ANYWAY, after my interesting Friday night, I again put my big girl panties on (around 2 PM) and got ready to head out to a pub crawl they were having over near Wrigley. It was for charity! And I’m all about drinking beer for charity! Or for any reason!

We had an OK time, but the pub crawl was crowded and the bars on Southport aren’t really big enough to support a pub crawl. So we ditched it about three bars in and went to a local neighborhood bar. Where we played pool and got colored in chalk. We left there and hopped to another bar and ate pizza from some stranger’s party and then left. We ended up at the craziest dive bar I’ve been to in my life. And I’ve been to some doozys!

This bar is actually closer to my house on the North side. My friend Melissa had read about it and wanted to try it out. She said it was an Eastern European bar. And I was all “whatever that means.” I will never say that again in my life.

We first walked in and the place is small and pitch black. I don’t think there are any lights in there at all. We take a seat at the bar, which is more like a chin rest because it comes up that high. It was like being a little kid at the bar! Complete with bendy straws in our drinks!

I’m pretty sure we were the only people in there who spoke English as a first language. There was some woman singing (karaoke?) in a different language. And there were people sitting around tables, intently listening to her (or staring at us).

My friends got up to go to the restroom and the bartender handed me a plastic cup filled with water and told me that I can smoke in there, but just to drop the ashes in the cup. I don’t smoke, but my two friends do, and let me tell you, they were over the moon! I kind of was too because they go out to smoke and then I have to sit at the bar alone and Twitter. Now we could all be together! Huzzah for bars who break the law!

When they were in the bathroom, I also noticed a few kids. I was a bit out of it since we had been drinking since about 3 and it was, at that point, after 10. So we commented on the fact that there were kids! IN A BAR! You have a baby! IN A BAR!

And then the little one, who couldn’t have been more than 5, got up to go sing! In a bar! At 11 PM!

Right before we left, some man came up and gave us each a flower, a single carnation each. To remember our night at this bar, I guess. All I know is we’re SO going back!

(Flower squished because it has been sitting under a pile of crap on the counter since Saturday night.)

So tell me, do you have any good dive bar stories? Because I probably have enough for a weekly feature!

On Friday night my friend Lara was having a get together for her birthday. I spent the day whining to anyone who would listen because I am OLD and going out at 9 PM on a Friday night is HARD! And then my friend Melissa was like “suck it up, you fool! You need to get out of your Grandma funk! PUT ON YOUR BIG GIRL PANTIES!”

So I did. I kept myself busy when I got home from work on Friday evening. I made sure that I didn’t take a nap because if I had taken a nap, I would have been down for the count. I made coffee and added some Bailey’s to it. And I love Lara and she helped me celebrate my birthday, so the least I could do was suck it up and be a big girl and go out and have a good time.

And boy, howdy, am I glad I did! Because I am apparently a cougar! And I took a nice, YOUNG, 24-year old Irish lad home to my condo! He was the first one I’ve brought back to my new place. AND I HAVE LIVED HERE ALMOST A YEAR NOW!

24. That is almost nine years younger than me! NINE! I nabbed myself a child! A fetus! A cute fetus, though, no?

I should back up a little because it was a pretty interesting night. So Irishman was 24, originally from Ireland and going to law school here, had a very sexy accent, a twinkle in his eye and a baby face. I was immediately attracted because he could have looked like Mickey Rourke and I would have still loved him. I am a SUCKER for an accent.

Anyway, we talked for a chunk of the night. He was so adorable. Like a little brother. He told us Midwestern women intimidate him because we’re so honest and real. I pinched his cheeks. I honestly thought there was nothing more there than chit chat and him putting up with the old lady chatting him up at a bar. Where there were people his own age! Clearly I was not drunk enough to be overconfident.

I think he was pretty drunk. Which, interesting to note, he talked slower, which was better since it is hard to understand an Irish accent sometimes. At one point, his buddy was talking to Lara and he says “so when are we going back to your place?” And then I laughed and laughed and laughed! Mr. Innocent, “oh-Midwestern-women-frighten-me”, was fixin’ to get into my pants. So I did what any immature 32 year old would do, I told Lara and this other dude how Mr. Innocent isn’t really so innocent! And we laughed….

