxes off on a rant. Today, chirren, it is my sworn duty to inform the general public about things that are just plain OVER.
Decals featuring cartoon characters that look suspiciously like Calvin (from Calvin & Hobbes) peeing on logos. These also come in a "naughty-pull-your-pants-down-kiss-this!" variation. Please stop, these make me stabby.
Claiming a broadcasting company (FOX, CBS, etc.) has an anti-Christian agenda, and/or is specifically pushing left-wing nutjob stances such as "baby-killing" or "taking away the rights of Christians across America." Especially when your source is an email or something you read on someone's profile on Facebook. OVER.
"Girl" hats, jerseys, etc. that are the same logo as a team, but in a color scheme comprised of pink and white. Because you're a lesbian unless you wear pink in the stands, apparently.
Using food knowledge to make yourself cool, and above everyone else. Seriously, at the end of the day, you still eat it and it's digested, just like the food un-hip people eat. You're not saving lives, so trust when I tell you you're not even half as important as you think you are. And food is supposed to bring people together, not separate cool from uncool.
Posh and Becks. Goodbye, enjoy Milan. One of you needs to get a singing career, one of you needs to score some goals; I don't care which one of you performs which.
"So, David, which color is my away kit? You've got to show me that bend for my goal kicks.."
High school athletes naming Jesus Christ in the five-people-to-have-dinner-with question. I know your your youth group leader will be really disappointed in you, but try naming a human you admire. I mean, JC was a cool guy, but chances are while you're trying to dish on the latest ep of "Gossip Girl," he'll want to dominate the conversation with something heavy, like the salvation of the world and stuff.
Middle-aged white men using street jargon. Trust when I tell you the man you're talking to is not your "G", when you exit a room you in no way "bounce," and for the love of all that's holy, that is most certainly not "how you roll." Just straighten your tie and scuttle back to your job at Dell.
Word.
Please contribute to the betterment of society and pass this vital information on. Stay tuned for further updates.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I don't even know how to feel about THIS... But I'm sure it's some flautist's revenge for all the crap they get from the drumline during marching season.
So it's been 3,047 years since I've updated my blog. Time flies when someone else is in your life.
You go from sitting on the couch like a lump watching football and contemplating leaving your clean clothes in the basket next to you and just dressing from there all week to ... Hey, you're up too? Great, let's go have breakfast. Wasn't that yummy? Too bad the cast of The Hills, a.k.a. the teens next to us, were so obnoxious. Ooo wanna go to Ulta, I hear there's a sale! Let's split this variety pack of teeny nail polish. That gloss smells num! I need to stop by Home Depot and get hardware for those shelves we're going to put up in your closet. Lord, we need to go home and clean. What in the name of Christmas have those cats been eating to make that smell come out of them?? It's like cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic herd. I need to pack my dinner. Aaand I've got to go to work while you're home for the evening, so we can swap tomorrow and I'll be home during the day while you work.
The latest ULTA acquisition, OPI's Toy Box of baby bottles of sparkly Christmas colors: Glamour Game, Brand New Skates, Little Red Wagon, Don't Toy With Me
That's not all that goes down, since Christina and I have also gotten a live Christmas tree, a first for both of us, and made several runs to storage sheds and vacuumed countless times because of the Catherd we've got (more about them in a minute). But it's a slice of how packed your day gets when there's someone else in it that causes you to live less like a teenager with a credit card and no curfew.
I've also started cooking again. I stopped when I moved to Austin and no longer lived with my best friend and her hungry boy, because one thing my grandmother didn't teach me about cooking was how to do it for one. Very quickly into my relationship with Christina I realized despite how appealing it sounded, we could *not* go to Chuy's 24/7, and I also realized very quickly that Christi does *not* cook. She can clean a kitchen in 10 seconds flat, though, so it's been working out great. The only thing is that I'm a messy cook, and sometimes dirty a lot more stuff than I should, so she sometimes finds herself loading the dishwasher and wondering aloud, "How the hell did the lawnmower figure into making chili???"
We've also gone through being sick at the same time. For those of you who have not experienced this with your significant other, let's just say the romantic veil that surrounds him or her in your eyes gets suddenly torn off and set aflame, and you see that person for everything he or she is, phlegm and fever and all. You don't judge, though, because you're just as disgusting, and you can't believe this person still wants to kiss you and love on you considering how funky you've gotta be looking at this moment.
