Who Holds the Power…

This story is one of my favorites and involves some of my favorite people, with whom I am going on vacation with later today.  I figured post as late as possible, then maybe they won’t read and it be awkward.

I think of this in terms of an Aesop’s fable, or one of those Confucious says type of stories.  When I think of it, it makes me laugh but also resonates on a deeper level.  Although maybe I’m an idiot.

Some friend’s of ours came in town from Baton Rouge and we all went to Joe T’s, a terrible but pretty mexican restaurant, one afternoon.  As we are all sitting around, enjoying the 120 degree heat and drunken shenanigans that is Joe T’s, everyone starts talking about what they are going to order.  She, of the couple, says “I’m getting the chimichangas and ranch.”  I say, “I doubt they have ranch” (it’s mexican food so why would they but also this is Texas so why wouldn’t they?), so she says “then I’ll get some of that cheese sauce instead.”  Cheese sauce is also called queso but those are semantics.  Anyways, she then says, “and he’s getting beef fajitas” (or something along those lines, I can’t remember the exact food) to which he exclaimed in his Louisiana accent “No!  I am taking back the power.  I’m getting something else.”  She just rolled her eyes like a “whatfuckingever” and I laughed.  Fast forward five minutes and he ordered the beef fajitas

Who has the power?  Apparently beef fajitas.

Fast forward four hours and we are playing Cards Against Humanity at my favorite peoples house.  They are constantly being written about in my blog and bet they are going to read this and think ‘oh god, this shit again…’.   But anyways, we are playing CAH (which I love and that probably makes me a pervert) and he explains to me, talking about “the power” again, that you hold the power and you can’t let anyone take it from you and that, he, holds his own power.  Or honestly something like that, I’m paraphrasing because I had been drinking for 6 hours at that point.

While it made sense at the time, as everything is apt to do when day drinking, it wasn’t until four days later when it finally sunk in.  Yes, holding your own power makes all the sense.  Would I want to have someone else’s power?  No, I have enough shit on my on plate, I don’t need someone else’s.

So what made me think of this favorite story of mine was someone recently contacted me to apologize for treating me like shit in college.  My first thought was to reply and say “go fuck yourself” but then thought of this story.  I won’t give them the power.  So instead I said, “thank you for contacting me.  Thank you for apologizing.  Go fuck yourself.”

Who holds the power?  I’m still thinking it’s those fajitas but for one brief moment, I felt like I did.

Anyway, BBT yall.  Bitches be trippin.

 End of evening shenanigans for the terrorist from Baton Rouge.  No his shoulder wasn’t broken.

 

Detective Vodka Pancakes’ inquiry into the TV Show Lost…

Something very upsetting happened to me recently.  But to be able to properly explain, I have to first explain how it relates to the TV show, Lost.

I made a ‘joke’ that at some point, all good conversations can be referenced back to either Nutella or Lost.   If it doesn’t, then you need to shut up.

I don’t know why I didn’t watch the show when it was on the air, I guess it all stems from that fact I ‘m not a big beach person.  Like, I didn’t watch Heros because I’m not really that big into cheerleading.  But about six weeks ago, my boyfriend convinced me to start watching Lost on Netflix.   Or Netflicks.  About three years ago, when the show was airing, I had a friend (who is type A to an alarming degree) who told me they watched each episode twice just in case they missed something.  I remember at the time thinking, ‘hmmm, you’re a weirdo.’    But alas, last night, I made the very comment, “when we have finished the series (I have two more seasons so don’t fucking ruin it for me) I think we should start all over again and watch it in case I’ve missed something.”  I’m like the Lost detective.  Detective Vodka Pancakes.

Maybe it’s the fact I’ve been sober for 17 days (I like saying that, sounds like my situation is significantly more interesting than it is…) but I’ve been watching a lot of Lost lately.  Like a lot.

Here are my thoughts on this picture.  Middle row, yes to both.  They can come to my island.  So can Sun.  Anyone who can fake knowing another language from their spouse is a badass.  Claire, she likes peanut butter, she can stay.  Charlie was cooler on drugs.  Someone should hit John Locke in the face with a paddle and thank god Shannon’s dead.  She was fucking annoying.

