25 Going On 21 And 48 Months June 25, 2008

The trouble with trying to make 100 Jello shots for your 25th birthday, you learn, isn’t the selection process of Jello flavors since - deep sigh of relief - there are plenty to secure your very grown-up theme of “rainbow” quite easily. Nor is it the task of procuring all the necessary alcohol because a little more than half a handle of Smirnoff, some Jose and Bacardi should already be on hand in any self-respecting drunkard’s liquor collection. No. When all seems smooth sailing, trouble, you learn, presents itself in the unassuming matter of space.

 
That is, leaving you unsure of where exactly to store the little fuckers while they harden to become - well - Jello.
 
Which is how I came to spend my birthday cleaning an overstuffed refrigerator and throwing away anything I wasn’t able to consume on the spot while trays of Jello shots covered every hard surface in my kitchen and living room once I realized air-conditioning my apartment to “very cold” wouldn’t cut it.
 
Luckily, I subscribe to the understanding that sacrifices must willingly be made sometimes for Jello shots. (Like, as another example, one’s commitment to remembering things the next morning.) So I happily ate slices of cheese and drank gallons of orange juice and wondered why I hadn’t used cleaning out the fridge as an excuse more often to stuff my gullet.  
 
The sight was glorious after five hours. Rows and rows of shiny red, orange, yellow, and green three-quarter filled Dixie cups of boozed-up Jello ready for consumption as far deep as my refrigerator went. Bliss was mine.

Multiple this by five. Rows.

Until I realized my next unforeseen debacle - securing a way to safely transport 100 Jello shots to a bar blocks away from my apartment, where everyone had been instructed to meet promptly by nine to scarf down some margaritas while awaiting the trolley that would take us all over the city.
 
A feat made even more difficult by the fact that water guns filled with tequila,

 
leis and streamers,

 
pointy birthday hats decorated with the faces of Ernie and Big Bird,

 
and multiple coolers filled with beer, more hard alcohol, and Sparks also had to be towed along.
 
This is about when I began to wonder why the hell we didn’t just tell everyone to meet us at our apartment and have the trolley pick us up from there.
 
(In case questions of my maturity level are now being raised, my boyfriend and I had thought to purchase a case of water bottles after clearing Target’s children section of all its birthday accessories because you come to learn a thing or two when it comes to boozing by the time you’re this old. But once we realized we were only two people with four hands - two of which were mine (read: useless) - it was clear that some things would have to be left behind. And so went the bottles of water. And not, say, the pointy birthday hats because God knows we absolutely needed those. Yes. I hope this clears up a thing or two about my maturity level.)
  
Thanks to one very large metal cookie sheet, yards and yards of tin foil and a boyfriend who was willing to carry everything else, we - as in, my jello shots and I – were able to make it to The Blue Agave safely. All the more impressive, really, when you factor in my 5 inch heels, short little dress, and the overwhelming weight I had to carry on my shoulders knowing that I am now closer to the age of 50 than I am to the day I was born and a thank you to co-worker Michael for that little tidbit needs to be said for that.
 
But where was I. Oh, right. The dress.
 

A big fucking thank you to everyone for taking the time to input in my last post. It was pretty great to see how you all voted. Each one, I think, got its fair share of supporters - although the heavy favorites appeared to be 1, 4, and 7. I can’t say who was right, but I can say you all have excellent taste.
 
Unfortunately, when push came to shoving myself into a tight little party dress and why hadn’t I thought to find somewhere other than my stomach for all the food that couldn’t fit into the fridge, I ended up having to wear a party frock that was not one of the seven I begged you to dress me in while I stood around, hopeless and naked, until you did.
 
But! See!
 
Dress #1 - the one I affectionately referred to as my prom queen on acid - was only available in sizes 0 or 12. I think this was God’s way of teaching me a little thing about my love for extremes.
 
Dress #2 would have totally passed muster. Had I been in the mood to look like a naughty nurse for my birthday. In hindsight, I wonder why I wasn’t.
 
Dresses #3, #4, #6, #7 all could not be delivered in time. Shame on me for lusting after obscure designers.
 
