Weekend Update Part Two: "Sure I'll Drink That!" Edition
Be sure to read Part One first.Saturday was spent lying on the couch with Bradshaw, watching season two of Project Runway on DVD and chatting about what lazy bums we are. I finally showered and got ready for the party we were obligated to attend around seven, wearing my hair curly* with a ribbon headband and my shoulders bared. We left my apartment at around ten with intentions of being back around midnight.
That didn’t happen.
When we arrived at the party, Stretch was there. We began chatting and then she did it: She reached in her purse and pulled out a pint of 100 proof Hot Damn.
Let me explain something to you: I didn’t drink much in high school. One of the only times I did, it was a night when I drank, separately, Hot Damn, Jack Daniels Down Home Punch, and a tiny bit of Skyy vodka. Since then, I’ve loved the hot, cinnamon-y taste.
Stretch and I alternately took sips from the bottle, occasionally passing it to a third party momentarily. It was at this point that I extended Friday’s “Grab Ass Night” into “Grab Ass Weekend.” Anyone I saw that I knew got a pinch or a pat and I certainly wasn’t shy about it.
Before we knew it, the Hot Damn was gone, and Bradshaw was getting ready to leave. I had intended to go with her, but I was a little drunk and having fun, so I found Dread and asked if he would be willing to take me home when he left. He agreed, Bradshaw left, and the evening continued.
Nametag arrived, wearing a tie and drinking cheap chardonnay straight from the bottle, which I took and began to sip.** Stretch and I went crazy with the camera and there are photos of every memorable moment of the evening.
When Dread decided to leave around three, Stretch and I went with him. When we got to my apartment, she crashed on the couch and was asleep almost immediately, pushing me out of my own living room and away from both computer and television—my preferred means of sobering up before going to sleep. When I go to sleep drunk, I tend to wake up dizzy, which is no fun. To prevent this, I took a bag of Baked Ruffles and a glass of water into my bedroom and began to read a fictional account of the beheading of Anne Boleyn. Yes, I read a book while drunk in a vain attempt to sober up. I fell asleep too quickly though, and Sunday morning was a dizzying affair.
I am not drinking that much this weekend.
*My hair is super-straight. Despite an hour in hot rollers, blasts with the cool setting of my blow dryer, and lots of hairspray, the curls were totally gone by about one.**Someone managed to get a rather hilarious photo of this, but I didn't notice.Labels: alcohol, updates
Weekend Update Part 1: "Sure I'll Drink That!" Edition
Separate updates are necessary for Friday and Saturday night because quite a lot seems to have happened. Or maybe I just want to draw it out. Either way, here’s Friday night’s recap.
Friday night was Tall Girl’s birthday party, and there had been plans for Senor Jose and me to attend for quite some time. As a party preparation, Bradshaw organized a group dinner. And, before we get started, on with the introductions:
Bradshaw: If you don’t know her by now, you haven’t read enough of the blog. Read more.
Dread: Big, articulate, psychology-majoring football player. Acts as my bodyguard whenever necessary.
Tall Girl: The birthday girl, and we love her.
Nametag: Because he wears one all the time, for whatever reason. A somewhat melancholy connoisseur of weed and wine.
Racer Boy: He was pretty quiet, but still in attendance.
Stretch: My new favorite person, a volleyball player who we’ll see again later.
While driving to the restaurant with Bradshaw, I was hit with a realization about this ridiculous group of friends: They are the most incestuous group of friends I’ve seen since my days in Small Town High School. Some examples:
Bradshaw, Stretch, and Tall Girl each had a physical encounter with Dread within a two week period, before the girls ever met each other. Bradshaw has a crush on Stretch’s younger brother. Racer Boy has a crush on both Stretch and Tall Girl. I have a teeny crush on Racer Boy (though I’ll never admit it to anyone outside the blogosphere). Tall Girl, Bradshaw, and I have each crushed on Nametag. Tall Girl has made out with him. Dread has been a jackass this week, so Bradshaw and I were both avoiding being too close to him.
