Some things are so outrageous that you think they can’t possibly be true. Yet they are. There is no way I could post the following on April 1st because no one would have believed it. Hell, I waited almost a week and yinz still might not believe it. Regardless, here goes…
My former coworker and I are still friends. He doesn’t work more than 10 minutes from our office and we will meet for drinks or sometimes another coworker and I will go to his camp for a night away. B is always full of stories about one of his employees, Tank. Usually when we meet at happy hour Tank joins us and I can assure you, the man is, how shall I say this…well, Tank is not the average bear. He is young, smart, funny, attractive, outgoing, and batshit crazy. His brain just doesn’t quite work the way same as most people. Tank’s stories always result in tears running down my face. Or my jaw hanging open. You never know when I’ll hear about Tank showing up in a limo, drunk, eating pizza at 4 AM on a night when one of the guys has a flat tire or some such insanity. Honestly, he is incredibly similar to the fictitious Twitter account DadBoner, but Tank is 100% real. (And technically homeless as months ago he moved out of his apartment, but not into anywhere new. An email from B: “One of Tank’s quotes written on the dry erase board right now is “Homelessness is the key to personal wealth – I’ve never had so much money.”)
About a week ago B emailed me that he thinks he made a mistake sending Tank and McBane on a work related trip out of town together. I received forwards of texts and emails:
“The two of them are traveling together. RW is spearheading the certification process. This is a listing of the texts I’ve received from Tank since the end of work yesterday:
McBane Packed for a fortnight (in regards to a picture of McBane with about 42 outfits on a hotel cart) (7:13 PM)
Dude, McBane just choked out RW. His tongue was literally sticking out of his mouth (12:38 AM)
Seriously (12:39 AM)
I’m never traveling with McBane again. (12:55 AM)
McBane loves Pepper, but he hates cinnamon (7:13 AM)
Everything I’ve said about him so far is absolute truth (7:15 AM)
He called the front desk last night because he lost track of which of his pillows was the “medium” firmness (7:17 AM)
That afternoon I received an update:
“McBane and I are pretty much the most unprepared people at this thing, but we’re really not sure what we need to do next. I just looked over at him and said, “so do you think we should start hammering this packet out or what?” To which he responded, “McBane has a deuce on deck that would choke a heifer” and he got up and stormed out of the room.
This is the worst.”
Did I mention that McBane is not much better? Oh yeah, that.
I received no more emails regarding their antics, so I kind of forgot about it. Until the next morning, when this popped up in my Inbox:
“Nothing from Tank, but I received these from McBane this morning:
Do you think Tank is going to be mad when he wakes only to find our curtains are decimated and on the ground and the mini fridge is laying next to him in the bed. (6:57 AM)
Our room looks like when they wake up in the hang over. Tank may have a monkey in his bed. (7:06 AM)
I’m pretty sure there’s a small Asian guy in the closet. Tank said he was making to much noise. (7:09 AM)”
Personally, I got nothing more until Friday. Then an email from B…
“Tank never came back to the hotel room last night. They were supposed to check out by 10:00 AM. McBane couldn’t get a hold of Tank and assumed the worst. It turns out, he hooked up with some girl and stayed at her place. The girl went to work and Tank went back to the hotel and he and McBane packed up and returned to this girls place (Tank had plans of staying the weekend there while McBane meets his brother in another part of town). McBane was looking around the place and seen a bunch of pet toys. He inquired upon what type of pet she had and Tank looked around and screamed in terror “Oh my God, we’ve lost the housecat.” They’ve searched everywhere and can’t find it. In an effort to find either the cat or a picture of the cat (Tank couldn’t remember what it looked like), they ransacked her place ripping apart closets, boxes under the bed, dresser drawers and the like. The place is now in complete disarray. They eventually looked outside and have found both a grey cat and a black & white cat. Being as Tank can’t remember what it looks like and never found any photos, he grabbed both cats and threw them in the door and they left. He’s just going to pretend like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about when/if she calls him to see why her place is ransacked and either a) she has an extra cat or b) her cat is missing and two strange cats are now living there. I can’t wait to hear how this turns out!”
