Why is my left arm numb?

I went out and drank a few (nine) drinks last night and it was fun. So fun that I forgot to eat dinner.

Upon waking up (late) this morning, I was hit by the "Jack Daniels Gut-Rot" coupled with intense starvation. I rushed through a shower and out the door, ran to the subway, caught my train - then as I was walking by McDonald's I was captivated by the poster for the Country Breakfast Burrito ....bacon, eggs, hash browns, AND cheese all rolled conveniently into a nice utensil-free meal. Anyone who know's me knows that I am eternally devoted to the breakfast burrito, so......I went for it.

It was f'n delicious but I think I'm having a heart attack.

Just another Saturday night

You know you shouldn't have any more wine when you go to crack open a fifth bottle, and can't. The corkscrew is bent. At least that's what you tell me when it rips out and takes the middle section of the cork with it in shreds of waste. Well, this bottle is ruined, so now what? You mention driving to go get some but DUI's are real expensive. You're not thinking of the vans full of children, because...why would you think about them? But, oh right, you're not drunk...just DUIable.

So the next best (and yes, reasonable) idea --push the cork into the bottle. You stab a steak knife into the cork and twist it a bit. Shreds of cork fall both onto the floor and into the wine. You jerk the knife wildly, working yourself into a good sweat, but that cork won't budge. You give up on the steak knife and move to a phillip's screwdriver. You're fixated at this point. You resemble a chimp with his stick at the ant hill. A final burst of strength pops the cork inward, and because you're not interested in the sciences, you're unprepared for what happens next. You didn't know a wine bottle is an air-tight vessel (?)- when the cork is being pushed through, a suction force is created - and what you refer to as a "vacuum" has now sucked up the shredded remainders of cork well into the body of your '92 Chianti, and at an impressive speed.

Hey, you're the one who wanted wine.

A shower of wine is what you get - on your hands, shirt, the kitchen counter, the stove, the walls and the ceiling. You wipe the wine off your face and forearms and then pour it into a pint glass. Right to the rim. Cork shrapnel sinks to the bottom, which is surprising, but nice. That way you can consume the wine off the top and not worry about eating cork.

But you eat cork anyway.

That's when you realize it's probably not a good idea to drink anymore wine.

Hello Tom Green!

To CC or not to CC

Emails were shooting around today between the boys regarding the Buick Invitational which happens each year in La Jolla - and uh-oh, Elliot was downgraded to the "cc" column by Wood. He didn't take too kindly to that - here's the email that came back:

By Elliot

Re: Cc This, Muhfucka.

Thanks for the fucking courtesy copy, Wood. What the fuck. Is it too much to ask that I be included among those whom the email was intended to be received by? I mean what is the point of really going out of your way to specifically single me out as somebody not worthy of the same consideration as those whom the email was directly sent to?

I understand that you are basically saying “You are my friend so I want to keep you in the loop, but I know that you probably won’t go because you are too busy awesoming in Hollywood.” But is it too much to ask that you just include me with the rest of your friends? Or has 15+ years of friendship gone by the wayside? By adding my name to the “To” column, rather than the bitch-ass “Cc”, I promise you that I will not feel pressured to attend the fucking Buick Invitational. In fact, maybe I would be more inclined to attend because I would feel as though I were part of a fraternity where my input was valued and appreciated. But instead, I am treated as a third-class citizen, relegated to the periphery, hoping that one day I can be in the in-crowd of those in the “To” column.

I got news for you, fucking Steve: I have the memory of an elephant (who smoked a lot of weed over the span of their elephant life) and I won’t soon forget the treatment I received today. As you can see through those squinty little bloodshot eyes of yours, I have sent this email to my favorite little blogger to ensure that this day will be remembered a long time from now as the day when yours truly stood up and said, “FUCK THAT”!


PS. Wood was cc'd.

PPS. I bolded and enlarged the most important sentence in this post. Why? Cuz I can.

Peace.

Ahhh, Dusty. You stupid little bugger.

This is a new record for me. Three posts in one day ... and YES, I do have a job and I am actually quite busy - but I couldn't resist. Here is a little ditty (courtesy of Wood) about our favorite boy wonder, Dustin.

By: Wood

Here’s Dustin’s weekend in a nutshell:

Friday Night – He and Troy go party somewhere in Mission Beach – one of Troy’s friends. I guess they also stopped by Jessie and Jenna’s new place. Dustin was apparently very drunk. Then they went to Sand Bar, which Dustin doesn’t remember at all– again, very drunk. Comes home around 1am and stays up to play poker until 5:30. Loses his ass and doesn’t remember going to sleep, or whether or not he was up or down winnings-wise…

SaturDAY – He wakes up around 10:30, makes a cup of coffee, eats some potato chips, makes a drink, aaaaaaand goes back to sleep.

Saturday Evening – Wakes from his nap at 6:15 - and at 6:30 he retires to his room and is asleep by 7PM.

