The Best Margarita You’ll Ever Have In Your Face

I love margarita’s. I hate margarita mix. The best margarita to be found (until now) is at Casa del Matador – they’re Scratch Margarita is tequila and muddled lime. That’s it, and it is delicious.

It is also inspiring…

Amy’s Margarita aka: The Best Margarita You’ll Ever Have In Your Face
1 Red Grapefruit
1/2 a Tangerine
1/2 a lime
1 shot of tequila
Some ice

Cut your fruit in half like so:

Use a fruit squisher to smash the hell out of 1 grapefruit, 1/2 a tangerine, and 1/2 a lime. Be sure to place a glass under your fruit squisher to catch the juices  or you’ll have one giant mess of slaughtered fruit and nothing to show for it.

Add ice and tequila to the glass. It’s probably easier to add the ice to the glass before you smash the hell out of the fruit, but I like to make sure there is actually enough fruit blood in my glass and ice is a deceptive bitch sometimes. Speaking of ice. Did you know I make mine from scratch? None of that ice maker shit in our house. My ice cubes are free-range!

TAH DAH! It’s delicious. If you come over I’ll make you one!


Turns Out Maturity Does Not Always Come With (Advanced) Age

Last Thursday we arrived at Shanahan’s at 4:30 for the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. The front room was packed so we headed to the back and it was just as jammed. One of the servers noticed us as we walked in and said a booth had just opened up and we’d better run. Well a woman sitting on a bench against the wall overheard her and jumped up to run to grab it herself. Fortunately Karma had other plans for her and she tripped and stumbled injuring herself enough to slow her down. I went around the other side of the pool table slipped between a couple that was clearly confused by the mass of people and tossed my purse  5 feet or so on to the table. VICTORY! STEP OFF BITCH! What? Shanahan’s is the place to be on St. Patrick’s Day and we needed a home base for coats, bags, plates of corned beef and cabbage and beer stores. You would’ve done the same thing and you know it.

When WMFS returned with our iced teas  he commented that it smelled like moth balls, maybe sawdust, and it wasn’t a dig against anyone it really did smell like moth balls and I started looking around at the other Irish-for-a-day patrons. And if you weren’t there to see it you may not believe me but there was a group of about 40 people who’s ages ranged from what I would guess were 55 to 99. There were canes and I’m pretty sure at least one walker. It was a fucking gang of geriatrics! It was a sight to behold and I fucking took to Facebook and posted as much!

Here’s how it went down:

While it isn’t my wittiest post it certainly isn’t my most offensive. Or so I thought. Red took issue with it, as you can see by her comments. Yellow, who is in the age group as well clearly didn’t and posted the best comment of the bunch because it pretty much sums up his St. Patrick’s Day.

Fun Size got a message from Red today saying she was no longer coming to Happy Hour Hot Topics. And I wouldn’t be suspicious that this was the reason on its own, maybe she’s too busy with other commitments, maybe she just isn’t 100% after a recent surgery, but not this? So I went to my friends list to pull her up and shoot her a message to make sure. And people, she unfriended me. Like a 17-year-old little girl, she unfriended me. What the ever-loving fuck?

Should I feel bad? It was her age group that I posted about, but certainly not her peers. Red is incredibly active, bright, funny, she dresses fabulously and everyone adores her. The geriatric gang? Not so much. I think our server had to check a couple of them for signs of life.

The next day I learned that they are a 40+ (no shit?) singles group, most of them ordered coffee or water and they didn’t tip their server for shit despite taking up 40 seats in the back room on the bars busiest day of the year. There was a line to get in! These old ass farts seriously cut into the revenue for the night, I guaranfuckingtee it! Given those circumstances I don’t feel a bit bad about posting about their lame asses.

What really yanks my chain is that this intelligent woman in her 70’s gets her support hose in a bunch and reacts as though she’s in high school. Someone please explain this to me?


I’ll Probably Regret Blogging This. Nah.

I donated blood Friday afternoon, I’ve donated several times before and was aware that I needed extra water the rest of the day etc. I drank water and when it came time to go out with friends I was cautious and only had 3 beers in a six-hour window. I came home, WMFS went to bed and I fell asleep on the couch watching TV. About an hour later I woke up terribly nauseous. Far beyond anything I can describe. This should have been the first sign. I got up and made my way to the bathroom, those 10 or 15 steps seemed to take 30 minutes, it was as if I were walking across a water-bed wearing moon boots . That should have been the second sign. I made it to the bathroom and realized not only did I think I was gonna be sick, but I had to pee thanks to all the water I consumed earlier in the day to compensate for O negative that was siphoned from my body. I reasoned that if I threw up in the toilet I would probably pee myself and that wasn’t acceptable, so I made the executive decision to sit on the toilet and take care of that business first and if necessary I could hurl in the bathtub and rinse it out. This was not a decision I should have made on my own. Dun dun dun…

If you’ve ever fainted you know that your mind comes to before your body can respond.  I panicked and thought shit I’m blind! Or it’s dark and I have missed placed my glasses. Wait what the hell am I doing lying on the floor. Why is it so cold? Why am I sweating!? And then oh fuck, no way did I faint in the bathroom. Yes, yes. That is exactly what has happened here. Fuck.