Followed up with one more from B…
“Update: I just spoke with McBane. Apparently she had no idea McBane was going to be hanging out there (he was going to hang there with Tank until 3:00, then go meet his brother), so while they were searching for the cat/cat photos, McBane thought it would be real funny to mush all of her underwear into his pocket so that she would think Tank was a total perv and stole them. So now, she’s going to show up at a ransacked place, with either one extra cat, or two extra cats less her actual pet, and all of her underwear gone. I kept telling him to get out of DC and come back here so they don’t get arrested. McBane just kept laughing screaming “it’s all on Tank, she doesn’t even know I exist” while throwing underlings out of the passenger side window and Tank is driving in the background yelling “shut up dude, get rid of those f’n things. We both made a pact to never speak of it again. This isn’t even funny. Not remotely.” I can’t wait for more phone calls!”
I don’t doubt a word of any of this. And I find it all hilarious. Sadly, I’ve heard nothing else. Maybe B will leave a comment here with an update.
My Mom used to save all kinds of stuff to give to me when we would get together again. Maybe magazine articles, feathers she found, little items she picked up in her travels, etc. Didn’t matter what the pile contained, Mom called it her A Drive. When we would get together the first thing she had to do was “dump her a drive” and give me everything, telling me about each item. It usually drove me nuts because there was fun to be had and dammit she was slowing us down. Now? Wellllll, I miss it desperately. Which, of course, means that I am now picking up where she left off…prepare to be dumped upon…
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The other day the fantastic Heather (Coal Miner’s Granddaughter) wrote a post about breast milk cheese and cooking with breast milk. Human breast milk. I kind of surprised myself when I realized that I wasn’t all that grossed out at the concept. Not really grossed out at all, actually.
So while washing the dishes (I don’t have a dishwasher, I *am* the dishwasher) my mind started off on its own. That is usually a dangerous thing, but I tend to do some of my best thinking while doing dishes or showering. Maybe it is the water, maybe it’s the solitude with no tv or music. Ount know. Point is I started thinking of stuff that grosses me out. The highest on the list? Someone else using my toothbrush or me using theirs. BLECH! Even if I were on Survivor and the gorgeous Colby Donaldson offered to share I would have to turn him down. I’d rather use a branch and gnaw on that for a bit than share a toothbrush. Just can’t handle the idea. (Although Colby, if you are reading, I’d fuck you even without the toothbrush…call me.)
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I read about a guy who is going to be in the hospital for a long time and how his friends are trying to get him lots of mail. Immediately I grabbed a card and had coworkers sign it, addressed it and dropped it in the mail. Over the coming weeks I plan on sending this dude all kinds of silly stuff. You should consider it, too. Read about it HERE.
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On a totally different note, soon I will be on a plane to drink myself into a gutter for the HHD (High Holy Day = St. Patrick’s Day). My early AM flight will have me hearing the crack of dawn the morning of the 17th, but I plan to sleep the whole way to Alabama. The completely awesome Kim (from Live at the 205) will pick me up at the airport and then Birmingham should just look out because we might drink our faces off. The next day, once we find our faces, we shall drive south to Florida. I’m really looking forward to the getaway. She is truly an amazing woman and rumor has it other bloggers will also be joining us. Should be terrific. BUT, I’m not taking my laptop so who knows if I will be able to post. Sure, she is bringing hers, and it is a coveted Apple(!), but since I don’t know how to work it you might not hear from me for a few days.
Also, I can’t find my bathing suit so please send names of nude beaches. 
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So, my friend Earl posted a video that cracked me up. Seems his friend made it. They want others to see and enjoy. So here ya go:
And if you have a blog, maybe consider posting it?
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I think that is it for now. Happy day. Enjoy it.
So the other day, on my beloved cousin’s birthday, I happened to mention finding a photo of her in which her hair was all WOW. But instead of saying her hair was all WOW and oh my fuck, I wish I could rock that, perhaps I said something in the comments like it was all “Edward the vampire” and totally adorable. Regardless, Janie was oh so not impressed.
Let’s not fight with her over the validity of the Twilight books and movies. Instead, let’s discuss whether or not she was 20 years ahead of Edward’s hairstylist:
(Yes, that is Janie on the far right. Be nice, she is my cousin and friend. I’ve been known to throw punches in her honor. (She doesn’t know about them. Shhhh.) Also? How could you not be nice to a crazy teenager in the 80′s? She is damn cute! (Fuck. She probably hates the word “cute” and yet I’ve been drinking so FUCK IT, I’m hitting publish, even with all of the commas and parenthesis, even without a proofread. COZ I CAN! God bless America. And the Internet.)
