Monday, February 27, 2012

There is either an axe murderer at my window or the sprinklers just came on

Only my father would text me at midnight to say goodnight... and to not let my feet hang off the bed or else the demon from Paranormal Activity will drag me out of the room. You are the worst kind of person, DAD.

So, whilst watching "She's the Man", Channing Tatum took his shirt off and the lights in our apartment had a stroke.

We did too.

I'm going to own the fact that the roomie and I were doing laundry while watching girly movies when the power went out late last night. 

Of course my first reaction was to scream. The roomie's reaction was to laugh. I hope the serial killer gets her first. Hasn't every horror movie ever created linked "power outage" and "serial killer" together?  There was no visible reason for the power outage; the lights in our bedrooms and bathrooms worked, it was just in the living room/kitchen. No serial killer... That I'm aware of... Yet. I've always been jumpy when it comes to stuff like that. There is a good story to solidify my point that involves "The Shining" and a burning tree... I'll save it for another time.

So, I blame my father for my severe skepticism of calling any of the following things innocent:
  • power outages 
  • bridges
  • anyone you meet at a gas station after midnight
  • dolls of any variety (I'm on to you, Weebles!) 
  • and being alone in a house/apartment

The man would tell me made-up stories of "The Goat Man" while we were driving home at night in the rain. Yes, The Goat Man. I was told that he lives under a bridge, and to my 10 year old self it was the bridge at the park down the street, where else? It does not end there, at twenty-two, he is still terrorizing me to this day. (My Dad, not The Goat Man.) Refer to the 1st sentence of this post if you need a reminder/nightmares/high electrcity bill from sleeping with the lights on.

It's even worse when my roomie isn't home, then and only then do I think that Scream is in my kitchen. Of course it's only the fridge kicking in to keep our beer cold, but the sheer fact that I can't pass it off as her making the noise when I'm not convinced it's the fridge, sets my mind racing. Oh my God I'm going to die! I'm not wearing matching socks and I'm going to die.  Should I get up and lock my bedroom door? Will he hear me lock the door? What's the point of locking the door? Buying me some more time to find a suitable weapon... like this bag of Nutter Butters I took to bed with me, or my alarm clock. I'm going to die.

I always check for murderers behind the shower curtain when I enter a bathroom. Pants down (see what I did there), that would be the worst time to be caught off guard. I never thought of it before, but why don't the helpless saps running from a man with a knife in a mask just wait for the killer to take a potty break? All of that running around must make you thirsty.

I wish I could get my Lucky Charms marshmallows and cereal to a nice 3:5 ratio. Probably my only goal for the day. It doesn't help that I'm not at work, but at home, sick and kind of feel like the little alien from Men In Black that's dying in the old man robot. I sound like him too...

But honestly, I wish the electricity would come back on soon. Mainly so we can finish the movie.

Control by MuteMath because this song always makes my world brighter.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

I've tried every karate move I know and still can not kill this mosquito

Two days in a row? Yes, I'm going to start off strong and then slowly decline and disappoint you all.

I forgot to mention one of my favorite parts about going Downtown/Uptown/wherever in a city: CAB DRIVERS. This is clearly dripping in sarcasm, so please read it as such. (Someone should invent a sarcasm font already.) Cab drivers have this wonderful talent for freaking me out.

Now, what made this pub crawl (in reference to the previous post) so great was that it included cab fare for us to get our drunk asses home. How thoughtful. Well, Lisa decided to use her cab fare to get TO the first bar, and met the sweetest cabdriver that completely broke every stereotype about cabdrivers. No, he wasn't. No, she didn't. She met a very self-righteous cabdriver that proceeded to scold her for going to a bar at noon on a Saturday. This taxi driver asked her if she was married, and when she said "No", he then told her that she would probably marry an alcoholic if she ever got married at all

Maybe this is what Lisa should've said, "No, I'm not married, I'm a hooker." Shock and awe might be my favorite kind of comeback. It's usually in retrospect, though. I guess I'm not ballsy enough to actually say what's rattling around in my head while the hilarity ensues.

* Can I side note and say that one of my life goals is to find The Cash Cab? He's out there. Probably not in Dallas, but the world goes around, so I'm optimistic.

That's usually the part where I turn to someone who is far more gutsy, or in this case drunk or maybe they're not too quick on the cause and effect flowchart of actions and consequences. Either way, I can tell them the wildly outrageous action I'm thinking and sit back and smile. "You should take that tire and this rope and tie it to a tree to make a swing.". It's like, "Smell this, I think it's gone bad."

I hate that game.

I'm pretty sure that's what little brothers are for anyways. That and coming up with zombie apocalypse scenario games. Now, I've played my fair share of Nazi Zombies and Call of Duty, usually out of sheer curiosity and a few times out of determination for redemption. The flamethrower is my weapon of choice, who doesn't want to see something set ablaze in a fiery triumph? Thought so.

My Call of Duty skills are less than... they're just "less than" even with said flamethrower. I spend too much time shouting obscenities at my guy that's helplessly trapped in a corner, jumping up and down while shooting at the sky. Kind of wish there were birds so I at least had a fair shot at hitting something.