But back to the original point.  Like I said, something very unsettling happened to me last Friday night.  I was at the movies (like I said, I am currently not drinking, zzz) and I saw a trailer for some Hobbit movie.  Actually make that two unsettling things.  One of them being the fact there is another fucking Hobbit movie out.  How is that possible?  It’s like they’re rolling those out daily.   Anyway, while quasi-watching the trailer I saw Evangeline Lilly.  She didn’t quit acting after Lost?!  Like I said, upsetting.  I tried to explain this to my boyfriend over the noise from Hobbit Movie but I’m pretty sure he was ignoring me, hoping for compliant silence.  I will never be silenced!  Detective Vodka Pancakes has things to say.

First I found this upsetting picture of Evangeline Lilly in Hobbits Movie (I don’t know the name of that stupid movie so I’m just going to forever call it Hobbit Movie) but then I found this one…

What the fuck is up with her hair?

Knowing what I know now, that Lost is the best TV series of all time (Lost and True Blood), I can’t believe they let those actors act again.  They all should have retired.  I mean, Vincent the dog (who has his own IMDB page), only starred on Lost.   He apparently is the only one that understands that you go out on top.

Someone should have told Sawyer/James that before he starred in that dance movie with Chris Brown recently.  Weird.

But anyway I’m headed to Costa Rica in November.  Mysterious traveling island here I come.

Actually, scratch that.  I’m traveling with my mom, it’s best for all parties involved we don’t get stranded on a deserted island together.

 

Not Drinking…it’s even more boring than it sounds.

I’ve never really considered myself one of those people that needs to be constantly entertained.  Until I stopped drinking.  I can easily attest, it’s boring as fuck.

I gave up drinking for 30 days.   Thirty days in comparison to your entire life doesn’t seem like that long of a stretch.  But it is.  Oh, is it ever.

So as I count down the days (the hours…the minutes…I truly believe it’s all started going backwards at this point.  I’m like Alice in Wonderland) until I can once again feel like a well adjusted drinking individual amongst the population, I need a distraction.  Actually what I need is a paid companion.  Or maybe I could get an intern and have them just sit and slap drinks out of my hand.

Back to not drinking being boring.  Yesterday for happy hour we went to Brewed because they serve kombucha.  Kombucha is fermented tea.  If that doesn’t sound gross to you, then you’re doing it wrong.  But I HAD to get out of the house.  Although sitting at Brewed for 30 minutes is just as boring as it sounds.  And by the way, they have terrible service.  Last time I was there (hungover and eating a friedeggsammichohmnomnomnomnom) I swear our waiter was tripping on acid.  And not in a ‘fun to watch’ kind of way, but like a ‘this is really fucking annoying’ kind of way.

Last week we went to go to the movies but had to bypass the Movie Tavern.  They serve full bar.  Way too tempting for this non-drinking little lady.  Wine and movies…love it.  Just like wine and walking the dog or wine and blow drying my hair.  So we went to the theatre at Ridgmar and let me warn you, just don’t.  If you like hanging around obnoxious hormonal high schoolers that don’t give a shit about anyone around them then be my guest.  Of course the little morons sitting in front of us tried to get in a fight with the little jackasses sitting in front of them.  I find it impossible to believe I was that terrible in high school.  Maybe I was.  I probably was.  I was.

I took my boredom to the internets.  While you can google anything, you probably won’t like any of the absolutely fucking stupid answers you get.   So I googled, “what to do when you stop drinking?”  Here is what I got:  movies, masturbate, sex and ultimate frisbee.   While I do know what movies, masturbation and sex are, I had to look up ultimate frisbee.  I went to TCU, we didn’t do that shit.   Or we might have.   A) I’m getting old and B) I was usually drunk.

My recently pregnant best friend told me it was hard but she said what kept her going was the fact she didn’t want to fuck up her baby.  “So what you’re saying is I lack the motivation.”

So if you have any non-sexual/frisbee related suggestions, please tell me.  But as for now, I’m off to happy hour to cry at Brewed.

Sad hour at Brewed.  Boom.  Ugh.

19 days, 7 hours, 5 minutes…

Max’s Wine Dive. It’s no Popeye’s.

Let me start my adventure that was Max’s Wine Dive by saying the girl sitting near us was giving me the stink eye.  Not something I tend to enjoy while trying to shove the world’s largest sammich in my face (ommmnommnommfriedeggsandwich).  Unfortunately, my picture doesn’t do my sammich justice.  Think of my plate with the circumference of a manhole cover.

Now, I love loud blaring music while I’m eating as much as the next person, but Bon Jovi?  It was a little more than I could handle.  I could hardly hear what my boyfriend who was sitting across from me was saying, but honestly, we’ve been dating for over 5 years so we’ve  obviously past the point I need to pretend to be interested.