Sunday AM – We all wake up to start watching football, so we obviously commence with the drinking. At 11am we start with some tequila shots and vodka drinks - then the Charger's lose and he is not happy. We drink more, finish off with some red wine, which I proceed to spill on his pants (just a little, not like throwing my drink on him or anything). He freaks out cuz they’re his favorite pair of pants, so I tell him to take them off and put them in water, so the stain doesn’t set. He then puts them in the bathtub (with about 4” of water). Naomi mentions to me before we go to bed that I’m going to have to deal with his pants in the AM (as I’m always the first to shower). Damnit.

Monday AM – I wake up, crawl to the shower, only to discover the wet pants in the bathtub that I forgot about. As I’m cussing to myself, draining the water and hanging his pants, I feel something clumpy in one of his pockets. Yep, it was his wallet… just sitting in 4” of water ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!!! All of the sudden, I was kinda glad I had to “deal with his pants” in the morning - I really needed the laugh. I don’t wish bad upon him, or anything, but it was pretty funny how utterly fucked his wallet (and weekend) was at that point…


Shanda's take on this weekend:

By: Shanda

Dustin was hammered at Sandbar on Friday and was getting yelled at by these huge vato Mexican guys because he wouldn't dance with me. They were all, "hey homie, your girl wants to dance...be a man and dance with her. Don't let her dance by herself." Dustin refused to dance. This made the vatos a little uspet so they approached him again. Finally, Dustin realized that if he didn't dance with me he was probably going to get his ass kicked, so he decided to dance. So there's Dustin, dancing in the middle of a whole group of vato guys and black guys who were just staring him down. He totally wanted to move somewhere else, but I was having too much fun watching him dance in fear (I know, I am mean, but it was so fun).

Then he started getting all pissed off (yes, he was drinking redbull and vodkas) so I decided we should go to the other side of the bar because Snakes McEchols was going to come out and he would have gotten his ass kicked. I admit it would have been hilarious to see Dustin step up to these guys (with Troy as his back up), but I didn't want them to get hurt so thought it was best to move.


Dustin - Thank you.

Sincerely.

You cured my case of the "Mondays".



Dustin's response to this post:

Hahaha…just laugh it up…my antics are just soooo funny aren’t they? Yes that’s what I’m here for…to amuse all you bastards! One of the shittiest weekends ever!!

I'm just sayin' ....

I have been trying not to use the word "HATE" when describing the way I feel towards something as HATE is such a strong word. So I’m just going to say this….

I "don't appreciate" the Pat's in general - but now more than ever I wish them impending doom for stealing my dream of the Charger's playing in Super Bowl XLII.

And who the fuck plays an entire season undefeated, anyway?? Where the hell is the excitement in that?

Bastard.

(oh sorry, that would be his son)

BURN!!!

C.H.A.L.L.E.N.G.E.!!!

My cousin is in sixth grade and got a Mac notebook for Christmas. I know. Totally jealous.

At any rate, yesterday I helped him create a podcast. When we were done, I went downstairs to eat and my cousin picked up his computer, and the AC adaptor, and left the room. Thirty seconds later I heard a loud crash. I walked into the room to find smashed glass and water gushing out all over the floor. Turns out he had been swinging the AC adaptor over his head like a lasso and the heavy white square part crashed into a glass vase on a shelf, breaking it into smithereens.

Do you remember being a child and having such a freewheeling and irresponsible relationship to material objects? I once accidentally kicked a pair of heels off in a hissy and broke a stained-glass window. I remember my sister and I were once chasing each other around the island in my parents kitchen, each with a full glass of water in our hands and then suddenly, like drunken whore's, clanked the glasses together, shattering them and drenching each other. I feel like I haven't gotten carried away with that kind of fun in a long time. Sad.

That said, I am fully committed to break something carelessly this week - believe me when I say, I'm due for some serious destruction.

Game on, bitches!!

Paging Mr. Sandman

Insomnia. It's here, and it's here with a vengeance.

It's hard to point to the cause as this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had two nights of sleep in the past week. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 6:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome.

Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking, (which is the kiss of death for insomniacs). I thought about work. I thought about California. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of a "Dirty South Bourbon" kinda gal. I then started listing my favorite Led Zeppelin tracks, and wondering how anyone could possibly create such unbelievable music and still have enough genius left over to make the 'The Song Remains the Same'. I then decided to write something about John Bonham (because I'm eternally obsessed with the drummer). I even started composing it in my head. It went downhill from there.

Finally, I was staring insanity in the face.

I called my ex-BF (which is my go to move when I can't sleep). We discussed different methods regarding how one may be able to induce sleep - he wondered (seriously): Could a person punch themself hard enough in the face to knock themself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively small person, but he's confident that if I got my weight behind it, I could knock myself out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work. So instead I got up and went to the bathroom. Upon exiting the bathroom, he suggested... "what if you just charged towards the bed, and deliberately slammed your head into the wall above the bed? You'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed". It seemed a perfect plan, except the force would probably snap my neck. Back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) drinking alone is indicative of a much larger issue b) I had already slammed half a bottle Nyquil and c) probably not the best plan when I have to be at work in four hours and I am just beginning to get over the flu.

Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my preference for ditch-pig profanity, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used this morning. It was that bad. I mean, big points for creativity.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.

And I think I need to go to the hospital.