My little cousin, Twinkle, is a bartender. A damn good bartender. One night a few years ago she was working up at Primanti Brothers in Cranberry when I stopped in to bother her. It was a rather slow night. Somehow we got to experimenting and tasting different drink recipes. Here is my favorite:
1 part vodka
1 part amaretto
1 part Southern Comfort
pina colada mix
ice
blender, bay-bee
It was so damn good that I drank a bunch of them. At one point I had three straws in my drink and was sharing with a cute guy and a man who was perhaps a year younger than God. Great fun.
I’m just a little fuzzy on how we came up with “Sex on the Bar with Becky” as the drink name…
I mentioned in Friday’s post that an “interesting” fact about me is that I once walked naked around the block in the rain. A few folks commented or emailed me wanting to know more details. Honestly, the story really isn’t all that big a deal.
My first apartment was not in the best section of town. Not that it was in the heart of Wilkinsburg or anything, but still, I officially had the zip code. (To those of you who know the Pittsburgh area, that means something.) Fortunately I had three of the most incredible protectors living next door: Danny, Denny and Gary. They were at least 10 years older than me, some of the best drinkers I have ever encountered and all around perfect neighbors for a young girl in her very first apartment.
[Side note: their old house was split into three floors so the guys each had their own apartment. My apartment was actually the second floor of an old house. I had two large bedrooms, a huge living room, a massive dining room and kitchen combo, a bathroom big enough for a small family to live in, plus a third floor attic for storage. LOVED the place. Stained glass windows above the actual windows, mantels above nonworking fireplaces...just a great started apartment for next to nothing. So lucky that a friend suggested it for me.]
One midsummer’s night we were all sitting on the guys’ porch, where we had been all day. All we had done was listen to music, drink beer, do shots of George Dickle and eat some grilled burgers. Pretty damn good time, actually.
I don’t know what hour it was when the rain started, but it had been dark for quite some time. Since we had been drinking for even longer it made perfect sense in my head that we should get our lazy asses off the porch and go for a walk in the warm rain. I am fairly certain the word “refreshing” left my mouth a time or two. Gary was having none of it. He was exhausted and too drunk to move. Fortunately Danny and Denny were usually easily swayed by my grand ideas so they agreed to walk with me. We each grabbed two beers and off we went.
We walked down the path to the sidewalk and were completely soaked. About one house away they both took off their t-shirts and whipped them back towards their yard. When I made the comment that the guys were lucky that they could be shirtless in the rain, they did what most grown men would do and told me to just take my shirt off. Seeing an opportunity to perhaps get something out of this for me, I told them I would take my shirt and bra off if they took their shorts off. They said they would take their shorts off if I would take mine off as well.
Which is how it came to be that Gary sat on his front porch and watched the three of us standing on the sidewalk taking off every article of clothing and throwing them into the yard. I felt incredibly safe considering the fact that I had a 6’4″ cowboy on one side of me and a 6’5″ cowboy on the other side of me. (And also? I was extremely intoxicated.)
Considering the time of the night and the pouring rain there were no cars around. About three quarters of the way through our adventure around the block we heard a noise we couldn’t place. We turned around to see a guy on a bicycle approaching. There was no reason to stop; we just kept strolling along. Although when the guy on the bike past us he couldn’t take his eyes from the three crazy white people walking naked.
Which is probably why he didn’t see the parked car until it was entirely too late. Imagine how he must have felt when the naked people laughed at him. Poor guy.
Only problem with the walk around the block was that Danny’s parents lived a few doors down, on the other side of my apartment. In our drunken heads it somehow made sense that they would be looking out the window in the middle of the night. So we abandoned the sidewalk for the grass yards and army crawled, naked, through six or seven yards. The sound of the laughter would have given us away anyhow, but it just seemed like the thing to do at the time.
Eventually we made it back to the house the guys lived in. We were filthy so we asked Gary to go in and bring us a bar of soap. Yes, we stood in the rain in the front yard and washed off. Because it is classy to shower outdoors with two beautiful and hot neighbors while a third neighbor watches.
Ahhhhh, the logic of youth. :beer:
Several years ago I was out of town…south and far away from home. A man I knew, adored and desired just so happened to be staying in the same hotel, a floor up on the other side of the hotel.
My room in the high rise property was fairly large and extremely comfortable. Walk into a hallway as you enter the room, large bathroom on the left, massive bedroom at the end of the little hallway. Standard hotel room. So was His room, except you walked into a hallway also, but His bathroom was on the right.
You know where this is going, right? Oh yes. Yes, it is.
A group of us went out drinking. I was trying my best not to drool over the finest man I know, so I drank with the boys. And did shots with the boys. Lots of shots. Lots of drinks. Drunk Becky was out in full force. We leave the bar and I somehow staggered my way back to the hotel. He didn’t realize I was as hammered as I was.