Being sick made me realize I'm at my best when I'm in a relationship. And Amy Zerba, before you completely rotoate into the ground over that statement, lemme explain. By myself, when I was sick I whined and complained a lot to my empty house, didn't get out of bed except to go to work, and didn't really eat right in order to get better. With Christina, I really sucked it up and tried to feel better so I could take care of her since if there was gonna be cookin' I was gonna do it. I was motivated to get food that was good for us and keep up with our medicine intake, as well as preparing the infamous whiskey-honey-lemon nighttime cocktail. Essentially, when I was concentrating on making her better, I got better because I felt like I had to. And I think that's a small facet of how a relationship makes me better: it takes me outside of myself, outside my head (where I can sometimes live) and lessens any crises or worries I have. And that's pretty cool.
So I know I was gonna talk about the cats, but that's really another entry all to themselves. And you'll understand why. Plus I need visual aids to help you understand the dynamics of our Catherd.
So I'll leave you with this, the hardest-rocking little kid that ever knew the words to "You Give Love A Bad Name" and attended a Rutgers game:
Due to some confusion, bewilderment and surprise at the new love in my life, I have prepared an FAQ to assist some my friends and chosen family. For those of you who haven't heard, or haven't met her, I'm dating possibly the most wonderful girl in the world and her name is Christina. Email me for details...
Christina hangin' with Elaina and some of the kids from The Company
1) So, was your dating life with guys such a disaster that you just switched to girls and gave up?
Well, yeah it *was* kind of a disaster, but a lot of it was I wasn't finding what I was looking for. I honestly believe that people are like puzzle pieces: you can bang them together to make them lock up, but in the end you damage both pieces and the fit isn't good anyway.
When I met Christina, the fit was perfect. I had this secret checklist that only God and I knew about, and I honestly thought I'd never find anyone that met everything on that list until I met her. I really struggled for what seems like forever with this conundrum: if I've found what I'm looking for in a person, am I going to let society dictate who I'm in a relationship with because she's a girl? Should I pass up a shot at happiness that seems surer than any other so far because people like Fred Phelps think it's wrong?
Yeah, y'all know how I feel about society anyway.
2) Wow, I kinda don't know how to act around you now. Will you get offended if I talk about hot guys, or want to get pedis, or go shopping?
I promise you I am the *exact* same person I was two weeks ago, two months ago. I still think some men are attractive (Gerard Butler), effing LOVE pedis at Maximum FX, and can't wait to drop 30-40 lbs so I can fit into some hot designer labels. You don't have to edit yourself around me, in fact, I highly discourage it. I don't like my friends edited, I prefer the director's cut.
3) Isn't this a bit sudden?
Well, I've never been one to be patient, plodding, wait around for a sign or a course of action. I was told once by someone I admired to "pick a star and follow it." I could list all the signs, portents, and coincidences that led me to believe this is the right path, but no one would understand them but me, because that's how those things are, highly specific to whatever person is supposed to get the message.
The upshot, kids, is that at the core of my being I am confident that this is what I need to do. Plus Katy Perry and a catchy beat told me to do it. :-)
4) So are you gonna stop wearing makeup altogether, chop your hair and wear flannel?
Yyyyyeah, right after I chuck it all and become a trucker. Admittedly my appearance has taken a serious downturn because of my general attitude toward my vocation and my life, but that's going to change, and it started last night. I even got hit on by the valet, so apparently the "cougar" stamp is still on my forehead.
And mullets are so over with.
5) I'm your friend and I'm a girl. Will you at any point hit on me?
YES. Expect that any time now. Seriously, a hug's still just a hug, a compliment is still just support from one sister to another. Nothing about how I feel about my friends has changed at all. Honestly, I'm just attracted to Christina, and not anymore anyone who'll buy me tequila.. :-P
6) I'm your friend and I'm a guy. This is kinda hot. Yes, Scott Foil, I know. Now please let some other people ask some questions...
7) Do you no longer have a reflection? We've been over this, Phil, it's a partial image...
8) I think that being gay is morally and/or biblically wrong. Who let Sarah Palin in here? ... Yeah, then I'm not sure why you were my friend to begin with. I mean, you *know* me, right?
