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The morning after

2 Nov

I want to vomit and I want to die. Though not necessarily in that order. Long night of drinking turns into a long day of cocktail flu. Swore up and down I wouldn’t drink that much and wouldn’t stay out too late.

Four cocktails and two beers later I looked at the clock and noticed it was past 1:00 in the morning. Guess I was wrong. Thank god I didn’t order one last round at 1:30. Can only imagine how amazing having my stomach pumped would feel.

But we had such a magical and romantic time. He spent hours talking about his wife, and how if she ever cheated he’d leave her, and how he knew they’d be together forever, and how lucky they both felt to have found one another, and how much he loved their new baby. Really romantic. And then there was that awesome time when we were at the bar and our legs accidentally touched so he totally readjusted himself and moved as far away as possible without actually changing seats. It was great.

I want to vomit.  And die.

And then make out with him.  But not necessarily in that order.

My liver’s not what it used to be

24 Oct

Here’s what I learned after my reunion with my friend from college on Monday: I’m too old to be going out on a Monday.  Three beers – with a very high alcohol content – knocked me on my old ass on Tuesday.  As a matter of fact, it’s quite possible that I’m still drunk right now.  Yes, I know it’s two days later, and yes, it’s possibly related to the fact that I had another beer today.

Sunday night it seemed like a good idea to go drinking.  Monday afternoon it seemed stupid.  Monday night it was an amazingly awesome idea.  Tuesday morning I cursed myself while dragging my ass into work.  Tuesday night I was so happy to go to sleep. And tonight going out seemed like a smart plan.

Will let you know how it all plays out tomorrow.  If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m too drunk to type…until Friday night when I’ll be in my pajamas by 5:30 and will be in bed shortly thereafter.

Getting old is super lame.

The Easter Bunny Can Suck It

9 Apr

Day after Easter and there’s no Easter candy to be found at my house.  No hollow chocolate bunnies.  No Reese’s peanut butter eggs.  No jelly beans.  No damn peeps.  Nothing.  Not a damn sugary tasty bit of goodness.  Why?  Because I was robbed.  Somewhere along the way life took over and decided that I was too old for Easter baskets.

That, my friends, is a chocolate covered load of bunny crap.

Next year I want an Easter basket piled high with stuffed animals, and too much candy.

Know what the Easter bunny did bring me on Easter Sunday?  A gift that made me repent for all my sins – and I’m an Atheist (shocking, I know).  A gift that made me want to bury my head in my hands and cry, or vomit, or vomit and then cry.  That’s right, I had a hangover on Christmas.  I’d like to blame my brother-in-law for that.  No, he didn’t force the red wine down my throat – but it’s his fault there wasn’t something more suitable to my liking at his house.

Note to self: never drink red wine again.  Ever.

Nothing like hanging out at mom’s house while trying to get the house to stop spinning and praying to the sweet baby Jebus that you don’t vomit all over the Easter ham in front of your niece and nephew.

I’m Getting Old

1 Apr

There can be no other explanation for it.  None what so ever.  Sure, the fact that we started drinking in the afternoon could have something to do with it, but that’s just a lame excuse.  It was the lights at the club that were making me dizzy.  Like and old person.  An old person who hit a wall and had to leave the bar at 11:15 on a Saturday night because the lights were making her dizzy and the music was too loud.

Did they have to turn the volume THAT high?  Do you need to feel the music thumping in your bones?  Couldn’t they turn it down a little bit and then maybe stop with the crazy light shows?  Those were the thoughts going through my head last night when I was out with my friends.  Along with, why would she wear something like that?  Who does he think he’s kidding with that hair? And my favorite, why on God’s green earth is Claude drinking bourbon on the rocks?

Lame.  I am officially lame.

Claude and The Producer came all the way from DC to hang out with me and I was very busy being lame.  We spent the day drinking, eating, and walking all over town so Claude could find shoes.  We then proceeded to play that little game called, “I really like the first pair of shoes that I tried on, but lets walk all over town, and then come right back to this store.”  Super times.  Whatever, it was an excuse to take a break from our drinking.

Two cocktails, a glass of champagne, two more cocktails, two more glasses of champagne, and two big margaritas made me lame yesterday.  By the time 10:30 rolled around there was nothing I wanted more than to rest my head on a pillow and pass the fuck out.  Meanwhile, we’re sitting at a bar and I had just asked Jersey Belle and Oingo Boingo to come hang out with us.  So they get there, but no one can talk to anyone because it’s too fucking loud and the lights are making me want to vomit.

So what did I do?  I left their asses at 11:15 so I could drive 45 minutes to get home and go to sleep.  God forbid I’m still awake past midnight on a Saturday.

When did I become that person?  What happened to the days of staying out until dawn, waking up at 2:00 in the afternoon the next day, and doing it all again?  I miss those days.

Black Label

13 Jan

I love happy hour. And I love half priced drinks and hanging out with friends. It’s fun! Plus it keeps me from being on my couch all night, clearing out my DVR, and wishing I had simeyhib better to do.

I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to suggest doing shots of Johnnie Walker black label last night. Nor do I remember why, after my friends said they didn’t want to, I bought a round anyway then yelled at them to do it.

Happy hour is awesome. Hangover at work the next day is not. It’s like hooking up with someone and thinking maybe you shouldn’t do it, then waking up the next morning and hating yourself for doing it.

An Important Question for All Humanity

25 Jun

Why in God’s name is there no wine or cheap alcohol in my sister’s house?  How can one be expected to take care of small children if there’s no booze around?  I’m not going to have the patience to deal with them if I don’t deaden my nerves with at least one cocktail.  One VERY strong cocktail.

Little bastards are running me ragged.

Won’t someone take pity on me and bring me a frozen drink with a little umbrella in it?

Klass Act: On the Road

15 May

On Saturday I traveled up to New York City with a few of my girlfriends.  Nothing says, “klassy” like being drunk by 11:30.  We are awesome.  Far more awesome, I should add, than the bathroom at the Macy’s in Hearald Square.  Good lord almighty, is that place a shithole.  Literally.  Walking in there was like walking into a sauna – that smelled like baby powder.  And poop.  Let me tell you something, the last thing a girl wants when she gets off a freaking New Jersey Transit train is to be in a powdery-poop smelling sauna.  No good.

The best part, by far, was when the five of us had a drunk lunch at Tom Colicchio’s (from “Top Chef”) Craftbar.  We easily spent 20 minutes discussing the merits of Tom Colicchio’s balls.  His risotto balls.  Foxy Luv went so far as to offer our waiter to go into the kitchen and thank “Mr. Colicchio” (as she called him) for his “moist and delicious balls.”  The waiter was not amused.  Though Foxy threatened to flip the table a la Real Housewives of New Jersey style, we were able to calm her down with promises of another drinks.

I too did my part in keeping it klassy.  Sure, I may not have shouted about balls and offered Tom Colicchio a ball rub, but I did manage to steal two little signs for the handicap bathroom.  Yeah, that’s right.  I said it.  Because you just never know when you’re going to need a “no smoking” or “employees must wash hands” sign for your guests.