Swings (Temperature and Mood)

I was out of town last week - hence, no new posts. I trust you all survived the devastation of not having fresh content from me.

I imagine you all looking just like this.

Full disclosure: I could have written new posts last week. Yes, indeed. I had my laptop with me, and jeebus knows I had time to write, even though I was technically on vacation. It's not as if my days were filled with fun activities that had me gamboling all over the place during the day and falling, happily exhausted, into my bed each night.

Here's the thing. I was staying at my parents' house last week. A house I left exactly twice during my visit. Once was to grab lunch in the McD's drive-thru. The second time was to meet the family at a restaurant to celebrate my Dad's birthday. We all had a nice dinner, did presents, chatted and reminisced, and then we bundled up against the cold and headed out into a full-on freaking snowstorm.

Mind you, just a couple of hours earlier, the handsome, smiling weatherman on TV had told us all that absolutely no snow would be falling that night. The handsome, smiling weatherman on TV flat-out lied. But maybe, technically, he didn't lie. Because very little snow was actually falling. It was instead being driven pretty much horizontally behind a gale-force wind directly into our faces.

It looked a lot like this. Really.

I was driving that night. I was driving a rental car, with my elderly parents in the back seat, on roads with which I'm only marginally familiar, in the kind of conditions that, here at home in Texas, would have literally shut down the city. 

It was an absolutely terrifying drive through a near-solid wall of white. I think my hands finally unfurled from their vise-like grip on the steering wheel two days later.

But that's not why I didn't leave the house again until it was time to go to the airport. The snow, as fierce as it was, was dry and powdery, and the whipping wind blew it all off the roads by the next morning. What kept me inside the rest of my stay was the temperature, which dropped like a manic Plinko ball in the wake of the snowstorm.

Do you want to know how many degrees it was outside?

One. It was one single, solitary, frigid degree.

Shown here: WTF degrees.

I'm not built for that. I'll admit it, I'm not proud. And while I'm amply equipped with protective body fat, it's not rated for one degree above zero. It's rated for "I think I can turn the heat down to 70, as long as I wear wool."

But I'll say one thing for the single-digit trauma I endured. It enabled me to experience a truly impressive temperature differential this morning when I returned to work.

Let me just say that my place of work has never, for a single hour, maintained an appropriate temperature. For most of the year it's abysmally cold. Even in the middle of August, when you'd think a hyperthyroidal air conditioning system would be a good thing, it manages to be so unpleasantly cold that you actually enjoy going out in the Texas heat for a few brief moments before sanity returns.

The one time of the year when it's warm at work is during the unpredictable months of autumn, when you may want a sweater in the morning and a bucket of ice to pour over your head in the afternoon. The HVAC in the building doesn't know what to do in these changeable circumstances, so it just sort of blows out the most random, least appropriate temperature it can manage, as if thinking to itself, "If you can't please everyone, you should please no one."

Also my personal mantra.

Anyway, when I got to work the door to my office was closed, probably to signal to the cleaning crew that the slob who normally occupies it had given them the week off. I opened the door and was greeted by the warm currents of a Santa Ana wind, localized inside my office. It was seriously balmy in there.

I checked the thermostat. Eighty-two degrees.

That is not a comfy indoor temperature at any time of year. Fortunately, by mid-morning the a/c had remembered itself and resumed being an asshole on the cold side of the spectrum.

But I had achieved something pretty remarkable: I had experienced an 81-degree temperature difference in the space of a couple of days. It was a new personal record, I'm guessing. I mean, it's not as if I track how often I'm subjected to utter nonsense like an 80+ degree swing, both extremes of which were exceedingly uncomfortable and annoying. But I think I would have remembered such a ridiculous occurrence, right?

For the record, 1 degree is not nearly as cold as it gets in Wisconsin during the winter, and I've experienced much colder temperatures. Just not two weeks before Christmas and combined with a blizzard that Handsome McForecaster promised wasn't going to happen. Also for the record, any desire I may have harbored to return to my hometown and live in the Midwest again froze to fucking death last week.

Pre-Empty Nest Syndrome

Next Monday, Precocious Daughter will fly to New York to spend two weeks with her grandma, aunt, and cousin on her dad's side.

Two weeks.

Absolutely not ready for this empty nest
thing, thanks for asking.

Now, her aunt has very, very generously offered to drive PDaughter up and down the East Coast to visit any colleges she may be interested in. This is a fantastic opportunity, because there's no way I would be financially able to offer a similar tour around New England universities.