Things get a little fuzzy around this part. Somehow I managed to get myself invited up to His room. Kissing commenced. (Yay!) Clothing found itself in a pile. THINGS happened. For hours. Life was good. Eventually sleep called. Both of our exhausted selves crashed.
Until I had to pee. As gently as a drunk girl could, I eased out of His bed and crept to the bathroom. From what I remember I managed to find the pot, paper, sink, soap and towel in the dark (didn’t want to wake a hardworking man up…He needed his rest for the morning round!). I left the bathroom, took a left, stepped outside of the “bathroom” door and blinked in the bright light as I heard the room door lock behind me.
Yep. Instead of remembering I was in His room which was set up opposite of mine, instead of going right and back to the bedroom, I went left and found myself locked out of the hotel room. Naked. No cell phone. No room key. No nuttin. At who knows what time of the night / morning, there I am, stark naked in an incredibly bright hotel hallway.
Yikes.
Using my fingernails I tapped lightly on the door. No response. I tried knocking a bit, but was terrified that I would accidentally wake up someone else on the floor and have to explain my predicament. In my drunken haze I memorized His room number from the door and decided to brave the journey to the white courtesy phone near the elevators.
It took forever for the front desk to answer. When the nice lady answered I asked her to “Please transfer me call to room…ummmmm…fuck. Wait. I was just there. I am locked out. I need room ahhhhhhhhhhh? FUCK!”
Of course it was easy to give His name and get that straightened out, but how the hell could I have forgotten the room number during a short, albeit naked, walk to the elevator phone? Stupid shots of straight vodka. And who knows what else.
Anyhow, broad at the front desk tells me that the white courtesy phones won’t transfer to rooms and that I should come down to her desk in order to get a new room key. “No. Really. Just please try to transfer me to His room. I am kinda drunk and really can’t come down there now. No, I promise I don’t need anyone to come up here. JUST TRANSFER ME, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEASE.”
Two rings. Disconnect. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Sonofafuckingmotherlovenbitch, she was right and the call won’t transfer. Great. Just fucking great.
Deep inhale. Deep exhale. I can do this. Just call that broad back, tell her the issue, get on the elevator, walk quickly to the front desk, grab the key and get to my room. Breathe. Lift the white courtesy phone.
Wait. What is that noise? Fuck. Please don’t let that be a business man leaving for his morning meeting or early flight. Oh Fuck. Stay hidden behind the wall, lean my head out to see who it is. Just keep my body behind the wall and stick my head out.
SAVED! It was Him. Coming out of the room I had been in, trying to find out where I disappeared to. Yay! Honeslty, I don’t think I have ever been so happy to see anyone before. Pure joy!
I wrapped an arm around my boobs to keep them from swinging as I quickly made my way down the hall. He had the most adorable smile through His baffled expression as He watched me saunter down the ridiculously long hallway, cooter out for the world to see. I pushed past Him and rushed into His room. Guess I mentioned something about the fact that I shouldn’t have taken that left at Albuquerque. As I crawled into His bed He laughed and told me that He thought maybe I didn’t feel well so He gave me some extra time in the bathroom, but when I didn’t return He walked to the door without turning a light on and thought it was still closed. Because I didn’t answer His inquires He tried to knock on the bathroom door, but His hand went straight through. Quickly He realized I was gone and found Himself a tad hurt that I would leave without so much as a goodbye. It was right about then that His room phone rang once and hung up. Walking towards the phone He saw my pile of clothes on the floor. Two and two easily added up to a naked Becky in the hall so He threw on shorts to come find me.
To this day He still teases me about taking a stroll through the hall without so much as a stitch on. I swear it is just because He loves to remember the look on my face when I saw it was Him in the hall. (Fucker!)
I say that because he flirted with us shamelessly. And threw bottles around. After he flexed his gorgeous biceps for us. Plus of course teasing me that Take Your Pants Off Tuesday would come to life.
Stevie P makes a mean martini. But he only works on Tuesdays. So get out to Ichiban and tell Steve how wonderful he is. And if you need a bartender for a special occasion, hire his (perfect) ass.
He might even make you a napkin rose. Because paper flowers are obviously how to win my loyalty.
NOTE: My apologies to my beloved Brandon at the Sharp Edge Creekhouse. If he would take off his shirt he would quickly skyrocket back to my favorite bartender. I mean, the beer knowledge in that gorgeous head. Sexy. Plus the arms. Oh, the arms. Yum.