But the Irishman got MAD! He didn’t like that I was ruining his game! What if people start talking? He’ll never hook up with anyone again with his innocent act! So I apologized because he was really upset and had that sad puppy dog look in his twinkling eyes. Sucker. Right here. (points to self.)

And then? He decided he was heading home because he was a little wobbly. So we all said our goodbyes and that was that. One of Lara’s friends was like “did he get your number?” And I’m like “nope. He just flirted with me all night and then left! Silly kids!” Like I mentioned, he was flirty and touchy-touchy, but I honestly didn’t think he was interested.

About 15 minutes later, Irishman came back into the bar. And we were all “he’s baaaack!” He comes over to me and is all “do you know how long I’ve been outside waiting for you?” And I tell him “well, if you’re wanting someone to go with you, you kind of have to SAY something.” Kids. *eye roll*

So we left. He didn’t want to go to his place. I didn’t really want him at my place, since it was not clean. Also, Aunt Flo was in town, so it wasn’t like we were going to be doing much of anything anyway. I told him this much because why should he come all the way up north to my place when he’s not going to be getting any?

He apparently thought he could change my mind. Oh kids, they are so adorable.

We end up making out in the cab. And I’m not drunk enough at this point to be OK with this. Because I’m the Cab Driver Whisperer. And for some reason, this weirds me out. But whatever, I go with the flow. We get to my place. I drink a huge glass of water and ask him if he wants anything. He wants another beer. And I’m reminded, YET AGAIN, that there is a large age difference between us. (Also, I have a pub crawl I have to get up for the next day, so I need to actually be able to get up.)

We sit on the couch and chat for awhile. Until he gets antsy and wants to “go to bed.” So I remind him that all we’re going to be doing is sleeping. Not “sleeping”. He still thinks he’s going to convince me otherwise.

Yada, yada, yada, after some making out and him getting pissed that I won’t “sleep” with him, he tells me he’s going. Because, and I swear I can’t make this up, he has really nice sheets at home. They are Egyptian cotton. And he can’t sleep on my apparently crappy sheets.*

I just laugh. And I call him a cab. He tries unsuccessfully one more time to woo me, to no avail, and then huffs off, literally like stomps out of my place in a huff, and says he’ll just wait outside for the cab no matter how long it takes.

And then I go to bed laughing and think “THIS is why I have a blog. Because I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.”

*Did you all ever see that movie with Brittany Murphy and Dakota Fanning, where Brittany is the nanny and she dates this rock star who makes up a song about her about “sheets of Egyptian cotton”? I’ve had that song in my head all weekend. (Uptown Girls! You can hear the song here!)

I’ve been thinking about a re-design for awhile. I’ve always used one of Wordpress’s free themes and I’ve been itching to have something that is mine, that no one else has. But I didn’t really know any designers, so it was just something I was tossing around. Because as President of The Lazy Club, I’m all about ideas and NO FOLLOW THROUGH.

So one drunken Friday night, Nap Warden mentioned on Twitter that she does designs and we got the ball rolling. She does all the illustrations by hand. I can’t even wear matching socks, so I’m mad impressed with her skills.

She asked me what I was looking for. And I gave her some vague things like “clean” and “not pink” and this is what she came up with! I’m so not creative design-wise (I have learned this through my jobs), but I know when I like something. And thankfully Nap Warden was patient and put up with my constant nitpicking because I liked most of the options, but didn’t love them. Suffice to say, I LOVE this!

So if you’re looking for an original blog design, check out Nap Warden!

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I had planned to tell you all about this on Sunday night, since I was so excited. But I decided to go to a bar for the majority of Sunday to watch football and drink beer. And you would think, at 32 years of age, that I would have figured out by now that day drinking = unproductive evening.

My friends Melissa and Jayme do this every Sunday. After what I went through yesterday, I’m not sure how they don’t call in sick every Monday. They are Queens of Drinking and I am a mere peon when stacked up against them!

I ended up drinking for 7 hours and got home a little after 6 PM (after a cab driver who looked 30, but was really 60, laughed at all my drunk, witty comments) (but didn’t ask for my phone number, thankfully). It was useless to try and get anything done, so I went to bed. At 7 PM. On a Sunday night.