A tiny, petty part of me whispers that my ex-sister-in-law is well aware of that fact and happy to one-up me in this area.

But for PDaughter's sake, I happily and graciously accept this generous gift.

Anyway, PDaughter will tour seven fine universities in four states during her trip, and will also spend time in New York City (which she loves), time on the beach (ditto), and time with her dad's side of the family (ditto ditto).

It's all good.

I'll be without my kid for two weeks.

Nest, whatever.

You guys. I know damn well that in just over a year, my only offspring will begin college. And while there is a small chance that she'll choose a relatively local school, she is very very interested in attending an out of state university. Because she can turn the world on with a smile, and she damn well knows it.

She got the results of her latest AP tests a couple of days ago, and she's saved herself many dollars in tuition by testing out of English, History, Physics, and other classes.

That's awesome.

I hate like hell that in 25 years of marriage, her dad and I weren't able to save for a new washer/dryer, let alone our daughter's post-secondary education.

I hate that I allowed that to happen.

But what's done is done.

And what's coming is that my beautiful PDaughter is about to start her senior year of high school. And I want it to be magical for her, in a way that my senior year never was. And I want her to receive great news about paying for college, the way I never even sought because my parents said they would pay my way if I would simply attend.

I'm not in a position to tempt, bribe, or guilt my child.

I'm a single mom.

I chose that role, and sometimes I love it, and sometimes it sucks big old rocks.

Truth.

But my sole focus right now - more than my love life, more than my stupid fucking job - is making sure my PDaughter is able to attend the university of her choosing, without becoming bankrupt.

I know she assumes everything will work out.

I know because when I was her age, I felt the same way.

Except that my parents are very different from her parents.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed with her dad, just because it might have made some slight difference to PDaughter's prospects.

I don't know.

But a week from today, PDaughter leaves for two weeks in New York.

I hope that when she returns, I'll still matter.

Lonesome Mom

I'm a single woman this weekend.

I have no f*cking clue what to do, you guys.

Whatever, your husband is literally Jay Z.

Precocious Daughter is in Corpus Christi, Texas this weekend. Spring Band Trip, yo. She's a junior, and this is the first time she's gone.

She was hella excited.

Literally wiener-dog-on-the-beach excited.

Anyway, she left for Corpus at oh-dark-thirty this morning, and she's texted that they arrived safely. Yay.

Guess what? The last time I was neither a wife nor a mother was 1990.

Twenty-seven goddamn years if you're counting. Considerably more than half my lifetime ago.

Sure, right?

Drummer Boy is going to spend Saturday night and Sunday with me. But until then, I'm on my own. With a Siamese kitten and a guinea pig. That's all.

I feel as if I should be totally better equipped to be single and independent for a couple of days.

Yet...kind of I'm not.

Some background.

In 1987, I lived at home, attended university, and had not yet met my future spouse.

My parents went out of town for a few days and left me home alone. You know, because I was all mature and grown-up and whatnot.

You guys, I freaked out.

Exclusive content, you guys.

As I recall, I ate an entire bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and proceeded to experience a caffeine-fueled emotional rage. Yes, seriously. I was that pathetic.

The point is, a few brief months later I started going with my future spouse, and for the next 25 years or so, I was never alone.

And then...my marriage ended, and PDaughter and I moved into our little apartment. And I was never alone.

And now she's on a band trip. In Corpus Christi. Four hundred miles away.

I know she's having an amazing time.

I'm happy for her.

Still...

Commodores reference for the win, absolutely.

I want to be a strong, independent woman.

Despite all evidence to the contrary.

I am trying.

It's hard. Surprisingly hard.

I have new admiration for parents who go through this as a matter of routine. Really.

I'm just going to be a mess until PDaughter comes home to me.

Totally.

She's going to have a great time in Corpus Christi.

I'm going to be a wreck until she gets home safely.

...

That's just me.

<3

On Separation Anxiety and Quality Beards (In One Post, Really)

Tomorrow Precocious Daughter is flying to New York to visit her paternal grandmother for a week.

Which is wonderful for her. She doesn't get to spend enough time with any of her grandparents, and of course any opportunity to spend time in the Big Apple is not to be missed. The last time she was there she visited the Jersey shore, saw a Broadway show, and toured Radio City Music Hall. This time she may hit up MOMA, Ellis Island, and of course, see another Broadway show.

I will miss her terribly.

