I am definitely not equipped to be a food blogger, but I do take some kick-ass pictures of alcohol. So can someone finally answer my question already, can Lush Studies be a degree?
Martinis are soooo “Sex and the City”
Long Island? More like long night….
Raspberry Mojitos are so in right now.
Watermelon and jalapeños do not belong in the same liquor.
Libations for the lady?
Wine time is all the time!
When it comes to class discussion about a book, you wish your students would just be truthful.
Listen to any popular song from ’00 til now, and you will notice one common instruction. Drop it low. From Flo Rida to Nelly, everyone “in the game” is insisting that girls take it and place it as close to the floor as possible. I am not even sure what “it” is, but I have been attempting this butt cheek floor grazing technique for a solid decade. I would like to say that makes me an expert.
If you are considering trying this standard dance move yourself, the safest platform for you to experiment with the motions of your body is a gay dance club. You will never be the worst dancer in a gay dance club. In case you are feeling that familiar tinge of embarrassment, know, even the best fall down sometimes, especially me.
The night at the Max started out just as all Friday/Saturday nights start out. Taylor, JJ, and I arrived at the gay club shortly after 10 pm dressed to impress. They wore matching outfits, as most gay male couples do, and I had on a brand new pair of pants. The pants were tight on my bottom, as most gay-club-going-straight-women usually wear pants. I made one fateful flaw that night; I wore those pants without a trial run. Pants should come with a disclaimer: While wearing these pants for the first time, do a deep lunge in front of the mirror to make sure your pants wont split.
Unfortunately, pants don’t come with a disclaimer. Learn from my mistake, always give your pants a trial run before attempting any dancing, which may result in your butt being mere inches from the floor.
Before the actual split, I had moments which now seem to be a foreshadowing of what was about to go “down.” I grabbed a drink from the bar and proceeded to make my way to the dance floor to meet up with the two most gorgeous gay men in the club, Tay and J. I forgot that the dance floor drops a foot from the walkway and fell. No, not fall, launched. Knees, first; wrists ,second. My phone flew one way and my drink the other. I should have just gone home at that point. But, I learn lessons the hard way.
Tay’s coworkers were out with us that night, and his rhythmically impaired coworker ensued to stomp on my big toe. Months later, I am still dealing with the consequences of his inability to control his big feet. As luck would have it, Nicki Minaj’s “Anaconda” came on over the sound system.
*Little fun fact, I know almost of Nicki’s lyrics. Like, to every song*
Feeling my inner spirit animal on the verge of coming out, I let go. Perhaps one of my best performances was soon brought to a halting stop. I dropped “it” like I have never dropped it before. In that moment, the seam of my pants split, right down my butt. I remained in a squatting position, senses heightened, aware of every eye’s gaze in the club. I promptly straightened up and pulled my shirt as low as possible. I found a chair and sat there for the remaining two hours of the night.
Finally, as the lights came on just before 2 am, I grabbed Tay and J and high-tailed it out of the Max. In the cab, the conversation went something like this:
Tay:HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
J:HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
That night left lasting scars on my psyche. I constantly am checking my derrière. Thanks, pants. Thanks for nothing.
See, I told you they were gorgeous!
Some people often wonder what the great equalizer is in life. I don’t wonder, I know. Moving. Moving is the great equalizer. You may be asking, why? Everyone hates moving. I have yet to meet someone who is in love with the entire moving process. There are several people that may love the process of unpacking and decorating their new home, but it’s even hard for me to find solace in that. I’ve created a list of the horror that is: Moving Day.
What I am about to say will probably align me with Mother Teresa. I am morally opposed to marrying someone because of his socioeconomic status. I don’t “buy” into the thought that you both get something beneficial out of the marriage when that happens. I wouldn’t be opposed to marrying “up” (I believe that is the PC term), but that can’t be the sole reason. In fact, I don’t really think that what his monetary status is should play any role in marrying someone. With that being said, buying everything you want or need on your own is a real pain in the ass. Sorry for the language Momma T.