Around midnight I woke up because I was pretty sure my tongue had dried out and that one of the cats had shit in my mouth. Since I went to bed without a) drinking any water or b) brushing my teeth, it was not pretty. I tossed and turned, hoping to get back to bed, but I knew I would be better off if I had some H2O. So I got up, got some water, ate a string cheese, munched on some chips, made my lunch for work and had a glass of milk.

And still didn’t brush my teeth.

So around 4 AM, I had this horrible dream where there was this horrible stench in the air in my apartment. Even in my dream, plugging my nose wouldn’t make it go away. Until I finally woke up and figured I was probably smelling my own stanky breath. And that I had singed all the hair off of Kitty Kitty’s back with my potent halitosis.

One of these days, I will act my age. Or at least learn to PACE myself.

So internet, how was your weekend? Do you like the new look around here?

I love New Orleans. I imagine I now know how people feel about Las Vegas. See, I don’t love Las Vegas. I don’t gamble, so that isn’t fun. I don’t really enjoy the clubs anymore these days, plus I don’t like to pay $20 to get into places. I also like my booze cheap and plentiful, which is impossible in Vegas.

But NOLA, oh NOLA, I heart it so much. I say this after spending four days there at the end of June. When the temperatures were in the mid-90s with like 80% humidity. Even in those temperatures, I still love it. (I also can’t complain about humidity in Chicago anymore because 40% is NOTHING compared to New Orleans.)

I enjoyed myself immensely. I ate well. I tried to see as much as I could in the little time I had. I think I saw and experienced all the city had to offer and I fell in love with it. Although, like Vegas, four days was like one too many and I was ready to get home and let my liver recuperate.

Saturday, once I landed, after standing in the world’s longest line for an airport shuttle, I decided to get some lunch and start exploring the city. I ate lunch at Mother’s (as recommended by Regan) and had a po’boy. It was deee-licious!

After lunch, I traipsed around the French Quarter. I OF COURSE ordered a beer because you can drink on the street there! Even at 2 o’clock in the afternoon! And you’re definitely never drinking alone in this city! THIS IS WHAT ET  MUST HAVE FELT LIKE WHEN HE RETURNED TO HIS SHIP!

I had pre-ordered tickets for the walking tour of the Garden District. I really wanted to be sure I saw that part of New Orleans, and this was the best way to see it all. It was a Haunted tour, which means they showed us the houses that are haunted and told ghost stories. I was afraid it would be cheesy, but it wasn’t. Our tour guide Carla was AWESOME and really loves her job.

And how could you not love walking past houses like this every day?

After the tour, I took a street car back to the hotel and got ready to go to dinner. I went with two of my co-workers and we had a great time. I got my palm read and a tarot card reading (more about that tomorrow) and then we began our Hurricane drinking. Whoever commented that Hurricanes were gross, you were wrong. I know everyone has their own tastes, but fruit juice and lots of booze? SIGN ME UP! And they are potent! They taste like fruit punch. Which is probably why I ended up trying to bump and grind random, unsuspecting dudes at the bar.

Sunday was the start of the trade show, and the reason I was in town. Our booth was near the Careerbuilder booth. On Sunday night, they had Top Chefs cooking at their booth. I spotted them the MINUTE I walked into the convention center and then about pissed myself from excitement.

Thankfully they were all so nice! Even Casey, who I was convinced would be a bitch! And Brian was ADORABLE in person! I forgave him for all those fucking ceviches. AND BLAIS! I actually yelled out BLAIS when I saw him. Clearly, I watch too much damn reality television.

I was so nervous to talk to them, but my co-worker forced me to take my photo with them. I’m so glad she did!

(You can see the rest of my photos here.)

After Sunday night, Careerbuilder had nothing as exciting, except a cute guy named Brendan. Who I stared at inappropriately for a few days. And then Twittered drunkenly about him. Not realizing that Careerbuilder is ON TWITTER. Let’s hope they don’t know how to use the search function.

On Monday night, after an early dinner, I went back to the hotel and realized that sitting in your hotel room at 7:45 PM on your last night in New Orleans was not allowed. So I decided to go out and get some souvenirs for my niece and nephews. And since I just happened to end up at a store down the street from Pat O’Briens, I figured since there was no line, I really had to go in and have an official Hurricane.

