Sunrise, Boozy Lobsters and Crazy People

This is what it looks like when you get up at dark-thirty to catch a flight. Kinda makes it worthwhile.

Between furlough days, the holidays, and travel days, I've been pretty busy. The pic above is from the window of my flight leaving Santa Barbara going to Los Angeles on my way to Tahoe for Christmas. (Jesus that makes me sound like a snob)

This lobster is hammied.

I've been drinking. A lot. And it's fun. This lobster was guarding my champagne at a local seafood restaurant during happy hour a few days before New Years.

It's no wonder I drink so much...

Then, it was time to go back to work, and deal with all the crazies. No wonder I drink. Sweet baby Jesus, please find me a new job.

It was a good Holiday Season. I went a little crazy, but that tends to happen. I'm lucky to still have friends and JD to support me and pull me out of my crazyhead when I need them too. More pics to come, and petty posts, I promise.

Friends who are kocked up, Disneyland and Furlough

Well hello there! It's been so long! First I must apologize for leaving that horrific post of my disgusting food up for so long. It made ME not want to visit my blog. My stomach still turns just thinking about it.

So, I must be honest... the goings on recently have not been very exciting. I have quit all of my extracurricular activities (although, as the boyfriend, JD, pointed out this morning while I was in the shower poking at my foopah -- that lower belly fat that simply doesn't go away -- commenting on how I miss drinking beer and "being active" since I quit everything... he claims I never quit... I simply retired. Semantics, my friend, semantics). And although I may not be doing too many active things other than working out my thumb via rapid-clicker-fire on the couch... many of my friends have bee gettin' busy... in the dirty sense. I know this because HOLYSHITTHEYAREALLKNOCKEDUP. All of them. Knocked up. Like little Mormon kids.

Some have already had their first kid and are on to their second, some are just going in for the first helping, some are married, some are living in sin preparing to raise a bunch of heathens... I don't judge... I don't care... just stop making me buy you presents and then forcing me to watch you open every. single. one. I'll buy you a present to take home and open. If I have to watch you open it in front of me, I'm going to run up screaming, snatch it back, and run away. Far, far away.

I promise you this: When I get knocked up and have a shower were I invite everyone I've ever met so I can get all kinds of free shit (half of which I won't know what to do with because oh my god, I put that WHERE? and WHHHHYYYYYY?) I will NOT sit there and open every single present, admire it, get up to thank the gift giver, admire again, and comment on the cuteness, or practical-ness, or thoughtfulness of the gift. And don't waste your money on a card. Write who it's from on the freaking bag in sharpie and put that money toward the gift. Or toward yourself. I don't care. But I don't like to read. It's going to be a civilized party, like a wedding, where you get to open and comment on your gifts in the privacy of your own home, which allows you to be completely honest and return things at will. And everyone gets drunk. You're welcome.

Now, I usually don't mind buying gifts for people who are crossing off one of those items on life's to-do list. However, we're in a recession. And I just got furloughed. That's right. The government makes the official announcement that we are no longer in a recession, and I get freaking furloughed. 20% across the board. Friday's off, and one day less pay a week. All I have to say is: ouch. My problem with getting paid less, or going on a budget, is that I always tend to go out and totally blow my wad in one foul swoop the day after I start anything official.

In unrelated news, I'm going to Disneyland this weekend.

I'm a Member of the Mile High Club

Wikipedia says (so it much be true) that "The Mile High Club (or MHC) (<-- Seriously? MHC? It needs an acronym?) is a slang term applied collectively to individuals who have sex while on board an aircraft in flight."

Question: When was the last time you were in an airplane, and you were cruising at 5,280 feet? Probably NEVER. Because if you were, you'd CRASH right into the ROCKY MOUNTAINS. And it would be about half-way up the mountain, not just grazing the peak and rolling down the other side. No... you'd go SPLAT! Right into the side.

If being a member of the "MHC" (<-- so lame) means you've boned at a mile high, well, then, I'm a member, and have been for longer than I'd like to admit. Growing up at 6,700 feet will do a lot of things for you:

• Give you amazing stamina for sports/running/marathon-between-the-sheet nights due to the lack of oxygen your brain gets from being up so high
• The sun in a friendly reminder that it's hot. put some damn sunscreen on because you're 6,700 feet closer to the sun than you would be if you were at the beach and damn that shit is hot and intense.
• There's nothing to do above 5,280 feet because there are no decent sized cities, so you learn how to drink, and drink a lot.
• On the bright side, you can really booze it up if you even get down to sea-level.

