Let Me Explain

My life has changed dramatically since my last blog post. I've been through 2 jobs, 2 love interests, and 2 classes at school. This post is basically going to be an explanation and a huge apology to my friends and family for being MIA for the past few months. This isn't a funny, ridiculous post like my last ones. Just an update on my life. 

The last time I blogged, I was just scratching the surface at school, still had a part time job at the construction company, and still had time to have a social life. I had no idea how easily and quickly my life could be turned upside down just by deciding to go to culinary school. When I walked in to my first class July 31st, I had absolutely no culinary skills. Sure I'd try new things in my home kitchen or cook big meals at the cabin for friends and family, but I didn't know how to hold a knife properly or temper eggs or make whipped cream--all things that are basic and stupidly simple now that I've been introduced to this new world. 

6 year old cupcake birthday party at school 

Shortly after beginning school, I started my job search for a kitchen position knowing that I would take a major pay cut. I applied for a job at a corporate cupcake shop with no confidence of even getting an interview. I mean, who would interview a girl with no experience baking other than out of a Duncan Hines box, sloppily slathering on store bought, disgusting icing, throwing some sprinkles on top and calling it a day. With in a week of applying, I got an interview and was offered the job. I freaked the fuck out. I was actually starting my culinary career...or so I thought. I went from working 20 hours a week to 40 on top of 24 hours of school a week, working school events when I could squeeze them in, and sorority recruitment advisor and alumnae/collegiate relations advisor. I knew I was making a huge sacrifice and would never see my friends and family, but I was beyond excited. Fast forward two months: the thought of a cupcake made me want to vomit. The thought of driving 30 minutes to Germantown every morning at 4:30 for work made me want to vomit. Every thing about working there made me want to vomit. Chefs didn't respect me when I told them where I worked, everyone I met started labeling me as cupcake girl, I was spending more on gas than I was making, and I didn't feel like I was really baking. I had made a terrible mistake and was stuck in fucking cupcake hell. 

One Sunday I signed up to volunteer through school at the Harvest Celebration at the Memphis Farmers Market downtown. Sundays are my day. I don't want to do a fucking thing except eat and sleep in between loads of laundry. But, my advisor at school asked me to be in charge of the students for her so I gave in. I wasn't happy. Plus, it was 35 degrees that Sunday and I was hungover and miserable and hated my life and wanted to spend the day watching football with my man friend. We've since broken up. Everyone knows a boy can't keep my interest for more than 2 or 3 months anyway. Back to the story. Even though I had bitched all day about having to work this event, I finally drug myself out of my warm bed, threw on my chef coat, and went to the Farmers Market. 

And you know what? Thank the good Lord in Heaven for working in mysterious ways. Listen to this shit.

My advisor's daughter came up to me, introduced herself, and went on an on about how much her mom loved me. I love her too. She's like my mom. People at school don't ask where Chef Myers is. They ask where my mom is. It's kind of weird, but whatever. So daughter knows from Chef Mom that I hate my job. She introduced me to the chef and owner of Bluff City Coffee who were at the event handing out mini death by chocolate cakes and mini country apple cheesecakes. I spent the rest of the night handing out their desserts and hanging out with their chef. It began with "Hey, I'm Meredith" and a hand shake to being asked to come hang out in his kitchen on my day off for a potential job. Next thing I know, I go to "hang out" and am thrown an apron and some recipes and told to produce his desserts. Then I'm offered the job, I quit the cupcake place, work on my days off, and really start my career. 

Death By Chocolate cake I made at Bluff City Bakery

I've been working full time for Bluff City Coffee for two weeks and have already learned so much, picked up on new skills, and been introduced to so many people that can advance my career. For those of you who aren't from Memphis, let me explain my job. I don't serve coffee or make cookies for the coffee shop. We not only make products for the shop, but we outsource breads and desserts to restaurants in town as well. On a normal day, I'll make focaccia, pizza dough, baguettes, hamburger buns, slider buns, pies, tarts, cakes, etc. It's overwhelming. I've only been in a kitchen since July 31st, but even in that short of time, I've gone from box cake mix to producing amazeballs, sinful desserts and top notch breads. 

Now, I work M-F (or more) 4:00 am-11:30/until, then go to school from 1:30-7:30 pm, and work events for school. I'm gone for 16+ hours a day and spend the majority of that standing in a concrete floored kitchen. Come Friday, I'm mentally and physically exhausted. I don't want to go out of town, I don't want to go to a wedding, I don't want to do anything but sleep. So if I don't call you, or I don't come to your party or baby shower or whatever, know that I still love you. I still care about you. I'm still happy for you. Or whatever the case may be. And I try to go to as many things as I can and keep in touch when I can. But know this, it's not because I don't care. There's just only so much that I can do and fit in to my schedule. So, that being said, I just want to say that I'm sorry to everyone who hasn't heard from me. 

And it's now close to my bed time. 


www.bluffcitycoffee.com
www.memphisfarmersmarket.org

Kiss Me. I'm Irish.

Knock Knock Knock

Ummmm why isn't he answering?

Knock KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

Ok. Wow. He doesn't want me to come in. But, I'm just drunk enough to knock ONE more time.

KNOCKK KNOCKKKKK KNOCKKKKKKKKKK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKKK

"Um, hey. Are we being too loud?" My neighbor asks as he blocks the door and my view to the kitchen.

"No, what are ya'll doing?" I say as I try to look around him and into the apartment....hoping that I get invited in.

"Nothing. Talking. Do you need something?" My neighbor looks around nervously as the smell of pot seeps out of his apartment and into my nose.

"Oh, well, if you put it like that. No. I just wanted to have a glass of wine with ya'll." By this point I feel broken and shot down.