Despite all of that previous baggage and potential weirdness, there was none. Stretch and I chatted a bit to get to know each other better. Nametag exclaimed over the combination of cheap margarita and his “crazy” nachos.* Everyone snarked at each other in an affectionate way. There was good-natured teasing of the fabulous waitress. We made a nearby bartender crack up. It was fun, even if it wasn’t anything spectacular.
Back at Tall Girl’s apartment, her roommates had been preparing for our arrival with music and lots of clean glasses. One very strong tequila and OJ later, I was agreeing (why
why why?!) to take a shot of
Ketel One—and I hate vodka. It was at about this point that I dubbed it “Grab Ass Night” and decided that the fondling of the posterior regions of friends and strangers alike was fabulously appropriate. There was dancing to bad music, tasting of other’s drinks,** and the
task of getting rid of unwanted party guests.
I was sipping my second drink when Stretch and I started chatting with a group of mutual friends. When I learned that she was a girl who could shoot tequila, she became my new favorite person. Of course, we had to seal the new friendship with the aforementioned tequila shot.
Let’s pause briefly to recall Lightweight-Nic’s alcohol intake up to this point: an approximate total of six tequila shots, one straight and five mixed; a shot of admittedly not terrible vodka; and various sips and tastes of various friends’ drinks.
Stretch and I were discussing our height difference (she’s 6’1”, I’m 4’10”) and how annoying it was that I couldn’t see anyone across the room in the crowded apartment. She suggested that I get on her shoulders to get a better view and I jokingly agreed. Before I fully realized what was happening, I was flashing back to high school cheerleading as a male cheerleader was lifting me up to sit on her shoulders. I could finally see across the room.
I found myself at one point in the kitchen with two boys, one straight whom I had just met and a gay friend. Both were asking for kisses, one serious and one joking. Because I was drunk and am always a bitch, I placed a chase kiss on the cheek of the straight boy and a friendly smooch on the lips of the gay friend, then flounced away as drunk females are want to do.
This is where the evening began to go downhill. I am blaming my transformation from pleasantly tipsy to drunk on beer pong. This apartment is notorious for the beer pong (or liquor pong, as the case may be), and Friday night was no exception. I don’t usually play (because my aim sucks), but a friend asked me to take her place because she was starting to feel sick. I was tipsy enough to agree and quickly learned that I have absolutely no depth perception when I drink.*** After a few throws and drinking cups totaling about half a beer, I walked away wordlessly, deciding for myself that it was time to stop drinking.
I voluntarily poured out the last quarter of my drink (lamenting the wastefulness), rinsed out my glass (because I am a polite guest), and went to mingle with the rapidly dwindling crowd. It wasn’t long before Bradshaw and I decided to head home and walked the two-and-a-half blocks to my apartment, both of us making fun of my absolute inability to walk anything resembling a straight line. After a bowl of Easy Mac (the best drunken college student food ever invented) and two glasses of water, I fell into my bed. I decided that I wasn’t going to drink as much at Saturday night’s kegger that we were obligated to attend.
I lied.
*Nametag has decided that he needs to bring more exclamation points into his life, so the crazy nachos comment always came with lots of enthusiasm.
**I learned that I don’t like gin any more than I like vodka, Crown Royal is overrated, and I still don’t like beer.
***I absolutely refuse to drink and drive, not just because it’s illegal but because I feel that it is extremely negligent and, quite frankly, stupid. This experience validated my decision.Labels: alcohol, updates
Musings of the Crazies*
Earlier this evening, Bradshaw and I were watching Bravo's newest clone reality show,
Top Design, discussing the almost painful level of gay we were seeing from the men on the show. I was suddenly struck by a thought. "You know," I said, "I bet if we were lesbians, we could date for at least a year or two without killing each other."
She looked at me thoughtfully. "Yeah, but I bet we would fight a lot."
"But they'd be hot sexy fights," I countered. "And then there would be the makeup sex!"
"Hooray!" She paused and made a sad face. "Wait, no penis."