As if there really was ever any question, I ate it all.  The waitress came by to collect my empty plate that I wiped clean with my face and said, “Oh wow!  I’m impressed!” My boyfriend looked at her like she was enemy number one and then proceeded to make jokes about me not fitting in the car for the ride home.  And now you see why I don’t care if I ever hear what he has to say.

So this one time I was in a pho restaurant named Pho (not terribly clever…) and the girl next to us licked her bowl clean.  Literally.  I have never been as grossed out, I wanted to turn to her and offer to buy her bowlopho if she would eat it on the other side of the room.

.

They also try and make you buy a case of wine while you are sitting captive at the table.  During the five minute spiel, I just always want to stop them and inform them if I had a case of wine, I would be drinking it alone at home with President Kitty.

But regardless of being subjected to Bon Jovi,  David Bowie and what I think was a Glee cover, and not to mention the half hour it took for someone to realize we were sitting there with the intention of eating their food, I hearted my eggsammich.  As I’m writing this my boyfriend added “the fried chicken is ok.  It’s no Popeye’s.  You could probably compare it to Church’s.  If you like that kind of shit.”

Also someone needs to inform them it’s college football season, not Jamie Foxx Show marathon Saturdays.  Who watches that.

That’s weird.

Nachos, yes. Broccoli Enchiladas, no.

Omnomnomnomnomnomnom, I eat nachos anywhere.

It’s like a mantra I think when I get to go eat nachos.  One time I went six months and didn’t eat nachos (impossible) or drink margaritas (meh) because we were going to the beach.  I learned ‘getting beach ready’ = not worth it.  We got off the plane and I ate nachos and had a margarita.  It was like shoving heaven in my face.  Then I put on a bathing suit and was sad.

My friend sent me a text last night saying “tomorrow for the LSU game is veggie soup, sparking rose and handsies.  Who’s in?”  I wonder if they were trying to appeal to the vegetarian side of me or they make really poor menu choices.   Veggie soup didn’t really make me want to get out of bed today.

But nachos did.

I once ate at this terrible restaurant that I won’t name (Frankie’s) and ordered nachos which were, aforementioned, terrible.  As I was eating them, I kept saying “oh these are so gross.”  “Ew, so terrible, omnomnom.” Next thing I knew, I looked down and all my nachos were gone.  “Who ate all these terrible nachos?!”

Well, it was me.  “Should we get some more?”

So we were headed over to our friends house to watch college football all day and drink all the drinks.

But along the way, we stopped at The Original because my desire for nachos was clouding my better judgement (just kidding, I have none) and we decided to have margaritas.  These are no normal margaritas, these are Mas Finas.  That’s spanish for “hold on to your butts because you’re about to be shitfaced.”  I used to hang out at this bar by my house a lot and there was this mexican midget and he would try and teach me spanish every time I came in (no lie) so above translation is legit (lie).

It’s like when my boyfriends aunt and uncle try to teach us bridge after cocktails and dinner when we go over there.  It’s pointless.  If I’ve even smelled alcohol, don’t bother.  You aren’t even a blimp on the radar anymore.

But my point behind writing this was, as I ordered my food I glanced down at the menu to see they offer broccoli enchiladas.  Hahaha, weird.  It just seemed so misplaced to me (first who even likes broccolis and second who wants BROCCOLIS IN THEIR ENCHILADAS?) that I had to take a pic.  So after two ‘hold your butts shitfaceds’ and 18 nachos (for me, I don’t share) we headed to our friends house.

Apparently they had eaten at the Original the night before and he casually mentioned we should try the broccoli enchiladas.  It was as if time stood still.  “No thank you.  I don’t believe I will try those and you sir are gross.”

So as I rethought my friendship with the broccoli enchilada eater I realized that he has such good taste in other aspects of his life that maybe he is onto something with all this broccoli enchilada eating.  Doesn’t matter, I’ll have to take his word on this.  Unless they start making broccoli nachos (weird, but I’ll eat it).

Omnomnomnomnomnomnom, I eat broccoli nachos anywhere.

Oklahoma. Fried Pies, Meth & Casinos.

Oklahoma.  I had once referred to as the ‘Land of Shitty Casinos and even Shittier Beer’.  But there is so much more…

Upon driving into Oklahoma, I saw the person driving in their pickup truck in front of me throw what I believe to be a bottle of pee in a Dasani water bottle out of the car.  I knew it was going to be a long day.