9) Can you help me fix my car? Unfortunately dating a girl didn't automatically give me the lesbian superpowers I'd hoped for, like furniture construction and auto repair. And according to Elaina and Phil I still have the music tastes of a gay man.
Working in the sports department and being a sports junkie, I've come across some really ridiculous verbiage in my time. Here's the Top 10 phrases that are driving me crazy right now.
10. "(Team name) dishes out some home cookin'." It's played, it's old, people were saying it in the '50s. None of those boys can cook anyway.
9. "When you talk about the Cowboys, you talk about a team that..." Troy Aikman is terrible about this; of *course* you're talking about the team, Troy, that's the purpose of your sentence. I've seen this creeping into print.
8. Mixed terminology: "The Texas Longhorns' defense pitched a shutout against quarterback Chase Daniel." It's not cute, it's just inherently wrong. Stop it.
7. "... the Southlake Carroll product's record..." He's a guy, not a product. No wonder there's so much commercialism of athletes.
6. "put on a clinic" ESPN pretty much killed this one. The first time I heard it, I said, "..huh, I've never heard that before.." The next 357,294 times, it made me crazy. The lameness factor counts double in print, triple in display type.
5. A "pitching duel". The pitchers never directly compete against each other, idiot. Don't make up impossible scenarios because your copy's weak.
4. "Youth is served." As what, dinner? What does this even MEAN? I've never seen this outside of sports copy.
3. A star player being described as a "stud". Don't be a jock-sniffer. Squelch the hero-worship.
2. Abbreviated nicknames. A-Rod, Man-Ram, K-Rod, D-Mac, JoePa, T.O., L.T., just stop it. Spend a little more effort, and you get the Nigerian Nightmare (Christian Okoye), the Splendid Splinter (Ted Williams), Andre "Bad Moon" Rison, and The Fridge (William Perry). Come on, sports writers, pick up your game.
1. Gridders, cagers, thinclads, spikers, grapplers, harriers, hurlers, and tankers. If you're writing for a small-town Texas newspaper in 1950, go nuts. Here in the century WE live in, nobody knows what the hell you're talking about except that 80-year-old guy who comes in for Friday night football to take scores.
This particular speech resonates with our current situation:
"Yet our distress comes from no failure of substance. We are stricken by no plague of locusts. Compared with the perils which our forefathers conquered because they believed and were not afraid, we have still much to be thankful for. Nature still offers her bounty and human efforts have multiplied it. Plenty is at our doorstep, but a generous use of it languishes in the very sight of the supply. Primarily this is because the rulers of the exchange of mankind’s goods have failed, through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted their failure, and abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men.
True they have tried, but their efforts have been cast in the pattern of an outworn tradition. Faced by failure of credit they have proposed only the lending of more money. Stripped of the lure of profit by which to induce our people to follow their false leadership, they have resorted to exhortations, pleading tearfully for restored confidence. They know only the rules of a generation of self-seekers. They have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish.
The money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of the restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit.
Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men.
Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. Small wonder that confidence languishes, for it thrives only on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection, on unselfish performance; without them it cannot live."
These are not the eloquent words of speechwriters employed by Barack Obama or John McCain. These words come from the inaugural address of Franklin Delano Roosevelt on March 4, 1933, in his first term as president in the depths of The Great Depression.
In his second inaugural speech in 1937:
"I see one-third of a nation ill-housed, ill-clad and ill-nourished.... The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little."
We should be so lucky if our newly-elected president heeded the words of FDR.
From a story out of the London bureau of The Company:
Experts say European papers are prospering largely because they haven’t followed the U.S. path of draconian — and self-defeating — cuts in scope and quality of coverage. “It’s a mystery to me why (U.S.) publishers think people will pay more for less, especially when the online world offers so many alternatives,” said George Kennedy, a professor emeritus at the University of Missouri School of Journalism.
*sigh.* And that's really all I have to say about that.
If a fallen angel wants to have sex with you, under no circumstances let him. Do not have sexual relations with anyone else, either, because it's just him in disguise.
Even if the vampire's got your mom, never, ever go looking for them until dawn. If he wanted to do harm to his abducted victim, he could do it faster than you got there anyway. Does the term "bait" mean anything to you?
