We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Shenanigating
So I've been gone exactly three months. Not entirely my fault as ever since returning from my NYC vacation work has been horrible. So horrible, in fact that the following conversation took place just two weeks ago.
Now while my friend may be rude, she's not entirely wrong. Still don't you feel bad about how shitty my job has been lately that you just forgave me for not giving you a single blog post in 3 months?
Good, now let's move on to the shenanigating.
For the most part I've been working nights, weekends and everything in between so there hasn't been much time for fun. Except for two weeks ago when a friend came to visit from out of state so we decided to take her for a night out on the town. Not our town of course, as regardless of what lying billboards may tell you, nothing ever happens there. No, we drove to the "big" city of Salinas to take her for a night of bowling and greasy Chinese food. Which then led to a night of karaoke at the Denny's lounge.
No, no. You read that right. Our Denny's has a lounge filled with drinks, singing Mexicans and the smell of unfulfilled lives and desperation ...or it could have just been the smell of the chicken fried steak. The jury's still out on that one. All I know for certain is that walking into this Denny's made my heart hurt.
It hurt for the 20+ people, all clearly regulars at this fine dining establishment, who had nothing better to do in town that to go to a Denny's and listen to some old single men sing corridos. So I did what I normally do in a situation like this. I drank to make the pain go away ... and then I was OK with the fact that WE were also in Denny's "enjoying" our night.
Cranberry vodkas got me relaxed and had me do something I'd only done twice before and only in a room full of people I knew and felt comfortable with. I sang. I sang the song that has been branded into my heart ever since I first heard it in Jr. High. Salt 'N' Pepa's None of Your Business
I would like to thank the fine people at Denny's for not jumping us for being the only ones to sing an English song, I'd like to thank my partner-in-crime Salt (don't worry. I'll teach you the lyrics later) and most importantly I'd like to thank the 3 cranberry vodkas in the course of about 25 minutes for making this night possible.
None of your Business from Aldo C. on Vimeo.
See... now wasn't that worth a 3 month wait?
Ladies and gentlemen, What Had Happa has returned and will be blogging on the regular, passing judgement, causing shenanigans all over the country and telling you all exactly What Had Happa.
Join the ride and tell your friends 'cause I'm back and looking to get out of the hellhole that currently pays all of my bills. Let's make that book deal happen so I can get on with my true life calling ... being the gay Chelsea Handler/Carrie Bradshaw.
Adventures in Vacationing Part 1 – I’ma Do Me
This is the first in a multi-part series about how hard I can vacation. I call it a multi-part series since I don't yet know how many parts there will be. That all depends on how many memories I can piece back together from my Facebook status updates, Tweets, outgoing text messages and calls I receive from friends recapping the drunk messages I left them.
That's right. I'm 29 and still leaving drunk messages. In my defense, I didn't start drinking until about 26 or 27. If you think about it, my drinking age would put me somewhere between 18-22, the perfect drunk dialing age. Stop judging.
Other than church wine like the good Catholic altar boy that I was raised as, I never drank alcohol until about 3 weeks after my 21st birthday. I just wasn't that interested in it. At 29 things are very different. I have recently discovered that just like grief, my drunkenness has different stages.
Stage 1: Giggly Aldo
A couple of drinks in I start giggling for no apparent reason. This is the stage most of my friends are familiar since it's so easy to tell. I sound like an 8 year old girl. Not the best look on a 29 year old man but it's out of my control.
Stage 2: Sassy Aldo
A few more drinks in I develop an accent that is a mixture of Brooklyn and Madea. I start sassing people in louder tones, being more aggressive and telling it how it is. The misspelled text messages filled with poor grammar start pouring out of my fingertips at this point. The iPhone is a wonderful invention but spellcheck can only do so much. Once you start putting X's in the middle of champagne, iPhone can't keep up and just let's you do you.
Stage 3: Alejaandro
Alejaandro was recently named after the Lady Gaga song "Alejandro" but being the Latino that I am I really wanted to make sure white folks stretched out that middle A sound. Hence, the extra A. At this stage I am known to break into a fierce catwalk strut that contestants on America's Next Top Model wish they had. This is especially amazing to watch on the streets of Manhattan. At this point I have no problem in telling people all about themselves whether in person, via text message or drunk dial.
Stage 4: Jack Grey, the assistant
This weekend, after 2 bottles of cahnpahne, some tequila and two buckets of Coronas with lime by the pool I reached a new level of drunkenness that I did not know I had. Jack Grey was an alter-ego that I invented years ago that I was going to use after I faked my own death, had massive amounts of plastic surgery to change my appearance and became an international jewel thief. I was going to be a manly Catwoman, complete with sexy black leather outfit and a motorcycle on top of which I would do Justin Timberlake after having saved his life. I'd be a good-hearted international jewel thief after all.
Saturday afternoon after spending 6 glorious hours lounging by the pool and drinking with my friend like it was our job, my assistant Jack Grey started calling people in my contact list and letting them know that Aldo would not be calling them and leaving drunk messages anymore because Aldo was now 'grown'. My assistant Jack then proceeded to tell people all the shenanigans I had gotten into during my 8 hours of drinking. (We started hours before we got to the pool.)
Where Alejaandro's speech pattern can sometimes be hard to understand with all of his slurring, Jack Grey remained absolutely professional during each and every call. I was told Jack didn't even sound drunk. The scary part is that I have almost no recollection of Jack picking up my phone and dialing people. The only part I remember is taking Jack's drunk ass to the shower, the only place he wouldn't take the iPhone into, sitting on the floor of the tub while water ran down him. It was the only thing that made Jack sit down and behave himself.
If you were one of the lucky ones to receive a drunk call or text message from any of the four individuals mentioned above consider yourself lucky. They are good for hours of entertainment and if the whole Tiger Woods debacle has taught us anything it's that those messages can someday be worth something. At the very least they might get you on the cover of People.
When You’re There, You’re Family
So the last time I was at Olive Garden I got drunk. Not your typical It's Wednesday evening let's have a couple of drinks after work so you get a nice buzz drunk. I'm talking ridiculous Let me tip the waiter boy $20 just because he's cute and it sounds nice drunk. I managed not to make a complete ass of myself except for the dozen or so times I called the waiter "baby" and woke up the next morning feeling shameful. That was until I was reminded by my friend that when you're at Olive Garden, you're family. And my family is a bunch of drunks.
