You've reached a new low when...

The phrase Girls Night In can be quite deceiving. You're not going galavanting about town, so what could really happen? Yeah, sure, we'll watch movies, have a few glasses of wine and go to bed. Oh no. Not when you put two Irish girls, an Italian and a Polack in the same room together. What started out as an innocent Friday evening turned into one of absurd debauchery. As more and more wine flowed, the music got louder. And what girl doesn't want to dance when she hears Top 40? I use the word dance loosely, as it was more of an 80's exercise video gone wrong, complete with jumping jacks, the running man, and of course, the robot. Cut to more wine and a raid on one of the Irish 1's closet. Talk about the sloppiest fashion show imaginable. Stumbling about, trying to put outfits together, and commenting on whose boobs looked better in what shirt really took the free for all to new heights. No, no, I take that back. Jumping around topless was the height of it. What? Girls do that at sleepovers, you know. 2 1/2 bottles per person later, we were each slathered with retin A that would soon make our faces numb and fell asleep in one big bed together. It was all sweet and adorable and cuddly-like until the following morning, when the previous night's alcohol and cheese pizza consumption came back in full force and my innards were screaming at me to wake up and relieve myself. Still in a drunken haze, I whispered to Irish 1 what my plan was, only to be knocked back into reality when she kindly let me know that she was out of toilet paper and that the closest store didn't open for another hour. Time that I didn't have, according to my churning stomach. Keeping my horror inside as not to wake Irish 2 (Italian 1 jumped ship onto the couch) I glared at her and put my head back down. A few minutes later I was instructed to go to the bathroom and it was there that I saw the improvisation which had taken place; doggie piddle pads were cut up into little squares and set on top of the toilet. Yes, you read that correctly. Doggie piddle pads. The diapers for dogs. Canines. As in, this was designed specifically for an animal and not meant to touch the ass of a human. From the bedroom I could hear Irish 1 attempting to hold in her guffaws, and as I hung my head in shame at what I was about to do, I realized we were all probably better off just going out to the fucking bar. At the very least, we could have stolen a roll of toilet paper there.

Is this real life?

For the third year in a row, I drove down to the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my parents. It's 18 hours one way. Typically I would write something about my wacky father, but since we see eye to eye for the most part, I'd like to introduce you to my mother, Malgorzata (Margaret). At 5'4, 50-something years old, she's one of the sweetest, most honest people you'll ever meet. She (God love her) also has a few screws loose. Think Marie from Everybody Loves Raymond multiplied by 1000 and throw in a Po1ish accent. Her motto should be "knowledge, interest, control," because she thinks she knows everything, she's interested in everything, and she wants to control everything. Perfect example: my dad driving, me sitting next to him, and my mom sitting with her head in between our seats to catch every word we're saying. It's impossible to summarize all of the crazy that came out of her mouth during our trip, but here are a few of my favorites: After driving past a Burger King billboard with the words "No Fakin' Bacon," my mom screamed: "NO FUCKING BACON?!" 2. After several mispronunciations, she finally gives up and starts referring to Matthew McConaughey as Matthew "Moj Kochany" (Mooy-kohany), which means "my darling" in Polish. 3. Driving to one of the islands on the Outer Banks, she asks if what we're on is a "penisula." 4. While devouring a plate full of humongous shrimp, she looks up and says "I don't know if you knew this, but in the ghetto they call these scrimps." 5. After seeing a guy's profile picture of whom I had been corresponding with back home she says "I think he has simpleton features. Also...is he poor?" And finally, my personal favorite on the way to dinner: "I think you're overdressed. I also think you look better than me. The latter is what bothers me the most. Can you change please?" I did, but only because she was paying.

God, I've been terrible at posting. But in my defense, I've been glued to the television, cheering like a maniac for Team USA at the Olympics. I don't think I've ever been this into sporting events in my life. And how could you not be? The athletes out of our country are INSANE. Their bodies? Rock hard. Their nimbleness? LIKE A GECKO. Seriously. Have you seen the women's gymnastics team in action? There have been judges whose mouths have dropped open. And those swimmers? Geezus. I happen to believe Michael Phelp resembles Shrek (or Sloth from the Goonies, take your pick) but there is no denying that his talent is remarkable. It's a great time to be a (Polish) American!Now if only I could sneak into the Olympic Village...Oh, and just because: I've included a little gem I think you might enjoy. That's right, it's the water polo team. GROUP SHOWER, ANYONE?

