Posts Tagged ‘ alcohol ’

Club Chronicles: Did That Really Just Happen?

Usually as the seasons change from summer to fall, I’m able to adjust to the cold pretty well. That has absolutely not been the case this year. All the cold weather is bringing is inconvenience and tighter pockets. With that said, going out to a party has become more taxing and less appealing than ever before. First, I have to warm up the car and waste about $1.50 worth of gas. Then I have to cover up my sexiness with leggings, jeggings, tights, or some other restrictive article made of spandex. Don’t forget your big coat and scarf. By the way, that coat is gonna cost you $5 to check at the club, but only after you take the long, excruciatingly cold walk from the car to the club entrance. What awaits me inside is usually pretty standard. Alcohol, loud music, foul smells, drunkie hoes, big girls who don’t know the laws of personal space, and old men sipping whiskey & water, hoping to get lucky. There is nothing that I can ever do to mentally prepare for the shenanigans I witnessed last Saturday night…..

I’ve frequented many clubs, bars, and lounges in DC, and no matter where you go, you’ll find 2 or 3 types of people that go to every club, no matter the crowd/music genre/cost, just to be seen in their $200 shades and $350 Prada shoes. For these club-goers, the night out is all about being seen in their fancy clothes with big labels all over them in order to feel accepted by the people who aren’t wearing such foolishness. It’s actually pretty common for these over-zealous, wanna-be baller to toss a stack of (one) dollar bills in the air to make it rain on the peasants who can’t afford a VIP table. This particular night brought about a different kind of “making it rain” experience that I’m unfamiliar with. Right as some Wacka Flocka Flame song came on, someone threw a mighty stack of bar napkins to the heavens, and watched it fall on the multitude of puzzled faces. It’s like everyone in unison stopped, looked around, and asked, “Did someone just throw napkins in the air?”. Absolutely priceless. That is, until those napkins reached the wet floor and then got stuck to the bottoms of everyone’s shoes. Everyone looked as if they just left the bathroom with a trail of toilet paper stuck to their shoes.

When women go out together, its fairly obvious that we do not want our circle disturbed by anyone who wants to dance with any member of the circle. Its a pretty well-known fact that one of the girls has to signal that she’d like to dance by turning her left shoulder 90 degrees toward the outside of the circle, in an effort to invite someone nearby to dance with her. Before she gives the signal, it is absolutely rude to assume that she is allowed to dance with anyone not in the girl circle. It is ESPECIALLY rude to pull any member of the circle away because they are more interesting than the rest. By interesting, I mean white. Those white chicks came with us, and I understand how they may stick out and thus attract more attention, but we brought them for a reason: to dance and have fun with us. Those are OUR white girls! How dare you pull them away from our circle and teach them the latest dance of the hip-hop community. Thank you very much, but if Katy and Jenny want to learn how to Dougie, I’LL be the one to teach them!

If the last paragraph wasn’t evident that women stick together and take care of each other when they go out, let me reiterate. When women go out, they stick together and take care of each other. This means that if she didn’t come with you, don’t concern yourself with her. I got this. She may look drunk to you, but she in fact has a tummy ache, and is getting a little dizzy from the cloud of hot must in this club atmosphere. So please, don’t feel compelled to ask me if she’s going to throw up or tell me to get her some water. Mind your business, homegirl, I’m taking care of my friend.

This one was definitely unforgettable, although I’d LOVE to forget every part of this memory. Let me first set the scene: As mentioned, my pal is not feeling so hot, so we’re on the way to the bathroom so she can get herself together. In the bathroom, there are three stalls. One is broken, one is open, and the last is occupied by my pal. In the tiny bathroom, there is a line of about 6 girls, that wraps around to block the door. Need less to say, it was crowded. i’m standing off to the side in front of the broken stall when I see a big girl walk in, wearing a lime green dress and a synthetic weave. She, along with everyone else in line obviously has to potty, but feels that she has to go way more than everyone else. When she sees that nobody will let her cut the line, she proceeds to squat in front of the door to reveal her monkey to all of us, and relieves herself into the glass that used to hold her vodka and cranberry. With a lemon wedge. When the unfortunate cup reached its capacity, the next victim was the floor beneath our feet. That’s right, this dirty bitch pissed on the floor like it was nothing. I am reluctant to say that I watched her from start to finish, because it was like watching a car crash. Horrible, but I just couldn’t look away. After I handed that dirty bitch a wad of paper towels so she wouldn’t touch me or anything around me, I banged on the occupied stall to let my pal know it was time to get the fuck out of there.

With all that said, I have come to the realization that going out in the fall is a terrible idea, and I should just wait until spring hits to resurface.

What. A. Night.