Also, I will put my house up for sale while she's gone. One less teenager in the house means it will be infinitely easier to keep clean for showings. I sort of wish her father were going away for the same reason.

Aside: Why does it require three butter knives to cook a plate of spaghetti? Because that's just one highlight of what I had to clean up this morning. I don't know if it's wrong to divorce someone for being a slob, but it sure as hell doesn't feel wrong to me.

But I digress.

I would love to book a hotel room and have a bit of a staycation while PDaughter is away. But I just know that if I'm not at the house 24/7, he will sabotage all my efforts to sell it, just by making a goddamn mess, which is his default mode.

Did I already ask if it's wrong to get divorced because you're tired of living in someone else's pervasive, thoughtless filth?

Is it possible to love someone and absolutely not want to spend one more minute living with him?

Back to where I started: PDaughter leaves for New York tomorrow, and I hope she has an amazing time, although I will miss her every moment she's away.

There is a chance, because of the red-hot local real estate market, that the house will be under contract by the time she comes home.

If it's not, I'm going to start to panic, because I sort of require the proceeds from the sale to start the new life I've already set in motion for my kiddo and me.

How freaking ironic would it be if I became financially dependent on my spouse after 25 years of being the breadwinner?

Very ironic, if by "ironic" you mean "horrifying and unthinkable."

On a completely different topic, I'm thinking of creating a "How Wonderful/Terrible Is Your Facial Hair?" quiz for my male Drunkards. I just have to find a code shell and customize it. Do any of my male readers want to know how wonderful/terrible his facial hair is, according to a 100% objective and not subject to my input program?

If you're a bearded lady, same question.

The world is full of wonders.

For Better, Formica, Four Seasons, Forget It

An anonymous Drunkard responded to yesterday's post about the things I don't want in my dream house.

Except it totally wasn't anonymous. It was totally Bestest Friend.

I saw right through your flimsy disguise.

And as she pointed out, my post basically described her own house to a T.

She's right, of course. I adore Bestest Friend's house, right down to the pink bathroom tile and the piano in the living room.

And the Formica! Actual, unironic Formica in the kitchen.

No, this is not her kitchen, but I would snap this up if I could find it.

The thing about Bestest Friend's house, however - besides being already at capacity with her little three-person family - is that it is located in what for me is a sub-optimal location.

And by sub-optimal, I don't mean that it's not located in a beautiful little New England town, or that it's not walking distance from a state park, or that it's not in a neighborhood just bursting with charm and general coziness.

Because it's absolutely all of those things.

Did I have a point? I seem to have lost my train of thought.

Oh, right! Location! You see, it's just that Bestest Friend's adorable New England house is located...in New England.

Somewhere outside Texas.

I love New England. I really do. It has history, and great natural beauty, and those people know how to drink, whooo boy. I mean, in Boston, they still think the show "Cheers" was a PSA for temperance, knowhutimean?

But New England also has four distinct seasons, and three of them are Cold, Chilly, and Freeze Yer Tits Off.

Exactamundo.

Listen up: It's not that I identify as a Texan who's never experienced a temperature in single digits or had to shovel snow in May. Nope. But I do identify as a native Midwesterner who's decided she ain't never going to subject herself to five months of winter in a calendar year ever again.

I mean, 90 degrees at bedtime isn't so great, but a high temperature with a negative sign in front of it is not my tall, cold glass of unsweetened tea.

If I look hard enough, I know I can find a little old house that's full of the same Northeastern charm as Bestest Friend's abode.* It won't have a basement, and it probably will have central air. But these are compromises I can make.

All of this makes me really crave a visit to Bestest Friend's place. This is not a great time for me to travel, but soon. Soon.

Don't you DARE take down that pink tile before I can get back up there. That's an order.

*Abode. It's where you abide. It's a private joke. She gets it.

Kickin'

I told you yesterday would be a 20-hour day. And so it was.

Well, it was for me. For Precocious Daughter, it was a 24-hour day. She got up at 2:00 a.m. Saturday and went to bed at 2:00 a.m. Sunday.

Just thinking about it.

But Karate Tournament 2015 was awesome. Her whole team did a great job, snagging several first-place finishes. PDaughter herself placed 4th in both her events, which makes me very proud, as the competition was so, so fierce.

Chuck was there, guys!!

It's a pretty terrible picture. But look, it's totally Chuck.

This weekend, I learned that I'm too goddamned old to sit on plastic high-school bleachers for seven hours. My lower back is killing me.

Still, completely worth it.

