We opened presents, we ate, and then we battled.
It’s much better if I can just show you what the hell happened.
We opened presents, we ate, and then we battled.
It’s much better if I can just show you what the hell happened.
Hello Leaguers. I’ve been awol for the past 4 days because I’ve been in the Texas Panhandle at my Grandmother’s Christmas. And my Christmas, I mean my big ass family comes together to eat a shitload of food and battle. We’ve gone over this before. Pay some attention.
Let’s begin our journey, shall we?
And that’s truly where it began. After landing in Amarillo (and driving past the JESUS IS LORD TRUCK STOP–no foolin’), Grace, Damon, Adrian and I drove to Groom for the reception for a funeral.
I can feel you cringing right now in anticipation. You will not be disappointed.
You see, Groom, Texas has one of the World’s Largest Crosses, and I love love love taking pictures in front of religious monuments. Here’s one of me in front of a 20 foot Jesus in a Box. Yes. Jesus. In a box. You can see Grace reflected in the glass.
So, then this happened.
Actually a good picture. You can surely see the aftermath of the West Texas Winds in the fact that my hair is in both of our mouths.
Grace: “Adrian, you should have left your hair long and brought a sheet.” (Adrian totally looks like Jesus)
Me: “He could have signed autographs.”
Grace: *PUNCH AGAIN*
Apparently, Grace has an issue with Jesus signing autographs.
After this most aupicious start to our funeral journey, we parked in front of my Great-Grandmother’s house and waited on the reception to start. It was cold outside, so Grace put on Damon’s coat, and I got into the coat with her. Just as Adrian had zipped us both into it and we were laughing like a-holes–the hearse pulled in front of us, followed by the family car full of relatives. Adrian AND Damon both saw it coming, and ASSISTED WITH OUR FUCKERY.
I could mentally hear my grandmother yelling her favorite phrase at us, “STOP FARTIN’ AROUND.”
After making asses of ourselves at a solemn occasion, we visited with family that I haven’t seen since 1998 when my Great-Grandmother died. I knew virtually no-one anymore, and Adrian was even worse. These people remember me from 6th grade–most had no idea I was even alive, much less married. It was socially excruciating. I stayed glued to my Grandmother, offering every 12 seconds to get her something from her car. It was blessedly over within 1/2 an hour.
Upon leaving, this conversation took place with my uncle.
Grace: “Hey, can we follow you to Granny’s? I don’t remember how to get there from here.”
Uncle: “No problem. But I go slow.”
Grace: “It’s okay! I’m happy to follow.”
Uncle then tore through town going 50 through stop signs and school zones, and Grace got air with Mom’s truck at one point. Slow. His defense? “I said I go slow–through stop signs.”
STOP FARTIN’ AROUND!
After assembling our drink choices for the weekend, we finally made it to Granny’s house.
That’s where the real fun began. You’ll have to wait on that. I’m still recovering.
As an aside, Lana’s son has RSV. Please keep her family in your thoughts.
I’m currently shithoused in a condo in the Colorado mountains, awaiting my day on the slopes on Wednesday, still shithoused but wearing my knee brace.
I’ll update you on my Christmasventures another day. It’s been joy(rum)filled.
Thus far, I have recommended products for you that have gone untested by my vigorous standards.
I saved a few recommendations for y’all until after I tested them within my own family and friends. I wanted to make sure that there would be no injuries, no explosions, no maimed penguins (at least, not without reportable hilarity) because as you well know, I am a sucker for scientific exploration.
Nothing says, “I like you more than I do most people,” than homemade gifts.
Or does it say, “I’m fucking cheap.” Damnit, now I’m self-conscious again.
This all started with Simone Bernhard, of Chapeaux by Simone, who is adorable and makes fantastic hats and helped me endlessly when I asked on Twitter one fateful night, “Does anyone know how to cross-stitch?” Simone almost immediately answered that she did, and then shit went downhill from there.
Suddenly, it went from making one silly thing to four (Simone? Did I not tell you? Yours is almost finished.) Then, after mangled fingers and endless repetitions of “FUCK THIS SHIT. WHY DOES THIS KEEP KNOTTING UP,” we have the finished product.
To Elizabeth, a dear friend from Flourish-in-Progress and a mostly Texas Native:
To Lana, for various reasons up to and including and incident with vaginas at Fast Eddie’s:
To Grace, in folksy remembrance of our favorite song, Fancy by Reba McEntire:
Nothing says love like framed dirty words.