And Dress #5 was a little too sexy and elegant for a night I just wanted to look silly and over the top.
 
With time running out, patience wearing thin, and every other customer at Bloomingdale’s getting on my last fucking nerve - I’m looking at you, mom and daughter pair who could not get over how FAT, OH MY GOD, we look in EVERYTHING - I ended up buying this Nicole Miller trainwreck confection:
 

 
(Ed. note: While this very much looks like the picture I would have taken had I known how difficult it would be to find this fucking dress online once I came into work today, I found this picture on the Internet. So I should probably give credit to whomever I ripped it off from. But that would mean having to admit that I found this on a site focused on things like high school prom dress fashion and Kelly Pickler.)
 
It ended up matching the tiara my friend Damien brought for me perfectly. And God bless friends who bring you tiaras on your birthday.

 
No prom queen on acid. But tragic 80s prom queen, maybe.
 
Even though no fault was mine that not one of the seven dresses ended up working out because, let’s face it, nothing is your fault when its your birthday, I do hate that I can’t report back the winning dress since y’all were wonderful sports for humoring my last (shameless) post. So as a peace offering, I will end this post with one of my favorite pictures from the night. Sans blacked out face and all.
 

[Picture redacted due to this blogette coming to her senses.]

OverdrunkBirthday Girl Gripping Trolley Railing To Prevent Death Via Open Windows, 2008

 
For the record though, I was leaning towards Dress #1 or #7.

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead June 2, 2008

You would believe me, wouldn’t you, If I wrote that I’ve been on a three day bender that’s kept me from updating you all on my great, glorious news?

Sadly, yes. You would.

Well, I haven’t been. Not for the entire 72 hours of the last three days, anyway. But I have been very, very happy since last Thursday. And sometimes not even because of my good friends Jose or Jack!

Katie, a co-worker, says it’s as though we’re no longer the kids who have to fake sick to avoid the evil bully at school.

I say we’re like the Jews who have been emancipated by the hand of Moses from the evil Egyptian Pharaoh.

My former as in no LONGER boss being that evil Egyptian Pharaoh. Which is ironic since she’s Jewish.

The absence of chains scented with her halitosis that have kept me tied to my desk during my lunch hour and late into the night far too many times to list feels pretty fucking unbelievable.

And in case I’m still rambling unclear as to why I’m so damn thrilled, then here it is: MY BOSS, THE SINGLE PERSON IN THIS WORLD WHO MANAGES TO MAKE ANN COULTER SEEM NOT THAT BAD, HAS BEEN FIRED.

Life is brighter, merrier, and loogie-clearing-every-three-minutes free. Friends - victims of my incessant bitching - tell me they feel a sense of glee themselves, as though they are the ones who have had their own evil bosses canned. And my boyfriend continues to ask if it’s everything I’ve ever dreamt it would be.

I hesitate to say yes because I don’t particularly relish the thought that I am this happy at someone else’s misfortune.

But then I remember that this is the same someone who once told me to send a very important document to a very important client so that it is received by them three days earlier; the same someone who created such a non-ending series of hellish days for me last month that I found myself breaking down in tears in the office kitchen and being comforted by the janitor because it was 8pm on a Friday and he was the only other person in the office, there as always clearing out the garbage cans, and really, do you know how sorry I felt for this poor old man who felt compelled to comfort the crazy crying girl by saying No tears, missus in broken English?; the same someone who misanthropely combined the very worst characteristics of Miranda Priestley and Michael Scott into one living and breathing person without the added perks of a closet full of designer wear for me to steal or Jim as my coworker for me to steal - from Pam.

A person who made me taste fucking bile whenever I heard her voice.

To your question of, “Oh come on, could she have really been that bad?,” I can only defeatedly answer, “Worse.”

And while her antics were always appreciated in a ”I have so many horrifying stories to tell over drinks, of course drinks, SO MANY DRINKS” perspective, it was not so good for my grasp on sanity. Which we all know is quite tenuous to begin with.

Her dismissal was as Cringe Inducing Awkward as any episode of The Office could depict.* Police escorts were considered at one point. And papers - so many papers - are being uncovered in the office once used by this person. Secret papers. Some dated as old as May 24, 1976 with a faded Post-It note screaming FOLLOW UP ASAP!
 