I also learned that I can still spend a day with PDaughter's dad and have a good time. Also, that I can spend a day with PDaughter's dad and realize we're done.

And it's OK.

My kid took a wicked kick to the face yesterday that turned her skin beet-red and knocked one of her contact lenses back into her eyeball. She took it with a smile and gave her opponent a big hug after the match.

I love her so much.

Today was pretty much a recovery day, you know?

I hope your weekend was as good as mine.

In Short

Here comes a really quick post, and only because I didn't post last night.

That's because a giant fly flew into my ointment.

I'll get him out, don't you worry.
Just be kind of messy, is all.

I won't be posting tomorrow, either. I'm looking down the barrel of a 20-hour day for Precocious Daughter's state karate tournament, which this year is being held in Outer Wherethefuckisthat, Texas. On the plus side, Mr. Chuck Norris may be there! I'll let you know. Hey, speaking of that, here's last year's karate tournament post.

Anyway, I didn't want you think I'd forsaken my 12 loyal readers, so here I am.

Hello, hello.

If I have a few minutes I'll schedule a few posts to run on my Facebook page and Twitter feed tomorrow. You know, the kind of quality wit and graphical humor you've come to love and expect from the Always Drunk brand.

I couldn't keep a straight face, either.

So that's today's post. Hugs, kisses, etc.

Getting the Words Out

I have an idea.

OK, honestly, how did humanity convey the concept of "having an idea" before the 1870s, when the light bulb was invented (or made famous by Thomas Edison, as the case may be)? Were people too stupid to have brilliant ideas before there was enough artificial light to have them by? By which to have them? Whatever?

But I digress.

My post actually has nothing to do with light bulbs.

Or this, although on a related note, I may be addicted
to Google image search.

It has to do with the fact that, as you may know, I'm trying to write a book.

I say trying because, if you told me I had to produce a single finished chapter or else lose a toe, I'd be one nine-toed bitch.

Awww, Right Big is my favorite toe.

Still, I'm working at it. And I'm working at it despite the fact that I lack an agent or a single publishing house that has expressed a scintilla of interest in acquiring my manuscript when it's finished.

If I made such things my benchmark for continued commitment to writing, I'd be a closeted gay nun tromboner feminist social worker zookeeper instead of a writer.

Or this guy.

I know how difficult it is to get a book published if you don't have a million blog readers or a reality show or the one-in-a-kabillion odds luck of the chick who wrote 50 Shades of Grey. I know there are writers a thousand times more talented and deserving than me who will never get a book deal, and they're a thousand times more likely to get one than I am.

As an avocation, writing is among the most noble. As a business, it's down there with discount prostitution.

Moliere: Total badass.

So I'm thinking of approaching book distribution a little differently.

It doesn't cost a lot to self-publish a book. It's not dirt cheap, certainly. But for less than the cost of a  couple of rooms' worth of hardwood flooring, any writer can have a book professionally critiqued, edited, designed, and printed. All that remains is distribution. And getting a book distributed via the major online and brick-and-mortar outlets is a gargantuan task. Which is why it's best left to the big publishing houses, whose attention (in case you've forgotten) is nigh impossible to get.

That's why I propose to self-publish a limited quantity of my book (when it's finally finished) and crowdsource the distribution.

How?

Well, I happen to know a number of people who travel a lot as part of their jobs. I know others who somehow manage to arrange multiple out-of-town getaways during the year, and still others who occasionally take a road trip because it's time to take a road trip.

That's pretty impressive to those of us who fear roads. And trips.
And the unknown. And raising our hands in the air like we just don't care.

Those people are awesome. And maybe - just maybe - they'd be willing to carry with them a few copies of my book and leave them behind on their travels.

In airport lounges. In train stations. Or rest stops. Or Starbucks locations.

There's no telling where my humble book could end up if only I had willing accomplices.

If just a few people would read my book and pass it on, eventually it might catch on.

I'd like that a lot.

What do you think, Drunkards?

Stupid idea?

Or so stupid it just might work?

A Poem for Tuesday

I don't know which of us is Brando.

Almost Gone

Three days from now you will leave me

You will travel a long way from home

I will wait for you, darling, believe me

Doesn't matter how far you must roam.

I admit I will be awfully lonely

I admit I'll be sad when you're gone

I will never admit that I'm only

Fully living when we share the dawn.

When that airplane takes off, I will be here

Thinking of you and wanting you near

When you come back I hope it will be clear

That our love's deeper than a veneer.

