I really need to get back into blogging. Like really. Thursday is technically my 1 year blogiversary, except that I don’t know if you can really count it with my on again-off again behavior. Being chronically single, I have to ask, I mean, if you broke up with your boyfriend here and there for a few weeks and then took a couple month hiatus, would you still celebrate an anniversary? I don’t know the answer. But if I get chocolates, dinner, and some nice wine for a blogiversary, then by God we are going to celebrate it.
That being said, I guess I need to pull out all the stops for Thursday. Maybe I’ll dig out some really embarrassing stories and bring back TMI Thursday. Or maybe not.
Anyway, in the spirit of Monday morning unproductiveness, I am going to spend some QT with the old Black Coffee Two Sugars. I would feel more guilty about that whole “working” thing if I hadn;t just hung up with my boss, who was going through the starbucks drive thru picking up a venti mocha–no whip cream, and then off to run errands.
So what if she’s taking 2 red eyes and working 60 hours this week? Right NOW, she is running a few errands.
While I sit here with my measly black coffee staring into a blinking computer screen in a halo of fluorescent lighting.
I promise I have a story somewhere underneath all this mumbo jumbo, so here we go:
I’ve had a pretty good month. And by good, I mean highly intensive in all aspects of partying, spending too much money, and generally not giving a damn about anything other than my social life and the ass groove in leave in my couch on Sunday afternoons.
Between My Dallas birthday, Austin birthday (not a typo–I got both), TX/OU weekend, and the recreational drugged filled zero-sleep fest that was ACL, it’s been a long time coming that I would eventually need a weekend off.
Realizing I have no self control, I gladly retreated to my parents’ house Friday night after work for some good old-fashioned R&R.
But unless R&R stands for Reisling and Refills, my plan did not exactly work out. I personally requested Coal Vines. A nice glass of red, some pizza, bada boom, bada bing, back home for an early night.
We ordered a bottle that was on special when we got there. My mom and I were the only ones really drinking so that would be plenty. Well that was wrong, too. We ended up with another bottle on the premise that we could “take the extra home with us.” Which I think amounted to about 2 oz left in the bottom of the bottle, and yes, we did take it home. We are not wasteful people when it comes to booze.
My dad ordered a diet coke. I figured he was just preparing himself for the typical drunkfest that is my mom and me.
Editor’s note: My dad has a high tolerance for the ladies of the family. We really must get so annoying. One of my favorite stories involves him bringing all of my things down to Austin when I moved from a dorm to my apartment after freshman year. My mom came down early, so naturally we headed to baby A’s for some purple margaritas. If you’ve never been, you are missing out. They’re made with everclear with a limit of 2 per person. Of course, Baby A’s doesn’t actually abide by that rule, so when the kareoke started, we ordered a 3rd marg and waited on my dad, who was driving in after work on a Friday.
When my dad called to tell us he was pulling into the restaurant we went outside to meet him. He whipped into the parking lot on two wheels with my box springs and mattress strapped to the roof, surrounded by pieces of shriveled tarp that had barely survived the trip. Guess I’m lucky it didn’t rain.
Not that it was hard to spot, but my dad’s keen eye picked up on the fact that we may or may not be three sheets to the wind by this point. I then proceeded to convince him that the storage unit I had rented was open 24 hours and that we should go get some things before heading back to my new home. He seemed skeptical but I was convinced that we could be productive!! So he drove the 15 miles north to Public Storage.
Apparently, the storage unit is NOT open 24 hours and was definitely closed. My mom and I were crouching by the elevator hysterically laughing when he came around the corner and found us. His “you’ve got to be kidding me” face did nothing to help our attempts to stop laughing. We drove home. I believe his last words were “you could have at least warned me and stayed at the restaurant long enough fro ME to have a margarita…”
Back to the present: Dad orders a diet coke. I’m busy blabbing about something when I notice him fidgeting in my mom’s purse and then reaching under the table.
Me: “Dad, what are you doing?”
Mom: (eye roll) “Well you know he’s back on that low-carb diet….”
Dad: (Sneakily raises a flask-sized whiskey bottle and jiggles it over the table…. then laughs).
Me: You did NOT.
Dad: “Whaaat? It’s low carb!”
A normal person would probably be embarrassed by their 53 year old father sneaking alcohol into an establishment. Especially when the waitress catches you. But not me. I was proud. Apparently the waitress was too: “Oh yeah, he had that when they came in on Wednesday too.” Yeah, we are regulars, and my dad has apparently taken to drinking hard liquor on Wednesdays as well.
It’s safe to say I woke up with a headache Saturday morning.
Empty nesters…. you can’t take ‘em anywhere.