Tagged: drinking

Happy Birthday (to me).

Internet, I am hungover. 

Which, given the fact that my 24th  birthday was yesterday, is hardly surprising.

No, sorry, I can’t lie. I didn’t even drink (that much) yesterday. Unlike the year before (and before and before and let’s be honest, before). Truth is, I’m getting old, internet. Let me explain.

Things That At One Point Interested Me That I Have No Interest In Now:

  • Drinking a lot just to get drunk, for no particular reason.
  • Feeling the need to finish alcohol, no matter how terrible it tastes/ full I feel/ drunk I am.
  • Making up crappy excuses to get out of things I don’t want to do.
  • Wearing makeup.
  • Putting effort into being popular.
  • Pretending to like people I hate.
  • Eating McDonald’s.
  • Gin and tonics. Also, Goldschlager. Also, shots.

Things That Now Interest Me That I Had No Previous Interest In:

  • Being clean.
  • Organizing things.
  • Quinoa.
  • Saving money.
  • River Monsters.
  • Whiskey.
  • Interior decorating.
  • Honesty.
  • Work.
  • Ordering delivery food.

Things That Interested Me In College That Still Interest Me:

  • Cooking shows.
  • Ramen.
  • Netflix.
  • Pablo Neruda.
  • Libraries.
  • Tattoos.
  • Learning how to speak French using the smallest amount effort possible.
  • Teeny tiny bottles of things.
  • Sleep.

Truth is, I’ve done a crap load of growing up over the last year or two, and it’s weird and scary and I don’t quite know what to make of it. I mean sure, I like who I am and where I am much better than who I was. Old me was, quite frankly, a bit of an ass.

However, at the same time, I know it’s just going to keep happening, and I don’t like thinking about who I could end up being. Am I going to be some too politically correct to use the term “crap load” on her on blog? Will I still have a blog? Am I going to end up in a hippie nudist commune? There’s totally still a lot of time for me to lose what few, few marbles I have left and join a hippie nudist commune. At least by then weed will probably be legal (although it will still be objectively gross in every way).

Birthdays always make me a little introspective, internet. How about you?

 

 

 

 

 

8 Drinking Games- an Infographic.

 

I was recently approached to host this drinking game graphic on my blog in return for some free publicity.

Uh, okay.

Read this and then read this more compelling article about my own drinking game experiences, which are way more fun than any of these.

Bottoms Up: Eight Great Drinking Games
Source: Best College Reviews

Need a drink now?

Try one of these.

The true story of how I didn’t meet Marc Summers, part two.

So there I was, wandering drunkenly around a beautiful food festival in Puerto Rico trying to find Marc Summers. Every once in a while we sat and watched people make food. Those people were not Marc Summers.

Bastards.

Bastards.

Every once in a while we stumbled upon a stray fashion model who had apparently gotten lost and in the wild and, bewildered, was playing possum the only way it knows how – by posing.

hnwcassandra fashion 1

hnw cassandra 2

hnw cassandra fashion 3

None of these models are Marc Summers.

I tried out being a fashion model, but it didn’t turn out as well.

I also am not Marc Summers.

I also am not Marc Summers.

I resigned myself to eating without finding my third favorite Food Network television host and ate vast quantities of delicious, delicious food. There was a zesty tilapia ceviche, several varieties of steak, chips and dips and energy drinks, a malanga root soup, chicken on a stick, and the enormous, spicy, and wildly seasoned paella. I had a cheesecake made from avocados and a delicate quesadilla filled with pork. There were a lot of things that I ate without the slightest clue what they were (I do not speak a lick of Spanish, unfortunately). Mostly everything was delicious.

Still, internet, I was secretly searching for Marc Summers, with a plastic fork in my hand like a sonic screwdriver and an ever-growing bag full of cheap goodies, and with every new cocktail, I was growing more and more despondent. He was nowhere to be seen, neither high nor low, drunk nor sober. I kept getting annoyed at everyone I saw who was not Marc Summers, which turned out to be 100 percent of the people (minus the bubbly lady serving sausages. She was a rockstar).

Was I wrong in wanting so badly to meet Marc Summers, the voice of my childhood, the smiling face from Nickelodeon and Food Network, the kindly man who answered all the questions about Twinkies and Jellybeans I had not thought to ask? The frequent visitor of that mysterious diner with the all-encompassing menu? The ultimate darer of dares? In retrospect, even if I had met the guy, I have no idea what the hell I would have said to him, beyond “Hey man. What’s cracka-lackin’?”.

I was dispirited. Yet my salvation was nigh, people, because it turns out there was totally a dessert section. And while I did not find Marc Summers, I did find chocolate, which is essentially the same thing.

The true story of how I didn’t meet Marc Summers, part one.