There are things you must do in your travels

There are weights I can't help you to bear

When your former life finally unravels

I can promise I'll always be there.

I'll be sober, unhappy, and thinking

Of your touch every moment you're gone

I'll be writing, but I won't be drinking

'Twill be hard enough to carry on.

Though you haven't left yet, I am missing

Knowing that you are close every day

I will sleep tonight, thinking of kissing

Your sweet lips all the time you're away.

I promise that I'll wait forever

If forever's how long I must wait

Because someday is better than never

And at last is much better than late.

For Drummer Boy. Because I love you.

Random Post from the Road

Just a few observations as I get ready to fly home from my first business trip in five years.

1. About 90% of my trepidation about this trip was wondering how bad the security checkpoints had gotten in the last five years. Because, you know, I hate taking off my shoes in public (I suffer from Hideous Feet Syndrome). Also, I usually do something wrong when I put my stuff on the conveyor belt - do my shoes go in the tote or on the belt? cell phone stays in the purse or not? STOP JUDGING ME, TSA EMPLOYEES. And the last time I flew, they hadn't come up with the grand idea of x-raying me in case I had a shiv up my hooha. Can't I just sign a note promising that I won't take off my pants during the flight so I can access a hidden weapon of stabbery?

Ugh. Anyway, security turned out to be total non-issue. I put everything in the tote, the nice TSA lady groped my right ankle (wearing latex gloves, a smart move when in proximity of my feet), and away I went. And here at Logan, I didn't even have to take anything out of my bag! Take that, evildoers! You're not the boss of us! Boston Strong, motherfuckers!

2. Last weekend, Precocious Daughter and I watched the movie Flight. The timing on that was maybe not so great. On the one hand, I was totally confident that if we ran into unexpected turbulence, Denzel Washington would pull us through. On the other hand, if you're familiar with the movie, I have two words for you: minibar scene. I was much less worried about a plane crash than I was about what might happen if I were confronted with a fully-stocked minibar in my hotel room. Turns out my company is far too cheap to put me up in a hotel fancy enough to have in-room booze. Thus I was able to remain happily sober for the two days I was here. Which is a good thing, as I would have completely embarrassed myself in front of my colleagues. Because their ability to drink like goddamn Atlantic cod in the middle of the week put mine to shame. No way I was going to take on a bunch of seasoned Yankees in a game of Who Can Hold Their Liquor? These people are legendary.

3. I was not able to put my song about Mr. and Mrs. Edie Brickell and Their Adventures in Domestic Violence to music while I was here. I was just too tired after a night of pretending to be a lively and engaged professional person to do anything but fall asleep on the multitude of comfy pillows I was provided. Eight pillows, just for little old me? So sweet. But I do intend to record it for your listening horror bemusement at some point. As soon as I have some time to myself, uninterrupted, with no one listening. Say, 2018.

4. I had lunch at a place called Wahlburger's, which apparently is owned Mark, Donnie, Paul, Marlon, and Tito Wahlburg and has its own reality show. Everyone in my group had to sign a waiver because they were filming inside, although the only camera I saw disappeared about two minutes after we sat down, so I doubt I'll be making my TV debut on the show. I had a haddock sandwich, because when in Boston, you have to eat seafood. It was OK. I met some dude named Nacho, who I guess is a friend of Marky Mark's. Seems like a nice guy, although he accused one of my co-workers of touching his butt. 

5. People in Boston really do say "wicked" and "pahk the cah," so I will no longer feel bad about employing these stereotypes when impersonating people in Boston. Remember, behind every stereotype are a bunch of people who actually talk and act exactly the way you expected them to.  

In conclusion, I'm sorry there are no pictures in this post. But I hate the touchpad on my laptop and I don't have a mouse. So open another tab and Google "damn clever pictures about travel, minibars, feet, celebrities, and Marky Mark." Then look at the first five pictures you see. Boom, you're a blogger. 

OK, going to read the Nelson DeMille paperback I just bought (time-honored Baudelaire tradition when flying) and see if they push back my flight even further. Latah, Drunkahds.

 

So Chuck and Yet So Far

I saw Chuck Norris yesterday.

He came to Precocious Daughter's karate tournament. I mean, he came to see his own daughter, who is an 11-year-old black belt, if you can dig that. But he was there watching his kid, just as I was there watching my kid. So we were united in purpose.

And we were breathing the same air and listening to the same music blaring over the P.A. For all intents and purposes we were one.

