I used to have a blog. This blog, actually. I used to write about all the funny or strange or unfortunate-but-funny-and-strange things that happened to me. And we all laughed and had fun, and my grandfather would print out my posts and put them in a folder where my grandmother could find them and read them out loud to him (he’d already read them).
And then, somewhere along the way, I just stopped. I stopped the first form of funny writing I’d ever attempted. And I MISS it. I miss journaling and forcing you all to read it. Hence this post.
I’m currently sitting at a bar called Killer Shrimp, in front of the beer on tap. There’s a giant tap handle of a duck staring at me. The label says “Goose Island beer Company.” So I guess it’s a goose, not a duck. Which is fine, I’ve got nothing against geese… other than that they shit everywhere and will kill you if they get the chance. Anyway, I digress.
But actually, the goose is relevant because alcohol is relevant. It’s no surprise that I enjoy a cocktail from time to time. In fact, a dear colleague once said to me: “All of your Instagram stories are tits out and cocktails.” It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. It meant I was doing something RIGHT.
I recently went to Hawaii with my grandparents, my parents, and my best friend, Jasmine. We had a blast, despite the primarily shit weather. I need to make that clear, in case my grandparents read this (and they will). I. HAD. A. BLAST.
There was just one cloudy day where I felt a bit… mischievous. I’ve written before about the “imp” that lives on my shoulder. It’s a fickle thing that tells me to do things I know won’t be… well-received. Embedded deeply within my DNA is the desire to ignore rules and regulations. (Unless breaking them will land me in jail. I wouldn’t do well in jail. I have OCD.)
The Imp tells me to do things like go to the hotel bar and make friends. I love making friends because I love attention. Since becoming a stand-up comic, getting attention has been easier than ever. All I’ve got to do is go to a bar, tell someone I tell jokes, and watch the free shots flow. I’ve got it down to a science:
“What do you do?”
“Oh,” I say, demurely. “I’m a stand-up comic.”
“I’ve ALWAYS wanted to try stand-up comedy. You know, my wife says I’m funny. And I told this joke at a work Christmas party once…”
You can guess the rest. Between my obnoxiously extraverted disposition and my side profession, I can have an entire bar asking me questions in five minutes FLAT. If I sound like I’m bragging, I am.
So this day in Hawaii: I went to the hotel bar because it was raining and my family had either opted to sit on the beach in the rain and claim it was “brightening imminently,” or to go home and watch tennis on TV. I needed a third option.
When I walked up to the bar in my bikini and Shellbacks Tavern (IYKYK) trucker hat, I had no idea what was in store for me. I had no idea that employees of fiber internet providers who were on business trips enjoyed Fireball to the nth degree. I had no idea that they could afford to buy me, a random comedian, multiple Fireball shots. I clearly need to get into the internet game.
It turns out, the seat I’d chosen had belonged to a 60-something-year-old man named Rick. He’d been sitting next to his wife, Marie, who was simultaneously vaping and drinking a fat glass of Chardonnay (at a Hawaiian bar at 2pm? Rookie choice). Rick didn’t mind that I’d taken his seat. Not at all! In fact, he wanted to tell me all about fiber internet. And so did Marie. Wow, what a treat!
I need to be honest: I knew I was going to this bar to get free drinks. Getting free drinks – actually, free stuff in general – is one of my greatest strengths. You’d be surprised how giving people can be when you walk up to them and ask, “Can I have something for free?” They’re usually taken so off-guard that they give you whatever you asked for. Stick with me, kids.
Rick enjoyed my presence immensely. So immensely, he said, “I’m buying you a Fireball shot!” Rick was re-living his high school days, apparently. I’d say college, but even I didn’t order Fireball shots in college. That shit was for frat parties ONLY.
The size of the shot he handed me can only be compared to a blimp. Me?? Take that??
And take it I did.
I then turned to the other fiber fanatics near me, named Joe and Eileen. Joe was Eileen’s second marriage, and boy, what a marriage! (I should know. I heard about it for upwards of 45-minutes.)
Joe and Eileen met via mutual friends. Joe immediately took to Eileen’s kids, who call Joe “Papa.” Their love remains effortless. I asked why and they explained they’ve taken to labeling drunken fights as “DDs.” Whenever a DD occurs, the next morning, they shake hands and move on.
I shook their hands and moved on…
…right back to Rick, who was in the middle of ordering ANOTHER round of Fireball shots.
“And where is mine?” I asked.
Rick rolled his eyes and ordered another. I resented the eye rolling because you can’t offer a girl a taste of something rebellious and then rip it away. That’s like letting a preteen sit on a motorcycle and then telling her it won’t start.
I took the second shot. I talked to Marie for 20 more minutes about her delinquent son and how she wants to find him a girlfriend. Why, yes! A 30-year-old, big-titted, completely taken adult woman in Hawaii is probably the perfect match!
By the time I’d finished with Marie and decided to walk home, I was drunk. So. Stinkin’. Drunk.
I went up to a hotel attendant and begged him to drive me back to my condo in a golf cart. He COMPLIED. I was so drunk I didn’t even think to tip him, and I will go to my grave feeling guilty about that.
Here’s where it gets tricky: nobody approved of my drunkenness.
I texted my mother and she caught wind that I was drunk. So, instead of going home, I decided to jump into the pool at the condo complex. THIS WAS NOT A GOOD IDEA. DRUNK PEOPLE SHOULD NOT SWIM. IT IS DANGEROUS.
The Imp kept telling me to swim. “Swim, you bitch, swim!”
So I swam. And surprisingly enough, a five-minute swim was not enough for me to sober up.
Jasmine found me at the pool and escorted me home.
I walked into the living room, gave my grandmother an, “I’m the Queen of Genovia wave,” and ran upstairs, where my mother was waiting for me.
Me, a 30-year-old woman, had to drunkenly confront my mother.
“Your grandparents are going to be FURIOUS,” she said.
The Imp perked up. Furious, you say?? We loooove drama.
I marched downstairs and said to my grandmother – and please read this in your drunkest voice – “Harriet, I am drunk. I drank too much and now I am drunk. Do you hate me? Because Mom says you do.” (She never said that.)
What ensued after that can only be described as me rolling around on the floor telling my mom I didn’t do anything wrong, and yet asking for forgiveness, but also asking what I could expect for dinner, and also wondering if the carpet was going to give me bed bugs, and also fighting. Fighting for my right. TO PARTAAAAYYYYYY.
I felt bad for my mom, who actually follows rules and is kind enough to care for my well-being. But I felt worse for Jasmine, who’d never before seen me drunk and disorderly. (HAHAHAH, I told you I’m a comedian!)
This *incident*caused me to take a hard look at myself. And what did I see when I looked? THE FUNNEST BROAD THIS SIDE OF THE PACIFIC.
I think I’ll write blog posts again. Stay tuned.
If I don’t write more posts, it’s because my mother killed me.
Xoxo,
That Bitch