Not a lot of things survive fire. Best to pack a lighter and some flammable liquid in case stakes, bullets, etc. aren't doing the trick. When all else fails, Molotov cocktails may be the perfect weapon.
If you are bitten by a vampire, werewolf, zombie, etc., you're dead, man. Don't try to hide it from your friends and pretend it's going to go away. Opt for death while you're still human, because even after you've turned, your buddies won't be able to stomach killing you.
If your bitten buddy decides to split off from the gang and try to take out as many of the enemy threat as possible, start blasting away when you see him or her again. No matter what mind tricks are employed, that ain't your friend anymore, man.
Holy water's never a bad thing to have. Neither is a gun.
Learn from "Shaun of the Dead." Everyday objects, including the high heels you just tripped on, can be weapons; get creative.
Speaking of those high heels, if you're being chased, just take 'em off and run. And if you fall, GET UP. No one's coming to help you, no matter how loud you scream.
It always helps to have a friend who's a witch.
Supernatural informants are always hanging out in dark clubs full of malevolent creatures. Have an escape plan. And have a Plan B.
Ladies and gentlemen of the ATX, hold your heads high, we've been named by Forbes as the hardest-drinking city in America. I'd like to think I contributed to our award and this distinction, and I'd like to thank the members of the academy, the fine folks at the Mean-Eyed Cat, Little Woodrow's, Trudy's for their Mexican Martinis, Cedar Door, Gingerman, Opal's Sixth, The Tiny Bar, Mother Egan's....
a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search. b. Using only the first page, pick an image. c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into Big Huge Lab’s mosaic maker. It's fun and free.
1. What is your first name? 2. What is your favorite food? 3. What high school did you go to? 4. What is your favorite color? 5. Who is your celebrity crush? 6. Favorite drink? 7. Dream vacation? 8. Favorite dessert? 9. What did/do you want to be when you grow up? 10. What do you love most in life? 11. One Word to describe you. 12. Your flickr name.
1. Plain yogurt for sunburns: Cooling, refreshing, and yummy with mandarin oranges and almonds.
2. Random quotes from "Clue": "I hated her SO much, I- flames, on the side of my face, breath- heav- flames..."
3. Peach daiquiris: Fruity, cold, I can't get blitzed on them. Score.
4. Younger men: *Sigh* might as well not buck the trend.
5. Aaron Rodgers over Brett Favre: Apparently it takes retirement to realize you don't like your wife and playing a children's game is more fun than painting the house.
6. MySpace stalking: All the cool kids are doing it, just ask Elaina.
7. "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog": I heart Joss Whedon; the man's a genius. And I have always kind of rooted for the villain.
8. Cowboys training camp: Zach Thomas is finally where he belongs, Witten and Romo are together and not in Mexico, and "Hard Knocks" is back. We can only hope Wade Phillips doesn't channel Dave Campo, repeating the same line to every guy he cuts: "We 'preciate ya woik ethic, and tha way ya go aboutcha byas-ness." Dufus.
9. "Bull Durham": Revisit this. Saw it last week with my BFF Elaina, who'd never seen it before. The opening Crash speech is the most famous quote (and I think everyone should have their own version), but man, there is some great stuff further along.
10. Twitter: Breezy back-and-forth snark with my peeps delivered instantly, except when we see the birdies trying to lift the whale. Tweet, damn you, I command it!
11. Reddish hair: I highly recommend it. It's apparently giving me a sassy attitude, and now I understand Katherine and Rae can't *help* but be forces of nature with this kind of hair color.
Also, I said earlier I'd tell you what happened after the George Michael concert. I wrote the blog, read it and started to post it last night when I realized how NC-17 it is. So I'll tell you privately if you ask, and it's really a better spoken-word story, but I'm not putting that stuff in print.
On the 13th, I drove 4 hours north to the Metroplex to fulfill an 8th-grade dream: to share oxygen with George Michael.
I arrived early, as has become my custom these days, and checked out the area around the hotel I was sharing with my friend Phil. Marble Slab, 24-hour cute little diner, and Pei Wei: SCORE. I nommed at Pei Wei and gabbed with Elaina, who at one point said something so funny, I inhaled Dan Dan noodles up the nose, complete with Sichuan pepper bits. So I'm coughing, my eyes are watering, I'm trying to breathe to drink some tea, and I never put down my cell phone. 'Cuz I'm a gamer like that.
