A Funny Thing Happened on My Way To the Porcelain Throne

Veggies chopped? Check. Cheese shredded? Check. Bundt and cupcakes baked? Potatoes peeled? Turkey thawed? Check, check, and check? Why are you thawing your turkey so early, Mrs. Hyde? Three words: it's not mine. Not only do I have to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for my own household, including cakes and pies and make not one, but two banana puddings for my mother-in-law, but I also have to roast a turkey, bake stuffing (well, technically it's dressing since I'm not putting it inside the turkey), and make a Strawberry Shortcake for my sister. My baby sister claims she can't cook, so every year I make extra stuffing, cakes and sometimes pies for her household as well. I'm pretty sure it's a rouse because her kids don't starve the rest of the year. Mysteriously around Thanksgiving, though, she can't seem to remember what that big white thing in the kitchen is for. I love her anyway. Who cares if my eyes are bloodshot and I have the worst migraine I've had in months?

Speaking of turkey, it's time to fulfill the conditions of the Shiny Turkey Award I received from Jumble Mash. To review, I need to tell a story of food, cooking/baking, intoxication, and/or the holidays. If I had a story that encompassed all those subjects, that would be freakin' awesome. But I don't. I have an assload of falling down drunk stories (about myself and others) and I will tell you one of those right now.

About three years ago (or maybe more. Who knows? I've killed many brain cells in that time), my husband took me out to celebrate my birthday. He'd asked a few of our (read: his) friends to join us in the celebration. Keep in mind that I had just recently gotten my 'drinking legs' as I like to say. The night was set for excitement and fun. First, we went out to one of those hibachi style restaurants where they grill the food in front of you. Having known that we were going out to eat, I hadn't eaten much that day. Wish I had remembered that before I ordered a Zombie. And then another.

Some other woman at a different table was also celebrating her birthday, so when they started singing that lame ass song to her, I chimed in. Really. Loudly. And before you ask, no, I didn't know the words. I clapped, I waved somebody's cigarette lighter in the air. The brain cells that remembered her name are dead now, so let's just call her Becky. At first Becky was laughing along and cheering me on. Apparently, she'd had a zombie without having first eaten, too. Then you could tell she was a little annoyed because I wouldn't shut the hell up. I knew she was annoyed. I didn't give a fuck. Once hubby managed to settle me down, I told him he just had a stick up his ass because his best friend (also celebrating with us) had fucked more women at our table than he had. That went over well, needless to say. I didn't give a fuck.

Then we went to the Policeman's Lounge, where cops can go and morph into alcoholics for next to nothing. I consumed even more drinks and got into an argument with a cop. Hey! Not my fault; he was a prick. He was hitting on my friend, who has the equivalent of two black girl asses, and she wasn't interested. Being the awesome friend that I was, I told him to back the fuck off my woman before I kicked his ass. At first he found it amusing, but of course I took it too far. I proceeded to tell him that my girlfriend didn't want him because he had a little dick. But not only did he have a small pecker, but that it was so small that my dick was bigger than his. He didn't particularly like that, so he argued with me until my big black husband rolled up behind him after which he promptly shut the fuck up. And I called him a punk bitch as he walked away. We had to leave the policeman's lounge.

You think this story is over, don't you? Wrong. After we got kicked out of the lounge left the lounge willingly, dutiful hubby wanted to make sure everyone got home safely. I was looking a little green around the gills by then, so he dropped me off at home and followed our friends home. He carried me up the stairs and I told him I needed to use the bathroom and I was perfectly capable of going by myself. He made sure I made it to the toilet and asked me if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I assured him. "Make sure our friends get home." He left me in the bathroom. About 30 minutes later, I awaken to a knock on the bathroom door.

"Are you okay?"

"I said I'm fine. Go take them home so you can hurry back."

"Sweetie, I've already gone and come back. Are you still on the toilet?"

Yes, I was asleep on the toilet. I say he came back 30 minutes later, but for all I know, it was three hours. He could have sexed one bitch six ways from Sunday or six bitches one way from Sunday and I would have been none the wiser. I opened my mouth to answer him and out came everything I'd ever eaten in my life. Good thing the bathtub is right next to the toilet. I was sick for three days after that.

That's my story of intoxication and holidays, if you count my birthday as one.

Note: While all of this did happen, it did not occur on the same night. I have condensed three stories for your enjoyment. You're welcome.

My Date With Mickey

Ah, Mickey Mouse. He's an American treasure. As a kid I watched him as often as I could. I would race to the TV, glue myself to the sofa, and sing all the songs. Oh, how I longed to be a member of the Mickey Mouse Club, but my mother never got around to doing whatever the hell it was she had to do to sign me up. Drug addicts have much more important things to do, you know. Even to this day, I love Mickey Mouse just as much as the next person. I just don't like to see him when I'm eating, especially when I'm eating in an establishment where I am paying for the pleasure.

Hubby and I were at Shucker's Restaurant in Fells Point celebrating my friend's birthday. This is supposedly one of the many awesome seafood restaurants for which Maryland is known. To their credit, before I saw the mouse, I was enjoying my seafood quesadilla. It was fucking delicious; lump crab meat, grilled shrimp, and bay scallops encased in two warm tortillas smothered in melted cheese with sour cream and salsa on the side. Sweet mother of buddha that shit was good!

There we were about eight of us in total, laughing, talking, drinking, and enjoying food that we presumed was safe to eat, when this little gray mouse peeked his head out from behind one of the tables nearby. You could have chopped my ass up and served me for dinner, 'cause I was done. For the next ten minutes or so, while we tried to locate our waitress, Mickey continued to scurry playfully throughout the dining room without a care in the world.

When "Heather" finally reappeared (I don't know if that was her name, she just looked like a Heather. Don't get all fucking snotty, you know what Heathers look like. I apologize to any Heather who is not young, skinny, and super perky. I'm old, fat, and bitchy, ergo, I don't like those bitches.), she explained to us that there was nothing she could do. The exterminator came every week, but because the restaurant is on the water, the mice keep coming back. But she assured us that there were no mice in the kitchen. What the fuck? Do the mice live in the water and just pop up to the restaurant to place their order every night? When she realized her "it happens all the time" excuse wasn't exactly instilling us with confidence, she brought the manager over. He said the exact same thing. It was like they were reading from a script. Then he asked, "What do you want me to do?" What do I want you to do you ask? Oh, that's easy. I want you to take this delicious quesadilla, wrap the little mousey inside, and stick it up your saggy, nonchalant ass. That's not too much to ask is it?

I tried to stick it out for my friend. She was still waiting for others to show up to her celebration and, wonderful friend that I am, I didn't want to bail on her. However, when Minnie showed up to find out why the fuck Mickey hadn't come home yet, I took that as a sign that it was time to go.

Here's my question: were we making a big fuss over nothing? Is that something that should be expected at restaurants on the waterfront? I ask because while our whole party (all black and/or mixed race people) was upset and disgusted, the rest of the patrons (all white as far as I could tell) didn't seem bothered at all. This is a real question. I'm not trying to be controversial or any shit like that. I am really curious. Is this a racial thing? Cultural? Rich vs. middle class (Fells Point is where "people with money" live)? What do you think?

Just to let you know, any racist comments that are made will not even see the light of day. As soon as I read the first racist word, I will delete it without bothering to read the rest. So don't even waste your time, you dumb, cowardly anonymous fuck.

That is all.