While there, I started chatting up the people sitting next to me. One Hurricane and a shot later, I was partying with them on Bourbon Street and having a freaking blast! I ended up drinking way too much, shaking my ass and thanking Twitter for telling me to get my ass out to the French Quarter that night! It was INSANE! Total New Orleans experience!

Before I left town, I made sure to have some beignets from Cafe Du Monde (HOLY CRAP THOSE ARE SO FUCKING GOOD!). And I pretty much decided that my bachelorette party (which according to the psychic will happen one day, and soon) will be held in NOLA. I already found the hotel we’re staying at. Save up now ladies!

And then I realized that the Tony Bennett song is so wrong, I didn’t leave my heart in San Francisco, I left it in NOLA. And I can’t wait to get back there so we can be reunited.

Before I get into the real point of this post, I just had to share that my cat is licking the glue off an envelope right now. He’s been doing it all day. Where the fuck was that kind of help when I was mailing 140 Christmas cards?

Anyway, back before New Year’s Eve, I got a bug up my butt and really wanted to go out. I’m not a big fan of New Year’s because it is usually a big let down because you pay a lot of money and you can’t get to the bar and you’re not as drunk as you should be for forking over all that cash. But for some reason, I was itching to go out this year.

Thankfully, that bug was gone shortly thereafter. I shat him out in the toilet or something. So I ended up spending New Year’s at home with my friend Michelle, my friend wine and a lot of yummy food. We had a great night and it was much better than going out. Plus, Michelle brought her dog over, which freaked the fuck out of my cats. They hid all night, away from the dog, and it was nice not to have them around for once.

So instead of going out on December 31st, I decided that Saturday night would be a good night to go out. It would be cheaper (in theory) and we would still have a kick ass time. I went out with my friend Schwerer to her favorite place in the whole world, Howl at the Moon. Her mom recently passed away and I think she needed a girl’s night out filled with drunken debauchery. I was happy to help.

Since I didn’t go out on Wednesday night, I decided that the dress I was going to wear out if I had gone out was to be worn to Howl. Which is funny because Howl is not a dressy place. But I didn’t care! The ladies of The Working Closet are rubbing off on me. And turning me into a proper lady. It’s like Flickr Charm School!

I needed to get dressed up to match my sexy bangs! (It’s hard to tell in that photo because the light in my house sucks, but the dress is a darker purple.)

We had a really good time out. We danced and sung and acted like drunk fools. Normally I get pretty drunk while I’m there, but only on beer so I’m in control. I have done stupid things there like give my number to the bartender, but who hasn’t done that?

But last night the dude at the table next to us bought us three rounds of shots (or it might have been four. I lost count.) So that coupled with the endless buckets of beer, and Drunkabella was out in full force!

(That same dude actually grabbed my boobs and my friend’s boobs multiple times. He got me by catching me off guard when I was coming up from the bathroom and he was leaving. He got a two-handed grab and wouldn’t let go. Good thing I was drunk. Oh who am I kidding? Who doesn’t like a random boob grab?)

The thing about Howl at the Moon is that my inner band geek/groupie comes out. Because about four beers in I’m always like “I LOVE MUSICANS! Want to date piano player!” And then that’s all I talk about the whole night because OMG! Did he just look right at me?

For some reason I was feeling extra ballsy last night. After my friend handed said piano player my phone number on a song request sheet, I went up and talked to said piano player after he was taking a break and apologized for my friend doing it. He was all happy and cute and was like “no need to apologize.” Then I saw him a few times after that on my way to and from the bathroom. Because if I didn’t mention it, I drank A LOT. And he looked at me and SMILED! Swoon! Maybe that bitch in that stupid book was right! I had him at hello!

So at the end of the night, he was at the bar and I went up and bought him a drink. It was a shot of Jager. Which would explain the major hangover I had today. (I was going to say this morning, but let’s be honest, after a certain age, the hangovers, they last all day.) I tried talking to him and was in this awkward spot at the corner of the bar by the waitress area and he basically didn’t talk to me at all. He was pretty much kind of a douche. Thankfully I was too drunk to be offended.

I did end up talking to one of the other piano players who was a nice guy and answered all my burning questions like “don’t you ever get sick of playing the same songs over and over?” and “what happens if you don’t know a song?” and “how do you know all of those songs??” If he hadn’t been married, I would have given him a sloppy, drunken kiss.

