I thought your name was Marie.
Not anymore, sucker! This all started in 1981 when I was born and my parents named me
Haviland started calling me Ris right from the start. I don't have a lot of friends, so she accounts for like, 50% of my verbal communication with other humans, so I just started using it with all the humans I talk to, because I think it suits me better. I mean, I'm not a "Marie." Marie is so proper, you know?
Also, then I bought a company called 'Riese Restaurants.' I've been chowing down at "Shady Jake's Bar-B-Que N'Booze" for, like, ever-ever because they've got all my fave foods: Carolina Ribs, Pulled Pork AND Baked Beans!1 But really, it was my love of "TGI Fridays" and "Pizza Hut" that really inspired me to buy the chain. What can I say, it's been a match made in heaven! So then I changed by name to make it easier for those boozehounds from "Tequillaville" to stop calling me "Mami."
Since you are clearly a pimp, I would like to ask you this: What do you do when you have a guest in your bed (a boyfriend/girlfriend, or perhaps a new "friend" or someone you are "dating") and you wake up at 2AM and realize your intestines are begging you: "Let us out of here! To the bathroom, soldier! Vomit time!" What is the best way to handle this without totally grossing out my partner?
Drunk n' Disorderly
Funny you should ask, DND, I was in this exact situation last night! Although I hadn't anticipated the upheaval of all the organs of my stomach and the various Eggo waffle-and-topping combos I refer to as "dinner" when I rolled over for sleep, we had already passed into that time of night called "lets be real here, cuddling ain't practical" and therefore my sleeping partner did not even notice my 50 trips to the bathroom. Also, I believe, she had possibly taken some ambien, which I had stolen from my soon-to-be-departed roommate. That brings me to the number one rule of how to deal with this:
1. Drug your Partner.
Which reminds me of another night, in the summer of 2003, when I was somehow like, poisoned or something, and called Scot from the Diag (GO BLUE, Y'ALL!!!) and told him I was losing my mind, and he came over to politely facilitate my night of sickness. Around four A.M, I woke up for another trip to the bathroom to see Scot sitting on the roof, smoking all my pot. Whatever gets you through the night, baby.
Also---and this isn't to say that I'm a drunk, but rather just a girl who often overestimates her stomach's capacity for abuse---after a nerve (dot com) party in November 2005, I got ABSURDLY sick and I was certain that my male guest would FLEE as soon as he was sober enough to leave my apartment. He had a nice resume (Ivy league, artist, rent controlled apartment in the village) and therefore could do better. However, not only did he NOT flee, but he officially overstayed his welcome the next morning AND called me about ten thousand times.
Which just goes to show you--obviously men dig that shit. Damsel in distress, etc.
2. They Dig That Shit.
Your friends are HOT. Tell me, exactly, how hot are they?
Horny in Idaho
Here's how hot:
1. Les Miserables, featuring the lovely and talented Haviland Stillwell, opens on Broadway at the Broadhurst Theather on November 8th. You should buy tickets now, because Haviland is HOT. And Norm Lewis will (unintentionally) probably make you cream in your pants. Seriously. He's fucking sexy.
2. Stephanie is the main attraction at this
3. Our favorite globetrotter, Natalie Raaber, is in town for an exclusive week-long engagement. If you'd like to meet the woman who I have raved about in the past, (June 3rd: 'Natalie is the master of "I feel like", September 17th: 'Natalie Raaber can read coursepacks on the elliptical trainer), then come to her party. This is not an invitation for my stalkers, or for my friends' stalkers (Hav won't be there, stalkers, she's in tech), but rather to all my friends and Natalie's friends.
1Um, EW. I hate all of those things, especially any meat that resembles the animal it came from, esp. if that animal is a pig. Kosher, y'all!