I took an assessment of my situation and realize that I’m probably bleeding from a head injury and that my body won’t be discovered for several hours when WMFS trips over me when he finally gets up to take a leak. I’m doomed. I was going to die on the bathroom floor and no one would have any idea why or how. I said your mind comes to, I didn’t say it came to reasonable conclusions. It’s then that I remembered that oh my fucking hell, my pants are down. I didn’t care if I fucking bled to death on the bathroom floor but there was no way I was going to be discovered with my Mickey Mouse pajamas around my swollen ankles. No fucking way. My arms weighed 600 pounds and I couldn’t lift my throbbing melon head of the ground, but I somehow managed to get Mickey back in the proper place. I passed out again for an undetermined amount of time. When I came to, the back of my head was angry. Stabbing and throbbing angry but not bleeding. I felt around on the floor and found my glasses, or what was left of them. I fell hard enough that I knocked a lens out of one side and broke the frame.  How I smashed the glasses on my face and ended up with a knot on the back of my head is still something I have not been able to put together. And I’ve stopped trying because there are some things I don’t want to know. Probably like how you did not want to know that I fainted and fell off the toilet this weekend. You’re welcome. Have a nice week.

One Year

It’s been a year that we’ve been at this relationship advice thing. Swear on my gin that I didn’t think we’d make it six weeks. I told more than one person I’d play along for 3 months and by then The Dreamer would be on to her next project or I’d be sick of hanging out with chicks. I’ll be honest; I max out my threshold for chick bullshit regularly. My patience for anyone else’s estrogen inspired crazy is nearly nonexistent hence the reason I surround myself with a lot of dicks.

So yeah, one year; I’ve even learned some things:

  1. If I can’t wait to get to happy hour, happy hour is probably the last thing I need. (Shots!)
  2. If I have no desire to go to happy hour, it is probably exactly what I need.
  3. I love a One Night Stand as much as the next Go to Girl, but I prefer our Booty Calls; they know how we like it.
  4. We suck at taking our own relationship advice.
  5. We excel at taking our own sex advice. (Cock karaoke rocks!)
  6. To everyone’s amazement, I really enjoy hanging out with these women. Obviously, they’re hot, but also because they are whip-ass smart, hysterical, and bring zero drama to the party.
  7. Even more amazing, they’re still hanging out with me. I’m not saying they enjoy it, I’m just saying it’s still happening.
  8. Wine drinking gloves are necessary

Birthdays. A Lot of Them.

This weekend we had three birthdays to celebrate. Friday was a nerd theme costume party in honor of a friend’s 40th. We didn’t dress up, we just weren’t really feeling the costume thing. We had a great time regardless, however, we left before things got too crazy because there was COD to be poorly played, and I had a date with Luke Wilson and Vince Vaughn. “Now he’s crushing ass every Thursday night at our mixers.”

Saturday we celebrated WMFS birthday at Prairie Bar & Grill where another friend was throwing her Under the Sea 30th birthday prom. Again, we skipped the prom attire but had a damn good time anyway. A damn good time! At one point the lights went down and a friend instinctively took advantage of the dark and grabbed my boob. That guy, he’s a funny one. If there were bleachers I would’ve taken him under them to really get into the prom theme if you know what I mean.

And I danced.

I’ll let that sink in for a second.

Yes me! I danced. And not just once because the Prom Queen pulled me out there for the first song. No I danced my uncoordinated white ass off people. To many songs. At one point I looked around and everyone except “Summer” was dancing. He’s so lame.

My favorite quotes from the weekend:

“You close your eyes and look at this!”

“It’s not a lap dance until somebody gets herpes.”

“Woah, that’s a lot of material.”

“That girl looks like she has low self-esteem, go hit on her.”

“Oh, I cheated on you. What? This is a big deal?”



Kinda sums up the night.

Me + Yukon = Hysterical. Me + Yukon + Snow = Everyone is Fucked

I hate driving WMFS’ Yukon on the best of days. Recently I made the unfortunate decision to load up 4 co-workers and take a field trip to Chipotle because Chipotle is the best field trip ever.