It is an utter shitshow.

And in the gods’ continued quest to make me its plaything, all of this comes at a weird time. When I’m finally trying to maneuver a “career switch”. Which is really just a pleasant-sounding way of saying: Getting A Fucking Grip On What I Want To Do With My Life And, You Know, Doing It.

I’ve been handed greater responsibilities. Rumors of a bigger paycheck exist. And countless clients are now mine to answer the uncomfortable question of “Well did she KNOW she was leaving because if she did, WHY did she promise me this by the end of tomorrow? I NEED THIS BY THE END OF TOMORROW BECAUSE I’VE ALREADY BEEN WAITING FIVE MONTHS FOR THIS.”

But it also means the return of my ability to feel something besides stomach-tightening dread in those seconds right before walking into my office. 

The news, on Thursday, was met with gleeful laughter around the office. 

Today, the laughter has died down. But no can seem to wipe the batshit silly grins from their faces.

Including me. Even while madly hungover.

_________________

*The heavyhanded level of awkwardness knew no bounds once I was told what was going to happen an hour beforehand when the HR person called me to tell me she needed to see me immediately. (Which instinctively led me to think that perhaps I was getting canned.) While my former boss is a great candidate for why hell really is other people, I still did not feel comfortable interacting with her as though everything was just fine. However, signing onto WordPress immediately to publicly express my glee and plans for wild celebration? Yes, that I apparently could do just fine.

If You Live In Chicago May 29, 2008

Or a nearby city, county, state, whatever, and you enjoy tequila and champagne.

Or whiskey. Or scotch or gin or whatever you consider your poison.

Hell, if you think you may enjoy sitting around and laughing at a crazy Asian chick that has a tendency of inadvertently bouncing her tits around when she’s excited because she tends to break out in exuberant dance when she’s this excited. Bouncy, exuberant, ready to praise HALLELUJAH TO THE HEAVENS and easy to laugh at as an observer kind of dance.

Come be my drinking buddy tonight.

I have just received the kind of good news that could compel me to go find and kiss the one-legged homeless guy that chose me - imagine, little old me! - to fixate his eyes while openly jacking off this morning during what I had incorrectly assumed would be just another boring office commute.

If only to thank him for convincing the gods that Yes, okay, this time, for this particular episode of her enduring some fucked up shit, we will give her something nice in return.

Since the official news will not be released until 2 p.m. Central Standard Time later today, I can’t go into details yet.

But, holy fuck, I am giddy.

Seriously. Drinks are on me tonight.

And yes. We can all understand that to mean body shots.

In My Fridge March 7, 2008

Is a chilled bottle of champagne sharing a shelf with 24 cans of Miller Lite and some retired milk.

It came “highly recommended”. Like almost every bottle of wine always seems to.

This champagne? It’s made with the same grapes used to produce Cristal, the wine guy at Pastoral sluiced. A French producer who only releases limited batches from this particular vineyard. A must try. It accompanies everything from goat cheese to fried chicken!

The shit about Cristal? Could mean less to me. I’m sure it’ll impress most. But the bit concerning fried chicken? Is what sold me.

Because Hi. I’m Damsel, and I’m a Fried Chickenoholic.

(You: Hi, Damsel.)

We bought the bottle last week. And we remembered to pick up the KFC before we got home. But then we passed out asleep after we attacked the bucket.

So now this bottle of bubbles has been sitting in the fridge - intact - for far too long. As have its shelfmates.

(Not that I’m too concerned about the milk.)

That busy my short term life has been.

But all that changes this weekend. The instant I escape this office and arrive home.

I’m fucking ready to play.

Everyone Gets Sick But Not Everyone Is Chinese February 21, 2008

Whenever I’m really sick for an extended period of time, I begin to trumpet that I wish I were hungover instead.

I know a hangover fucking blows, I’ll start. But I know what to feed a hangover. And I know when I can expect it to end, I’ll continue, based on how much I had to drink the night before and whether I stuck with one type of booze or played happy hostess to a Mixed Bag of Cocktails Extraordinaire, you know?