"Then by all mean, Miss. Have a seat and help yourself to the whiskey."

My neighbor: a 60 year old, Irish-American, Leukemia survivor who loves Irish whiskey, an interesting mix of John Mayer and Johnny Cash, marijuana, and company. Since I moved to the Greenstone in January, I've seen him maybe 10 times...once at the bar, a couple times in the parking lot, and once when he had his friends play Irish jams in the courtyard of the apartment.

Tonight I came in from the bar around midnight and was greeted by music flowing from apartment #1. As I trek up the three floors to let Mack out to pee, I decide to pour a glass of wine and join my neighbor and friends for the rest of the night.

Once let in the apartment, I immediately recognized a character from the Irish jam band night. Felix and I refer to him as Mark Twain. Twain is an average height, thin man sporting a mean, white mustache, large sunken eyes, and a floppy, brown felt hat. Oh, and believe it or not, he's a writer. And not just your run of the mill writer either. He's 60+ years old. And writes science fiction. And told me about a girl named Amanda that he wrote a trilogy about....and she was mildly freaked out by it. I mean, who can blame her? I would be fucking creeped out if a man 30 years my senior wrote a fucking trilogy about me too. He claims she enjoyed the first book but got too bored to read the other two books....righhhhttttt.

Ok, well. Fuck. I wrote everything above around 4 am and have completely forgotten the details of all of the stories I wanted to tell. I blame it on the wine and the multiple buttery nipples my new gay friends bought for me at Celtic Crossing.

But, what I do remember, is that we talked about our Irish heritage for the better part of the night, errr, morning. Mark Twain bragged about getting kicked out of an Irish bar in Brooklyn for being mistaken as an undercover cop, my neighbor promised to bake some Irish soda bread for me, we all tried out our best Irish accents, and I let them in on my Irish middle name, McCormack. Other than that, all I remember is learning some history of the building we live in and my neighbor forcing me to take his favorite book to read.

As I was leaving around 3:30 am, my neighbor gave me a big, warm hug, looks me in the eyes, and says, "You have really made my night. I've lived here for two years and no one has ever knocked on my door wanting to come in and visit with me. You my dear, are wonderful. Thank you."

If he was about 30 years younger, attractive, and had offered me one more glass of wine, I would have responded with, "Kiss me. I'm Irish."


Until next time lads,

Merekat

Midterm Madness

The last 5 weeks have been a blur of knife cuts, new friendships, getting back into the school mindset, commutes to Cordova, ever changing work schedules, wedding festivities, sorority recruitment workshops, and somewhere in there trying to squeeze in a social life.

I'm not sure how it happened so quickly, but I'm already having my first midterm of culinary school today. To be honest, culinary school is a lot more difficult than I mentally prepared for. I went in to this new phase of my life with the mindset that I would be at the top of my class. After being told that I'm one of ten students out of 400 with a bachelors degree, how could I not think that I would excel in the classroom? I was in for a rude awakening. Got my first test back (Yes, culinary school does have written tests...we lecture for two hours every day) and fuck me. I made a 92. OK, so that's not bad. It's an A. But when I've got my mind set on being the best, a 92 is kind of a slap in the face. And after that test...an 86, a 92, then finally pulled out a 100.

Ok, so not so bad in lecture. I have an A.

Now let's move on to the meat of the class. Lab. I've got my new knife bag full of shiny, sharp as shit knives ready to slice and dice anything thrown my way...until I realize that my knife skills suck. My Chef informs me that I have awful knife skills due to the fact that I'm right hand/left eye dominant--only the most challenging pair. I have to close one of my eyes at all times to get precise cuts. It's a bitch. I can't tourne (2 inch 7 sided football vegetable cut) a potato or a carrot to save my fucking life, nor can I julienne worth a shit. But, come to find out, I can make a mean mayonnaise...which definitely works to my advantage since that's part of my lab practical today. But, on the other hand, so are tournes and juliennes and every other knife cut I suck at.

I started second guessing my decision to go to culinary school after the first week of classes.

1. I'm in the minority at school. Well, actually, I'm the only privileged, sorority girl, bachelor's degree, Lexus driving white girl in school. I know more about food than my entire class combined. All of my classmates turn their noses up to avocados and garlic and onions...my favorites to eat. I was constantly asking myself, "How am I going to make it a year and a half with no friends in school?" Come to find out, I have a lot more in common with them than I thought...and I adore them and they adore me. If one of them isn't jumping out from behind doors and tackling me, someone else is hiding my books around the classroom...or prank calling me, or calling me a diva, you name it. The Chefs say that we're the closest 101 class they've ever seen...we even have a Facebook group. And we all have nicknames. There's Teddy B. Love (whom I named) that's the sweetest, most genuine black guy/aspiring rapper that I've ever met. Then Lil Bit who's an 18 year old, spit fire that works at McDonalds who calls me Momma. And Chief. She's my favorite. And her mother is dying of cancer in the hospital right now, and my heart breaks for her. Not only is she losing her mother, she's losing her best friend and babysitter. How is she supposed to bust her ass at work and go to school with two kids? I had to leave the kitchen Thursday when I found out because I couldn't quit crying. We're a family, and we have the most overwhelming love and respect for each other after only 5 weeks.

Puttanesca

2. Like I mentioned above, culinary school is hard. I've always excelled in everything that I've done or been a part of until now. I actually have to work hard at this, and it's not something I'm used to. But, I've come to realize, that the only thing I'm not that great at is knife skills, and Chef says that will come with time. But when it comes to the stove, I'm a bad bitch so watch me work. Last Thursday we made puttanesca and guess who was chosen to make dishes for dinner for the other chefs in the school. This girl right here. It was definitely my most proud moment in school so far. Once you have that feeling of achievement, you know you can actually do this and be good at it. It was that hump that I had to get over.