I did not meet Marc Summers today, internet. Which, in retrospect, makes this day somewhat indistinguishable from all of the other days that I did not meet Marc Summers, which is all of them. All of the days. I’ve never met Marc Summers, is what I’m saying.

Let me back up a bit.

The thing is is that today I was actually fairly certain I would meet Marc Summers, because I’m in Puerto Rico and we went to this crazy food festival thing today where Marc Summers was supposed to be and where Marc Summers was, conspicuously, not.

We first learned about this food festival on the beach yesterday where we where just sort of lazing around getting sunburnt and Madre happened upon some article in some magazine about this crazy food extravaganza and she was all like, we should go to this and I was just like, mhmmmm, because let’s be honest I was already a cocktail or four deep at this point and I probably would have said yes to dying my hair pink and dancing la bomba with a kangaroo (full disclosure – I am currently a cocktail or four deep and that absolutely sounds like both a plausible and fun situation).

Anyways, we went to this food festival. It was called the Saborea, and it was wild and exotic and very, very different from all of the other food festivals I’ve ever been to.

The trouble, however, was that we looked it up before hand and discovered Marc Summers was going to be there and this deep, aching longing I never knew I had welled up inside me, and that longing was screaming I HAVE to meet Marc Summers. I Had to.

It was a set-up for failure.

Not pictured- Marc Summers.

Not pictured- Marc Summers.

There were many things that made the Saborea different from other food festivals I’ve been to, the first and most notable of which was the alcohol. The copious, copious amounts of alcohol. I’d been to other fairs and whatnot where you could buy a beer or two for a separate fee. Not at Saborea. No. Not only did they have an entire tent devoted to alcohol of various types, every other food vendor was hawking their own type of shot or cocktail or wine or beer or whatever. They were pouring beer into their freaking food, for frak’s sake.

The ballingest paella ever?

The drunkest paella ever?

In our little swag bags, they even gave us our own wine glasses to pour liquid ambrosia into.

Oh, on that note, yeah, we got swag bags, and it seemed like every four feet people were giving us freebies. Little sunscreens and fans and bottle openers and coupons and individual servings of salad dressings. I spent at least three minutes trying to track down someone handing out the most pimpingest orange sunglasses, but then there was someone handing out sangria and I got distracted.

Oh, also this was happening.

Buh?

Buh?

to be continued…

The true story of the first time I ever went out drinking, part 2.

So I left you with an unfair cliffhanger yesterday, readers.

Where was I?

Ah yes, a bunch of unchaperoned 17 year old girls out at a bar called the Gilded Butterfly (which, by the way, is now closed down) in downtown Beijing. With kamikaze shots.

How many kamikaze shots, you may ask?

30. I know this because I wrote it down in my diary. Yes, I had a diary. Shut up.

And we drank them all. 6 girls, 30 shots. My first time ever drinking. I was ambitious.

Of course, as all this is happening the girls are referring to me as the grand Poobah of drinking because they think I’m some sort of rebel badass and I’m totally rolling with it, as you do. It was like Mean Girls does China.

That’s when this story starts to get a little crazy.

See, I mentioned before that the girl who was at the helm of this clinical insanity was crazy rich. Like, has her own chauffeured car rich (I think it was a Range Rover? Shiny black SUV looking thing). So we get back into the car and we go to another club which has this crazy Chinese name and we cut the line and she pays us all in and we go up to the VIP area and we are almost immediately served two more shots each, one of which was ON FIRE and the other one was mainly whipped cream. Maybe the whipped cream was a chaser? I don’t know.

So at this point I’m feeling pretty snookered, but as it was my first time being drunk ever I had no idea what was going on and there was of course no way in hell I was going to admit anything, because I’d taken like 6 shots at this point and apparently that made me The Queen of Drinking. So when the girls asked me if I wanted to dance I said no because I secretly was no longer in control of my feet.

So they scuddle off to dance and I’m there sitting on a couch in the VIP section looking either like the Queen of the Hop or a hot mess (or both) and this big burly looking guy comes over says that he’s the captain of (I can’t remember what country it was. Thailand’s? Indonesia’s? Somewhere in Asia’s) Olympic Judo team, and that he’s there doing training stuff because the Olympics are next summer, and would I like a drink (note to self – why would I write down that we have 30 shots but neglect to put down what country the Judo guy was from?? Irresponsible).

I think my response to this question was something along the lines of “buuuhh?” 

He bought me a Smirnoff Ice which I originally thought was non-alcoholic but turned out not to be, and we danced for a bit on a stage of some sorts, and then it gets little hazy. At some point the girls came and dragged my away from good old whats-his-face Judo guy and took me home, where we had to break back in and lock ourselves into the school and creep upstairs.

And then the next day I found out what a hangover was.

Moral of the story- Go to China.

