Thursday, December 22, 2011

Mother F’ing Ravioli Night

Since I haven’t been in much of a festive mood this year, I decided to force myself into holiday joviality by drinking. A lot. A real lot. Basically, I’ve been bombed two weekends in a row, with plans to make it a trifecta of drunkenness this weekend.

Two weekends ago, Captain Carl decided to have a ravioli dinner party at the house. His cool aunt was here along with her son, his girlfriend, my brother-in-law, Mailman Mike, and his girlfriend. If you knew this family, then you would know this was a recipe for insane amounts of alcoholic beverages and amazing food.

The Captain began preparations Saturday morning by MAKING HIS OWN RAVIOLI DOUGH. Oh yes…homemade pasta. It is as fantastic as it sounds, but let me tell you the downside of homemade pasta. The mess. Ohmygod the mess. See the Captain doesn’t just cook. He explodes. The kitchen is torn apart for even a simple meal for just the two of us. It puts me on edge to watch him. He says I’m too obsessive about things being neat and tidy. He is probably right. But still…gah.

Imagine the kind of mess making your own dough creates. Now multiple that by 50 and you’ll get the state of my kitchen that Saturday. Luckily for everyone involved, I had an appointment to get my hair cut that morning. So the Captain made his dough while I was gone. His aunt tried to keep up with the clean up so that I wouldn’t have a coronary when I got home. Have I mentioned how much I love her? So it wasn’t too bad when I got back. A little messy, but nothing I couldn’t handle.

Since I know my husband, I knew the mess was going to get worse before it got better. I decided to start drinking. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.

Best. Idea. Ever.

His aunt made us pomegranate martinis. Have I mentioned how much I love her? By this time, Mailman Mike and his girlfriend had arrived and they joined in on the drinking.

I forgot to mention that I had agreed to judge Christmas lights in our neighborhood for our HOA contest that night. For some reason, the Captain decided he should not drink because something something the only sober person in the house blah blah blah a bunch of drunk asses.

Flash forward to 5:30 and I’ve had six martinis, aka 9.5 shots of vodka, and I’m completed smashed. Mailman Mike has drank who the hell knows how many glasses of wine/rum/whiskey. The Captain's aunt and Mike's girlfriend look to be quite tipsy. It was a loud, obnoxious get-together. Every 10 minutes, one of us would get mad at someone for whatever drunk people get mad about and I would yell “Mother fucking ravioli night!!” for some reason. I have no idea why.

But because I was so sloshed, I had not been paying any attention to what was going on in the kitchen. The Captain had been busy working in there all afternoon making sauce, rolling out the little ravioli’s, etc. By about 6:00, I wandered into the kitchen and saw through my drunken haze what appeared to be every single mixing bowl, pot and pan strewn around the counters. This would normally give me a mild panic attack and I would have to get in there and start cleaning. But instead I just yelled “OMG I have to take a picture of this! Mother fucking ravioli night!”.

So we ate and it was amazing and totally worth the mess. Then we cleaned up the kitchen and headed out to judge Christmas lights. All 7 of us in one SUV. This meant the Captain's cousin and his girlfriend had to half sit, half lay down in the back cargo area of the vehicle. I sat in the backseat with Mailman Mike and his girlfriend. Mailman Mike and I were still completely drunk.

So. Imagine how awesome the Christmas light judging went. Especially for everyone else in the car who had to listen to the two drunk asses yelling out their windows “Not good enough!” and “Seriously, a giant snow globe? How unoriginal!” and “It’s like you’re not even TRYING!” at the houses that were lit up.

I had a fucking great time. The Captain, however, did not. He was tired from cooking all day and completely sober. So I guess he didn’t find it as funny as I did when Mailman Mike started singing Carol of the Bells in a falsetto with his own lyrics.

Here come the bells
Gay silver bells

See all the bells

Gay silver bells

And I guess he especially didn’t find it funny when Mailman Mike suggested that he could play the baby Jesus in the nativity scene on one person’s lawn and I yelled “Do it! Get out! Take off your clothes!”. Captain Carl was all “Knock it off, Marcy” and I was all “What? We’re having fun.” and he was all “Just STOP.”

Party pooper.

I found out later that he drove around the rest of the neighborhood with his finger on the door lock button.

Needless to say, I had a hangover the next morning. But hot damn did I have a good time.

Mother fucking ravioli night!

p.s. Merry Christmas, y'all. I won't be writing again before the 25th on account of celebrating with the Captain's family and most likely getting drunk again. A lot. A whole lot.


Bridget said...

I was expecting the kitchen photo! We need the evidence!

Eva Gallant said...

just don't drive! lol

Gia said...

Hahaha wow. Yes, we need the kitchen photo. Also, homemade ravioli and martinis? What a festival of deliciousness!

Mrs BC said...

Sounds like the best night ever! I would like to see that kitchen photo. Can I also please have Captain Carls recipe?
Merry Christmas to you & your lovely family x

Anonymous said...

Captain Carl is quite the saint to be willing to spend all day cooking whilst others get wasted. Totally jealous of your day/night/babysitter!

I too, would like to see a photo.

Mel Spillman artwork said...

Indeed, kitchen photo please :) or some vodka drunk photos of you eating ravioli!

Ed said...

Merry Christmas!


Dr. Cynicism said...

Ravioli, pomegranate martinis, and hilarity. I need to start partying with you guys...

kyouell said...

Jealous, totally jealous. The last time I was totally smashed I found out I was pregnant the next week. I was a bad mom already! I guess I've been doing penance since then. My god that kid is 6-1/2 years old. Mama should be allowed to get her drunk on once every 7 years, donchathink? I smell a New Year's Eve party for one coming on!

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