Then I will catch my breath. And resume whimpering and pouting.

I’d probably notice that thoughts of hangovers sounding preferrable to mild illnesses could suggest I have a serious problem were my mind not so clouded with cold and flu that anything besides ”GULPING BOTTLE OF CODEINE COUGH SYRUP.. BAD OR NOT THAT BAD?” is too difficult for me to ponder at the moment.

I resemble something close to a toddler when ailing - if toddlers are known to cry, ask for tummy rubs and forehead kisses, demand shitty TV and gossip rags, and syruply request just a teensy splash of vodka in that orange juice, please. Which, granted, comprises most of my Normal Behavior Repertoire. But when sick, I suspect it begins to appear less like “She’s so fun and silly” and more “God, this girl is batshit nutty.”

And I’ll bet that toddlers are much more manageable. You can just cram a pacifier in their mouth to shut them up. Or barricade them in some playpen they’re unable to crawl out of.

This past Monday, I called in sick to work.

I actually was sick, but I doubt anyone at work believed that. I had coughed extensively during the middle of my message for HR. It most likely guaranteed that whoever listened to the message came to the conclusion that I was faking the sick to wrangle a three-day weekend.

I mean. That’s what I would have thought if I had heard that message from me.

I haven’t dared miss a day of work since Monday.

My office has been one chaotic shitstorm since the beginning of the new year. And in addition to this hectic schedule that a healthy person who gave a fuck would have trouble handling, there are developments and changes I am trying to see develop and change. So even Idiot Me is able to surmise that missing days of work right now would wrought a kind of hell not worth its exchange of sitting all day in bed, watching Saved by the Bell and Dawson’s Creek, surrounded by pillows and down comforters.

Being sick yet enjoying no sick days? No. Fucking. Fair.

And last night saw my sore throat and pounding headache only get worse. Which led me to regress even further backwards in age and maturity level. To demand that my boyfriend give me hugs (more!). And massage my forehead (softer!). And let me watch whatever I wanted to watch on television because I’m siiiiick and trashy TV is therapeutic, okay?

I couldn’t blame him when he suggested we watch something manly after one hour of the America’s Next Top Model followed by an hour of the Pussycat Dolls Present Girlicious.

Me: Something manly? Like.. porn?

Him: Well no. I was thinking of something more like James Bond, but–

It meant missing Project Runway’s Reunion Show. And I forgive him for that. He was the one, after all, that had remembered that America’s Next Top Model premiered last night.

Me (bellowing): I HATE THE SICK.

Him: Baby. But guess what? America’s Next Top Model premieres tonight, right?

Since his face often displays a kind of pain that could follow actual physical castration whenever he watches America’s Next Top Model, I knew it was only love that kept him from fleeing the couch after reminding me of its airing in the first place. It was easy for me to magnanimously agree that we watch whatever he liked after our two hours of CW trashtastic reality. Love is about compromises after all.

And besides. Bravo repeats the hell out of Project Runway episodes.

Sickness makes me neurotic. It turns me into a bratty hypochondriac. And, worst yet, I lose all sense of my kind of humor.

For instance, I considered starting this post by talking about a recent article I had read covering carbon monoxide poisoning and how its symptoms can often be confused with those of colds or flus. I then planned to write something off-color like: “Ha! Wouldn’t it be funny, y’all, if I have carbon monoxide poisoning?” But then I began to really think about it. And there’s no need to bog you down with the details of what followed, but lesson learned, my apartment building’s management office does not appear to enjoy frantic calls about our apartment building’s carbon monoxide detectors and repeated inquiries of how effective are they though, really? HOW EFFECTIVE? No, I can’t test mine right now. Well, I’m at work, that’s why. 

Sickness messes with my sense of Morbid Funny. It compels me to behave like a normal person who takes normal carbon monoxide precautions after reading a normal article covering the topic. Rather than just, oh, kibitz about having carbon monoxide poisoning on an anonymous blog and leaving it at that.

And being sick? Also makes me unbelievably horny.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m always horny, including when I’m busy wailing and ailing. That’s me. I swallow what feels like large shards of glass and sniffle and sneeze and rest my head against any goddamn nearby thing (stranger’s shoulder? well hello!) to avoid carrying the weight of my own head with my wee little neck alone, and yet? I still want to make the sex.

