You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery by Mamrie Hart Page B
Authors: Mamrie Hart
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honor somewhere in a storage unit.
’80s Prom Kickball
Sometimes you just have to take the things you love most, smash them together, and see if it works. In the case of my twenty-third birthday, those things were kickball and ’80s prom dresses. Don’t think it makes sense? I’m sure the first person who combined peanut butter and bacon got some crazy looks from their friends. And on your birthday, of all times, why not combine two things you love while also making people bring you gifts and sing you “Happy Birthday”? It’s an unbeatable idea. Other combination parties that I could have based on this theory would be:
1. White Wine and Watching Reruns of
How I Met Your Mother
2. Making Crafts and Eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
3. Champagne and Shopping for Candles Online
4. Spanish Tapas and Swiffering
5. Margaritas and Masturbating
The greatest part about unlikely combo birthdays are all the looks you get from passersby. Take a moment to imagine walking through a park: the dogs, the joggers, the two dozen drunk adults playing an intense game of kickball in taffeta (which can be extremely chafing, FYI).
When all was said and done, our drunk
Footloose
-looking asses poured into a karaoke bar. Karaoke! One more thing that I love added to this birthday. Unlike my first night in New York, this karaoke session didn’t end with a chipped tooth. It did, however, end up with us being kicked out of the bar as I wore a hot pink cummerbund like Rambo.
Ninja Night
At this point you’ve heard of my eccentric birthdays and thought,
Okay, I get it, those parties were in your twenties. You’re allowed to bean idiot.
To that I say, hold on to your panties. Because my thirtieth birthday was the cream of the crop. *
When it came time to plan my three-oh, I knew I had to step it up. None of this child’s play of dressing up in sequins or dancing to “Y.M.C.A.” Hell naw. This was the first time people could legitimately give me “over the hill” cards, or a cane with a horn on it. I was over the hill and all about the thrills. So I decided I was going to have a Gun Party!
Okay, before you go all long-winded political Facebook post on me, I don’t mean real guns. These were pellet guns; they couldn’t do that much damage. I know, because I’ve been shot in the ass with one as punishment for losing a game, and it didn’t break the skin. *
This shoot-out party was going to be one for the books. The only downside was that I was super busy at the time and needed some help. I knew the exact right person for the job: Topless Tuesday cofounder Melissa. You might recognize her from stories in this book that end with me being either half-naked or on drugs. She is the type of woman who goes fountain jumping naked in L.A. and regularly attends monster truck rallies, a girl you could call on a Sunday to see what she’s up to and hear, “Not much. I ate a weed brownie and saw a show by myself at a marionette theater. What are you up to?” A word of advice, if you have a friend like this, your wild card: She is the
perfect
person to throw you a birthday party. Relinquish all control and just hand her a guest list.
We held the party at our friend Ryan’s warehouse. Ryan owns a prop shop, which is basically a huge warehouse where he builds crazy shit for commercials. From the outside, there isn’t much to look at: a random brick warehouse with a chain-link fence and acouple of cars parked outside. It looks like any typical canning factory or place for a murder, but on the inside it’s
heaven
.
To paint you a dusty picture, one time when I was leaving Ryan’s after a cookout he told me to watch out for the pack of wild Chihuahuas. I laughed and thought what a cute visual wild Chihuahuas would be. After all, I am the owner of a Mexican Hairless named Beanz.
Don’t readjust your contacts. No, that is not the slow hyena from The Lion King. That is my four-pound best friend.
Can you imagine being chased by a pack of
’80s Prom Kickball
Sometimes you just have to take the things you love most, smash them together, and see if it works. In the case of my twenty-third birthday, those things were kickball and ’80s prom dresses. Don’t think it makes sense? I’m sure the first person who combined peanut butter and bacon got some crazy looks from their friends. And on your birthday, of all times, why not combine two things you love while also making people bring you gifts and sing you “Happy Birthday”? It’s an unbeatable idea. Other combination parties that I could have based on this theory would be:
1. White Wine and Watching Reruns of
How I Met Your Mother
2. Making Crafts and Eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
3. Champagne and Shopping for Candles Online
4. Spanish Tapas and Swiffering
5. Margaritas and Masturbating
The greatest part about unlikely combo birthdays are all the looks you get from passersby. Take a moment to imagine walking through a park: the dogs, the joggers, the two dozen drunk adults playing an intense game of kickball in taffeta (which can be extremely chafing, FYI).
When all was said and done, our drunk
Footloose
-looking asses poured into a karaoke bar. Karaoke! One more thing that I love added to this birthday. Unlike my first night in New York, this karaoke session didn’t end with a chipped tooth. It did, however, end up with us being kicked out of the bar as I wore a hot pink cummerbund like Rambo.
Ninja Night
At this point you’ve heard of my eccentric birthdays and thought,
Okay, I get it, those parties were in your twenties. You’re allowed to bean idiot.
To that I say, hold on to your panties. Because my thirtieth birthday was the cream of the crop. *
When it came time to plan my three-oh, I knew I had to step it up. None of this child’s play of dressing up in sequins or dancing to “Y.M.C.A.” Hell naw. This was the first time people could legitimately give me “over the hill” cards, or a cane with a horn on it. I was over the hill and all about the thrills. So I decided I was going to have a Gun Party!
Okay, before you go all long-winded political Facebook post on me, I don’t mean real guns. These were pellet guns; they couldn’t do that much damage. I know, because I’ve been shot in the ass with one as punishment for losing a game, and it didn’t break the skin. *
This shoot-out party was going to be one for the books. The only downside was that I was super busy at the time and needed some help. I knew the exact right person for the job: Topless Tuesday cofounder Melissa. You might recognize her from stories in this book that end with me being either half-naked or on drugs. She is the type of woman who goes fountain jumping naked in L.A. and regularly attends monster truck rallies, a girl you could call on a Sunday to see what she’s up to and hear, “Not much. I ate a weed brownie and saw a show by myself at a marionette theater. What are you up to?” A word of advice, if you have a friend like this, your wild card: She is the
perfect
person to throw you a birthday party. Relinquish all control and just hand her a guest list.
We held the party at our friend Ryan’s warehouse. Ryan owns a prop shop, which is basically a huge warehouse where he builds crazy shit for commercials. From the outside, there isn’t much to look at: a random brick warehouse with a chain-link fence and acouple of cars parked outside. It looks like any typical canning factory or place for a murder, but on the inside it’s
heaven
.
To paint you a dusty picture, one time when I was leaving Ryan’s after a cookout he told me to watch out for the pack of wild Chihuahuas. I laughed and thought what a cute visual wild Chihuahuas would be. After all, I am the owner of a Mexican Hairless named Beanz.
Don’t readjust your contacts. No, that is not the slow hyena from The Lion King. That is my four-pound best friend.
Can you imagine being chased by a pack of
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