CRAP. My cousin Re is also a bartender. But she is related. And doesn’t have a penis. So there’s that.
This is the first year in all the years I have been going to Jimmy Buffett concerts that I actually remember the show. We are talking remember the tailgate, the performance, the walk back to the bus, the ride back to the hotel and even dropping my pants to moon a guy while I played Butt Bongo with my own ass. I REMEMBER ALL OF IT.
Seriously, this might be one of the first signs of the apocalypse. I mean, I never remember anything when I drink. Nothing!
I drank a bunch of beer. And many, many margaritas. Each already strong margarita was lovingly floated with another shot (or two or five) of tequila because my friends were trying to get me drunk. Just wasn’t working. Although when we actually went inside and I bought my two beers all the booze caught up with me. I laughed and danced and enjoyed the freedom of the booze. The Twitter updates began to make no fucking sense. Sorry about that.
Then on the bus back I kinda sobered back up. It was quite the strange (yet fantastic) concert experience.
Speaking of strange, check out how much shit I can cram into a little ass coconut purse:
It really is rather small… 
…yet I managed to fit: a Swiss army knife, dental floss, Chapstick, gum, Rolaids, metal hair clip, rubber hair band, aspirin, Advil, vitamins, lipstick, bottle opener, pen, business cards, blog cards, driver’s license, money, debit card, hand wet wipes, butt wet wipes and Band-Aids.
Anyhow, I didn’t take many real camera photos this year. Probably because I was terrified of losing yet another camera. A bunch of photos went up on Twitter, but here’s one from a big girl camera, a few moments before the drunk hit me:
And then after the drunk hit: 
Here is Re, dancing with the douchebag of the night, a guy we kept calling Captain America:
He was insistent about wanting to take our photo for us. When I finally handed over the camera he hollered something about us showing him our boobs. My “it is my camera and I know what my boobs look like, douchebag” comment flowed as this photo was taken:
Anyhow, after we got back to Re’s mom’s house we stayed up a bit bullshitting. And loving on my dogs. (All day my aunt watched both of my dogs and Re’s son who is 3 1/2 years old, then let us come crash at her place. She fucking rocks.)
The next morning at the ass crack of dawn Re’s son decided to be all awake and cute. Which meant we were awake. Although I didn’t get out of my aunt’s bed even when he grabbed my camera and started taking photos of me and Reilly.
Or the back of Ludo’s head. 
Hard to be mad at a cute kid who loves your dog and asks you to take his photo.
Especially when the night before this was his lunatic momma…
heehee
Man, I can’t wait until next year. Anyone wanna come to Pittsburgh and join me for the insanity? I promise not to stay sober for as long as I did this year.
Jimmy Buffett concert tonight. Bus leaves the hotel my friends are staying in around 1 PM. Jimmy might take the stage around 9 PM. Drinking begins with Bloody Mary beverages for breakfast around 9 or 10 AM. Beer (case of Smithwick’s) and tequila (good stuff that can only be purchased in Mexico) have been secured. In the morning I only have to buy cheese, crackers, Doritos and crisp, hard, juicy grapes. And ice.
Oh yeah, this should be yet another memorable event. That I don’t remember. But I bet what I don’t remember is damn fun. Which may or may not involve temporary tattoos.
Although some asshole will certainly take embarrassing photos of me.
Even if I am laying in a gutter when the flashbulbs are going off.
Pray I don’t lost my $500 digital camera again this year. And all the great photos. Also it would be wonderful if I didn’t lose my phone again. Sheesh.
A friend posted a photo on her blog of Limoncello. Instantly it reminded me of a time several years ago when I watched the (total chick flick) Under the Tuscan Sun. That movie made me take a special trip to the liquor store for a bottle of Limoncello.
Unfortunately I couldn’t remember the brand name the characters consumed in the movie. I bought whatever was on the shelf at eye level. Mistake. Blech. Give the bottle away terrible. Like Pledge mixed with rubbing alcohol.
Then today I stared at Finn’s photo and its caption “quite possibly my favorite italian import” while thinking of how much the movie’s characters enjoyed the drink. Finn replied to my comment saying that maybe I had to take one more sip. I emailed and asked the brand name she likes, which resulted in a nice little conversation.
Where am I going with all of this? Well during the emails Finn said, “Too bad you can’t just pop over and try some.”
How fucking cool is the internet?
:pph:
(Hey Finn, when I buy a bottle of the brand you suggested I am going to call you so that we can have a drink together, k? xoxo)
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