Here is a snap shot of the conversations that were had during said field trip:

Me: Ok let’s just get this straight, I don’t drive this thing, I aim it. And we will be parking at Nautilus so that I can park it in three spots and not care.

Entire Car, Thinking To Themselves: Oh dear god, we’re gonna die.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

From the middle row, Co-worker 1: Hey can we get some air back here.

Me: I don’t even know which buttons to push to make that happen.

Me: (Fiddling with buttons on the roof above the windshield)

Co-worker 2: Hey why don’t you just focus on the road?

Entire car: Good call!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Me trying to merge: Hey am I clear to the right?

Right Side: Yep

Co-worker 2: What was I thinking?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Me, upon arriving at Chipotle: See we made it!

Co-worker 2: I’m not celebrating yet, we still have to make it back to the office.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

From the cheap seats, Co-worker 3: Is this soap back here in the cup holder?

Me: Uh, probably. Probably left over from a camping trip.

From the cheap seats, Co-worker 4: Yeah but why is it back here?

Me: I don’t know, how often do you think I’m in the back seat of my own truck?

Entire car: …

So that is what it is like to ride with me in the Yukon. It’s a terrifying thrill ride! Buy tickets now!

Anyway, today with this craptastic snow fall, I took the truck to work. Did you know a spatula makes a better ice scraper than an actual ice scraper? My neighbor used his barbecue brush, but I could tell he was totally jealous of my spatula.

And I swear people KNEW where I’d attempt to park it and stayed clear of those 6 parking spaces. My co-workers are so thoughtful! Thankfully the snow is melting so aiming my way home will be a piece of cake. Unfortunately it’s supposed to freeze tomorrow. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

What About Bob

You guys, I cannot believe I forgot to tell you about Bob. Last Wednesday two of the other Go to Girls and I were at Shanahan’s earlier than the rest of the group so we had the pleasure of meeting Bob.

The Dreamer, The Girl Next Door and I are enjoying our first beverage of the night when Bob stumbled past us on his way out for a cigarette. I’d say Bob is oh… about 102 years old. He staggered his drunk ass back to our table (the big round one for those in the know) and leaned in to pay us a compliment “you ladiesh are haaat. Don’t lesh anyone in here tell you (bobble), tell you diff’ent.”  Hearing a drunken 102 year old man use the word hot in that sense was actually pretty hysterical. We thanked him and he returned to his original task of smoking. But of course, he had to come back in which meant he had to pass our table again. This time we learned that he’s regular, this piece of information made the three of us stare blankly at each other for a moment because, um…we’re pretty damned regular and had never seen this character before in our lives. But whatever, Bob’s a regular. We went about our business for a while and then it was time for another smoke break. Of course he stopped by our table again, and this time he had and offer he was sure we couldn’t refuse. “I live with my daughter and watch my grandson mosh days exchept Wednesdays. How about we go back there and have a foursome?”

What? The? Fuck?

Naturally this cracked us up; we just got asked by a 102 year old drunk guy to be in a foursome. Now that’s a first! And fuckin’ funny!

But then I started thinking, wait? He’s old and drunk, so of course we look good to him. Er, could this be why reasonably aged, mildly buzzed guys don’t hit on us??! Are we that wrecked? Oh hell. This just took a turn from funny to depressing. I ordered another the glass of wine so I could drink until we were cute.

Bob stumbled back in, apparently while he was smoking he came up with a better idea, “ladiesh, my gran’shon is probably home so inshted wish one of you is taking (wobble), taking meee home wishyoo?” I briefly contemplated ways I could just off myself; unfortunately I’m not McGuiver and could not figure out how to do it with a ketchup jar, napkin holder, and Tabasco bottle. While Bob’s proposition was again funny and depressing, it was getting old, we had some serious official Happy Hour Hot Topics business to get to and Bob was impeding our progress.

Fortunately the rest of the group started filtering in and Bob found himself a distraction with a game of pool so we had an hour or so to tackle the serious business of doling out relationship advice. We solved some rather complicated problems for people. What?! “Do guys notice a stray hair…” is complicated. Shut up.

Anyway, Bob made one more appearance at the table, our gentlemanly One Night Stand made himself more useful than most of them and dismissed Bob. But Bob wasn’t having it; he made his way to our side of the table, pointed at our One Night Stand and slurred “he doshen’t have a clue. He doeshen’t even know” like we all shared some connection and secret.

Bob left; I hit the lady’s room, returned and ordered another class of wine because I still hadn’t managed to drink until we were as hot as Bob believed us to be.