I hardly ever go up to guys in bars. It usually ends up the same way, where I put myself out there and get SHUT DOWN. But I’m glad that I did it. I mean, how else would I have known he was such a douche? And I know back a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been that ballsy, even with all the added liquid courage.

So it was his loss for turning me down. In that dress! IDIOT!

Also, I will not be drinking like that in quite some time. Even watching the skanks on Rock of Love do shots made me nauseous.

Add a straw and you could drink these in the car and totally not get arrested! Boxes are the new bottles!

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I actually planned to write about something else entirely, but I couldn’t not share the wine juice boxes with you. And I feel bad for those of you who cannot buy alcohol in Target so that you can’t buy the Wine Cubes. Once you go cube, you’re never going back! Wine Cube in ‘08!

The plan, actually, was to write about a certain piece of mail I received today.

Do you remember when I mentioned here about a certain job I was interviewing for? Last time we saw our Interviewing Machine of a Heroine, she was in the finalist interview for this position. She charmed them and wowed them in the interview and then blew them away on the writing test. When it came to the thank you emails, she totally fucked up and sent emails at 11 PM, but what would that matter? Her credentials and her exploding-off-the-page personality were more than a little thank you email mishap. Most people don’t even send thank you emails anyway!

Fast forward a week after the last interview. Our heroine hasn’t heard anything. So she gives a courtesy call, knowing full well the last communication was that a decision would be made in a “few weeks” from now. She leaves a light, breezy message just to let them know “hey! I’m still here and still want the job you want to give to me!”

That was last Tuesday. Our heroine never got a return phone call. Again she thought nothing of it because she knew that “few weeks” meant more than one. Our heroine is very intelligent, clearly.

So this week on Wednesday, after our heroine hasn’t heard ANYTHING from this fucking company (easy, breezy heroine has LOST HER BREEZINESS), she calls again. Again, another reminder that she’s still here and has not heard A WORD from them. She attempts breezy, but is afraid that maybe when she mentions the fact that the HR person did not return her last phone call, it may come across as bitchy. She hope this doesn’t hurt her chances to become the easy, breezy Communications Manager.

Today, our heroine receives a letter (postmarked on Wednesday after said phone call) from the WEAK HR person at the company that says they have decided to fill the position with another NOT EASY, BREEZY candidate. Our heroine is upset by this letter for a number of reasons. Here she will list those reasons.

1. They spelled the heroine’s first name wrong. In the letter AND on the envelope. This may be OK had she not been on THREE INTERVIEWS with this company.
2. Actually, that’s never OK. Look at the FUCKING RESUME.
3. Our heroine knew, after two weeks of no returned phone calls, that she didn’t get the job. But since this company was being cowardly and not returning her phone calls, she was all excited about the prospect of calling once a week for the next 17 weeks until this company finally told her “NO, we did not select you. PLEASE STOP CALLING.”
4. A letter is totally a cop-out. Our heroine deserves better. After a phone interview and two in-person interviews, she DESERVES a phone call to let her know. And not just because she has left two messages. She deserves a phone call because that is the right thing to do after an in-person interview.
5. Our heroine, when she worked for the 49ers, had the duty of sending out ding letters to possible intern candidates. If the 49ers ever actually interviewed someone, like talked to them on the phone, they got a call from the PR Director to tell them “you’re a fuckwit, sorry you will never work here.” It is common decency to call a person to let them down easy.
6. Sending a letter because you’re too chicken to CALL SOMEONE BACK is just spineless.
7. This will bother our heroine for quite some time. Because as Stephanie Tanner once eloquently stated “HOW RUDE!”

Our heroine is actually OK with not getting this job. This debacle of the sorry handling of the whole thing, with the HR woman apparently too chicken to PICK UP THE PHONE (I’m talking Director of HR too, not a HR underling, not that it matters), made it clear that this would not be a good place for our heroine to work. There are better places for her to be at, places that will realize her witty, easy, breezy style and embrace it. She will find exactly the right place to work at.

She just hope that place has wine juice boxes.