Let’s consider going on a trip. Recently, my roomies Tay and J brought up the idea about a Spring Break getaway. The conversation went something like this:
Tay and J-“Hey, girl! Let’s go to Vegas on Spring Break!”
Alisha-“No.”
Tay and J-“Boo, you whore.”
Besides the obvious “Mean Girls” reference, that is basically every Spring Break conversation I have ever had in my life. I would love to actually go somewhere on Spring Break, except Vegas, that’s one destination I am totally over. I went to Las Vegas when I was 14 years old for my sister’s wedding; let’s just say I hit my peak for Sin City early in life. Vegas is awful when you are of drinking age, can you imagine how bad it is when you can’t even get into an R-rated movie? The streets are either littered with trash or naked women on escort cards. The one good thing to come out of that trip, other than my sister’s wedding, was the day spent at the Hoover Dam. From the strip to the Hoover Dam takes about 45 minutes via bus, and the median age of people on said bus is 60. My parents sat next to each other, and the only open space was the middle of a three-seat bench in the back. I packed between two very large people from Arkansas, or perhaps it was Alabama. Arm to arm with two strangers; I focused on the aisle of the bus. Pretty soon, I felt sweat droplets trickling down my arm; the only problem here was that I was not the one sweating. Aside from the PTSD-worthy bus ride, the Hoover Dam is pretty incredible. I can’t describe to you how small it felt to stand next to the massive structure, so you are going to have to go and experience it for yourself. That entire vacation was bought and paid for by my parents, a two-income household.
I have one income, a very small income, and now that I am back in graduate school, an almost non-existent income. The $800-1,000 (or two months of rent) it takes me to spend 4 days and 3 nights in the city of sin puts a much larger dent in my budget, than it does the budget of a two-income household. So, the solution that most people see is, save up. Sure, save. I’ll put away $50 every month and in 2 years I can finally go on that trip, oh wait, you don’t want to go to Vegas any more?
Shocking.
It isn’t that I am pressed for money, I can generally buy things that I want: Starbucks-I am a gold card carrying customer, a new cardigan, socks; it is just that those things add up on a monthly budget. And it isn’t that my friends aren’t understanding or caring of this issue, they have all been there once before, but their compassion is like a carton of milk, soon to expire.
Speaking of milk, have you seen the price of a gallon? You would think that this stuff would cure exotic diseases at the current cost.
So even though I don’t think that you should marry for money, if you happen to fall in love with someone who has a lot of money, that’s like icing on a cake, a cake that you order at a fancy restaurant after a four-star dinner. Garson, may we have the check? And by “we,” I mean him.
Starbucks: big and small I love them all!
Going out sucks. Everyone thinks going out is the perfect time to be single because interesting guys are lining up to buy you drinks. Wrong again, amiga. I have had plenty of guys hit on me in the bar; usually they are the age of 22 or 40. There is nothing wrong with a puka shell wearing 22 year old, except that the mere 4 years difference in age is usually enough for us to be at completely different stages in our lives. I don’t want to go out all the time, and if I do go out, I want to go to a local pub that isn’t destroying my ear drums with house music or swarming with dudes in Ed Hardy that use the phrase: YOLO swag. And the 40 thing, listen, there is nothing wrong with Dave from accounting wanting to go out and find a new fling after his recent divorce, but seriously, I am not that girl.
I feel like every girl has one story of a complete weirdo who tried to hit on her while out with her friends, but my weirdo-story took a sharp turn towards scary. I went out in downtown Omaha circa summer 2013 with two girl friends and a guy friend from college. In a bar that has more craft beer on tap than domestic, I felt safe. That’s when Darin posted up at the bar next to me. He told the bar-keep to get me a drink and put it on his tab.
Okay, we have all been there when a guy buys you a drink and now you have to contemplate fight or flight. I hate running away because I feel bad for the poor bloke.