Finally Phil hauled his cookies from Denton to our hotel, after his friend (who's a shrew) insisted on helping him get ready, then taking forever and keeping the beauty supplies. Wench almost made me late for George. So after a quick freshen-up, me and Phil, sporting Kenneth Cole sprinkled throughout our ensembles (we heart him), headed downtown.
So we're driving around and driving around trying to find parking, and mind you, I've never been to this place, so it seems like I know what I'm doing, but in reality I don''t know where the hell I'm going. ("Let good thoughts be your sword and shield."... "Maps are cheating.") We quickly realized neither one of us had cash to pay for parking, and I was angling toward a parking garage which I felt sure would take plastic, but one of Dallas' finest, who were directing traffic, sternly and firmly directed me into the other lane. He was hot and in uniform, so I of course took orders without even thinking; Phil totally didn't blame me.
We circled and circled, before finally finding an ATM on Cedar Springs (of course). We had a semi-George moment with Kenny Goss in front of his gallery, and we knew instantly the pop gods were smiling on us. SCORE #2. This was confirmed as we picked our way back to the AAC; usually, my sense of direction sucks, but it seemed for an instant I knew exactly where I was going instinctually. We slid into a lot within sight of the East entrance, hopped out, and after about 5 minutes of walking, realized we'd both made tragically poor footwear choices. We looked cute, but oh, the pain to follow...
We get past the metal detectors (!), and as we're trying to pick our way to the correct escalator leading to our section, in the crush of people Phil points out there's this guy who's dressed completely like George Michael. According to the Dallas Observer's Rich Lopez, this guy was milling around at intermission asking people if they were going to the after party and expecting people to want pictures with him. The giveways: creepy lurching, big gut, bad teeth, terrible English accent.
After walking a very painful 37.83 miles to the West side of the arena, getting bumped down and coming back around, we got into our two seats at the end of the row and they were ridiculous. Not in position, but in size. Airline seats are spacious La-Z-Boys compared to the milk crates they squeeze you into at the AAC, and poor Phil, who's like, 8 feet tall, could just not physically pretzel himself into the seat. Frustrated (and I couldn't blame him), he went to get a Coke, and came back motioning to me. He had mentioned his predicament to the security chick, and she let us sit in a row of folding chairs down below, eeeeven closer. SCORE again, because the only thing separating us from George was a thin Plexiglas barrier and a few hundred feet. Sigh...
And so we waited. For almost an hour. And the crowd performed several successful arena-wide waves. Which would have been fine, except the tickets said "Show starts 8 p.m. prompt, no opening act." Lies, all lies.
After a couple of false alarms, the huge digital screen flowing like a waterfall into the crowd finally lights up and we hear George's dulcet tones. "Where is he?" "Is he there?" Aaaaand the lights come up, and more than 10,000 people, myself included, completely lose their shit. Strap in, and here we go.
THE SETLIST: First Half: • Waiting (Reprise): The screens reminded me of the iTunes visualizer. Which is good, because I love that thing. • Fast Love/I'm Your Man: After this one, George asked our forgiveness, I'm assuming for the 50 minute wait. He then stated how good it was to be home (yay Dallas) and vowed to "work my ass off for you tonight." It was confirmed that he can, indeed, still shake his ass.
• Father Figure • Hard Day • Everything She Wants: during this, there was footage on the big screen of old-school Wham! in China... Sniff! • One More Try • Easier Affair: George made reference in this song to all the girls who wished he'd be a straight family man. I'm sorry George, the "Faith" video made me feel funny in the 8th grade, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. • Too Funky: God, I love this video and it was great to see it again. It was so good to see Naomi before she started throwing phones at people. • Star People
Somewhere in the first half, he was genuinely taken aback by the crowd support. He declared us the best audience of the tour so far, and we were pretty into it. My God, man, we love you! Didn't you know??? He then took a 20-minute breather to contemplate our love.
