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.