Well, the Nazi zombies, brought up a wonderful dinner conversation one day. I decided to test the little brother's zombie readiness by telling him that he has to use the 5 random objects in our current location to defeat a wild pack of brain-eaters. He did alright with a box of toothpicks, a parrot, fig newtons, floss, and a Spice Girls cd. This has now become our thing.

We randomly text message each other an assortment of items, a location, time, weather conditions, and then we wait. We wait patiently and hope for the other's survival. It's kind of our way of saying we love each other without all the x's and o's. That and quoting Fantastic Mr. Fox.

It's really not fair to call the 16 year old boy wonder "little" when he's 6'4 and can crush a coke can just by looking at it.

Another way to show someone you love them? Only a real bestfriend goes to the gym with you and then convinces you to pour cake batter on the wafflemaker. For dinner. Yes, cakewaffles are delicious.

Oh, the mosquito? It's like I'm sharing a room with a kamikaze fighter pilot vampire.

DOA by The Foo Fighters because I miss the old Foo.

Monday, February 20, 2012

I think the children's book, "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" was loosely based on my life.

The last time I wrote a blog I was 16...

Here. We. Go.

This last weekend was the "Cross My Heart" charity pub crawl. That's right, pub crawl. First blog, straight out the gate, I went there. So, pub crawl, to save the hearts. Drown the liver in alcohol, but save the hearts. It's legit, I promise. We donated money to The American Heart Association and in return 5 different bars along McKinney Avenue in Uptown Dallas get you completely snockered starting at 12 in the afternoon. Beer for breakfast is one of those things that you tell your parents you're going to have when you turn 21 just to see their faces fall in shame. This time it was true and my dad gladly drove us to McKinney Ave. to start the event off. He also sent me this slogan as a t-shirt and then he told me to "make an Irish father proud". Needless to say, our team made him proud.

Last year this event turned out 500 participants. This year? 70.

In their defense, The Color Run was the same day (before you judge me, the run was full weeks before I knew about it) and the Snuggie Pub Crawl was last weekend (HOW DID I MISS THIS?!) Well, the expected amount of alcohol was 2 pitchers at each bar, the actual outcome started to increase in multiples of 3. Bar #2 and we were all well-seasoned. We proceeded to "Simba" the beer to anyone that lost at Quarters.

You're lost. I'll explain. You know the scene in The Lion King where Rafiki holds Simba up to the pridelands over the cliff and they all sing "The Circle of Life"? Well imagine that except it's me with a glass of beer in my hands towards the heavens and our table singing the "ah sibenya" song and the other half is yelling "chug! chug! chug!".

Pan over to Will with his head in his hands because he's lost at Quarters for the 3rd time in a row. He sits up, exhales, stares me down and reaches up for the cup, yells "Halle Berry!" and chugs the beer. He finishes, slams the plastic cup on the table and Danny wipes beer foam across his forehead. Oh! The best part! It was POURING outside! We had planned to stick around Uptown for karaoke (we were the perfect victims for the sport, I know) but I've decided that nothing is lamer than when everybody at the bar goes "buh, buh" during Tainted Love, except for maybe Tainted Love.

Reasons why I rarely go out and about bar hopping are very evident:

  • We were back at bar #4 watching the Stars game with some firemen
  • Will had a permanent marker tattoo of a ferris wheel on his bicep
  • Danny and I had talked enough Red Wings/Stars hockey trash to put us on opposite ends of the table and not on good speaking terms
  • Lauren claimed she was only staying alive to finish her sweet potato fries

The night ended around 9pm when we took a cab ride home and the driver had to move his 6 pack of Coors from the passenger seat.

I really should stop this post and start writing about something more wholesome that doesn't paint me out to be a raging alcoholic... which I'm not. My dad knows that I'm out day-drinking (for a good cause) but that doesn't stop him from messing with me. Cue the text messages:

Dad: Hi sweetie, let me know when you are home and rested.
Me: dad i m dru nnnk
Dad: Don't drink anything you can't keep
Dad: Don't sit in swivel chairs
Dad: Love you


Spent all day yesterday with the mini me, Delaney, and she has a way of bringing the nostalgia out of me. And the rage. She eats an entire bag of chocolate chips and then proceeds to sing a mash-up of Backstreet Boys songs at the top of her lungs at 10pm when most of my apartment building is asleep. I want to thank the person that invented the cardboard tube at the end of a paper towel roll. BOP!

Delaney stayed the night even though I had work at 8am this morning. We were overdue for a sleepover. That also meant that she would be in my apartment alone all morning until I could check on her at lunch. Now, she's 13 so I don't really have to check on her, but every now and then I worry. I came home and my dad had already picked her up, but she left me a note:

"Thanks for the sleepover!!!! Had so much fun!!! I lit a candle and blew it out! YAY your apartment is not on fire!!!"

For. Real. The monkey is going to give me a heart attack.

Somebody That I Used to Know by Gotye is stuck in my head. And now yours.

-Hoo, out