I'm no longer doubting myself. That doesn't mean I think I'm going to be the greatest chef that's ever lived, but I am going to be damn good at it. And ya'll are going to eat my food and fucking love it. And in case you're wondering, we have to say "Yes Chef" "No Chef" just like Hell's Kitchen. And I have a "culinary school boyfriend" that's crushing on me hard and brings food to me in class. Everyone's jealous. He's not so bad at drunken makeouts in my apartment parking lot in broad daylight either. Too bad he's 21 and lives with his parents.

  XOXO,

 Skeeter
(nickname in school)

Freaky Friday

Several of you people have asked me to write more often, but I honestly don't think I've done anything worthy of writing about. But, here goes.

Most of this weekend was a blur. I honestly can't remember a lot of details, so this is what I have gathered from the pictures on my phone, tweets, texts, dreaded Facebook picture notifications, and bruises. Bare with me while I piece together my weekend.

Friday:

8:04 AM
Email to two guys I work with...that I had made plans with TWO WEEKS AGO.

Buenos dias bitchachos.

I hope ya’ll are ready to party tonight. This has been one hellacious week for me, and I plan on loving life tonight. Anything in particular you chaps want to do? Since I’m a poor student again, I need to pregame pretty hardcore so I don’t spend so much at the bar…..Or else take liquor in to the bar with me like I did when I was 17 and really super cool. I’m up for playing drunk jenga and walking to the bar if that’s ok with yall. Oh, and I’m skipping an engagement party and staying in town tomorrow night…who’s exciteddddd.

Holla atcha girl.

The reply crushed my heart. I actually told them that they had crushed my heart. Both of them were "too tired" from the work week to go out. Do you know what time the bars close in Memphis? 3:00-4:00 AM. You have plenty of time to nap after work before going out. And, for those of you who know me, you know that I'm a planner. When my plans get fucked up, I freak out a little bit. So, that of course, ruined my entire day (until I got drunk and then everything was lovely).

Ok, so on to Plan B. Not the contraceptive. No unprotected sex last week. After mass texting all of my Memphian friends, I still wasn't happy with my Friday night options. I knew I wanted to go downtown and obviously Raifords was the ultimate goal.

8:27 PM Tweet

'Merica.

"Drinking sugar free redbull and vodka, watching the Olympics and eating a single turkey dog while pregaming for the bar. Dieting/broke girl."

First mistake. Pregaming with red bull and vodka. And if you know anything about me, you know I'm patriotic as fuck. I was running around the apartment singing the Star Spangled Banner and sporting my DIY American Flag jean vest over my outfit for the night. Second mistake. Only eating a 70 calorie turkey dog in hopes of soaking up all of the alcohol I planned on consuming.

9:40 PM Tweet from Felix

"This is how @mmp91 pregames. Texting 7 people (including me) and blaring music attempting to charge her phone."

So, I don't have a phone charge other than my Ipod dock. And I was texting a lot of people. And I did text Felix...while we were in the apartment together. And, as you can see in the picture he so kindly attached, I was sitting on my bed texting while my phone was charging on the dock. And I can guarantee I was jamming to Austin Brown's "Menage A Trois." Check it out.



At Raifords

We finally made it out. I was already really drunk. I didn't realize it, but Felix informed me the next day that I was already slurring by the time we walked in to Silkys. We met up with Lady Gaga (obvi not the real one, but she would definitely be friends with us if she knew us. This is a new character thrown in the mix.) From Silkys we rode in the limo to Raifords. All I really remember is meeting up with some more friends, singing Whitney Houston ballads, dancing my ass off, and constantly having a full cup of beer but not knowing how since I didn't buy but one beer. There really isn't any documentation in my phone from Friday night...the Ipod dock didn't do much good, and my phone died somewhere around midnight. Oh, but Gaga's didn't. Found this out when I was laying on the couch last night and had a million Facebook notifications. Pictures galore. And I got some tweets as well.

12:11 PM Tweet from Gaga

"Limo and VIP at Raifords!!! Going to be a good night!!!"

1:13 AM Tweet from Gaga

"RIP Whitney. #Iwillalwaysloveyou @mmp91."

Saturday was awful. After I had brunch with a friend, I stayed on the couch all day in the moomoo Felix's grandmother gave me while he told me stories from the night before. Apparently Gaga spent the night with us and I made her sleep in the bed with Felix. And I slept on the couch. Why didn't I just sleep in my own bed? And I was in so much distress because I only had $4 to tip the limo driver. And I kept trying to put my feet in Felix's face at the bar. He doesn't like feet.



My moomoo. This is not a joke.

Just thinking about how I felt on Saturday makes me sick. I'll have to recap Saturday night another day, but be looking out for it. It's a good one.

I will always love you,

Merekat

On Her Knees 43

Ever heard of British Bingo? Yea, me neither. Not until last night.

I rarely go out during the week anymore due to my poor financial situation, exhaustion after work and work outs, weekend recovery, my tendency to have more than "just a few drinks," and just life in general. So when I do, I like to make it count.

A couple of coworkers and I had planned on getting dinner and much needed drinks this week. I should have known that it was going to be a bad idea to go to Local. It always is. Something always happens and the wait staff always hates us. Last night was no different.

**Example of what normally happens at Local:

-Me and three guys playing bar Jenga with pre-written commands such as, not a joke, "Kiss Meredith," "Lick Meredith," "Hit Meredith," "Buy a round of shots," "Do the Moonwalk," "Buy a round of drinks," "Flash everyone at the bar,"  etc. After an hour of playing, 12 rounds of shots, 5 rounds of drinks, 4 broken beer bottles, beer-soaked clothing, and a $400+ bar tab all before 9:00, our waitress informs us that we have been cut off by the bartender. Fuck it. From there we went to Raifords and I sneak out and get a huge ass tattoo on my foot with out telling anyone.