Second Half: • Faith: Aaaaah, I love this song. This is really where the George Michael singalong in the Center got into full swing, as those of us who remember that scruff and that cross earring belted out "when that love comes down with-out devotion" at the top of our lungs. Several times during the show, including this one, the crowd was singing as loud as the band was playing. Holla, Big D. • Spinning The Wheel • Feeling Good • Roxanne: George let us in on the backstory of the accompanying video, taken of hookers in the red-light district of Amsterdam. • Kissing A Fool • Amazing: George took a moment to give a shoutout to his very understanding partner, Kenny Goss, relating that he wrote this song for him. A very sweet moment. Now get on with the ass-shaking, man. • Flawless: Mr. Panayiotou claimed he was told this was the gayest song he'd ever written/sung. The center screen then splashed with freedom rings. You go, Georgios. • Outside: This one began with a chopper sound and the lights dimming. We lost sight of George. There was confusion... Then he popped out in a cop uniform. Ahh. Cuff me, officer.
First Encore: Yeah, like we were going anywhere. • Different Corner: my favorite George Michael ballad. Sigh. • Careless Whisper: Okay, so I sang at the top of my lungs on this one, as did the rest of the crowd, like I was in the 5th grade again. It's Careless effing-Whisper, man. It was a moment.
Second Encore: He had to promise us this would be the last song so we'd leave. Freedom 90, Freedom Reprise
His band was great, his backup singers were fierce, and I thought we were gonna have a George Michael down as he tripped over the edge of the waterfall stage and almost face-planted. I would have caught him.
Johnny Damon gets his Eff You from the baseball gods and Royal Rooters everywhere...
This, from the AP:
Johnny Damon went up for the ball and put his always vulnerable left shoulder in harm's way.
For a moment, it looked like he had made a spectacular catch, the kind that changes games, the kind that makes momentum. But when he hit the left-field wall, the ball popped out of his glove, bounced and sat on the top of the fence, as if mocking the New York Yankees.
Finally, it fell and rolled back into play, and by the time Damon lobbed it back in, Kevin Youkilis had a triple and two RBIs, and the score was tied in the third. Two innings later, the Boston Red Sox got their knockout, a three-run home run by Mike Lowell, and went on to beat the Yankees, 6-4, Friday afternoon before 55,130 at Yankee Stadium. Josh Beckett pitched six solid innings to get the win.
First and foremost, I'm lovin' the Beckett win, because my future ex-boyfriend needs his swagger back. But what might actually outweigh that is Johnny "Judas" Damon not only hurt his left shoulder on the play, but looked like a complete idiot when the ball finally came off the wall and landed feet from his lunk head. It became obvious after a few seconds Damon had no idea where the ball was, and the guys down at the bottom, behind the screen, were frantically pointing and yelling in an attempt to direct him. Classic.
Happy Fourth, Yanks. Enjoy that left-fielder; at least he's not making time with Madonna.
So guess who came in second in the Euro 2008 pool? Yeah, baby, yours truly! I got $30, but worth more than that was soundly beating Chris Hanna, Kevin Lyttle and the boss. Not that I have anything against those guys, just the opposite. It's just that it's always good to remind guys that girls know sports, too. Sometimes better than them.
I'd like to thank Spain, who got me my $30. A special thanks to hot keeper Iker Casillas, and his talented hands. And for deflecting those goals as well. (rimshot)
So leading off, Teresa had her going-away party at Beauty Bar last Wednesday. There was dancing on the table, and even Jason Whaley came out. So after a couple of tequila shots and a couple of Crown and Cokes, I remembered why mixing liquors is a bad, bad idea. My mental capacity was perfectly fine, but my stomach said, "Naw!" Fortunately, there was no hurlage, because I stopped myself like a big girl.
Ya see, the whole tequila thing started innocently (as they always do) with me buying Teresa a shot as soon as I got there. So I bring it to her, and she tells me she "can't do tequila." Well, I've never been one to force anyone to drink anything, so there I was with two shots of Patron in my hands. What am I gonna do, pour them over Alan Trubow's head? (Not entirely a bad idea, in hindsight.) So I slam 'em, like the gamer I was raised to be (thank you journalism), and Melanie Spencer's husband and Brian Diggs see what I just shot, marvel accordingly, and then Diggsy says, "Aw man, I want one. Will you do a shot with me?"