Except that I spent the day sitting in cramped, uncomfortable bleachers, and Chuck stood on the competition floor, looking exactly like this:

For hours and hours as the competition went on, Chuck watched over the proceedings like the badass he is.

Any kid who approached him for a picture after winning a trophy, Chuck obliged.

PDaughter, unfortunately, didn't place in any of her events. She did a great job, but the competition was really fierce. Everyone put up their best performance because Master Norris was there.

Also, parents weren't allowed to get anywhere near him. So I didn't get to actually meet him. (Did I yell "Hi, Chuck!"? You bet your bippy I did.)

So I've had to create this artist's rendering of what a picture of Chuck and me would have looked like. It's for Chuck's benefit, really. I feel bad that he missed out.

Such a perfect likeness.

Chuck, if you're reading this...I drove all the way to Bryan, Texas for you. I left civilization and drove past approximately 168,000 cows to be with you. And to watch PDaughter compete, of course. But this was your chance. For me, it was totally worth it to watch you in action.

Shown here: Action.

I'm sorry we didn't have a chance to get to know one another. You would have loved me. Ah, well. There will be other tournaments. We may yet have our moment. Chuck Norris and the crazy lady who yells "Hi, Chuck!" every time you show up. Until we meet again...take solace in your wealth, fame, reputation, social standing, and hot wife.

Be strong.

Tabitha Takes on the Winter Olympics

Note: I banished Tabitha's ass. Somehow she wound up in Sochi, Russia, and filed this report on the 22nd Winter Olympic Games. It's entertaining, so I let her publish it. Also, she's not mean to me for once (relatively speaking, of course).

hi, y'll. tabby here.

you know you missed me.

 

i'm in fucking russia, people. russia. do you know where that is? it's all the way over, you know, there. almost to europe or something.

 

this is totally not helpful. anyway, shouldn't that
be the african-american sea? so racist.

btw, you people are sons of bitches. some of you narced me out to chuck baudelaire and said "ooooh i don't like her" and "waaaah, she's so mean" and "blablabla i'd fuck her but i wouldn't marry her." whatevs. chuck said i should disappear for a while. so i went on kayak.com and looked for a cheap flight to the hell out of there. i get off the plane and i'm in bulgaria. or maybe the other garia - you know, hungaria.

 

Note: I know, she just totally ripped off a
Spinal Tap joke from "The Simpsons." Or maybe
she doesn't realize it's a joke. - CB

 

so i ended up in this street market because i heard that weed is legal in amsterdam - which i guess means it was bulgaria, right? geography, lol. and then this, like, goat farmer or sheep fucker or something named arnost that i met when he copped a feel in front of a sausage shop hooked me up with a barge trip across the african-american sea (#notaracist) and i ended up in this cool place called sochi.

 

guess what, dudes: they're having the winter olympics here! i did not even know that. it's karma, or kismet, or what the hell ever. i love the olympics. they are the coolest thing america ever invented.

 

so i was wandering around sochi, pretty much following the dogs, which i guess are the olympic mascots this year because they're like everywhere. and i met this guy who said he was vladmir putin's personal tailor's teenage boy toy and would i like some vodka. and i said, who is vlalala poopin? and he said something in some other language, i have no idea what they speak in russia. anyway, someone else told me that vladimir putin is all in charge and whatnot and would i like some vodka. and i thought, i need to meet this dude.

 

long story short: it's amazing how helpful foreigners can be when you let them put their hands inside your shirt. before too long i was introduced to him and given some vodka.

 

spoiler alert: we totally did it.

 

he takes off his shirt and we have the sex.
are you surprised?

 

so then he's all "hey, baby, will you carry a torch for me?" and i'm like, no way, you're cute and all but russia is too effing cold and after i go back to america imma forget all about you. i'm kind of a bitch that way.

 

but you know what? he wasn't asking if i would be his girl. he was actually asking me - me, tabitha roxanne renee louise brown - to light the freaking olympic torch at the opening ceremonies! how much is that cool?

 

but then he got kind of pissy over the "imma forget you" comment and totally took it back. so that's why i'm not actually going to be up there with the torch. kinda sucks. i've got a pretty big mouth sometimes.

 

also, now i need another place to stay. vlad's crib was rocking, so i'm looking for something just as swag. there are all these hotels and stuff here in sochi that look brand new. probably they're awesome. a lot of them don't have sidewalks leading up to them or doorknobs or walls around what you might call 100% of the buildings. might be a russian thing, i don't know. i don't study architecture, because boring. i'm sure i'll find something nice.