Well, last night wasn't quite as eventful. But as soon as Felix and I walked in and sat down with my coworkers, I quickly threw my hand up to smooth my hair down, slammed the beer that was in the waitress's hand behind my head, and had beer poured all over me. It was her first night. She freaked, but I calmly wiped the beer from me and made some joke like, "You can lick it from between my legs," to my coworker who now had half of a beer. After that mess was cleaned up, Felix got the wrong order and the wait staff quickly closed our tabs with out asking us and gave us the impression that we needed to get the fuck out. So rude.

My coworker, Hotlanta, made the executive decision that Brass Door, an Irish pub, was our next stop. Having never been there, I was excited about checking out a new watering hole. Well, low and behold, we stumbled upon British Bingo and $3 wine night. I didn't have a fucking clue what British Bingo was, but I sure as hell know what $3 wine is...a Christmas day miracle in Memphis...even if it is out of a box. Well, I love any type of bar game, and after inquiring about this foreign form of bingo, I was on my way towards hopefully winning a bar tab. I never win anything, so my odds are like zero.

British Bingo doesn't make sense only because it is stupidly simple. You get a playing card and a marker. Then this British guy calls out numbers, you mark them off, and if all of your numbers are called, you yell, "BINGO!"

The best part is that instead of saying "43," he says little phrases like, "On her knees, 43." My favorites:

"Sexy Legs 11"
"Was she worth it? 76"
"Number 8, Garden Gate"
"Two Little Ducks 22" then everyone at the bar says Quack Quack!

I didn't realize that the sayings meant anything until I googled British Bingo this morning. But, they do. I won't go in to it, but I will throw the link at the bottom of the post if you're interested.

Anyway, I ended up actually winning a round and a $20 bar tab. Of course, I was shocked and yelled, "OOOOHHHH MYY GODDDDD!!!! BINGO!" How embarrassing. I couldn't quit laughing. From there, Hotlanta won the last round and a $40 bar tab. Thank God we didn't have to use them all last night, because that would have taken awhile with $3 wine.

Needless to say, we'll be back for more British Bingo.

Cheerio Good Chaps,

Merekat

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_British_bingo_nicknames
http://thebrassdoor.com/

Katherine Got So Pretty

Well, it only took 5 1/2 years to get my Appalachian State friends to come visit me...and I now know why.

Day drinking, rounds of Jager, dodging guys I've gone on dates with, rounds of tequila, Rolling on the River, 2 long nights at Raifords, rounds of vodka shots, 40's of beer, 2 nights at Silkys, Redbirds game, Midtown, Downtown, Jager bombs, a bloody toe two nights in a row, YMCA-ing, bloody leg from broken chandelier due to YMCA-ing, chugging Redbull, riding home 2 nights in a row in a limo, whiskey shots, group kegels, Jenga....and last, but certainly not least because it's the fucking best...Laguna Beach reruns on MTV.

I loved every minute of going out and getting trashed, but in my opinion, nothing beats the Boone Babies laying around watching Laguna beach Friday afternoon and turning it in to a drinking game. We basically just had to chug our beers. Here are the rules: 



**Drink every time someone says:
-cute
-rad
-gnarley
-something sentimental (Prom, graduation, high school romance)
-someone says someone else's name (they never just talked to each other...it was always, LAUREN, you'll never believe...or OMG, Stephennnnnn)
-talked shit about someone/said something stupid (When Kristin's Trooper breaks down "OMG Katherine!!! My car just overheated! Like, it can't move. Like, Im stuck here!" and then turns to her friends..."Katherine got sooo pretty. Hahaha.")

Laguna Beach was my jam in high school. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was everyone's jam in high school at that time. All of the girls in C-town would pile in the living room at one of our parents' houses and be glued to the TV for the 30 minutes that Laguna Beach was on. And then we would over-analyze every fucking word any of them said, every look they gave, every detail of their lives. We loved to hate Kristin, sympathised with LC, thought Lo was cool as shit, wanted to date Stephen, etc, etc. We lived vicariously through these people. We even used to say that we were "going to Mammoth" when we spent the weekend at my cabin at Pickwick. Em-fucking-barrassing.

Well, what's even worse is that I think we watched about 5 hours worth of Laguna Beach last Friday. That's 10 episodes. And we're 24 years old. And we still over-analyzed everything they said because, fuck, I want to know how LC aka Lauren Conrad aka fashion mogul is so successful. She was failing every class in high school and didn't go to college. How does that make sense? I made straight A's, have a Bachelor's, a ballin' resume...and work construction. Whatevs.

It would be nice to only worry about who's picking you up for the bon fire on the beach, who's going out with who, if your relationship is going to last after graduation, if you're going to have sex with your prom date on prom night, what daddy is getting you for graduation, etc. Unfortunately, my life is farther from Laguna Beach now than ever. I'm 24, single, working construction...soon to be part-time, starting culinary school, taking out student loans for the first time, dreading monthly car payments, will have no social life, and be scraping by with my paycheck. But you know what? I couldn't be happier. Fuck Laguna Beachers. They probably all suck anyway. Of course I'm still going to watch reruns, though.

XOXO,

Merekat

Bigger, Better, and Yummier Things

OK, so I'm over not getting my "dream job." Not really. I'm still pissed off at the world about that, but my sulking has at least subsided. I'm more pissed off at a certain university than the world, I guess. They obviously made the wrong choice. I mean, who better to recruit students to my beloved university than me? Just look at my Facebook pictures....I had a hell of a good time there. I'd like to think that they'll suffer from their decision, but that's just me being immature and selfish.