I stayed and chatted with him amidst live music from a band of bearded hipsters. The sugary drink he bought was churning in my stomach, so I quickly traded it for a beer. He told me he was 28 and recently accepted into law school. Score! Chris, who was out with us that night also happened to be in law school. So, I let those two chat while I talked with the girls. Had Chris told me that night Darin said he was doing law school online I would have ran; no one goes to law school online.
At one point, in between a round of darts, he asked me to guess his ethnicity. Okay, he was black, but I didn’t want to be rude and say, “You’re black.” He told me he had Mohican in him.
Let me just insert this side note—I am a huge Daniel Day-Lewis fan, and I saw The Last of the Mohicans—I know what happened to them, they all died—hence the name, The LAST of the Mohicans.
Darin continued to *swoon* me the rest of the night and asked for my phone number. As I went to give him a fake number, (something about him felt off) he pulled out his phone—Great, now I have to really give him my number.
In bed, I tossed and turned trying to get comfortable, but the sheets felt like with every movement, I was more and more constricted. The rapid turning of the fan wisped my baby hairs against the side of my face until I could no longer stand it. I research everyone, so lying on the bed with my back literally against the wall, I reached for my phone and “googled” his name and where he was from, which I just happened to catch when he was talking about his childhood. The first website that popped up was “FBI’s Most Wanted.” Cool. Not only was he NOT 28, he was also incarcerated for five years for selling drugs. I did the math; he was 35. The mixture of sugary alcohol and beer in my stomach was bubbling up my throat. Not only was I on the verge of praying to the porcelain gods, but I was pretty sure I was going to piss myself. The next afternoon, after he called me, twice, I made up a lie that I was seeing someone and thought he was a great guy—then promptly labeled his number as DNR and blocked him. Bye, bye Mohican Darin.
You want to know the one time in your life it is not fun to be single? Spend one Christmas alone (or Kwanzaa or Hanukkah, I’m not picky). You are never more aware of how single you are unless you are spending the cheeriest holiday alone. You are not first on anyone’s list. No one is panicking over the perfect gift for you. You have no one to take a holiday “couples” picture with to post on instagram, facebook, AND twitter (because let’s be honest, the more coverage the more likes). No one is going to Jared for you. Here you are, feeling gloomy and sad during a time when you should be feeling like every moment is about to turn into a dance-choreographed musical number with Zack Effron.
You know what else is awful about the joyous occasion of holidays? Family get-togethers. Don’t get me wrong; I love my family and love spending time with them. However, this year I found myself in pajamas and sitting on the floor with my nephew and niece as the adult, married couples took up space on the couches. I was very aware of exactly how single I was as I passed out the gifts.
I love traditions; I am crazy about traditions, so part of me says, “Hey! Do I really want things to change?” I like watching It’s a Wonderful Life, Christmas Eve and A Christmas Carol (George C Scott) on Christmas night. But, my parents are getting older, and they don’t want to stay up that late anymore. So, it’s a tradition that I must carry on myself, like a good little soldier. Sitting alone on Christmas Eve with the tree lights twinkling in the background and a mug full of cocoa warming my hands wasn’t the worst experience I could have had, but I found myself wishing Santa would come down my non-existent fireplace, if for nothing more than the company.
Can we also talk about Halloween? Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. If I didn’t think it made me look like a weirdo, I would say it is my favorite holiday. Cat is out of the bag. Do you know how many great Halloween costumes I could be if I only had a partner. Dorothy and Stanly Zbornak, Lt. Dan and Forest Gump, JFK and Jackie O, my list could go on forever, maybe. One year, my bestie, Max, and I dressed up as the Spartan cheerleaders, Craig and Arianna. It was the capital B-B-B-Best! Now, Max teaches in China, and I am Craig-less. So, the next year I continued the tradition and dressed-up as Arianna again, trust me when I tell you nothing is more sad than a Spartan cheerleader missing her teepee. As I bellied-up to the bar, Waldo (I found him) asked me where my cheer partner was, so we could re-enact roll call. The alcohol fumes that escaped his mouth and burned my eyes told me he wasn’t kidding; he really wanted to see the roll call. After I politely explained that he was teaching in China while stirring my long island, his glazed over expression said it all. Teaching in China seems like a fake answer.
