Thursday, March 22, 2007

Food Whore/Third Party Vomit/Throwback Thursday

365 love:

Mr. Shain abandoned me and took off for L.A. this week. Jerk. Or so I thought until he just sent me these glorious photos of my beloved Whole Foods. I'm going to pretend he sent these to make me happy as opposed to taunt me. In either case, I want a pile of olives and mountain of cheese, like right now.

These are for all of us who can no longer be yuppie jerks that shop at Whole Foods out there:


My friend had her baby last week (congrats!) and it got me to thinking about how much can change in a year. Somewhere near this time last year, my friends and I decided to throw a we're-starting-to-feel-old-since-we've-been-out-of-college-for-two-years-now party and lugged a keg up to the balcony of our apartment building and commissioned one of the greatest mix cds of all time - each selection approximately one minute long to keep us in line for the dumbest drinking game ever, Power Hour.

[This might have also been the party where we were dressed like "Tennis Pro's and Golf Ho's," but I don't think so (although, who woulda thought I could have forgotten the ex's outfit of see through white cotton shorts?). I think we had a massive game of flip cup that time, because we're mature professionals. I believe that party devolved into someone being crowned Edward 40 Hands (two 40s duct taped to this kid's hands until he finished them) and a semi-nude wrestling match in my front yard, and some weird kids from off the street who heard the music and headed upstairs, but I'm not entirely sure. Actually, I think Puke Fest 06 and Country Club Sluts was the same party.]

Anyhoo, we all gathered around the aforementioned pong table with our game faces on. At minute 23, there's all kinds of high fiving and fuck yeah this is awesome and that sort of thing as we enjoy one minute snippets of Journey and the like. Minute 34 approaches and the girls begin cheating. At minute 42 all hell breaks loose. As a resident of the location where this was all going down, I felt compelled to remain moderately sober and thank god I did. It's like a puke volcano that had been long dormant within the apartment suddenly erupted. Again and again and again. There were not enough vessels around to contain the boot. Boys leaned off the balcony, girls crowded both bathrooms, people who had only met two hours before were holding each others hair back. I ran around from huddle to huddle to see what I could do to help. That's when I saw the ex bf shoving his fingers down the now new mother's throat in an effort to help her out. Now, that is friendship (and a skill I think most boys learn in frats). I emptied our cupboards of glasses and mixing bowls, etc distributing water and boot receptacles to all of those that were still conscious (oh, some weird kids visiting from Maine had stumbled up the street to the closest bar, never to be heard from again and I think one of our friends decided to walk home, so I had to drive around the neighborhood searching for him. I think he made it the few miles back home - in another town, but I'm not sure) - and there weren't many. I put one couple to bed on the couch bed, another on the remaining piece of the sectional and covered everyone I could find with blankets. Margreat and Big T were scheduled to arrive after work, which for them was about midnight. By midnight, the whole building was silent and littered with sleeping drunks.

I awoke to what I thought was rain. I thought to myself this is fantastic, it'll wash the puke off the stairs below the balcony (and everywhere else). But no, it wasn't rain. It was the ex bf standing sans pants in the middle of the bedroom peeing on my tv. I yelled at him to stop. He finally said, oh sorry, then took off the shirt he had on, threw it on the ground, and resumed peeing. Because, you know, that makes sense.

The next morning, I opened the bedroom door hoping that people had managed to find their way home, but the place was still cluttered with sleeping bodies. I step into the living room and into a puddle. Someone fucking pissed in front of the door. After disinfecting my feet, I surveyed the damage in the daylight. It was horrifying. I realized something, I am prepared to clean up my own vom (were it to ever happen, which is never), the spewage of my dog and my future potential, most likely accidental child. But not a whole party's worth. Third party vomit is not ok. So, I moved.

Throwback Thursday

Living in the old bedroom where I spent many an adolescent evening writing award winning* poetry, journal entries, and general wallowing about on my floor lamenting my love life, school life, lack of cool car, etc has made me long for my music of yesterday. Revisit the past with me:

Eurotrash Girl - Cracker
Battle of Who Could Care Less - Ben Folds Five
Santeria - Sublime
Ancient Walls of Flowers - Marcy Playground
Soft Serve - Soul Coughing
Shadow Boxer - Fiona Apple
Italian Leather Sofa - Cake
This Lonely Place - Goldfinger
6th Avenue Heartache - The Wallflowers

*Yes, I am the proud winner of two (2) medals from the Rose State College High School Writing Competition. I will gladly provide you with copies of the award winning poems should you like. Except that I burned them years ago.


Matt said...

you were
the next
e.e. cummings.

Matt said...

Ok, your shitty blog messed up the spacing on that beautiful poem I just wrote the same way I messed up yours on our senior anthology. I guess that's karma.

blythe said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
blythe said...

if by were you mean am, then we're cool.