...Menudo

To the left, I give you "Old" Menudo. I am totally mesmerized by their mullets and pleather pants. I may have to rethink my wardrobe forevermore.

This past weekend, we invented a new word inspired by Menudo. The "New" Menudo was formed recently and has a hit song called, "Lost." That song came on the radio as I was roughly 6 bottomless mimosas deep, and was so excited that I was hearing the "New" Menudo. Now, try saying "New" Menudo 5 times fast, 6 drinks deep. Thus, "newmenudo" was born. I'll give you some sentences to help you understand how/when to use this new catchphrase that is sweeping the nation...

1. Noun: The Boz LOVES sausage, and thus said: "Sausage is the newmenudo."
2. Adjective: Our discovery of bottomless mimosas for $14 was awesome and thus: "Bottomless mimosas are so newmenudo."
3. Verb: I had a bagel sandwich out of sheer malnutrition at 1am and devoured it: "I'm going to newmenudo the sh*t out of that sandwich."

Much like Stephen Colbert coining the word "truthiness," I'm hoping "newmenudo" becomes the official word of 2009. We have 10 months left to campaign, so get going!

...Pleather

This Sunday was my pleather leggings tour de force. It began on Saturday night for The Black Keys concert (they are amazing, btw, so check them out live if they come to your neighborhood!), wound up partying all night (ending with a 4am round of everyone's favorite drinking game: The Eliminator), crashing at my friend's apartment with bunch of people, then brunch with bloody mary's in the morning with The Boz. She and I were exhausted by bloody mary #2 and ready to go home when my friend Victor arrived at the restaurant. He fired us up to go watch basketball games and continue drinking. By the grace of God alone, we carried onto the next bar in our clothes from the previous night. The Boz's boobs were literally hanging out of her shirt and I was still clad in my 1980s-inspired pleather leggings and patent leather short boots. Imagine a family just getting out of church and crossing our path as we walked between restaurants. I basically marched down the street saying, "Yes, people, I am wearing pleather." We then played the card game A**hole (which I HATE) for another hour or two, and once I finally became President of the game, I banished it from the bar. Suck on that, biatches!! The game required way too much thought and concentration from people who were hungover and yet somewhat drunk again. Boz and I finished off our evening with yet another dinner of Mexican food at the none-too-classy Caliente Cab. Now I think I caught a cold from my antics. Damn you, pleather!

...Lesbian Pants

Due to the cold weather in NYC lately, I have been committing unmentionable fashion crimes to stay warm. The latest infraction was the pair of Lesbian Pants I wore yesterday and mentioned in my last post. Now, I have the same pants in black and they do not turn me into a giant lezbone. But, the gray pair come equipped with saddlebags that would even make Cindy Crawford look like the starting pitcher for the USA Softball team. I didn't realize the saddlebaggery until I arrived at the office and was appalled when I looked in the mirror in the bathroom. Apparently I didn't have proper lighting when dressing at home and checking my appearance in my mirror. I did make it to American Apparel after work and bought a substitute outfit before going out, but didn't have time to change at the store (and I also couldn't stand the b.o. stench in the dressing room, which the woman working at the store thought I had left behind!!! Mortification! Lesbian pants and b.o.? I've hit an all-time low.). But rather than change once I got out, I just drank until I started to embrace the pants. I went so far as to beat my friends in 2 rounds of darts and then kick some ass in skee-ball while drinking "The Champagne of Beers" (aka $3 Miller High Life bottles). I'm changing my name to Marge.

Enjoy the visual of the pants above, as I tried to highlight the saddlebags. And in a sad turn of events today, I have fattily devoured 2 bagels with cream cheese in an attempt to fill up the saddlebags.

The fate of the pants, you ask? They're in my pile for Goodwill and will never adorn my body again. I wonder if homeless people will reject them, too?!?

...Super Bowl

One game.

Two words: Beer Funnel.

Three slices of pizza.

Four quarters of TV commercials (of which I saw none as I was blindsighted by the 1/2 price beers).

Five hours of drinking.

You do the math.

Honestly, this Sunday was more tame than anticipated, but we all had intense weeks ahead, so we toned it down a bit. However, in the coming weeks we have an Open Bar bday party and a night of guest bartending ahead of us. So, the Super Bowl did not end the madness. It was a mere blip on the radar.

Grandpa Baby is now claiming he has 100 birthday parties every weekend. Either his friends are so depresed they're entering their late 30s that they need to have parties, or he's dating someone named Birthday Party. Either way, I'm going on a date with someone else next week. Life is too short. I'd rather juggle 5 guys than put up with one who can't get his life together.

In other recession news, is it just me, or is everyone wanting to meet up for drinks more than usual? I feel like it's the Great Depression and we all want to suffer together with booze in gin joints and whatnot. I love the togetherness that the recession is pushing. And if people have to get poor to go out to bars more often, then I say "Viva La Recession!"

And with that, I'm going to American Apparel to buy a new outfit for tonight's recession drinking events: Scotch in Soho with a Broadway composer and traversing around the neighborhood with the Boz and Sabrina. I look like a softball playing lesbian in horrid saddlebag pants. I don't know why I left the house like this--I am going to blame the 10-degree temperatures for my appearance. I plan on changing in the store and throwing my pants in the garbage and hopefully will make a homeless person very happy today. See--my lesbian clothes are actually a public service. Saddlebag pants = charitable donation.