Now when my friends ask me to do a shot with them, you guys know what your girl Critia is gonna say. Will I have a shot, yes I will, cheers thanks a lot, ooo it burns, thank you very much, yes I'd like another. So shot taken, tummy angered, I walked outside to get some fresh air and wandered into the most bizarre convo triangle: Whaley, Trubow, and Tim Eaton. I thought I'd really had too much, until I realized, "Y'know, Self, a lot of this wouldn't make sense if you were completely sober." Then I somehow slipped into a conversation with Mel Spencer's husband about Baylor football, and that's when I knew the night had taken a turn for the weird.
All in all, a good time was had, and weirdly the only person I know with pics is Trubow, which he's not forking over. As it is, I had to steal this one:
A group shot before shots. It would be a lot bigger if I didn't have to rip it off Alan's Facebook.
So the following Monday, me, Lori, Etienne and Tim piled in my car and went to Schlitterbahn. First I had to peel me and Tim off the roof of my car, because I'm not sure who was more excited. I mean, E and Lo were amped, but me and NomNom had the crazy eye, and at one point I actually caught myself bouncing up and down as we were shoving our stuff in the lockers.
It was an overcast day, not too hot, about 4 p.m. when most everyone else was tuckered out and had left. So our first ride, man, the water was cold! As we floated down one of the longer tube rides, Etienne and I kept looking at each other with these ear-to-ear grins, throwing up the metal/horns sign, and shouting "come AWN!" I think the other park patrons thought we'd come on the special bus. Best of all though, at the end of the ride, on the steep incline before it drops you into the deep pool at the end of the ride, I took out a guy taking his sweet time exiting the staging area. Hells yeah.
The lagoon several of the rides dump you in
Afterward was more fun and frivolity while trying to hang on to our sunglasses (Lori and Tim: FAIL), lolling around in the large pool, debating tube size vs. butt sinkage/lack of aqualocomotion, and generally running around like teenagers on Jolt. I remembered my mortality halfway down the soda straws, that I could indeed bang my head on the side, break my neck and slide lifeless down a plastic cylinder. That's about the time that I spun around the entire circumference, causing that fluttery-tummy feeling that roller coasters do, and I'd forgotten until that point that when my tummy feels like that, my mouth opens and my body automatically emits a high, shrill scream characteristic of 4-year-old girls everywhere. When I finally exited the Tube of Death, the Three Amigos almost drowned themselves laughing so hard at me.
We saw some teenage girl walking around with a temporary tattoo anchor, and immediately we had to have one too. We're standing in line, and there was some waffling before the anchors were decided on, when this weird girl in front of me starts talking to us about absolutely nothing. You know those times when you're talking to strangers, and the conversation naturally dies, and like a normal person, you turn back around? Yeah, she kept hitting banal topics with the damn electric paddles to keep them from dying. She'd turn around, and just when I thought I heard the flatline, here's she'd be in my grill again. And, OF COURSE, she worked there.
We played some more, and were walking back from the tube ride that shoots you into the Comal River when we heard the announcement that the park was closing. Actually, between me and Lo getting out of the water and the announcement, Nom squeezed in a ride on a nearby body slide. He was pretty unstoppable...
The River Tube Chute
We had gotten SplashCash (which I HIGHLY recommend), and were able to refund our unspent tickets for cash. As the light was fading and we were collecting our stuff, Nom and I snapped these:
Afterward, we had the best ending to a Texas play day: beer and barbecue at Rudy's in New Braunfels. I contemplated taking a pic of my Lone Star and brisket, it was so damn good.
So we're definitely going back, we've honed our battle strategy, and there might be a special guest star on the next one; stay tuned!
"I love a woman with whom I can share hair-care product."
So I know many of you did not watch the absolute 8-0 ass-beating that the U.S. soccer squad, bench, and eventually some homeless guys dealt out to hapless Barbados. Yes, Barbados, the country that is begging on their website for people to play on their team.
Since World Cup qualifying is starting, and our U.S. boys are beginning their travels across the world, let me introduce you to our finest defender, Carlos Bocanegra. This 29-year-old California native was recently released from his contract with Fulham FC of the English Premier League (so he's back on our soil, ladies). According to the U.S. team site, Carlos loves Mexican food and bagels, his nickname is Los, and I swear to Kenneth Cole I'm not making up this next part, enjoys watching "The O.C." and long walks on the beach.
"So, David, which color is my away kit? You've got to show me that bend for my goal kicks.."