I drove past Winstar Casino, which embodies London, Rome and Paris in its architecture, as you enter Oklahoma.  I haven’t been to London but now there is no need.  This was exactly how I had envisioned it.

I’ve never really been a big fan of Oklahoma but I think it all stems from a weekend long fraternity party somewhere in OK I went to every year while in college.  Apparently a year is just long enough for you to forget the terrible time you had the year before and agree to go again.  There’s less alcohol in the beer and when you can only afford Keystone you might as well save the money and drink water.  You’ll get just as drunk.

Although I did run across a couple things of interest while traversing up and down 35.  The most interesting thing I found to be is the billboards.   Is meth really that big of a problem that there is a need for a meth/suicide billboard every 2 miles?  I did see a news story the other day about how a group blew up in their car while driving around making meth in the backseat.    I must be in the wrong profession.

They also have some good ones about prescription drug fraud and a really intense pro-life campaign.  I don’t need that shit while I’m driving.

An exciting piece of information is they sell fried pies literally everywhere.  Growing up, my brother used to eat those fried apple pies from Mrs Bairds and drink cokes like he was employed to do it.  This must have been before people worried about things like ‘caloric intake’  and ‘childhood obesity.’  He finally stopped around the age of 30 when his wife informed him that by consuming the two a day that was his general fried pie consumption, he was going to die before they were able to ever have children.

As a rule, when traveling by car there is no stopping once we start.  So while someone throwing a bottle of pees out of their car is incredibly gross, conceptually I get it.  We stop for no reason.  So I brought my own peanut butter sammie.

I actually took this pic so you could see my sweet ride in the background.   Have you ever noticed people do that on Facebook?  Like, oh let me take a picture of the temperature gauge in my car to show you it’s currently 102 degrees but let me just happen to get my mercedes icon in the background.  It’s 102 degrees today in Texas and you drive a mercedes. Fantastic.   I eat peanut butter sammies in my car and I drive a four year old Volvo.

So as I drive back home, listening to ABBA, I’m realizing there might be more to Oklahoma than I had originally led myself to believe.  And am contemplating who to contact about getting a meth billboard outside my new digs.  Waylan and Little Joe are about on my last nerve.

Temaki…and Jazz Hands. And Recreational Drugs.

I can’t make fun of it because I genuinely love it.  But that said, it’s slow.  Like my dead grandmother slow.  Which is ok to say because she was mean as shit.  And didn’t like me.  Which is impossible.

Also, I told the owner it was my “favoritest restaurant of all time” and he wasn’t too impressed.  Like it was the 1,000th time he had heard that that day.

I always get the tomato miso soup because its ultra delicious in my tummy.  I wanted to take a picture, so I told my boyfriend to move his hands.  This is what I got.

Jazz hands at Temaki.

But my problem started when I walked into the Bearded Lady at 4:30.  Our two beers were $8.  My manfriend was like, “wow, $8 is really cheap.”  Is that what we have been programmed to think?  Eight dollars can buy me an 18 pack (if I’m getting all college style on your ass and get Keystone).  Anyway, we then hit the Usual then Temaki.  Apparently 5:45 is not an acceptable time for anyone under the age of 65 to eat, so we had to have a drink first.

Or several.  Thats how we normally do it.

Afterwards, we went to the Chat Room, another mistake, as I currently have a monster fucking headache and am having to one-eye it to write this.  Anyways, I read online the Chat Room serves minors, but I didn’t see anyone other than us under the age of 40 there.  That said, some guy I unfortunately know walked up and joined us saying he was about to leave to go eat at Mijo’s (buy the Groupon!  It’s always there!).  He asked if after we wanted to come over for “some weed and coke if yall like to party” (I shit you not).  Is that a measure of how much you like to party?  I thought I liked to party, but am I in the baby party league?  Apparently so because I thought the most interesting thing about that sentence was the fact he was going to go eat at Mijos.

So as he left with my imparting words of ‘get the quinoa tortilla soup and dare to get off drugs’ (boom) I realized I guess I’m not a ‘cool’ partier.  When tortilla soup is more appealing than recreational drugs you are with me in the baby party league.

I’ll just stick with my 18 pack of Keystone.  God, I’ll never be cool.