I’d probably notice that thoughts of having sex while feeling terribly ill could suggest I have a serious problem were my mind not so clouded with cold and flu that anything besides ”SPLASH OF KALUHA IN COFFEE IS.. JUST RUSSIAN MEDICINE?” is too difficult for me to ponder at the moment.

So. In sum. When sick, I become a less composed version of my regular unbalanced self.

Terrifying, yes?

And a couple years ago, in this condition, Sick Horny Demanding Me went to a local bar with my friends Lexi and Kate. It was a Wednesday night and staying in bed just seemed so boring.

The night’s half dollar drinks got us all twice as drunk, twice as fast and, naturally, made everyone twice as friendly. The men in the bar had begun to gather around us three, swarming and clamoring for our respective attentions, and while most of them knew their efforts would be ignored if earlier rebuffs proved continuous, one boy clamoring for my attention specifically returned to our booth with a beer for him and a dirty martini for me.

And out of nowhere, Lexi began to yell, “YOU BASTARD! SHE’S KOREAN!” as the boy in question cheered his drink to mine.

We both looked at her in shock.

Lexi continued her verbal streamroll. “Not everyone is CHINESE, you know, and it’s REALLY INSENSITIVE and IGNORANT to use slurs. CUZ YOU WANNA KNOW SOMETHING? IF YOU CALLED ME A BIG NOSED JAP OR SOME SHIT RIGHT NOW, I’D SLAP YOU. WHAT IF I JUST START CALLING YOU A CRACKER? POLLY WANNA?”

Everyone in the bar began to look over at the skinny, pretty, shrieking brunette, no doubt wondering to themselves, “What the fuck is that crazy fucking JAP losing her shit about?”

When the boy began to appear as though he may cry, and Lexi displayed no near end to her screaming and splashing of drink all over his jeans as she quizzed him about Korea (WHO IS THAT GUY, IN, UM, THAT MOVIE WITH THE PUPPETS? WHO’S ALWAYS RONRY AND WEARS BIG EYEGLASSES?), I dragged her away to a corner of the bar and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing.

And soon, I began to laugh. Manically. Because when this nice stranger had cheered his drink to mine and joyfully blurted “Clink!” moments earlier, Lexi had heard him call me a chink.

The next day, I dealt with a hangover that fucking blew, one that I knew exactly what to feed and exactly when to expect its end based on the amounts and types of booze I had pulled the previous night. And for the next x hours, it distracted me from the fact that I was sick and I knew that no matter how much I may lose my sense of humor when ailing, what had happened the night before had been without a doubt very, very funny.

We Slept With Enchiladas January 22, 2008

I would be lying if I told you I didn’t fall asleep very early Sunday morning with a Chicken McNugget in my hand and barbeque sauce covering the corners of my mouth.

I want to place all blame on Streeters, a Chicago beer pong bar that remains open until 4:00 in the morning. Or its nearby neighbor, 24-Hour McDonald’s. But really, it’s my fantastic skills at the game of beer pong and my complete inability to say no to just one more game.

Heavy wears the crown, I know.

It’s just that so little in life is more satisfying than beating a pair of ex-frat boys wearing matching black button downs (Ed. note: A seemingly new douchebag direction from the popular and overplayed striped button down?) who like to shoot pussy-weak bounce shots to try to get ‘er done and move their hands around a lot in a “What’s up NOW, biatch?” fashion.

And I have an addictive personality. I like to surround myself with things that make me feel good.

I miraculously awoke Sunday morning not nearly as hungover as my body was due. (Ed. note: Falling asleep with nuggets in my hands and barbeque sauce covering my mouth were probably not unrelated reasons for this.)

My boyfriend and I talked about all the various things we’d like to get done that day. Him: Work. Phone calls. Reading. Me: Shower. Laundry. Regaining semblance to a functional human being.

But instead? We stayed in bed all day.

All flippin’ day.