My Broom List

You’ve heard of a Bucket List, well allow me to introduce my Broom List: A list of things I want to do before I jump the broom. Most of the things on my list are things that I probably can do after I get married, but that I should take advantage of while I’m young and don’t have to answer to anyone but myself. When I get married (and have kids), I’m going to have my husband and children to answer to, and won’t always be able to put myself first. Wives and mothers have to make sacrifices to keep the family running as it should, because in my old-school mind, the wife and mother is what keeps order in the household. So before I make selfless sacrifices for the ones that I will love more than anyone else, I’m going to do me for a bit.

1. Have sex on a beach.

What is it about doing the wrong thing that intrigues people to do what they know will have less than favorable consequences? This is especially true when it comes to matters of sex. I can’t call it, but taboo sex is one sure way to make the experience not only memorable, but amazing. In my opinion, the best form of taboo sex would be lying on a warm beach under the moonlight with my beau. Sure it may sound cliche, but so is milk and cookies. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop having milk and cookies to avoid the cliche.

2. Drop 10 pounds and get into Ciara shape.

Make no mistake, I may drink like a fish and eat like I’m storing up for the winter, but I’m no fatty. Granted, I’m still not in the best shape of my life either. So, before I walk down the aisle, before I put on gobs of pregnancy weight, before I get old, I’m going to drop a few pounds and tone up in hopes of looking like Ciara. Tall, lean, long-legged, and no booty. I think this could actually be done ina matter of 60 days if I actually focused and stayed consistent. At this point in my life I’m not obligated or committed to anyone, so if I want to look like a plain Jane or big mama, I’m allowed. Probably won’t get me very far, but the point is that I could if I wanted to. As a wife, you have a responsibility to be a hot piece of ass that any man would want to come home to. Period. Once I get there, my vanity will not allow me to stray away, and I’m just gonna have to maintain and preserve my sexy. 

3. Cut my hair.

It has been my experience that most (Black) guys never want you to cut your hair, and never want you to wear fake hair. They want you to have long, natural, uncolored and untainted hair. These same men have absolutely no clue what its like to maintain long, natural Black girl hair. That ish ain’t easy, fast or cheap. I’ve never been a fan of cutting my own hair anyway, but sometimes I get in these moods where I just want to do something outrageous. There may come a time where that feeling leads me to chop my mane.  If I’m going to ever weave it up (I won’t cuz weaves are gross), braid it up, chop it off, or color it pink, I’m going to make an effort to do it on my own time.

4. Take a cruise.

Maybe its just the men that I’ve dealt with, but it seems almost impossible to get a guy to go on a cruise with me. This is something I’ve wanted to do since college, but could never convince my guy to roll. To me, a cruise is something I could do with my girlfriend(s), but I’d rather do with a man.

5. Take (barely) nude photos.

There’s a little woman that lives inside of me that likes to believe she’s abstract. She likes art. She loves music, wine, dance, and theater. She’s an actress. She’s a poet. She’s a songstress. She likes tattoos. She’s not afraid to pose nude for pictures just for the heck of it, only to be seen by her own eyes. I’m not saying this chick has to die before I jump the broom, but she definitely has to tone down some things a bit. I can’t see the type of guy that I want to marry being ok with me taking my clothes off for anyone but him, whether in the name of art, , life, or Jerome. He don’t play that. Single me wants 2 more tattoos and wants to pose nude one more time, just for the heck of it. Married me will keep up the rest of the abstract activities, like writing poetry, going to see live bands, and art exhibits.

6. Retire from alcoholism.

Anyone who knows me or has ever read anything I’ve written knows that I’m a drunkaholic. I like to go out and drink, I like to stay in and drink, I like to wake up and drink. I drink when I’m happy, I drink when I’m sad, I drink when I’m bored. I drink to rid myself of headaches, cramps, the blues, and stress. I drink with company, I drink alone. I drink here, I drink there. I drink in a house, with a mouse, in a box, with a fox. I drink. To be quite honest, I want 4 or 5 children, and I’m absolutely terrifed. 36-45 months without a single sip of anything alcoholic scares the living crap out of me? Someone may want to give CPS a heads up, because I just don’t know if not drinking during pregnancy is a promise I can keep. I make light of all the drinking I do, because it looks worse than it actually is 😉 . Whether you believe that or not, I am aware that the heavy drinking will have to cease once I start that whole chold-bearing thing.