So here is the big one, Valentine’s Day. This year, single’s awareness day falls on a Saturday, which is lucky for all my fellow single gal-pals. Listen carefully, all you have to do is not leave your house. Don’t do it, at least not after 1 pm. I suggest hitting the grocery store the night before to get something that you can have for dinner the next night, possibly consider a bottle of wine or for those not faint of heart, I recommend vodka. Please, do NOT order delivery. Even if you do order a large pizza AND breadsticks, the second you open that door with no makeup and sweatpants, the delivery person knows it’s just you. You don’t need to go through that shame, trust me. Also, probably avoid the “Romance” section of your Netflix queue; you need some blood and guts to get through this night. Sunday morning, wake up early and enjoy your day, you survived. And luckily for all of us, the next holiday is St. Patrick’s Day, bottoms up.
Who is that Spartan in my teepee? It’s me! It’s me!
I am from a very, don’t get my wrong, VERY small town. There are not a lot of booming rental properties, so the smartest decision after graduating college and accepting a teaching position in my hometown was to move back in with my parents. I lived the high-life, for the first time in years I didn’t have to pay rent or utilities, buy groceries (let alone cook anything), or worry about unexpected bills. I was indulgent! If I wanted it, I bought it. 24 shots for my friends and 19 strangers? Why yes, I would love nothing more! Eventually, I realized I needed to grow up, I was a high school teacher after all, I needed my “space” to watch stimulating television (Pretty Little Liars) and cook for myself (Captain Crunch); I needed to be independent! So, I moved into a much too expensive downtown loft, saved nothing, and eventually went into the red. I found myself moving back into my parents’ after a year and for the second time, post-college. I hit an all-time low, if I were on A&E’s Intervention, this would have been my rock bottom, and I would have gladly accepted a vacation at the Betty Ford Center. Unfortunately, this was not Intervention, and I needed a plan.
I have two friends that have lived in Omaha, Nebraska for three years. I met these girls in college; in fact, I met them on my 21st birthday. Let’s be honest, if you meet someone on your 21st birthday and that person likes you, despite that first impression, keep them around. These girls have been telling me for the past three years that I need to make the jump and move down. Finally, the suggestion stuck. Graduate School was sounding more and more appealing. After 3 years of teaching high school English and proudly wearing the identity of teacher, I resigned. I love teaching my high school students, really I do. So, don’t judge me on the statement I am about to make. In order to stay sane, I NEED to not be a high school teacher, for now. I always, ALWAYS wanted to be a teacher, but when I was in college I began to see myself teaching in a college setting. I put these thoughts away when I neared graduation, because the only place I wanted to “see” myself, was out of school.
The move to Omaha was difficult for many reasons, one being that the girls I thought I would live with decided to get into shack up with their boy-toys. Luckily, Taylor, my gb (gay bestie) came to my rescue like a fabulous knight in Abercrombie armor. Together, we have made many dumb mistakes. Consider mounting a flat screen on your wall, doesn’t seem all that difficult of a task. We put 11 holes in our wall before we found a stud. Thankfully, the tv covers all of those holes, that at some point we are going to have to spackle (whatever the hell that means). All in all, my time in Omaha has been a lot a fun and has provided me with many great life experiences that I am sure will come in handy at some point in my life. Once, I split my pants at The Max after dropping “it” a little too low. I now know that when I go to a gay dance club, I need to wear something that moves with my body. Not sure I can put that on a resume, but it makes for a great story, one that I hope to share with you, soon.
Woe Is Me 