Normally my birthday is my favorite day of the year. As you might have guessed, because I am a blogger who shares my personal stories on the internet because I am a famewhore, I kind of like attention. So nothing is better than a whole day ALL ABOUT ME!

This year, not so much. One, I’m starting to feel older and had a few “what am I doing with my life? I should have accomplished more by now” panic moments in the last few weeks. On top of it, being unemployed, I haven’t much felt like partying and celebrating. I’ve felt like drinking, but have not felt like showering.  So it wasn’t really my desire to go out and celebrate. Which is why I didn’t send out the evite until a few days before and why most people had plans and couldn’t make it.

But I went. And I had a great time. It was a small party, but we had a good time last Friday in advance celebration of my birthday.

My mom and my friends braved the HORRIBLE rain and drank some libations with me and put up with my drunken slurring and occasional spitting.

After the first bar, my friend Shelly and I headed to a bar in my neighborhood and we caught up and got into a discussion about her situation with a guy she had met recently who had not called back. He happens to be a Chicago cop, so when a police car rolled by the bar, we decided to beckon them to come in. No, really. I was waving at them to come in. They just thought we were waving and probably drunk. So they waved back and they were feeling really good because well, I’m stacked.

So what would a normal person do after that? They would just laugh at the situation. Not me. I was drunk. I blew them a kiss.

(Re-enacted for the purposes of hilarity.)

Sunday was my actual birthday and I had plans to go to a townie bar on the South Side with some of my friends from my old job to watch the Bears game. We drank A LOT of these buckets.

We watched the Bears lose, stayed way too long and too many “locals” bought me shots. It is a good thing I do not have a job to go to. Because I just got silly drunk.

And then I drank so many bomb shots (Cherry Bombs and Jager Bombs), too many Coors Lights and then decided it was a good idea to give my phone number to a guy they call White Rob. Why do they call him that, you ask? Because White Rob is white and they don’t want to confuse him with Black Rob, who is black. All who probably spend too much time at the same bar.

I’m pretty sure my friend Ruby and I are going to take a break from this place for awhile. We overindulged and are too close to becoming regulars. And that is a goal to save for my 32nd birthday.

See the rest of the drunken debauchery photo evidence here.

And also, let me tell you that married men take a shine to you. And they will hit on you all night. Which is weird until you find out they are YOUNGER THAN YOU. And married people should not be younger than you FYI.

I want to tell you about how I am famous and got myself involved in my first blogging drama for NO REASON AT ALL. And how my fabulousness led to me being so exhausted that I had to nap on the couch.

Or that the day after my famous fabulousness was revealed, I went to the Cubs game with some fabulous people nad I MIGHT BE ON TV. LIKE FOR REALS. Travel Channel, bitches! WOO!

Also, I should let you know (shhhhh it is a secret, get in really close, I AM DRUNK RIGHT NOW. THAT IS THE SECRET0. OK. Yeah. THat’s all. Carry on.

But I can’t let you know all of this because I’ve been drinking and it is time for bed.

OK. Time fore bed. Where’s my wine glass that helps me sleep?

You and I are no longer friends.

We have always had a good relationship from the minute your grapey goodness touched my lips. Yes, you turn my teeth a disgusting shade of purple, but I never cared. I liked having you in my belly, loved the warm feeling and the lovely glow you gave me.

You always were my drink of choice. You didn’t give me raging hangovers in the morning, at least not the kind that comes with stabby pains in my head that DON’T GO AWAY. I could drink bottles of your tastiness every night and still want more of you when I woke up, er, I mean the following evening.

And then last night happened. You went and fucked me up. You fucked me up good. So much so that I spent part of my night praying to the porcelain god and sleeping on my bathroom floor, which is NOT clean and/or comfortable.

You tempted me all day, Wine. You had that awesome waiter at the Park Hyatt pour me HUGE glasses with lunch. And then there you were with all of you friends, like little soldiers, lined up on the bar at the going away party last night. Tempting me with your intoxicating charm and the fact that you were FREE. And you know, oh you know really well Wine, that I cannot turn you down when you are free.

And then you mocked me all evening, watching me try to make a meal on tiny little snacks and cheese and crackers. You knew, Wine, that it wasn’t going to fill me up and soon my belly would be full of nothing more than you and you alone. And you knew what that would mean. You knew it would mean you would later be exiting my belly through the same hole you went in.

