Elementary, My Dear Readers.

Sit back in your armchair, grab a pipe, and put on your Sherlock Holmes hat, dear readers, we've got a mystery to solve!....

Let me tell you the tale:

It was a dark and stormy Thursday. Although the sun was shining everyone at work was grumpy, I had received a random and intense phone call from an ex, and everything was topsy-turvy. So as the day wound down a co-worker and I decided to go to a local establishment called the Caliente Cab Company to drown the day in margaritas and guacamole.

But lo! I was determined to be a responsible drinker! I had homework and the possibility of going to the Modest Mouse secret show (which, alas, never materialized) I sipped my first margarita slowly while shoving chips dipped into vast amounts of guacamole into my mouth. I'd say thirty to forty-five minutes (possibly even an hour) later we ordered our second batch of chips and a second round of Margaritas.

I was feeling nothing from the tequila at this point. Granted, I don't really partake in tequila but I wasn't even tipsy. Then all of a sudden- halfway down through the second margarita (which, actually, was quite large) I realized: I am DRUNK! Capital D, Capital R, Capital U (you get the point). Not just drunk, but wasted, slurred speech, inability to focus, the whole shebang.

My cohort, on the other hand, was doing fine, so fine in fact that she had her boyfriend meet up with us and we walk/stagger to 3rd and Long where she demands that I get a beer even after my protestation and my sincere desire to go home and only drink water. I go to the bathroom and try to throw up.

Yes, dear readers, after 1 1/2 margaritas at 9PM I'm in the bathroom trying to barf. Nothing.

Eventually, they put me in a cab, I made my way home and spent the entire next morning in a zen/yoga breath trance willing myself to make it to work and not vomit. I succeed! (This zen/yoga breath mantra thing I did was so successful I'm going to add it to my hangover repertoire, but that's another tale). Once at work I find out that my partner in crime had spent her entire night vomiting with her boyfriend holding her hair back.

So this three hours of drinking begs the question: What the hell happened, Holmes? How did two girls get so violently wasted after only two margaritas (in all honesty, to report the facts, cohort had a gin and tonic and I had most of a BudLight as well, after the margaritas)?

I've gone through all the possibilities....Margarita #2 didn't taste any more alcoholic than Margarita #1? Was the tequila bad? And then the grand question, could we have been roofied? (Which I say with a grain of margarita salt because I know it sounds ridiculous, but the intensity of the drunk along with the vomiting forces you to think of all possibilities, even the most sinister).

So super sleuths...how have your nights with tequila gone? Anyone have any other horror stories out there? What do you think happened? Comment away.

Yours truly,
Watson

NYC: The Final Countdown

Let's Blog it Out is moving locations! That's right folks, I have up and quit my job and I'm moving back to the fair city of Charlottesville, Virginia where I have already lived twice before (from 1999-2002 and 8 brief months in 2003, respectively).

Why did New York and I break up? I'm not really sure what happened. It was one of those break-ups that occur without warning but you know are oh so right. I'll probably talk more about that in later posts when I gather some distance from my heartbreak.

So what can you, the five readers, expect from Let's Blog it Out in the future? Since I haven't lived in Charlottesville since I was but a wee 23, I can only tell you from past experience that you will be won over by posts about: making out on bikes! drinking in horse pastures in your debutante dress! dance parties in the dirty basements of sushi restaurants! pretentious tea drinking! and congestion driving!

While the future of Let's Blog it Out will probably contain 100% less posts about homeless men peeing on the street and subway traffic, I, your faithful author, will do my best to make sure that LBIO (whew that was long) will maintain it's maximum level of awesomeness no matter what.

Now I'm off to write my New York City bucket list. Stay tuned.

Daisy

Sundays on the Train With Daisy

One of my favorite New York City moments is the moment when one crazy person on the train runs into another crazy person. It's simply the best show on earth, like Gladiators for the less muscular.

Have you ever seen when two babies meet for the first time? Their mothers plop them down on the floor together and for the first five minutes they just size each other up. The look in their eyes questioning, "There is another one of me out there? No one told me." And then they drool.