 

Chat Room…for the virtual drinkers

As I moved across town, I was plagued with thoughts of ‘where will I get drunk now?’ and ‘who will take out my trash?’.   But as I have lived on Magnolia for five days now I can easily answer those questions that so plagued me that initial drive.  One, as I am learning, I can easily get drunk anywhere.  And two, apparently I will take out the trash.  Which blows.

When we moved in, the landlord said, “Don’t mind all the pan-handlers.  I know them, It’s Little Joe and Waylan.  Just keep telling them you don’t have any money.  It took a couple years but they don’t even bother asking me anymore.”  Well thats fantastic.  Two dude, who probably make more money panhandling than I do at my real job, are going to be asking me for money for the next couple years.

But I’m getting off track.  I was curious as to what would be my new “Shamrock”, which was my go-to dive by my old house, so we decided to test some places out.

We started at the Chat Room.  Yes I have been here before and then I vowed never to return. But that says something about vows you make when you’re drunk.  They’re stupid and pointless.  I got riled up several years ago because the shot offerings of the day were (keep in mind I was looking to take shots which speaks to my frame of mind) a shot for Democrats, only $3 made with shittyshit, and shots for Republicans, at a less reasonable $12 made with fancy shit.  I get it, I really do.  But being the conservative Republican I am, albeit potty mouthed conservative Republican, I thought it was pretentious and placed my vow to the Gods never to return.   So I went back last night.

Honestly, Glenlivet is Glenlivet, and tastes the same anywhere you go.  But having it being served to you from a place that originated as a bar that you could go hang out with all your virtual friends makes it taste more interesting.  I don’t remember if there were any pooters (i.e. computers to all you non techie idiots) inside but I made a mental note to look next time I go back.  And if we are going to be saying truthful things, I will see you there tonight.

Post Chat Room, we went with the best idea at the time, which was tequila shots at Yukatan.  The dude I live with and I have revolve our lives around walking everywhere.  It was a major factor in deciding where to live; we have to be able to walk, get foods and drunk, and then be able to ‘walk’ home.  As I aforementioned about Waylan, I truly don’t have the money to spend on something frivolous, like a DUI and such.  So as we were leaving the Chat Room to head the TWO BLOCKS to Yukatan, the guy we were with wants to drive.  That we would walk two blocks apparently was a concept he couldn’t conceptualize.

So we pile in the back of the suburban and make the 12 second drive.

How many flights of tequila do three people need?  Two.  How many aspirin do I need this morning?  Five.  It helps at 8am while listening to Little Joe and Waylan call each other bitches outside.  I shit you not.

At least I haven’t been asked for money yet.  I don’t fucking have any.  Don’t bother.

SIDE NOTE: Actually the point, that I got out to bed to type, was that we ate at Temaki last night.  And it was fucking amazing.  Two things about it.  One- I saw a woman, sitting with her two kids order an entire bottle of wine and slam it.  Classic moves.  Two- everything was amazing.  Like spectacularly amazing.  Freshly made in-house french macaroons with fresh strawberries have ruined me for all other macaroons.  Even ones I ate in Paris aren’t this good.  I forgot to take pictures but thats fine.  I’m eating there every night for the rest of my life.

Temaki & Chat Room.  Match made in Magnolia heaven.

 

Santa Fe. Close your borders.

So as I begin day two of the search for my car, I suddenly realize something.  I’m an idiot.

A couple days ago I went out with friends to celebrate her new engagement.  Now I’m searching for  my car.  So after 45 minutes of walking in the general direction of the general area that houses my car, boom.  Found my car parked next to an El Camino.

Now President Kitty and I are off to an unfamiliar city to drink wine all day for a wine festival.   Fantastic.  Thank god we don’t need my car for this one.

The Gold Standard.

I really like what they did with this place.  Considering I didn’t care for 7th Haven, it wouldn’t have taken much.  I think that was more my problem though than 7th Haven’s. One time my boyfriend and I decided to walk to Fred’s for lunch and on the way, we stopped in 7th Haven to one drink.  Next thing we know, it’s 6:30 and time to put one foot on the floor and go to bed.  Like I said, probably my fault.

That said, my drink at G.S. was amazing (Pimm’s Cup) but my boyfriend’s was tres terriblé.  That was his fault though.  It’s a aspect of our relationship. I always pick really well and he always picks really poorly.  It’s so baffling to watch, he will pick the absolute worst thing on every menu.  Every time. I never understand it.

I pick awesome.  Always.

Good call, I say ‘fuck Patron’ as well.  That shit has never done anything good for me.