Backhanded compliment

So it's no secret that I date online. I've been on that Godforsaken site OK Cupid (or OK Stupid as my friends and I call it). I have a separate blog dedicated to those stories: http://theanticupid.blogspot.com/ but I received a message from a guy I had to share. It read: "hey, I'm way too young (21) but I thought you were 23. Keep up the good work! I mean, not to make you feel like you're old or anything." For the record, I'm 30. And nowhere on my profile does it say I'm looking for guys younger than me. My response? "If you're old enough to crawl around on all fours with a gag in your mouth/a paper bag over your head, you're old enough for me."

Reason 5,047 why I love senile old people

Sometimes after I've had too much to drink and I feel like I need to put my life in perspective, I'll sign up to volunteer for Senior Bingo Night at the local old folks home in my neighborhood. I guess the politically correct term is 'elderly,' but if you've called them old for so long, it's really quite impossible to change. Typically I'll back out last minute and get a stern email from the organization about how I shouldn't have waited until an hour before the event to bail, but once in a blue moon I'll actually follow through and show up. And most often than not, I'll have a delightful little experience. Tonight I sat in between Octavia, a wheelchair bound woman wearing a construction worker orange t shirt, and Joanne, also in a wheelchair and clutching a can of Coke. Octavia was all smiles and compliments while Joanne stared at me, tight lipped and disapproving like. Quite the cranky one, she was. Octavia was fully capable of handling her own bingo board, but Joanne kept falling asleep. And snoring. When she did, I would innocently place the chips on the numbers she had, because if I tried to do it when she was awake, she would push my hand away and glare at me. She woke up at one point and mumbled "you Joanna?" I replied yes. "I'm Joanne." "Well look at that," I said. "We've got some pretty awesome names." (crickets). "You got birds on your dress?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "I got a dress with champagne glasses on it." SWEET MOTHER MARY. I KNEW THERE WOULD EVENTUALLY BE A BONDING MOMENT. "I do like the champagne Joanne, and I am going to want to see this skirt." No response. Great. Back to square one. When it came time for me to leave, her was of saying goodbye was "You go to the beach? You got some tan lines. But you look alright. You look alllllright." Thanks for the self esteem boost, g-ma.

Praying for Aurora

Lost in Translation

Every summer, my mom flies to Poland for 6-8 weeks to visit family. My dad, like me, is terrified of flying so he stays behind and lives like a bachelor in his man cave. Which is almost unfurnished other than Pink Floyd and Janis Joplin posters. I like to pop by once in a while to make sure he's doing okay. He'll never admit that he's lonely, but I know he's secretly happy to see me. He takes full advantage of these visits and forces me to either call any company that might have overcharged him for a service (cable, insurance, etc.) or help him pronounce whatever words he's been having problems with that particular week. It's important to note here that he doesn't have any 'special needs,' but merely a super thick Polish accent which is both terrifying to listen to and incredibly difficult to understand. I don't know if other immigrant children have been appointed the task of becoming a personal secretary/translator, but I certainly have. Of course it has its perks; sometimes my dad pays me, and other times the amusement of seeing Home Depot employees' faces when he says things like "wat do yoo mean yoo hav no more of dese? man on phone tolds me there were three. Dis place is sheethole" is enough. But there are those days, God bless him, when I have to search deep within my soul in order to keep from running screaming into the woods. Today was one of them. We were soaking up some rays by the side of the house when he interrupted my nap. (In Polish): "how do you say mud in English?" Me: mud. Dad: no not mad. Me: I'm not saying MAD, I'm saying MUD. Like wet, sticky dirt?" Dad: Yeah, you look like dirt. Dad: how do you say three? (comes out as free). Me: three. Not free. Dad: That's what I said. Free. Me: I can't. Dad: Stupid English.