Last Tuesday was awful. Last Wednesday was even worse. By Thursday I had finally pulled myself together and started my job search again only to see that, SURPRISE, there were no new jobs I cared to apply to. Friday afternoon I found myself touring the culinary school in Cordova, L'Ecole Culinaire....an hour and a half later, I had enrolled.

Whoops...wait, was this a good idea? What the fuck did I just do? OMGGGGGGGGGGGGG IM GOING TO BE A CHEF. Will I ever make it to the Food Network? How am I going to pay for this? Oh shit, I'll be in school until I'm 26 years old. Money. Shit. How will I live in Memphis making HALF of what I'm making now?

Well, my mind was running 90 to nothing. Called Momma Hen. She freaked out. In a good way. "OHHHH MY GODDDD. MY baby is gonna be a CHEFFFFFF!"

Even if I am going to be poor, ruin my social life, inflict myself with cuts and burns, be a road warrior every day, turn in to a mega grouch, and maybe, MAYBE become a chef....I'm so fucking excited. And scared. And overwhelmed. ANDDDDDDDDDD I don't have to censor myself, my Facebook, my Twitter, my Instagram, my Blog....or cover up my tattoos...because, Guess What?! Everyone in the restaurant industry is fucked up, crazy, and tatted from head to toe.

So, friends, that shit is happening. I'm about to begin the most challenging and hopefully rewarding chapter of my life.

XOXO

Merekat

The Never Ending Job Search

So, I haven't written in awhile...obviously. After applying for a job that I and everyone else I knew thought was absolutely fucking perfect for me, I decided to put the blog on hold...much like deleting your Facebook, Twitter account, etc.

Well, come to find out, I can't get a fucking job WITH or WITH OUT the damn blog.

Now excuse me while I go drown my sorrows in a bath tub full of wine after work....oh wait, I have my sorority alumnae exec training tonight. How could I forget.

Hungry for More. Give Me More.

I finally gave in and jumped on The Hunger Games bandwagon. I finished the first book in less than 24 hours. It was obviously an ok book, or I wouldn't have kept reading past the first chapter. But, I was extremely disappointed when the book ended.

I hadn't seen the movie so I really didn't have a clue what the series was even about. Basically, it's a action packed/love story written for teens about this girl who is torn between these two guys, fights for her life, and lives in a world of fiction. Sound familiar? Yea, thought so. Twi-fucking-light. It's like the same damn book. Oh let me count the ways. A teenager book series that adults are hooked on. Ok, so the characters names are different, it's set in a different time period, the obstacles faced to survive are different, but...all in all, it's way too similar to Twilight. Katniss = Bella, Katniss' mother = Bella's dad, it's a toss up between Gale/Peeta = Jacob/Edward. The Capitol is the Volturi...and so on and so forth. Bella kept fucking shit up with her relationships and life in general...so did Katniss.

Sorry Hunger Games fans, it just doesn't live up to Twilight though. The quality of writing is mediocre at best. There aren't as many details to bring you in and make you really feel like you're a participating tribute in The Hunger Games. Shit, when I was reading Twilight, I was so sucked in that I put myself in Bella's shoes and felt turmoil when trying to pick between Jacob and Edward. I cried. I laughed. I gasped. Not the case with The Hunger Games. It wasn't as emotionally trying or exciting. I know that it was written for teens and can't get too R-rated or gruesome, but come on. Give me more.

This is not to say that I won't be reading the other two books. I can't wait to get my hands on the next one in the series. BUT, it in no way lives up to Twilight. That's all I'm saying people. And another thing, I and many others have been made fun of so many times for being Twilight fans...but why not The Hunger Games? Think about it.

XOXO,

Merekat

What Women Really Want by Tusk

What women really want – “50 Shades of STFU”…  and Hangovers…

So, y'all have heard about my nurse girlfriend, Pamalama.  She’s a really cool chick, smart and generally a good person.  Oh, and she’s a freak.  All nurses are freaks… along with nail technicians, hair stylists, bartendresses and most airline attendants… In that order...  But I digress, Pam is cool. 

Anyway, she’s fallen into the “Fifty Shades of Grey” trap.  You snacks (that’s TUSK talk for “babes”) are familiar with the book/trilogy.  It gives y’all the escape to “freak land” you think you crave.  You “want” to be tied up and smacked around… (right).  You “want” to be dominated and told what to do… (yeah).    

You want this combination of Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt and Mathew McConaughey all rolled up into Ted Bundy.  Oh, and you want him both as sensitive as a 3^rd degree burn on your Brazilian but as tough as a well done sirloin at your local Chili’s.  Good fuckin’ luck.

What you really want is… no matter what… no matter where… is to be told “everything is gonna be ok”… when you already know it is…

For example:  You (the snack) come home and you’re place is afire.  The whole joint is being consumed in a conflagration and all your worldly possessions are being destroyed.  Time is of the essence and it’s running very, very short.  What do you “want”?  A water hose?  No…  A cell phone to call 911?  Wrong, again...  A bucket of water?  Nope.

What you “want” is to be held tight, hugged, and told “everything’s going to be alright”…  all the while, your shit is burning up.  That’s how y’all roll… and that’s ok…

I bought Pamalama the “Three Shades” trilogy, because it’s “what she wanted”…

And Pam gets what she wants… I love her. 

Excuse me while I pound out her brains.