"We're lesbians in this fantasy!" I reminded her.
She laughed, then looked at me again. "Did we really just have a lesbian fantasy together?"
"I think we did."
"You know your friendship has reached a new level when you're having lesbian fantasies together," she said wryly.
"Indeed."
*I have dubbed the pair of us "the Crazies."Labels: Bradshaw
Wedding Bell Blues
This weekend, I attended the wedding of a high school friend. Putting aside the fact that marrying at twenty-one seems ludicrous to me and exactly how awkward it was to be one of only three guests from our graduating class (and the only female)*, I realized something interesting:
I want to have a wedding.
No, I have no desire to be married yet. I need to find someone that I can stand to be around for more than a few hours before that happens. Hell, forget that, I just need to find someone that I can be comfortable sharing my bed with.** however, the idea of planning a wedding and being the bride—basically a princess for a day—is very appealing.
I want all of the moments that lead up to it. I want a romantic proposal with a two-carat,
princess-cut diamond solitaire (set in platinum, of course). I want a bachelorette party full of friends, margaritas, and laughter. I want to choose my wedding party and plan a wintry, sparkly New Year’s Eve wedding. I want a wedding planner, dress fittings, cake tastings, and the opportunity to choose my ideal style of veil. I want a white dress with beading and crystals, a tasteful train, fitted bodice, and flatteringly flared skirt. I want my wedding party dressed in deep, rich red, carrying small bouquets of white roses, and the groomsmen with gunmetal gray vests and red roses in their lapels. I want my mom in clothes she’ll love: black pants and a red button-down shirt. I want to walk down the aisle to the wedding march, holding my dad’s arm and a bouquet of red roses as all of my friends and family watch me, the radiant bride.
I want to leave the church under showers of sparkling fake snow—and if it’s really snowing, all the better. I want a fun reception, whether it’s formal or casual. I want to toast with sweet champagne—because I don’t enjoy fancy dry champagne—drunk out of crystal flutes with our wrists intertwined. I want to cut the cake—oh, the cake. I haven’t decided on the specifics, but it
will be multi-tiered, it will be winter white brushed with iridescent powder, and it may or may not have roses on it. I do know that it won’t be chocolate, it will be delicious, and the top tier will be frozen for our first anniversary.
Once we finish the stiff, deliberate things, the reception will be a big party with candles and music and dancing. A dollar dance, a father-daughter dance, the maid of honor and best man getting tipsy and doing a dance bordering on inappropriate.
I want to toss a bouquet (of course, not my ceremony bouquet, but a smaller, sturdier one) and watch Bradshaw step away while my other friends tussle over it. My new husband will pull off my garter, trimmed in red rather than blue. I want to watch the ring bearer fall asleep at the table just before midnight, and at midnight there will be a countdown, kisses, toasts, and then we, the happy couple, will leave the party for our honeymoon—which, no doubt, will be somewhere tropical and relaxing.
So who is the man in my nuptual fantasy? At the moment, it's Kasey Kahne, but that changes pretty regularly and includes Brad Pitt, who is old enough to be my father, and the ever-delicious Matt Czuchry
At this point in my life, these ideas are simply party plans, plans that neglect to focus on the actual importance of the party—the marriage and the life together that comes after the honeymoon is over. I am mature enough to recognize these and I’m certainly not ready to be married. I’m having fun being single, not to mention all the issues I have left over from quasi-relationships past. I’m fairly certain that I’m not alone in my desire to plan and have this big party while ignoring the inevitable aftermath. Rampant divorce rates may be partially attributed to this. But hey, a girl can dream, right?
*This was awkward, especially considering that one of the guys in attendance was the bride’s ex-boyfriend. I didn’t realize that I was her only close friend from high school—especially considering that I never really thought of her as a close friend.
**Get your mind out of the gutter, I mean sleeping. I hate it when people watch me sleep, therefore I can’t sleep around someone that I don’t trust fairly well.
***Kudos to whoever can cite the source of this post's title.
Labels: everyday musings, my insanity