Have you seen that stupid fucking Kay commercial where the grown ass woman needs her stalker boyfriend to protect her from the drizzle outside?
Piss off, ma’am.
A good idea nonetheless. I don’t live terribly close to my family, so what better gift than to be with them? Forever. Frozen in time. With eyes that stare into your very soul and with each passing minute drive you deeper into insanity and hatred for your family.
Grace received this in the mail about a month ago.
Step 1: Find the worst possible picture of yourself
Step 2: Go to Shindigz.com, and order a cardboard standee, starting at only TEN FUCKING DOLLARS.
Step 3: Tell no one. Await the joy.
What is the best gift you ever gave?
If you’ve ever been to Dallas, the one thing you have to do is take visitors to Medieval Times.
Mom had taken Grace and I when we were kids, and it was totally fucking awesome. We were both given carnations by the Knights, we cheered for our badasses, and all was well.
So when Mom and Grace came to see me not too long ago, before I could even ask where they wanted to eat dinner, Grace said, “Let’s go to Medieval Times.” (And yes, we called their hotline, 1-800-WE-JOUST, but only because I wanted to see if the call center answered with, “I joust.” They didn’t)
If you’ve never been (and you totally should go), Medieval Times is a vague historical re-enactment of a knight battle in…Medieval Times. Everyone addresses you as M’Lord or M’Lady, which fuels your sense of self-worth, you are assigned a knight with a corresponding color crown, you take some pictures, eat some pretty damn good food, and watch a show. All around, a good time.
We were assigned to the Red Knight, and Grace and I were already excited. Adrian was, as usual in these situations, a patient observer in our overzealousness, and Mom was…less enthusiastic. We immediately put our crowns on (everyone but Mom), took our picture with THE FALCONER (the Falcon shit on the floor in the middle of the picture. A special memory) and entered into “The Bazaar,” where MT was hocking $50 princess crowns and featured a ridiculously large bar.
“Let’s Pre-Game, Grace.”
Those fateful words would determine how the rest of the night went.
See that margarita? That $23 margarita had an entire bottle of tequila in it. Grace’s $12 beer was the size of my thigh.
We drank, and drank, and drank, and cheered, “Hip-Hip-HOORAY” for the birthday kids who were being Knighted and brought shame upon our family name for being shithoused at a fucking Family Fun Center.
It didn’t get any better when we got inside to watch the show. We were seated in the Red Section (thank God for color-coding, because my drunk ass had no idea where we were going), in a row with a family with two young boys. The waiter for our row gave this speech, “I’m Dave and and I’ll be serving you tonight. Place your cups this way for tea, and this way for water. And (pointing at Grace and I) if you want something from the bar, and I know you will, let me know.”
Thanks for calling me out, Dave. I’ll take my whole chicken now.
Dave also explains that the entire show is about how everyone hates the Green Knight, especially…THE RED KNIGHT, and that the only way to win is to cheer the loudest. Grace and I both used to be cheerleaders, and now that we’re hot-messing it at MT, we’re about the tear the house down. Don’t taunt me with victory-via-douchery. I will show you the fuck up.
Adrian calmly observes and eats the food, Mom tries to shimmy away from us, clearly embarrassed that we are her children, and Grace and I BRING IT.
The Red section started off as the quietest section, but we would not stand for it. By the beginning of the MAIN EVENT, 2 drunk bitches had the entire section on their feet. That night, 9 year old boys learned the meaning of, “Don’t be a pussy, you Red Bastard!”
Long story short, the Red Knight lost like a bitch to the Yellow Knight. As we stand to leave, the King says, “the knights will be available for pictures shortly in the lobby.”
This was our chance to polish off the night spectacularly. So we waited, and waited, and waited, and when he emerged, the motherfucker headed straight for the bar and threw back 3 shots of tequila.
“Hey, do you mind if we get a picture with you?”
“We pre-gamed for you fight, you know.”
“Huh, wish I would have been able to.”
“Yeah. Then maybe you’d have won.”
And then we ran out the door to our mother shouting after us, “Girls! Quit it! You are making a spectacle of yourselves, damnit!”
Grace made a lasagna for Adrian’s birthday last week. A homemade lasagna. As in, bitch made the sauce and pretty much everything else that went in to it. It was delicious.
Grace can COOK, y’all.
I’m not half bad–I can bake a lot more than I can cook. But Grace, she can cook your ass under the table and then make you eat a meal on said table and be happy about it.