TUSK

This is a side note that Tusk included...he swears by it. And after the night I had last night on Beale Street, I do too. -Merekat

TUSK’s Hangover Remedy

·         32 oz Cup full of ice

·         Gatorade (powder mix at double concentration per volume)

·         (1 – 2) BC Headache Powder(s)

·         Alka Seltzer (optional)

Introducing the Converse Queen

Where to begin? The beginning I suppose.

Picture it. Second semester senior year of Who Ya Wit C-Town high school. The plan? Mississippi State with all of my friends...live together in Sessums, rush KD, do the damn thing. Well, leave it to me to go fuck shit up. Last minute in May I decided that I would venture off to Appalachian State for my schooling.

Fast forward 3 months to move in day. After the 9 1/2 hour trek from good ole Corinth, MS to Boone, NC, we finally arrived at my new home, Bowie. Bowie is a shit-tastic dorm right by the App State stadium. I'm talking no AC and dorm rooms the size of closets. I was still too excited to care about my shitty living arrangements. I arrived before my pot luck roommate that I had only talked to once via Facebook. Momma Hen and I unpacked all of my monogrammed towels, custom made duvet cover and bedding, and the rest of my preppy, Southern girl decor. All matching perfectly, of course. Momma Hen was also sneaking in wine and tequila for me. She couldn't quite grasp the concept that 18 year olds weren't allowed to have booze in their rooms.

I nervously awaited the arrival of my soon-to-be new best friend. Isn't that what roommates are supposed to be? In walks this super tall, lanky, stoner talking, dirty blonde sporting some fucked up, hipster outfit and used-to-be black converse shoes that were falling apart....aka my roommate for the next semester...aka the Converse Queen. I immediately regretted my decision. Why did I have to be different? Why did I leave all of my normal friends?

Over the next few months the Converse Queen and I bonded over PBR (which I had never heard of), weed (which we smoked in our dorm rooms), random music festivals with hippie, senior boys (Off the Grid Music Fest...worst weekend of my life other than witnessing people trip on acid for the first time), and homemade nose piercings. We also had our MAJOR disagreements. I couldn't understand why she hated sororities and didn't know what a Greek letter meant and she couldn't understand why I wanted to pay for friends and wear dresses and heels to football games. We hated each other's music. I plotted her cell phone's death every time her Smashing Pumpkin's ringtone played. Her friends were weird. She didn't have to study and made straight fucking A's in a double major as I made a C in Western Civ because I never went to class when it rained or snowed.

Needless to say, I had planned on switching roommates the next semester. Don't get me wrong. I loved her. That's why I made the decision to part ways. I was afraid that one night I would murder her in her sleep. Unfortunately, I didn't attend App State for another semester. I got a drinking ticket the night before exams, missed SEC football, called my best friend from home and had her rent an apartment in the Cotton District in Starkville for me, transferred to Miss State, and my Southern ass was headed home.

Now don't you fret little readers. I am still besties with all of my App friends. We chat weekly...sometimes daily, and I go visit them yearly. I talk to the Converse Queen on the reg thanks to Facebook chat and my non-eventful work life. I wrote all of this nonsense just to preface these Wednesday morning Facebook chats to the world.

Freshman Roommates at an App Football Game

Converse Queen:
i am
still
so drunk
and i am at work
i literally should not have driven to work
dui territory
i cant walk straight
this is not good

Merekat:
Bahahahahahah
YESSSSSSSSSSS
You're gonna get in troubssss

She sure is a looker

Converse Queen:
shush
im going to
go to wendys
and get a cheeseburger

Merekat:
It's only 9:40 your time
But no shame in that
I back it

Converse Queen:
and thats why I LOVE YOU
im literally not even responding to emails because im so shitfaced

Merekat:
Send them to me. I'll help you out.

Converse Queen:
YES! reply to mere.
im gonna get like 30 chicken nuggets
and just eat them at a 5 nugget per hour rate
nuggethon!
sounds racist
k, gotta go to wendys before i die.

Merekat:
Send some nugs my way.

And so on and so forth. She's my heart. I love her. We're both shit shows. Everyone pray that she doesn't get fired today.

PROMISE THIS IS MY LAST BLOG POST TODAY!

XOXO,

Merekat

An Open Letter to Dave Chappelle By Maggie Garcia

This is a guest blogger...my friend, Maggie Garcia. Before you start reading, I want to let you all in on a little secret. Maggie Garcia is white. You'll see what I mean. Enjoy. XOXO, Merekat.

An Open Letter to Dave Chappelle

Dear Dave,

You don't know me, but I fucking hate you.

Wait, let me back up.

When I found out you were going to be in Memphis, there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to see you.  I have been a pothead for the past 10 years and I am thus a huge fan of your work.  In fact, some of my best memories in high school are riding around my hometown in an overstuffed vehicle, listening to burned CDs of your stand up.  My favorite bits are the ones about Sesame Street, Purple Drank, and the Baby selling weed on the corner in the ghetto. 
The tickets could have been $200 and I still would have paid it.  This isn't to say that the almost $60 I paid wasn't something of a hardship.  But in addition to my money, you wasted something much more valuable - my motherfucking time.

Your show started at 7pm.  I work in healthcare policy and social justice, which is a 24/7 job in Memphis, but I average about 60 hours a week.  I rarely take a break, but I was going to make an exception for you.  Yesterday I got to work super early, parallel parked my ass, Super Woman'ed the shit out of three meetings and was desperately trying to finish up a teen pregnancy report when I realized it was 5:45pm and I needed to un-park my ass and head to Wheelz's apt. 

