Vodka & Pancakes

the things I eat and the drinks I drink…a Louisiana blog


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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.

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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.

 photo 2-6End of evening shenanigans for the terrorist from Baton Rouge.  No his shoulder wasn’t broken.

 


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Galaxies, Syphillis & Pay Phones. All in Louisiana.

Somewhere in southern Louisiana iPhone and I got in a fight.  It was more of a test of will, one that phone bested me in. Apparently it decided it didn’t want to live anymore and died in my hands.  Seeing as I was hundreds of miles away from my house (I don’t know geography or distance all that well, it could have been millions of miles for all I give a fuck), I realized I needed to find my way from central Louisiana to southern Mississippi then to western Louisiana back to central.  All without my mapapp.  And any common sense.

Since, like I said, I lack all common sense this plan seemed easy enough to tackle.  Mississippi?  It’s to the right.  Louisiana go back left.  What other directions do you need?

An unfortunate realization hit me as I made my way around southern Louisiana.  Pay phones have gone way of the dinosaur.  Actually, now that I have a new cell phone (fuck you stupid Apple), I realize that the fact I’d sooner find a velociraptor than a pay phone is actually safer.  I’d rather be chased by a dinosaur any day than any one of the people I’ve seen milling around a pay phone.

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Someone advised me in my search to find a pay phone: “go to the most ghetto area and find the most ghetto convenient store.”  I wasn’t looking to score drugs.  Nor was I looking to die, so I just stopped at an average-to-poor gas station and asked if they have one.  No.  But I can attest to the fact that southern Louisiana, for this point Lafayette to be exact, is full of friendly people.  As I stood outside the average-to-poor gas station pondering my next move (since I had no idea where I was or where I was going), a gay black man dressed like a pimp asked if I wanted to use his galaxy.  Yes.  I absolutely do.

As I took his iPad sized phone, I was thinking ‘who owns a galaxy?’ but then came to the realization that I soon will because I’m going to go burn down my local Apple Store.  Then I had another thought, that the only other person I have met that owns a galaxy lives in Baton Rouge.  Do all people in Louisiana have galaxies?  Do I have to move there once I get mine?

Once (five years ago) I was in New Orleans supposed to meet a friend living there for drinks.  He canceled and wanted to reschedule for the next night but I told him I had to be in Lafayette so that was a no-go.  What he informed me next has stuck with me for years.  “Everyone in Lafayette has syphillis so you should stay in New Orleans.”  Everyone?!  I was intrigued.  Sounded like World War Z in the making.  Since then I have always made it a point, when someone says they’re from Lafayette to ask if they have syphillis.  The reaction to that question is varied, I’ve been laughed at, looked at like  I was about to be murdered and even several plain, “no, do you?”.  “Oh me?  No.  No syphillis.  I’m from Texas.”

So around 8pm (after leaving the house at 8am), I finally made my way back home with a new found respect for galaxy owners and pimps alike.  They’re not all bad people.  I’m thinking I’m about to join them.

caturday

I forgot all pictures so here’s this.


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Max’s Wine Dive. It’s no Popeye’s.

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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.

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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.

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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.


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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.

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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?”

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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.

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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.


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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

pbutter sammie

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.

ABBA

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.


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Aliens. They don’t exist. Hell? It does. It’s called Roswell.

My friend visited from Los Angeles recently.  My boyfriend made the comment that she said “literally” in every sentence (she does).  “Literally her head exploded…”  “I literally died…”  First of all, no one exploded.  Nor did did anyone die.  Trust me, this would be a better story if any of that shit literally happened.

I guess my point is (moo points), that since I understand the heft of saying “literally”, please believe me when I say…Roswell is literally fucking terrible.  Literally I mean it and it’s fucking terrible.

Unless you give a shit about aliens.  I don’t.  And here’s why.

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I can’t pin point where I should begin my story, is it with the denim twins?  Or is it with the fact that I hung out in one of Roswell’s finest bars, and it was located in the most expensive hotel in the city.  Don’t be jealous, it was the Day’s Inn.  It was literally a shit hole with an indoor pool so the entire building made my hair frizz.

I guess I’ll start there.

Tuesday night, I was sitting in a sushi bar drinking a glass of wine discussing our upcoming trip to Santa Fe.  When I say I had a shitty idea, believe me when I say I wish I could turn back time.  I (being a person who loves adventure and now hates Roswell) said, “since we are DRIVING to Santa Fe, lets go early and go to Roswell (my boyfriend loves aliens.  I would say more but let’s just subtly leave it with ‘Ancient Aliens’ is all that’s currently on our DVR) and we can go a day early.”  Who knew, twenty words could bite my ass so hard that I could still feel it six weeks later.