 

can someone tell me which hotel this is?
because it sounds like my kind of place.

 

or maybe i'll score a room with the athletes. you know, flirt a little and get an invite. some of the figure skater guys are pretty hot. i'll flash some boob and they'll be all over me. guys dig me.

 

after i settle in, i'm going to explore. make some new friends. maybe get a look at shaun white's halfpipe, if you know what i mean. so ciao for now.

 

i mean i want to see shaun white naked. i thought i should clarify that.

 

later, gators.

 

 

The Ticket Taker

The Ticket Taker
by Chuck Baudelaire

This may be what wiser men call fate
Or stronger women name destiny.
Perhaps they spoke together in smoky whispers
At the fire
When everyone was asleep
And passed judgment on the rest of us.

Maybe you and I slept through their verdict.

And you - fellow traveler, stranger,
Not my companion, nor seatmate, nor friend
But only one whose papers are scarred with the same
Soft warm wax as mine -
Cling to my side because there is no other space.
We breathe as if in time yet not in time,
Sharing a destination but not a journey.

I curse every stop
That is not where I planned to be.
You stare empty-eyed at the cloying tourist landmarks.
We are mismatched and disparate.
You are not what I signed on for.
Yet I can only imagine how far I stray
From the carefully mapped coordinates of your dreams.

It's good that we lack knives
Or aspirations
With which to damage one another.
We will ride silently to the end of the line
With our eyes averted,
Perhaps diverted
To a book we brought along
In case the journey dragged on.

Take care not to step on the grass
When you alight.
It doesn't know you mean it no harm.

Please Pray for My Coccyx

Tomorrow the Baudelaire family is driving to Houston to watch Precocious Daughter compete in a state karate tournament. On the one hand, Woohoo! Way to make it to the state tournament, PDaughter! You are the Chuck Norris of sixth-graders, if Chuck Norris were a skinny girl who raises virtual dragons and watches "My Little Pony" but claims to do it ironically.

Have I mentioned how great it is that you can find a picture
of freaking anything on the Internet?

On the other hand, tomorrow we're driving to Houston.

Which, if one believes this photo from About.com,
is infested with dinosaurs.

According to the directions I downloaded from the Google, it's a 4.5-hour drive to the tournament. And presumably a 4.5-hour drive back, if I understand how time and space work (not a given). The tournament itself will last last about eight hours. The time we'll spend actually watching PDaughter perform in her two events might total 10 minutes. If she does well and gets to participate in the medal ceremony, make it 20.

So that's seventeen consecutive hours of sitting - in a car or on bleachers - to watch maybe 20 minutes of a karate tournament.

Oh my God I love my child so much.

If PDaughter wants to demonstrate her mad karate skillz by kicking my butt when we finally get home, she's welcome to do so. I guarantee my butt won't even feel it.

Good for the Old Blood Pressure

I found an old photo from the one and only cruise the Baudelaire family has ever taken. It was taken at sunset in Jamaica. Now, I found Jamaica to be a profoundly tacky and uncomfortable place (maybe we docked at the only spot beset by aggressive beggars and unfriendly natives, I don't know), so my memories of our day there are probably deliberately fuzzy. That's why my breath was taken away when I stumbled on this picture. I didn't remember anything in Jamaica being this damn lovely.

I felt instantly calmer and happier staring at this November island sunset. How often does an ordinary picture do that for you? I thought maybe a few of my Drunkards might benefit from a little calm and happy in their lives today. It makes a good wallpaper for your phone, too.

Say...I also found a picture of me singing drunken Patsy Cline karaoke from that same cruise. It's not as soothing, but it is pretty damn funny. And I'll show it to you...for a price.

But I warn you. You don't have that much money. For real.

There's a Feeling in the Air That You Can't Get Anywhere Except Kiev

I've mentioned before that Ukrainians love my blog.

Ukraine is the one on the right.

Or else someone in Ukraine has super-awful typing skills and keeps landing at Always Drunk by accident. Possibly while drunk, which would be validating my concept in a strange way. The point is, I get a lot of hits from Ukraine.


Not necessarily a bad thing.
Hello, Vitaly Klitschko!

 I still haven't ruled out that the Ukrainian secret police are keeping tabs on me. Or that I have a Ukrainian stalker. Or that somewhere outside of Odessa there's a school full of unfortunate children learning English from the worst possible source. Well, almost.