Thick and thin ... you can always count on Rubio's

When I was back in California in September they were erecting a new fast food restaurant in my ex-BF's neighborhood- every once in a while we'd drive by and I'd comment, "Mmmm, we have to try that restaurant when it opens."

So, while I was back again over New Years my friend Holly told me that said new restaurant is one of her favorite fast food places. And I re-told this story to ex-BF, reiterating the fact that we should try it sometime.

He replied, "Nasty."

"How do you know? Have you been there before?"

"Yeah. A grip of times."

And before I even had the logical thought of "Dude, if it's nasty, why have you gone a grip of times?", I'm thinking, WHAT!!? You went to a new restaurant without consulting me? Don't you know that you must check in with me before doing ANYTHING IN LIFE because I might want to do it too? How dare you stop at a very convenient restaurant that is exactly on your way home from work to eat when I am 2000 miles away? Here I was counting the days to try the restaurant with you so we can enjoy an experience TOGETHER, only to find out you are off discovering new restaurants and new shops and new cities and probably new women!!!!!

I was actually getting quite bitter about it - because I am an irrational asshole and I need to be punched in the face. Luckily, he knows me well enough to laugh at my emotional outbursts ... and then take me directly to Rubio's for fish taco's.

All's well that ends well.

Home.

When you're away from home for two weeks, you return to what seems like an altered state of reality. Everyone you left behind went on doing whatever they did before you left. They washed dishes, had conversations, sang along to the radio, went on walks.... And I am back in California stepping right back into a life I left a year ago without missing a beat. It seems like I never left. And then I return home, wash the warm ocean air from my hair and take off the make-up I painted on before I left San Diego, and I feel odd. Uncomfortable. Unsettled and uneasy in my own home. I wonder what it is, this strange adjustment to a life I, oftentimes, don't feel connected to.

"Where the Hell Did You Get These Towels?"

Well, the holidays have come and gone. I have done much over the past few weeks, but I think I will start with Christmas at my parents. We had our usual gluttonous eve and day - lots of food, family, alcohol - and yes, fire. I also managed to exchange the usual pleasantries with my mother, including this little ditty, which I entitled "The Towel Incident":

(Cut to my mother, folding up my already clean laundry, which she insists on rewashing because she doesn't trust the detergent I buy (Cheer). She grabs an over-sized white towel with a navy blue "R" embroidered onto it.)

Mother: WHERE DID YOU GET THIS TOWEL?

Me: Oh, the Bed, Bath & Beyond Outlet. They put the "mistake" towels in a bin for like $6. Why?

Mother: IT IS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL TOWEL! IT'S HUGE!!

Me: I know.

Mother: AND THE PILE... IT'S SO THICK! I THINK THIS MIGHT BE ONE OF THE NICEST TOWELS I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!!!!

Me: Do you want it?

Mother: Psssshhht, get out of here!

Me: I can buy you one online and ship it here... they're like $20...

Mother: YOU KNOW WHAT????!!! .... do me a favor, keep your money... I don't NEED any more towels.

Me: Are you sure? I can do it right now.

Mother: REBECCA, PLEASE! Get out of here with your idiot ideas.

Cut to: The Next Morning.

Me: (Washing my face, and drying it on one of my parents' towels. As my face pulls away, the entire towel is soaked in blood, because that is how hard and stiff and sandpapery it is.) This towel is literally absorbing every ounce of moisture from my body!

Thankfully, this will all be scripted in the upcoming Lifetime special I'm writing called "Mother's Towels."

It's Called Having Standards

I sat at work today peeling an orange for my mid-morning snack and bemoaning my tendency to agree to impossible tasks when I suddenly had a flashback to preschool.

Specifically, I remembered the two types of kids that I reserved my greatest four year old indignation and hatred for. The kids who I would never play house with because they’d ruin the entire recess by insisting on being the baby and spending the entire time screaming so that I (in the role of Mother, aka boss) couldn't’ get dinner made or find time to clean the house before my husband got home. I suppose some people in our child worshiping society might argue that being four is an acceptable excuse for most any personality disorder but these people are mostly idiots, democrats or hippies ... so nobody should feel obligated to listen to them.

If you are the parent of a Gen Z'er, it would be wise to ensure they grow up to avoid the following children:

Kids who say “ruf” instead of “roof”
Kids who ask adults to start their orange for them.

Just to clarify: The first set of kids are not unaware of how the word "roof" should be pronounced (and frankly I’d cut them some slack if they were at least pronouncing it phonetically) they just think it’s cute to say the word incorrectly. A desire to be wrong but adorable is cause for much concern and a clear indication of mild retardation. And the second group? The wimpy kids who behave as if they had been born with some sort of fingernail defect? Co-dependent, needy, self important babies. Obviously all of these children would perish had survival of the fittest not been trumped by over protective parenting. And where do you think each group of children from my preschool class (“82 FOREVER!!!”) is now, 26 years later? I suspect they’ve all grown up to be the kind of adults I hate.

1) Women incapable of managing their own money and always willing to claim their boyfriend is smarter than they are.

2) Men who can’t sew on a button and happily turn over tasks like remembering their mother’s birthday to their wifey-poo.

Excuse me while I barf.