Wheelz is my life partner (I would marry him, but I hate him) and he uses a wheelchair.  He has a van with a ramp that we use to bebop around Memphis.  Last week, the van's ramp broke.  This means that in order to get to the Orpheum, we had to spend 20 minutes manually operating the lift (which, as Merekat pointed out, sounds sexual), then another 20 in the parking lot to get Wheelz out of the van.  As soon as we approached Downtown, my agita kicked in.  I was surrounded by white people, most of them in polo shirts.  You've probably never navigated a hoard of entitled white people in a wheelchair, but let me tell you, it sucks.  It especially sucks when you're stoned out of your mind. 

We were excited about hanging out with our friends, word on the street was front row tickets.  Imagine our disappointment when we realized we were in the last row of the Orchestra - in the ADA section.  But, whatever, we were still excited.  I then stood in line for 20 minutes so I could pay almost $40 for two drinks.  When I made it back to my seat, your opening act had already started.  He was funny as shit.  When he left the stage, Wheelz and I were a little drunk and super excited.  We locked fingers, and passed bits of your act back and forth like notes in elementary school. 
I was still a little irritated by all the white people in the room, especially the douchebag frat boys who kept walking up and down the aisles and yelling to one another.  But I thought to myself, "Oh, just wait, Dave is going to put you in your motherfucking place, white dudes."  I was positively salivating at the idea of Dave Chappelle using "Chip" to shame these assholes. 

At 9pm, you came onstage.  By this time, nobody was stoned anymore, but Memphis went crazy anyway.  A few minutes in, something became very apparent to both me and Wheelz (we are connoisseurs of stand up; we frequent live shows) - you didn't seem to have any material prepared.  Rather, you seemed content to respond to the inane shout outs from the annoying audience.  You might not have had any interest in policing white assholes, but Memphis doesn't take kindly to those types and there were more than a few instances of audience members yelling "Shut the fuck up!" at each other.  You couldn't see this far back, but the three rows in front of us were cleared out by security because people were literally brawling over someone "shushing" someone else (that's why Memphis can't have anything nice). 

Wheelz and I were right - you didn't have anything prepared.  And not only were you not shaming the random white guys who kept yelling shit at you, you were responding to it!  After about an hour of saying random shit to people in the audience, you started to awkwardly try to get off stage.  You kept saying "Ok guys, I gotta wrap this up."  Wheelz and I thought this was a joke, of course, that a few hours in and DC would hit his groove, that you would go for one of those marathon sessions you're so admired for.  You, in fact, hinted to this - saying things like "Y'all can keep leaving, I can outlast all of y'all.  Haven't you heard?  Dave Chappelle takes a while to get warmed up."  Needless to say, this didn't happen.   You didn't just not bring your A-game ... you didn't bring any game! 

You said during your brief time in front of my face that you really appreciate all the working people of Memphis filling up the Orpheum on a Tuesday night.  But I don't believe that.  The Bath Assaults learned a valuable lesson, that our time is better spent answering questions about today's date than listening to washed up comics who've forgotten where they came from. 

xoxo,
Maggie Garcia

Let Down of the Year

Dave Chappelle, what the hell happened to you over in Africa, bro?

I can't speak for everyone, but the general consensus last night was that Dave Chappelle just isn't funny anymore. C-Baby and I ended up leaving and heading to the bar after about 45 minutes. Even people in the lobby were saying, "Look. Everyone's just getting up and leaving. He isn't funny." It was almost unbearable to sit through even after 4 glasses of wine and a few beers. PLUS, he didn't even come on until 9:00 when the show started at 7:00.

Everyone laughed at his jokes...which really weren't jokes...had to be out of respect. I could have hopped up on stage, just talked about my weekend, smoked a few cigarettes, and I probably would have gotten more crowd stimulation. I could have even sat at that bar and had a $58 (cost of the ticket) tab and listened to my coworker Tusk talk about random shit for a couple hours and been more entertained. I mean, the guy who went on before Dave was hilar. He was an older, black man that runs a local radio show who laughed and wheezed in between his jokes about making bitches asses clap and former lovers' sex toys (big, blue dildo with spikes on it to be exact). Supposedly this cat has a comedy club in Bartlet. I swore to never go back to Bartlett/Dirty Dova area after I moved away from that wretched place, but I'm most definitely braving that place again to see his stand up.

But, Dave's act went a little something like this (my version summary):

"Hey. I've been in Africa. (Audience member throws a bottle of fireball liquor on stage) What's this? Fireball...cinnamon whiskey? Sorry, I haven't drank liquor in 10 years...since 1992. (Random annoying, white bitch hollars something at Dave) Hey girl. Do you live in Memphis? Are you in school? Oh, cool. What's your degree in? Oh, Public Relations? So you relate to the public. (Dave! Do some Rick James!) Really? You're asking me to do something that I did 6 years ago? That's like a boss asking you to write a memo about something you did at work 6 years ago. No. Hey, what do you do for a living? (Directed to audience member) Oh, you're a lawyer. That's cool. What about you, sir? (Directed to another audience member) You own some hotels. OK. So we have a lawyer and a guy that owns hotels."

That was not a joke. How fucking lame was he? And WTF? Why WOULDNT you do some Chappelle Show shit? That's what made you famous. That's what everyone came to see. The funny, ridiculous, vulgar Dave Chappelle/Rick James/Lil John shit. Major letdown. Like, letdown of the fucking year. Maybe he'll be better tonight in Little Rock. Nah. Probably not. OK, enough bitching.


XOXO

Disappointed Merekat

Dave Chappelle by C-Baby

The Merekat and I have had plans coming up for about a week now, and she is finally getting to stay in Memphis this weekend. The Merekat is exhausted from driving back and forth and forth and back from one wedding event to another. Merekats love to get down at any kind of wedding function so it’s especially hard for her to say “No,” but this time she didn’t really have a chance since her boss is forcing her to work this Friday.

(I really hope you are narrating that like the voice of Meerkat Manor, which is how I intended it, British and everything.)