She was not always good. It was a slow, grueling process for her to be good. Luckily, I was there for ALL OF IT.
Lesson Learned: A fresh salad does not require any cooking. Of any sort. Learned after she boiled lettuce for a salad, which produced a smell only replicated by Lilith in the bowels of Hell.
Lesson Learned: Make sure when you are pressing buttons on the oven. The Broil button is usually located right next to the Clean button. The difference? About 700 degrees. The Clean cycle will temporarily render the oven a smelting plant, and lock the door. We watched that shit flame for an hour.
Lesson Learned: White flour, pepper, and cooking grease does not a white gravy make. Or the plastic spoon repurposed from Olive Garden used to stir said consistency-of-wet-concrete gravy. By the time we turned the burner off, the gravy, the skillet, and the spoon had molecularly bonded.
Lesson Learned: Brownies require cocoa. Duly noted.
Lesson Learned: Eggs nuked in water will not poach, but become chicken fetus shrapnel grenades when poked with a fork. It literally (and I don’t use that word lightly) exploded–coating her kitchen, living room, self, husband, and cats in a considerable amount of half-cooked egg. Burned her lip.
Lesson Learned: Distribute spices sparingly in spicy dishes. 4 chicken breasts do not require an entire bottle of cayenne pepper. That was the hottest motherfucking chicken on the planet. Atomic chicken, if you will. It was as though the Fire Gods had brought a chicken from the depths of Mount Kilauea, sacrificing it for the torture of those who had wronged the volcano.
There was a lot of water drunk that night.
And now, to rag on me a while.
Lesson Learned: When making brownies in a beer pitcher, be aware of the speed of which an egg exits a shell. Old eggs=Slow eggs=salmonella.
Had to buy a cake for the Boss’ birthday today. I also needed bacos, ranch dressing, and drano, so I figured I would make one trip.
NOT A GOOD IDEA.
MMM, Bacon cake with ranch and a side of poison.
I got in a fight with a drag queen at my sister’s bachelorette party.
It started off as a fine night. A Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, where Lana had planned for us to drink Texas Tea and make fucked-up hats and hit the gay bars. There would be scavenger hunts for shots and penis candy and dancing and MERRIMENT.
What people typically do, right?
Yeah, no. I went too far.
At first, is was just us gals, sitting on the floor hot gluing banana-scented dicks to straw hats and pipe cleaners like we were Lady Gaga’s costume crew. It was all twats and glitter, and all was well in the land.
And then, Lana broke out the Texas Tea.
Y’all, that was the strongest shit I have ever drank in my life. It was like Jack Daniels took you to Vegas to party then kicked you in the face. In your mouth. That’s what she said.
What should have been a tad bit of whiskey in some cranberry juice was actually a fifth of Jack, a handle of black-market Vodka, and a Phoenix tear of cranberry juice. It was fucking magic.
I didn’t really feel all that drunk at first, but as we were loading up into the TrailBlazer, it hit me. I sat in the cargo hold (I know it’s dangerous, shut your face), and quietly laughed to myself for the entire half hour ride to the clubs. I just kept getting more and more drunk the longer I sat alone, allowing my body to absorb the alcohol. No one tried to engage me as I sat like a crazy person, staring out the back window, waving to people behind us.
This was a mistake on the part of those in the group with me. When hammered, I should always be in motion. This constant motion keeps me busy, and unable to concoct plans and a shitty attitude for the rest of the night, leaving me without ammo for potentially poor interactions, where I think I’m charming while, in reality, am just this side of arrest-able.
Once inside, I was suddenly entranced with how many dicks I saw. There were dicks galore. It looked like the Mid-West, if the Mid-West farmed dicks instead of wheat.
“Grace, there’s a lot of wangs around me.”
“Noa, shut the fuck up, you’re yelling.”
“THERE ARE DICKS AT EYE LEVEL.”
The reward of the scavenger hunt is, as mentioned, shots. The more you find, the more you drink. It became my mission to find every damn thing on that list. I KNEW THIS WAS THE REWARD ON THE CAR RIDE THERE. Do you see why I shouldn’t be left alone? I was planning, y’all, planning.
So, one by one, my drunk ass sprinted all over the bar with my team, picking up someone’s panties, a phone number, a condom, lipstick, and collecting shots, shots, shots, shots.
At some point, my body acknowledged that I had taken in around 5 gallons of liquid in one hour, and had not gone to the bathroom. I walked inside, and immediately saw a spectacular sight.