I had a point to this post... oh! right. The MHC is lame and untrue and you don't have to bone in the micro-shitter on a plane to be a "member." How does that conversation go, anyway? "Hey... wanna put your ass on the counter inside that bathroom by aisle 24?" "Only if you're foot goes in the toilet" "But then it'll turn blue!" "Whatever, douche, my ass will forever be infected. "Oh hang on, I think that fat guy is taking a crap in there. He's been in there for a long-ass time" "Speaking of asses... get on the counter, biotch!" Ew. diseases. Gross.

And also, every single person I grew up with is also a member due to the need to entertain ourselves because the town was so small, and because we lived at such a high altitude. And when you have nothing to do at 16... you drink. Then eventually, you bone. It's the natural progression of things.

Mile High Club my disease-infested-ass.

Inside the Beltway

Washington D.C. is an amazing town. It's where laws are debated, passed, and vetoed. It was designed to be the most intimidating city on the planet (and actually IS the most intimidating city on the planet). It holds almost as much history as Jamestown, Virginia (the first English settlement in America, for you non-American-history peeps), and it has some of the best museums in America honoring people and cultures from all over the world.
Even though I was there for work, and was stuck in conference rooms for the majority of the time I was there, I still managed to get out and have a blast (sacrificing sleep in the process). Seriously. Here's my timeline (and I'm not sure how I survived):

• Friday
• Arrive at 6pm
• Dinner at 7pm
• Drinks until 4am (totally excessive) Saturday
• Saturday
• Up at 10am
• Meeting from 12pm-9pm
• After dinner drinks til 10pm
• Excessive drinking until 2am Sunday
• Sunday
• Up at 6am
• Meeting from 7am-5pm
• Drinks at 6pm
• Dinner at 7pm
• Passed the **F** out at 11pm
• Monday
• Up at 6:30am
• Meeting from 8am to 12:30pm
• Lunch meeting from 12:30 to 2:30pm
• Depart for airport (to arrive back in CA at 11pm. HOWEVER...)
• Missed connection in Denver, stay night in Denver with old high school friend.
• In bed at 1am (3am East Coast Time) 
• Tuesday
• Up at 10am to catch 12:30 flight
• Home by 3pm

I. Might. Die.

However, the places I did all the excessive consumption is what makes DC amazing.

Old Ebbitts, the 4th busiest restaurant in the country, one of the oldest, open til 3am, with a late night menu starting at 11pm, the best bartender on the planet (Brian, the Scot who loves Reggae music) and not one, but THREE amazing bars to choose from. Also a standard stomping ground for Congress and the President (many of them).

Ceiba, only the best mojitos, shrimp and taco nachos and fish tacos in the city, and within walking distance from Old Ebbitt Grill and the White House.

The Robins Nest at the Willard Hotel, this is only the place where the term "lobbyist" was originated. There's enough history here to knock Mrs. Deveroux, by High School History Teacher over (and she wasn't a petite woman).

These are just a few.  There are more, but I will have to reserve them for another post. For now, I bid adieu to the place that has given me so many wonderful memories, so many sleepless nights, and rarely changes from year to year.

Does It Still Count As Exercise If I'm Drinking The Entire Time?

I like to consider myself a pretty active person. I'm not the most active, but, I mean, I live in California, so there are all kinds of tree-hugging, bike riding, dirty feet, granola eating hippies (sorry *mom*) that like to show us normal people up when it comes to exercise (and the worst part? They don't even consider it exercise... it's "getting closer to nature" or "enjoying Mother Nature" or some other bullshit like that). On the other hand, if I lived in the Midwest, I could just stay home and bake pies all day and eat pies all night. That is what mid-westerners do, right? Please tell me it is, because if it's not, then I need to rethink my retirement (you know, the time when you quite working, so you no long have clients to impress, you've been married for 458 years, so it doesn't really matter that you gained a bunch of weight because you've stopped boning your spouse a long time ago anyway, and you get to stock your house full on candy for when the grand-kidlets come over so you can get them all cracked out on sugar then send them home with their parents.). So if pie making and eating is not on the short list of things mid-westerners do, I might sink into crisis mode.

Shit! I just realized I don't even LIKE pie.

While I come up with Plan B, let's get back on track...

I do the following sports on a regular basis:

• Softball
• Bowling
• Frisbee Golf
• Competitive Sailing

I also do the following things while doing the above mentioned sports: DRINK.

So, my loyal readers/followers/posse (can posse be plural? posses? posse'? posses'?), I pose this question (wow, 'pose' is really close to 'posse'): Does it still count as exercise if I'm drinking the entire time I'm doing said activity? Sometimes I actually work up a sweat. Sometimes I smoke a cigarette. (Look at me! Dr. Seuss, y'all) But I'm still active, right?!