So the next day, we decided to say “fuck work” (I seem to say that more often than “not fuck work”) and headed to Roswell.  Let me emphasize, t’s fucking terrible.  Oh, and I forgot all my clothes.

Post-sushi, pre-Day’s Inn?  I left ALL my clothes at home.  It’s funny, as we were leaving my boyfriend looked at me and said, “did you leave anything at home we should grab before we get too far?”  I, exasperatingly, rolled my eyes and  said no and that anything I forgot I could just buy in Roswell. Well, guess what., I left all my clothes at home.  LITERALLY.  I had the clothes on my back (which stayed there for five days) and a shirt to sleep in (henceforth called my ‘sleepieshirt’).  As I learned, you honestly don’t need much more.  But we stopped at the Roswell JC Penney and I bought a dress for $15.  So I had my car outfit, a shitty dress and my sleepieshirt.  Made me rethink the way I pack.  Essentially I’m never packing again.  Makes you realize how much you don’t need clothing when you don’t have any.  Just pack your sleepieshirt.

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If you havent been to Roswell (don’t go), it’s much different than you would expect.  There are no alien themed restaurants, which is disappointing.  There are no bars, which is also disappointing wherever you go.  So we roll into town, (we drove through Lubbock which smells like cow poos) around 8.  I urbanspooned it and we found the nicest restaurant in town (not alien themed- there are no alien themed places there which seems to me like someone is losing a LOT of money) which has a 37%.   At that point, after nine hours who gives a shit.  So we ordered a pitcher of beer, as the only liquor they had was tequila (weird), and a pizza and a grilled cheese.  That was mine, I don’t share.  It was a small pizza.  Number one problem with Roswell is there is a time change and I’m hungry.

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Anyways, the next day we headed over to the UFO museum.  Here actually begins my story.  First off, I saw these idiots.  Who still sells denim overalls to someone not working in a farm capacity?  I texted the pic to my friend in LA (the one mentioned above who after reading this is no longer peaking to me) who made the comment about the straps.  MY THOUGHTS TOO!  Did they do it on purpose?  Too many questions that following them around didn’t solve.  Although, oddly enough, they weren’t the weirdest people there.  Lots o’ foreigns.  Like buses of them.

This picture…well, it’s a point of contention.  ‘X-files’?  They include seven posters of ‘X-Files’ but none of ‘Roswell’, the fucking amazing CW show; star crossed lovers…an alien and a Roswalien (henceforth all Roswell residents are Rosaliens.  too easy, honestly this blog wrote itself).  It was like the ‘Twlight’ of alien programming.  Who would go to  vampire museum and not see ‘Twilight’?  I mean, yes we all know it’s terrible, but it was a major grossing movie about vampires.  Side note, I saw Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ the other day.  Good shit.    Another side note, what ever happened to Gillian Andersons’s career?  Put her on Californication.

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I took this pic because the guy in the middle looks like a guy I dated in high school.  Made me laugh.  Then it made me question my life.  I’m the one in Roswell taking a picture of some guy that looks like a loser I dated 10 years ago.  Oh high school.  I with I could delete you from my memory.

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I’m a fast reader.  I’m also a good judge of things that are boring so those boring things get skimmed.  I figure, I read every fifth word, then at the end I make my on story of the few words I read.  Theme- Aliens.  It took me 9 minutes to go through the place.    It took my boyfriend, henceforth known as my ex-boyfrind (just kidding.  ugh), four hours.

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I took this picture because I couldn’t decide what was the best part of this picture.  The fact that aliens eat at Arbys or that Arby’s has wi-fi.  At least someone is eating at Arbys I guess.

Here is something I thought about while waiting for my boyfriend in the UFO museum (not a sentence I thought I would ever say)-while we were in Paris, there was a haute couture exhibit.  I wanted to go.  My alien loving and believing he-boy did not.  Did we go?  No.  Fast forward five months and I’m in Roswell questioning my life.

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I’m putting an ad in Craigslist for a new boyfriend.  Honestly, the dudes who came to pick up our dining room chairs weren’t that bad…

Sorry if you live in Roswell.  Here is some free advice.  Move.

I normally do cool shit with my pictures but I am waaaayyy too hungover


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Santa Fe. Got me some wine…

I learned many a thing this weekend at the Wine & Chile Fest.  You know, about myself, about others, about shit in general…but here is one important thing I learned.

Succinct and couldn’t be more accurate.  

I do love me some wine.  Especially 72 glasses of it.