She was probably 7 feet tall in her heels. Wearing a gold dress and a killer wig–bitch was WORKIN’ IT while dancing in the mirror. As she was re-packing the wang and straightening her wig, I made the offhand comment, “Bitch, you look good.”
This is the last part of the conversation that made any sense to me. I was being genuine–she really looked good. But, as said before, I shouldn’t be left alone to soak in booze, lest I say something shitty later on.
Apparently, what she heard was, “bitch, uuuuaghakkkndndndnndd.”
Golden Drag Queen: “Girl, WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
Me: “I said, you look good.”
Golden Drag Queen: “I KNOW you didn’t just say some shit in my face in here. I will kick your skinny ass like you have never SEEN before, HO.”
Y’all, I totally believed her. She was right in my face, backed up against a wall, and we were the only ones in the bathroom. She really was going to kick my fucking ass, because I was a slurring idiot.
I didn’t stay to pee. I ran back up to Grace and Lana, innocently dancing on a pole in the middle of some shirtless men.
Me: “We gotta go.”
Lana: “Why? What the fuck did you do?”
Me: “I got in a fight with a Drag Queen.”
Me: “Really, we should go.”
As they stood there, mouths agape at my stupidity, THERE SHE CAME AROUND THE CORNER. I’ve never seen someone sprint so fast in heels so tall, but we hauled our asses out of there.
Later, in Whataburger:
Grace: “Did it seem like a good idea at the time?”
Me: “She picked the fight with me.”
Grace: “She was 7 feet tall.”
Me: “All I said was she looked good, WHICH SHE DID, and she got huffy.”
Lana: “I wish we could go anywhere without you two requiring us to duck and cover from someone.”
Lana, that day will come.
Situation 2: Alien Experience at Walt Disney World
I LOVE scary movies, and sci-fi movies, and haunted houses and all kinds of those awesome things that are suspenseful and delightful and make your hair stand up on end.
What I don’t like is to be strapped down and force-fed terror from the mind of Old Man Disney.
I was only in the 8th grade or something like that when my Step-Dad, who’s known for great vacations, takes us to DISNEY WORLD.
This was the best trip we were ever going to take with him, ever. DISNEY WORLD, y’all! There’s MICKEY. And ROLLER COASTERS. And even…AEROSMITH.
I’ll give them this, Disney does things RIGHT. The whole park, just as everyone who’s ever been has ever told you, is an experience. They’re all actors, so you truly feel like you’re riding in Aerosmith’s limo and dropping from the Tower of Terror and dancing with Cinderella.
This rule also applies to horrifying situations.
Like the Alien Encounter: Extra TERRORestrial
The premise is that they’re trying to transport something to Earth, but fuck it all up when they accidentally unleashed a WINGED HELL-BEAST INTO THE AUDITORIUM.
They bring you into a room and strap you to your chair roller-coaster style.
So you think you’re going to be thrown around or something equally exhilirating.
You’re strapped in so you can’t escape, motherfucker.
Here’s the part where it all gets a little too real for me. I believe what Disney is pitching. We really are going to watch a cool presentation. And then there is an alien.
And then he escapes.
AND HE IS RIGHT BEHIND ME BREATHING IN MY HEAR AND OHMYGOD HIS TAIL BRUSHED MY ARM DEAR GOD GRACE SAVE ME FROM THIS HELLSPAWN! JESUS, I’MMA COMMIN HOME!
I freaked balls, y’all. Lost my shit.
When my flight or fight response kicks in, the answer is ALWAYS fight. I clawed. I scratched. I was going to kill that motherfucker and get out with my family alive, so help me God.
I heard a lot of people screaming for their lives, and it took Grace slapping me to realize that I was the only one–Disney pipes in scream tracks to enhance the terror. I was screaming so terribly that it sounded like someone had lit an bunny orphanage aflame.
I was halfway out of my harness before Grace, laughing so hard she couldn’t speak, shoved me back in so I wouldn’t dislocate my hips.
Go ahead. Watch a video.
DO YOU ALSO HEAR PEOPLE LAUGHING? That’s because it was NOT REAL.
My brain never bothered to register that with me.
Grace and my Ma couldn’t stop laughing long enough to even unbuckle their harnesses at the end. People from across the room came over to make sure that I was okay, and not going to go ape-shit on some animatronic demon.
You should ask my sister one day. This is her favorite story to tell.