Gorgonzola In My Gucci

I realize the title of this post sounds like a sick sexual innuendo but calm your boners… I am not even sure what this article is about but it seemed super funny last night. Shut up. Yesterday I hit a new low point. I don’t offer up these morsels of truth lightly and was forced into the realization that I’m slowly but surely becoming my grandmother. For the record she is next level fabulous and my favorite human being ever. She also requires that even standard t-shirts be steamed and travel in garment bags and averages 3 send backs per restaurant visit all while lovingly stroking the waiters arm and referring to them as “babe”. She can get away with just about anything and I admire that.

I don’t know if it happened all at once or after slowly testing the waters and having it come so naturally went balls deep. The key to being a high maintenance bitch is doing it all in a really overly nice self-deprecating manner and with enough persistence that people will eventually succumb just to get rid of you.  So my boo and I headed to Palm Springs to celebrate my birthday, drink a shit ton of blended drinks, get a tan and hang out with the gays poolside. Heaven.

After moving rooms 3 times (the first didn’t have enough natural light, the second had bad energy and the third was the last available) we settled in and I did my standard post check-in run through. Robes? Check. View? Check. Small children adjacent? Check. FUCK. I don’t want to sound like a she-devil but small children can be such a buzzkill. I would love to say I am someone who finds all children precious… I don’t. I headed to the pool and was welcomed by a tidal wave from some little screaming bastard who was at least 11 years old with water wings, a scuba mask and a fucking cast (unsanitary) cannon-balling into the pool #birthcontrol. His mother looked on in her trucker hat and Coors Light, “Tim don’t forget the bathroom is just over there.” Basically proclaiming her meatball shit of a son was not only infecting the waters with his open flesh but also had an inclining to pee in the pool. Something feels wrong about putting a water wing on a casted arm right? Put little Timmy back in his cage.

I called the waiter over and ordered an adult beverage asap “light on the mix, heavy on the pour *wink”. This has a 50/50 success rate. After chugging my drink, asking the waiter if they could turn up the music to drone out the shrill sound of children, had any hypoallergenic sunscreen I could borrow and if they had an adult only pool (am I an adult?) I knew it was time to vacate. I have never had a near death experience but I was pretty sure my waiter was one request away of shanking me. Feeling his hate vibes I decided I had wreaked enough havoc and retreated back to my room to get ready for dinner. I got in my robe and realized I was having a wild craving for a blue cheese martini. What like you haven’t had that craving? Instantly I started dialing local restaurants “Hi! Sorry I know this seems strange but do you guys have blue cheese stuffed olives?” After 3 disappointing phone calls, I decided to take matters into my own hands like a boss ass bitch. “Babe I’ll be right back!” “Where are you going?” “Um… just going to check out the fire exit routes. Be back in a jiffer!!”

I headed to the on site restaurant at my hotel with a clear mission. As I approached the hostess, I tried to evoke my best girl next door with a warm heart and friendly smile essence. “Hi Jessica, I know this sounds absurd. Is there anyway I could just get a small side of blue cheese crumbles to go? It’s part of my paleo diet…” I don’t even know where that came from #noshame. “Sure! One sec.” I fucking love Jessica. It was then that I returned to my hotel room and began stuffing my own olives. I wrapped them in a salvaged piece of plastic wrap and hid my gorgonzola garnish in my Gucci bag. Because that’s so fucking normal…

We headed to an Italian restaurant, I radiated the scent of cheese and no matter how I tried to mask it I was one pungent pain in the ass princess. I immediately ordered my cocktail and swapped out my pimento stuffed with my homemade garnish with the finesse of a true bitch. My boyfriend looked at me horrified. I am a boundary pusher by default but this was a new low. What’s more bizarre is I found this in no way strange. “What? I wanted blue cheese stuffed olives in my drink. Fuck off.” It was then that the waiter came over and looked down at my drink like he just birthed a transgender. He was so confused, I awkwardly laughed and told him I had brought my own blue cheese olives. “Haha! My manager told me someone had called about that earlier. You’re nuts!” Excuse me? Shit he was totally right. Am I a desperate control freak or just a complete pain in the ass? How long have I been getting away with this? This may have been my high maintence breaking point but the beauty of this downward spiral is my inherent resourcefulness and will to meet my high expectations. Right? Well fuck. No shame in my game….  This is what we call a glass half full approach to life, my glass just happened to be filled with vodka (and blue cheese stuffed olives).

Not ready for this jelly.

Not ready for this jelly.

Bitch Bible Lesson: When life hands you regular martini olives, bring your own Gorgonzola and stuff them yourself. #deepthoughts



2 thoughts on “Gorgonzola In My Gucci

  1. Beth says:

    Hilarious! And your grandmother sounds like the SHIT!!! I love hearing about her “antics” !!
    And really, who DOESNT want to eat, drink, whatever they want but just don’t have the balls to make it happen! #ballsybitch #Gucciencasedolive

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