That was the scene today as I returned home from way up at 191st and Broadway on the 1 train. Crazy man #1 was wearing an umbrella hat selling whistles for $1. Crazy man #2 was wearing a cardboard sandwich board that proclaimed the end was near while selling M&M's. They came from opposite sides, met in the middle, and sized one another up.

I was the plebian on the orange seat rooting for a whistle/sandwich board showdown that ended up with the exchange of the blue whistle for a bag of peanut M&M's in what could have only been described as the New York version of the Coca-Cola commercial where everyone holds hands, but alas, just like the babies, their eyebrows arched in worry, one of them had the fortitude to wipe their mouth and they moved past each other. Crazy ships in the night.

Bikini Wax Revolution! (not to be read by Daisy family)

I would like to propose a revolution!

I don't know about you other girls, but I occasionally, and sometimes frequently, get bikini waxes. Especially in the summer, it oftentimes makes life easy. But sometimes (i.e. now) I get sick of paying money to have someone rip the hair off my nether regions in an embarrassing and painful 10 seconds so that the patriarchy will approve of my vagina's devotion to hair maintenance.

And here's why. I didn't start off a very hairy person, but I swear to god, every time I go, the woman rips hair off in an ever expanding radius from where she started, so that now hair grows where I never had hair to begin with. I find this completely offensive and I give her dirty looks. Isn't the whole point of being waxed to have less hair? It's like going to the dentist and they recommend eating spoonfulls of sugar everyday so that you get more cavities. If I had never started this worthless waxing waste of money I would have a normal amount of hair. Now, thanks to extensive and over eager waxers I must continue to be waxed rather than resemble a wookie.

So we girls must rise up! and fight bikini waxes! Who made us think that landing strips or hairless is cool?

Porn and Cosmo and SATC. That's who. So fight the wax, fight the man. Keep it trim, keep it neat, but keep it natural. We have the vaginas and thus the power! If we resist, boys will still want to be near them, landing strip or not, because, bless their perverse little hearts, at the end of the day, they just want to have sex. It's like Lysistrata for the modern age!


Your pal,
Daisy

P.S. To all young girls out there who have never gotten a bikini wax...Don't do it! You can never go back and I mean that. Seriously.

P.S.S. There will be more to come about bikini waxing in the feministing series. Stay tuned.

Hot as B*lls!

That says it all.
I have no air conditioner.
My brain is on hold for a little while while I sweat every toxin I've ever had out of my body.

In the Meantime...

I know I promised riveting posts about women and women's rights in the post-post-post whatever-we-are-at-this-point-age, but, alas, drinking and work have forced a brief delay on that front.

However, may I please direct your attention to this article from Judith Warner in the NY Times...I can't remember if I usually like Judith Warner and I certainly abhor Hilary (for her politics of course!)but this article should get your feminist cap on and prepared for the upcoming deluge of brilliance about to be hoisted upon you from myself and other scholarly souls I've brought in as correspondents on the feminist beat.

Enjoy!

Daisy

Cheeseburger Review: Day 2

So. I've been drinking tonight. Kinda alot. Which has impared my hippocampus to a point that I can only write a few lines. So here goes:


Shake Shack:

Come mainly for the atmosphere, less for the food. I went through a long stretch of last summer where, after work, I would meet a friend for a Shack Burger and a rootbeer float, and then we would slink away into what was sure to become an amazing weekend of fun. Although those days are sadly gone, I still fondly remember the anticipation of waiting in line (not "on line") for the shack sauce, and what can only be described as an ethereal rootbeer float. Although the burger isn't anything to write home about, the custard and beverages certainly are and on a summer afternoon- nothing, really nothing, beats the Shack for a wondeful experience. I know the Shack has now opened year round, but really, that's like having Christmas everyday of the year. It loses it's appeal. The Shack is best enjoyed in the hottest of summer months, preferably with a River to River concert afterwards.


SHAKE SHACK:

Grade: B+ Price: $ (mind you, these are New York dollars) Madison Square Park