But since I have a fan base in Ukraine, I'm going to make it my mission to suck up to it. Я люблю Україну! I think that means "I Love Ukraine." Google Translate could be yanking my chain, and maybe I just started a war. Please, oh wise and physically attractive Ukrainians, correct me if I'm mangling your language in an insensitive and possibly obscene way.

I'd like to visit Ukraine one day. The Crimea is part of Ukraine. That's where the famous Yalta conference was held during World War II, and it's where all the Soviet leaders used to take their vacations. Sounds like a happening place. So does Kiev, the capital. Looks like a great place to have a huge parade for a visiting American blogger. I'm just saying.

Mostly, I'd like to know what the hell the fascination is that the Ukrainian people have with this little old scribbler in Texas. Whatever it is, I need to work on a way to infect everyone in the world with it. Let's fill the Internet with love, people! Kuuumbayaaaaa...


Or if you prefer, Fah who for-aze! Dah who dor-aze!

Sorry, I got off track for a minute there. Let's hear it for the Ukrainians, who are officially my favorite Eastern Europeans from a country starting with U. I await the key to your cities and a proclamation from your king. Or, uh, president. (checks Wikipedia) Yes, your fine President Yanukovych. Who probably has a great right hook.

Будь ласка, надсилайте гроші!

Summer Vacation Reds and Blues

President Obama and his family are vacationing on Martha's Vineyard.

OH MY GOD IMPEACH HIM!!


Traitor-in-Chief shown here trying to swim to Cuba, presumably.

Summer vacations are All-American fun. Which makes me a filthy Commie terrorist, because we didn't take one this year. We went on vacation last summer, and I got kicked by a horse. Ripped my shin right the hell open. Bled like a mofo and left a big dark scar. Fun with a capital F. But I digress.

Ungodly killing machine.

Anyway, we all like to get away from the stress and worry of our workaday lives to kick back for a few days. Who could possibly begrudge the President of the United States, whose job (I'm just taking a guess here) is more stressful than yours, the opportunity to go on vacation like millions of other Americans?
Every member of the opposing political party, that's who. It doesn't matter who's in the White House or which party controls Congress - nobody who didn't vote for the current President ever wants him to go on vacation. And every year when the President packs up his sunscreen and his fugly Bermuda shorts, a chorus of "how dare he" and "what an asshole" rises up from those who can't stand to see anybody having fun while they're trying to make him miserable.


You come back here and listen to our unreasonable demands and specious arguments!

And so, as the Obamas embark upon their abandonment of the nation, his detractors are loudly proclaiming that he's taking yet another vacation while America stands on the brink of disaster. The nerve! He should be addressing Congress, or signing bills, or something.

Of course, Congress isn't actually in session right now, so there's no one to address.


Will Smith couldn't find a post-apocalyptic vampire in here.

Still, it's the job of the President of the United States to be on duty 24/7, looking out for the interests of common Americans who can't afford a swanky summer retreat, as well as important things, like tax cuts for the rich. So they can continue to afford their swanky summer retreats.


I worked hard to inherit, marry, and/or embezzle this money.

 In fact, goes the argument that rears its big dumb head every single year, one might say that the number of days a President spends brazenly loafing is a litmus test for his effectiveness in office. Which is why Barack Obama (who has so far taken 61 days of vacation) is three times as good a Chief Executive as George W. Bush (who had taken 180 days of vacation at the same point in his first term). And why Bill Clinton (26 days) was 2.3 times better than Barack Obama and 4.3 times better than that jerkhat Ronald Reagan (112 days at this point). Right?

I, personally, in the 31 months since President Obama was inaugurated, have taken about 20 days of vacation. Which means I am the most qualified person to be President in the last 30 years! And when you consider that I probably actually enjoyed about six of those vacation days, I should be elected freaking Queen of America.


I have not being amused down to a science.

 My point is, I just get can't worked up about when and where and how often the President - any President - takes a vacation. It's not as if President Obama isn't surrounded by Secret Service agents and Joe Biden isn't texting "Do u miss me?" every half hour. And big deal that he's lounging around Martha's Vineyard instead of clearing brush on a ranch. I'm sure if Chicago had any ranches, President Obama would own one, and he'd be busily cleaning graffiti off the horses.

You know what does piss me off? Bestest Friend is vacationing on Cape Cod - she's practically close enough to borrow a cup of sugar from Michelle Obama. How dare she! The nerve! President, schmesident. Being insanely jealous of your loved ones' good fortune: That's an issue all Americans can get behind.