Last Tuesday our trivia team, The Bath Assaults, met again for a battle of who knows more bullshit. Maggie Garcia - our fearless leader (but not creator – she’s just really fucking smart), accompanied by her better half – Wheelz, brought up Dave Chappelle and how the was coming to The Orpheum. Anyone who knows me knows that The Chappelle Show was my jam in high school. I hated Lil Jon but I loved Dave Chappelle as Lil Jon. Rick James. I don’t care – I loved him and I needed to see him in real life. Luckily I share this pleasure with Merekat, Maggie Garcia, and Wheelz. We invited Felix for good measure. Just kidding, Felix.

As we laughed at the idea of seeing Dave Chappelle live the next Tuesday, pro-ing and con-ing missing trivia the next week, it slowly drifted from my little noggin. Eight PBR’s later, the night had ended. The Bath Assaults still hadn’t won trivia and I thought we had all forgotten about Dave; I was headed home to pass out and be late for work the next day. I had surely forgotten, but The Merekat and Wheelz had not. The Merekat was sending out mass emails at 10:30 am the next morning.

The email went a little something like this:

Just got our tickets after fighting with a lady on the phone for 27 minutes!!

Dave Chappelle

Tuesday, June 12th

Each of you owes me $57.97.

Thanks!

What came after was a tweet that went a little something like this:

Front row tickets to Dave Chappelle. Who loves me?

I guess we’re going to Dave Chappelle tonight, and we’re sitting in the front row. I rounded it up to $58. Three cents for her troubles.

Chic as fuck,

C-Baby

Americaaaaaa Fuck YEAH!

And now for what you've all been waiting for....drum roll please......$40 each, a trip to Goodwill, a couple rolls of sushi, and a few glasses of Mezzacorona Pinot Grigio later, we give you....AMERICAN FLAG JORTS!

Final Products

Final Product

Since yesterday, I have had several texts and Facebook posts regarding these jorts...SO, here is a list of what we bought from Michael's and gathered from Thrift Stores/our closets.

Spray Fabric Paint (Red, White, and Blue)
Mini American Flags
Star Stencils
Duct tape
Mom jeans from Goodwill (light and dark jeans...one pair was J Crew...I don't think I was born when those jeans were sold at J Crew)
Random denim from my closet (Navy polka dot shorts from Old Navy, a favorite pair of American Eagle, jr. high, used-to-be-jeans-but-have-been-jorts-for-years, and a long sleeved, stained, denim shirt turned sweet ass vest)

1. If you are starting out with a pair of jeans, get a marker and draw a line about two inches below your crotch region...maybe 4 inches for guys.
2. Using scissors or a straight razor, cut jeans off at line. Don't worry if you fucked up and it isn't cut straight. You'll want to wash these after the paint dries so the ends will be frayed.
3. Place stripes on the front, right side of your new jorts using strips of duct tape cut about 1 1/2 inches thick.
4. Spray red or white paint (depending on how true you want to be to old faithful) on the duct tape. 
5. Using the star stencil, spray white or blue paint on the front, left side of your jorts.
6. Let dry and rip off tape for perfect stripes.
7. If you want to add detail to the back pockets, trace and cut out a pocket-sized piece of flag fabric to sew on.
8. Rock your new American Flag Jorts and make everyone jealous.

C-Baby is a bit of an OCD, perfectionist, so naturally her pair of jorts look a whole hell of a lot better than mine. But, all in all, I think we did a damn good job. I ended up with two pairs of jorts and my stars and stripes vest to sport not only on the 4th, but all fucking summer long. C-Baby only has one pair. She takes too damn long to craft.

C-Babys Goodwill, Mom Jeans pre-cutoff

Here, I cut out and sewed on a
piece of a mini flag on the back pocket

You're welcome.

Honey

Jorts

C-Baby and I have been g-chatting about jorts for the majority of the work day. We want some of those trendy, American flag jorts that everyone has been sporting recently with out paying out the ass for them. The only way is for us to craft. Hopefully, with the right amount of creativity and wine, my love for crafting + my love for America will = American flag jorts.

What's more American than a pair of jorts anyway? And contrary to popular belief...and these definitions from Urbandictionary.com, everyone loves a good pair of jorts.

	Jorts
	1. Jean shorts. Worn mostly by children and douchebags. Jorts are perhaps the easiest way to recognize people you will not like. If you wear jorts, you probably don't talk to girls. The term "jorts" does not apply to jean shorts worn by black people, as those are entirely acceptable.   The kid next to me was definitely a total dick; he was wearing jorts.   2. A combination of the words "jean" and "shorts" used to describe the hideous attire, usually sported by NASCAR aficionados and men over 40. Sometimes Jorts are accessorized with a lovely cellphone belt clip and a braided leather belt, but not always. Sometimes the Jorts wearer lets the Jorts speak for themselves.   While at a baseball game, I noticed a plethora of adult males with no shirts on, drinking copious amounts of beer while proudly wearing Jorts.     First of all, I am not a child nor am I a douchebag. Well, the douchebag part is a toss up. It depends on how much I drink. And why is it acceptable for black people to wear jean shorts but not white people? So, now jorts are an issue of race? WTF? AND, last time I checked, I was not a middle-aged male with a cellphone belt clip.   But there is one true statement in all of this nonsense: C-Baby and I plan on wearing our newly Americanized jorts to the Redbirds baseball game Thursday, drinking copious amounts of over-priced beer, and hopefully hanging out with a plethora of half-naked, adult males. Isn't that called Heaven? Oh, and I like NASCAR.   And then, the best definition of them all:   3. Fuck you. I can dress any way I want.       AMERICA! FUCK YEA!   Honey