Him, playing online poker. And occasionally asking me what he should do with a certain hand. And me responding that it’s fake money so he should just GO ALL IN GO ALL IN I’M SERIOUS JUST GO ALL IN DON’T LET PAPASAN1221 WIN THIS POT. And him clicking on “Fold.”

Me, reading the Economist’s coverage on American politics and the primaries. And googling Mitt Romney and the word “squillionaire”. And wondering how I can ever become a squillionaire myself if my father was not the governor of Michigan and I am not at all capable of financial transactions and know-how.

And occasionally purring.

And asking my boyfriend to rub my tummy.

(I’m kidding. Maybe.)

We napped. We sexed. We discussed social issues (Me: What do you think a squillionaire is? Him: Not sure. Why don’t you look it up? Me: Do you think it’s a made up word for … beyond millionaire? Him: No. That’s called a billionaire.) We napped again.

And with a large baking pan of homemade enchiladas and a jar of the best hot salsa in this world, Mrs. Renfro’s Habanero Salsa (Ed. note: Like the world’s best ice cream and the world’s best potato chips, this is actually not up for argument) in our bed with us, we had sustenance and we had each other.

It was a day my body, my mind, my soul sorely needed.

Six continuous days of no sleep? I certainly hope the door hit you on your way out.

The ever-growing hamper of dirty laundry and ever-more-necessary functional adult behavior will just have to wait another day.
  
 

The Company Of Unlimited Sangria December 14, 2007

There will be a party tonight featuring plenty of tapas and unlimited sangria to the background of forced laughter, awkward conversation and silent urges pulsing in my fingertips to pull any fire alarms I see to end the occasion early.
 
Even in the company of unlimited sangria.
  
Drinking - heavy and plentiful drinking - was a thing my 18 years of locked up angst adapted to quickly and efficiently once I arrived at college. The stream of long nights blurred with dancing and seducing, phone number exchanges and searches for misplaced cell phones, 24-hour Burger King runs and 10:00 a.m. discussion sections for my Modern Germany class dressed in my outfit from the night before provided distractions of allure and a rush of constant movement that never faded for me.
 
Graduation from college didn’t change the quantities consumed, only the settings. Rather than plastic red cups of keg beer at Phi Delt’s off-campus apartment, it was now a bottle of red in my apartment while sitting on my couch and secretly crushing on Santino. Walks of shame past Hillel and the engineering buildings turned into 6:30 a.m. cab rides and a quick stop at McDonald’s for hash browns before arriving at the office. A break-up with a college boyfriend just days after graduation only pushed me to move harder, move faster during those months as a newly inducted player of the real world. I just needed to move.
 
Then came the news of the upcoming office holiday party. My first. I considered my options - newly guaranteed employment, top-shelf open bar, and my own personal patterns of non-stop double-fisting even around unlimited alcohol - and became nervous. Moderation and I have never been words synonymous. 
 
Tales regaled by a roommate of her co-worker who arrived at work the day after theirs only to be handed a box of his things by security and a message that he had been terminated for his gin & tonic-influenced words and wandering hands only frightened me further. Instant sympathetic recognition and thoughts of Fuck! Could that be me?? as responses to this story made me understand that extreme measures had to be taken to prevent me from being this man when my own office party happened in a few days.
 
So, on the night before this office holiday party two years ago from present, I called my friend Brendan to inform him that the goal for the night would be to get me so drunk that the mere sight of alcohol would discourage me from consumption the next evening among my coworkers. A goal that began as a joke and very, very quickly became reality. Sake martinis at Japonais, liters of wine at the (then) newly-opened Quartino, gimlets - gimlets! - with the escargot and cheeseburgers at late-night spot Bijan’s Bistro, and I was tanked. And to encourage matters, my now boyfriend who was only a boy I had just met a few weeks earlier when Brendan had dragged me to his apartment party had joined us by this point. Who welcomed the challenge to get me so drunk that the mere sight of alcohol would discourage me from consumption the next evening among my coworkers. Which soon led to wild giggling over the waitress’ indignation at our order of “ESSS-CAR-GITS” and drunken French blabbing of how our serveuse de coquetels needed a sens de l’humour and forced Brendan to find us too caustic to humor any longer and leave.
 