You sucked me in. You made me go out to that bar after the party and drink more. Which means that today, I don’t have any recollection of that bar. And that I may or may not have gotten in a fight with a co-worker at said bar. And that I also took a cab home, which normally leads to great stories, but you ruined even that for me Wine. You took over my whole body so that I couldn’t even speak to the cab driver, let alone sit upright.

Wine, you forced me to call in sick today with the brown bottle flu. Wine, in all my years of binge drinking, I have never done that. You FORCED me too. Because when I woke up fully clothed, half laying on my bed with my shoes still on at 5 AM, I realized that you won Wine. I was not going into work today.

So, Wine, you and I need to sever our relationship. We have gotten too close and it has ruined both of or lives. We both need to move apart and away from each other to stay sane. We are so on a break, Wine.

Drunkenly yours,

Kristabella

P.S. Wine, you know this break will only last until the next time you seduce me. Which will probably be later this week.

I ended up getting her a cute tank thing with matching panties. At the very last minute because I am the LAZIEST PERSON ON THE PLANET. Seriously. I went to Macy’s right by the party. I bought her gift after the party had already technically started. Because I was too busy falling asleep on the couch at 7 PM on Friday night to be bothered to go get the gift earlier. Because I suck.

The party was a lot of fun. Mostly because I decided that I was going to drink a gallon of vodka. That was my only option. There was some fruity drinks, vodka and that was about it. I should have run to the 7-11 across the street and bought a bottle of wine for myself since Kristabella + hard alcohol = drunken debauchery that quite often includes vomiting and/or getting hugs from cab drivers.

On top of the trough of vodka I consumed, I hardly ate. They had some good food and I had things to eat, but not a good enough base for a magnum sized bottle of Skyy vodka.

We played our fair share of wedding shower games. I vowed AGAIN to have none of that at my wedding shower. Unless the game is See If You Can Drink More Vodka Than Kristin. And I challenge you all to this game ANY DAY. I will vow to kick your ass and then continue to put pack the vodka and Diet Cokes well after you’ve quit and given up. I go big or go home. I go big and go home drunk.

The party was at an apartment downtown with an awesome rooftop deck with views of the lake and Millennium Park. I drank more vodka up there and I brought my new camera and tested it out on real people and not cats.

The party started at around 4. I got there about 5. Around 8 or 9 (I have no idea. If I didn’t have photos from the evening, I wouldn’t even had known I was there) we decided to head out on the town. I know we took a cab (see above about the camera, because I took pictures in the cab) and I think we went to the Park Hyatt. What I DO remember is that I didn’t have anything to drink there. Because THEY WOULDN’T LET ME. The bartender refused to serve me. REFUSED! (That has never happened to me, surprisingly.) Probably because it was before 10 PM and I was swaying like there was a nine-piece orchestra playing in my head.

Although, this is what Michelle told me. She could have been lying. Either way, I was quite happy for it this morning.

At some point, after I wobbled around A LOT because I could not stand in one place without losing my balance, we left. I got a ride home with Carrie, which I was thankful for because I didn’t want another cabbie encounter. And I can imagine with as wasted as I was, it wouldn’t have ended well.

While in the car, I remember looking at the clock and it said 10:19. And I thought, “oh, that’s not the clock. Carrie is listening to 101.9.” And then the radio/clock changed and I realized it WAS ONLY 10 PM! How was I THIS drunk and Weeble-Wobbly and it wasn’t even after midnight? When did I become OLD and forget to pace myself?

So I got home, ate some string cheese and got ready for bed. I somehow was in a right enough mind to change into pajamas, take out my contacts and brush my teeth. Let me tell you, this is also a feat when I’m stone cold sober.

I passed out and woke up around 9 Sunday morning. I think it was raining and I needed to close the windows. As I went back to bed I touched my forehead. And it was sore. And I was like “did I hit my head on something?” I didn’t actually remember knocking my head on anything. I figured I’d go to the bathroom mirror to check it out.

And then it hit me. As I was brushing my teeth drunkenly the night before, I went down to get some water to rinse out my mouth. As I went down, I SMACKED my head on the medicine cabinet. SMACKED. And this is what I ended up with.

I should have a fun time explaining that at work on Monday.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.