8. Get things right with the Big Guy.

In my opinion, I was brought up the right way. My parents instilled in me all of the good things that parents are supposed to from a moral and Biblical perspective. My brother and I were good kids, and we never got into major trouble. We could come and go as we please because my parents knew they could trust us, and because they put the fear of God and fear of beat downs in us. I decided to make some poor decisions and rebel a little once I reached adulthood, but that was my own doing, even though I knew better. I feel like my kids will be one step ahead of everyone else in life if they have the same religious values that I learned growing up. Even if you decide to stray away, those things mever go away, and you almost always revert back to them when in need, because you know they’ll never fail you. Certainly I’m not waiting until I get married to get my relationship with God where it ought to be, but I’m definitely going to have it solid before I welcome anyone else into my life.

Mid-Year’s Resolutions

That’s right. Mid-year. I pride myself on being someone that’s ever-changing, ever-growing, and ever-evolving. I consider myself to be a balls to the wall, jump off the cliff and hope you can fly kind of gal. Needless to say, I’m a risk-taker. However, I don’t feel like I’ve grown, changed, or taken any risks in 2010, and frankly, I don’t like it. So, I’m pledging to do some things before the year ends and I’m left wondering what I could have been doing for the past 52 weeks of my life.

1. I will buy a condo.

2. I will choose a career?

3. I will attempt to finish old projects.

4. I will venture into new projects.

5. I will quit my damn job. Again.

6. I will wear matching underwear at least 4 days out of the week.

7. I will let my dog get some (Pit bull puppies for sale! Holla at a playa when you see me in the streets!)

8. I will stop drinking like a fish and cursing like a sailor.

9. I will finally get the hell in shape and work to make my body look like Ciara’s. Little booty and all.

10. I will make my bed. Every day. At least once a week.

11. I will commit to a dietary lifestyle and stick to it.

12. I will cook new things and cook more often.

13. I will read my Bible more and do more general research on various subject matter.

14. I will check my voicemail and return calls.

15. I will always keep in mind that I am the exception to the rule.

16. I will go to church at least once a week.

17. I will wrap my hair EVERY night.

18. I will take better care of my car.

19. I will save some money.

20. I will be nice(r).

22. I will volunteer.

23. I will take trips.

24. I will stop insulting the Africans, gays, greek fraternities/sororities, Mexicans, and ugly babies.

25. I will devote time every week to work on the muscles that are gonna make me the Michael Jordan of sex (It’s a shame that women can do this and don’t. I bet men would do dick-lunges if they thought it would make them better). 

26. I will pay off at least one bill every month.

27. I will take more pictures.

28. I will not buy shoes every time I get paid, no matter how fabulous or on sale they are.

29. I will write letters.

30. I will laugh as much as I can and love as much as I can.

I’m not your Superwoman, but I’ll never tell YOU that

We women give men such a hard time for being so proud and beating their manly chests about stupid things, when in fact I definitely we sometimes do the same thing, but in a way that normally works to your benefit. If you’ve ever read any of my posts, you’d know that I appreciate a neanderthal in my life. Club me over the head, drag me back to the cave, and I’ll drop 5 babies while simultaneously making dinner with no shoes on. Needless to say, I’m a little old fashioned, which is why I expect men to have barbaric attitudes toward certain things. Do I think it’s silly that you’d drive around aimlessly for hours without stopping for directions? Of course, but I just expect it. I also expect a man to spend 3 hours in the grocery store, and come out with $27 worth of food. It’s just what men do. But what about women? We do the same thing, but in a way that makes MUCH more sense then the way men do it.

1. I will never admit that I don’t know how to cook whatever you ask me to make. Granted, I don’t expect you to request anything oulandish, so when you start asking for smoked octopus, I’ll take you out instead. Otherwise, if you want it, baby, you got it. I don’t like seafood, chocolate, curry, and a number of other things, so I don’t cook them regularly. So when you ask me to make shrimp for dinner, I’m gonna act like I know what to do, tell you that I’m pretty good at it, and hope for the best. If I know you’re not on facebook, I may even post the following for my status, “Quick! Boo wants shrimp for dinner and I don’t know how to make it! I’ve got shrimp, rice, pasta, bbq sauce, spaghetti sauce, chicken breasts and some seasonings. We just had jambalaya, so that won’t do.  SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE! READY, GO!” All because I am too much of a superwoman to admit I can’t make it want you to have whatever you want (By the way, dinner’s in the fridge, babe).

2. I have the remedy for EVERY ailment. As a woman, it’s my job to know how to get you better. If you have a cold, I’m gonna make you a hot toddy. If you had a long day, I’ll fix you a plate, turn on ESPN, and pour a glass of wine. If you hurt your ankle playing basketball, I’ll fix you some other alcoholic beverage that will make it so you can’t feel anything from the waist down. If you’re sleepy, I’ll fix both of us a french connection, and then put you to sleep. I have the remedy for everything because I know that everything can be cured with sex and/or alcohol.