The true story of the first night I ever went out drinking, part 1

When I was 17 I went to live in China over the summer for a month. It was pretty much exactly as awesome as it sounds it would be.

However, internet, let me let you in on a bit of a shocker. I was not a very “with it” high schooler. I was, in fact, very much “without it”. I know. How could such a suave, talented, beautiful swan have ever been an ugly ducking?

Alas, it’s true.

Pictured- An Ugly Ducking.

Pictured- An Ugly Ducking.

Unlike many of my peers, I did not go to parties in high school. In fact, I was shockingly naive to the very presence of parties in high school. Sure, I’d drink champagne at Christmas and wine with dinner and occasionally take a swig from one of Dad’s beers, but I’d never drunk in the sense of getting actually drunk (oh how times have changed). I was a very scheduled, cautious person. I woke up at absurd hours in the morning to go to crew, go to school, come home, and do homework. That was generally it. My grandest act of rebellion was sneaking out of school on a free period (never skipping class, how dare you ask!) and going to get lunch with some friends of mine. On Senior Class Skip day I got my parents to write me a note excusing me from school. I was a total Loserrrr with a capital L.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), my peers in the program I went to Beijing with were not nearly so naive.

I went on the trip with a program out of Stanford to study economics, world relations, and belly dance (?!!???) . We were paired with a group of Chinese students with whom we roomed and dined and took class. Our instructors were all Ph.D. students from various places, and my classmates ran the gamut from California to Thailand. We lived in the dorms at a school in the heart of Beijing. It was awesome.

However, I somehow got pegged as Little Miss Badass, despite my shy, panicky demeanor, because amid the schoolwork the class trips, and the 3-4 hour long dance practices, some tomfoolery went down, and I was smack in the middle of it.

One of the girls there happened to be obscenely rich, and one night she told me and four other girls to get dolled up and meet her outside the gates at 10 pm. The gates lock at 8 pm, but I guess this was a non-issue because one of the other girls super casually managed to pick the lock, and that’s when I know Things were about to Go Down.

We get into a chauffeured (insert fancy car brand) and head off. When I was in China at the time, about half the roads in Beijing were dirt and rocks, and half were paved, so you knew when you hit pavement you were in a rich area of the city. We entered the paved area and got dropped off outside of this club called the Gilded Butterfly (I am NOT making this up) and cut the line to get inside.

Now, I don’t know what the alcohol laws were in China at the time, but it apparently wasn’t a problem that a bunch of 17 year olds were waltzing around inside of this ritzy club, because we promptly managed to order ourselves a tray full of Kamikazes. Let me stress that at this point I’d never gone drinking.

…to be continued.

NERDDDD.

I recently went down to a bar in town and had a nerd off with some of my friends. We sat at the bar asking each other nerd culture questions and if you answered the question wrong, you had to drink. I should note that I was playing this with two of my friends while the rest of our group were trying very hard to not be associated with us. I should also note that I went out earlier that night for my mom’s birthday and we did sake bombs and the entire staff made fun of me for my inability to chug a sake bomb while my mother flawlessly downed three of them. I offer this anecdote so you get an idea of how bad I am at social drinking interactions.

Any who, the nerd-off questions ran the gamut from “what is the difference between a Slytheen and a Silurian” and “what is xyz in binary” and “verbally code a page in HTML using the following parameters”. All was well and good and socially embarrassing until we got into the quintessential argument of what constitutes nerdiness.

Oh god. I hate this question. It’s as bad as the “what is art?” question you have to answer in every art course ever. It’s a rhetorical question. Bugger off.

I like to think of geekdom and nerddom as two closely related types of phenomenon that should be considered together. In both cultures, the defining characteristic is an unusual level of obsession about something. Generally, geeks are obsessed about things that are not “useful” or likely to make them money or get them a mainstream job – T.V. shows, movies, and video games, for example. Nerds are obsessed about things you could consider more “useful” or intellectual- books, computers, programming, science, and so on. Obviously, there’s a lot of crossover between the two.

Honestly, though, shouldn’t we nerds be supporting each other’s nerdiness rather than competing about it? I hate it when people think you aren’t obsessed enough or nerdy enough because you haven’t seen XYZ show or read XYZ book. Honestly, pipe down. Maybe I haven’t yet but I will. What makes you the defining authority on that subject anyways? Your poorly done fandom tattoo? Your immense collection of overpriced memorabilia? Because it sure as hell isn’t your piss poor attitude, sport. 

We nerds need to band together to support each other in our fandoms and obsessions, not gripe about people who aren’t nerdy enough or belittle others for not liking to same nerdy things. If you’re thinking that there’s a must-read checklist of nerddom, shut your face right now. If you say you’re a nerd, you’re a nerd, regardless if you specialize in ancient pottery types or Glee episodes. Sorted.