Club Chronicles: Club Etiquette

I’m on a diet. Diet equals no alcohol. No alcohol equals moderate partying. Moderate partying equals no Swag Surfin AND P-Poppin on a handstand Dougie . One or the other. Moderate, sober dancing equals more time to notice what’s actually going on around me. I feel it necessary to set the standard for what is decent and orderly when in a club setting. So, I’ve compiled a list of things the masses should take note of in order to maintain proper club etiquette:

*Disclaimer: The timing of this post comes now only to protect my livelihood and avoid being severely battered with quarters and Tropicana oranges by Africans and Guccimaniacs. As such, it’s content may not be as hearty and/or entertaining as some of the others. In addition, any Africans and/or Guccimaniacs reading this should learn to respct my gangsta.

1. Don’t stand directly in front of me. Firstly, you almost stepped on my toe. Secondly, I can’t see my friend. No, we’re not talking or dancing, but I need to be able to see her, and you, sir, just put your rainbow gator shoes right in the middle of our imaginary barrier. Thirdly, I’m tall. Like REALLY tall. Especially when I put my heels on. 6’3″. Not only do I now have the pleasure of observing your balding scalp, but I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME! GET YOUR OOMPA-LOOMPA ASS THE FUCK FROM IN FRONT OF ME!!! Furthermore, when I tap you to let you know you’re in my way, please do not feel compelled to look at my breasts. Yes, they’re eye-level. Yes, they’re big. What, you’ve never seen a titty before? Move.

2. Watch them elbows. This especially applies to women with oversized purses, women re-adjusting their strapless tops, people holding drinks and trying to squeeze through the crowd, and anyone dancing to “Hit ’em with the Flex”.

3. At no time is any man supposed to be bent over to form the perfect 90 degree angle. Lol. I have to chuckle a bit when I think about this guy. You know him. He’s the over-zealous mofo in the middle of the circle that he created by dancing on everyone’s feet and breaking up each individual imaginary boundary. He especially enjoys the songs, “My Dougie”, “All the Way Turnt Up”, “Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems”, “Freaky Girl” (?), and “Say Ahhhhh” (???). I’m all for bending over in front of strangers and shaking a tailfeather, (If we’re facebook friends, please reference the pictures from my birthday party) but just like grabbing boobs, kissing a man, and drinking any brand of rum, I can do it because I’m a woman. When you do it, you look mighty gay. Migh-ty gay. You stand up straight, and take whatever bending over I’m going to do in front of you like a man.

4. Offensive tattoos. “Whoa Nelly”……….. That’s just rude no matter where you are.

5.  Trying to dance with me when you look like you just stepped out of the 9th ward after Katrina hit. You’e sweaty and gross, and if you even look like you’re thinking that you might want to touch me, you will surely perish. And by perish, I mean, I’ll call the Africans on you. I know them and they have machetes. All of them. Something about they need them to “bring dinner home”. I don’t really know why all Africans have machetes, because all Africans also have fly ass cars and wear velvet blazers. What kind of lifestyle are these people living where they’d ever need to carry a machete and wear a purple velvet blazer and drive a Range Rover in the same day? Are they hunting antelope before they go buy up the bar? I digress. Go cleanse yourself in the waters of Lake Minatanka, doll.

To be continued…

My Gratuitous Apologies…

To my dear friends traveling in the passenger and back seats: I’m sorry for being the “drunk bitch” that had to pull over 4 times to “release”. Oh, and I’m sorry for endangering your lives, and I’m even more sorry that neither of you can drive a stick.

To my dear friend at home: I’m sorry that J gave you the play-by-play of our journey to get home from the club last night. Don’t judge me.

To my knees: I’m sorry for swag surfin’ so hard, that’s just my shit.

To the bartender on the second floor: Bless you.

To the random gentleman that I gave way too much attention to: I’m sorry, if I were sober, I never would’ve even given you a second look.

To my prospective clients: I’m sorry that I keep swaying back and forth. I’m still fucked up.

To my 5″ black suede peep toe shoes: I’m sorry for spilling my second Jack and Coke on you. Blame it on “Blame it”. That’s my other shit.

To my darling puppy dog: Thanks for loving your mommy even when she’s shit-faced. Oh, and I’m sorry for choking you.

To my co-workers: Nah, nevermind. You guys are still drunk too.

To DJ Analyze and DJ Money: Way to go, boys!

To my freshly pressed hair: I’m sorry, I’ll get you right before the weekend is over.

To the girl in the purple dress: I’m sorry I lied and told you that purple looked great on you. It was an effort to curtail “the black girl stare”. That shit was pretty awful.

Thank you and I’m sorry.