Leave us - me and this boy who caused butterflies and sparks but a boy I had just met a few weeks earlier - to end up in his bed. Leave me to slur that my mouth was too dry for kissing and leave him to run to the kitchen to bring me a 24-ounce glass mug of water that I could barely lift to my mouth. Leave us to have sex for the first time. And leave me to text my coworker at 4:30 in the morning something involving many misspellings, exclamation points and pleas to bring me suitable work attire the next morning for me to wear.
 
She found me cowering behind a pillar in the lobby of our office building the next morning and burst into laughter at the sight of me, hungover and hair messily pulled into a ponytail held by a miniature red and white scarf that I had stolen from the snowman soap dispenser I had found in his bathroom (Ed. note: I learned many months later that the snowman soap dispenser had been sent in a care package from his mother). She threw into my hands a Bloomingdale’s Medium Brown Bag stuffed with clothing and told me that I had better replace my jeans right away. Because our office? Is a very professional setting where I may be able to pass off a hungover face and a messy ponytail held in place by a miniature scarf stolen from a snowman soap dispenser but jeans? Jeans were completely unacceptable.
 
I scoured through the shopping bag and considered my options. Faced with the decision between a pair of brown pants that ended right above my ankles and a black skirt that ended right above my knees - a pair of pants that ended below the ankles and a skirt that ended below the knees of my co-worker who at 5′2″ is 5 inches shorter than me - I erred on the side of slutiness rather than unfashionable, and chose the skirt.
 
And for the rest of the day, I sat in an unlit office with my head unable to move beyond a 45 degree angle from my neck. I grimaced at comments of my festive appearance. And silently cried on the inside when 65-year-old Susie asked me where she could get hairties that looked like little scarves for her granddaughters.
 
But I made it to the office holiday party that evening that began at 6:00 p.m. And while coworkers ordered glasses of white and sipped on scotch, I drank my water and averted my eyes away from the bar. And when the younger attorneys and staff decided to move the party to Suite Lounge on Wells and told me I was not allowed to go home that early, I went along. And shot the Lemon Drops. And drank the Carrot Cake Martinis. And sipped the Chambord + Sparkling Waters. And realized that my body had become so accustomed to alcohol running through it’s internals that it no longer presented any discernible effect. My coworkers talked brutal about other coworkers, danced on table tops, screamed profanities at cab drivers, and I watched bewildered, shocked that I had felt worried about my possible behavior.
 
It prepared me. And reinforced the life lesson that one should always get drunk when the opportunity is available. So when the night before last year’s office holiday party came, I spent it indoors, away from Sake Martinis and Gimlets, and went to bed early, like an athlete preparing for his big game the next day. But the party was no festive occasion because an older attorney at our firm, the father of the managing partner, had passed away the night before. And while the party was still held, it was no time to chug down the endless drinks I had prepared my body for. Naturally.
 
One more year has passed from that day and the night of another holiday party is now upon me. And yesterday evening - the night before tonight’s holiday party - I went to dinner with the same boy I spent the night before my office holiday party two years ago, the boy who is now (finally!) my boyfriend. We enjoyed their delicious focaccia with taleggio cheese, truffle oil (Ed. note: I would bathe in truffle oil for the rest of my life if I could somehow afford this to happen) and herbs to start. The New Zealand snapper with shaved fennel, pomegranate, celery leaves and coriander followed soon after and was consumed in minutes, prepared to perfection. The meal also saw a bottle of Portugeuse Bruto Rosado. We made jokes that the bottle was for me and we should get a glass of something for him. But by the end of the night, my boyfriend had drank more of the bottle than me. And after our bill was paid, we ran over to Sepia for a nightcap to celebrate the anniversary (Ed. note: My boyfriend and I like to celebrate atypical anniversaries. We’re kind of forced to because of the very odd way we came together. We agree to look at it as humorous). Avec had been perfect as always, and Sepia was wonderful. But my happiest moment of the night was when we ended up in the same bed we had ended up in two years ago. And instead of feeling disgustingly drunk, I felt calm, content, and giddy.
 
And of course there was sex. Sex that I could remember today.
 
So this evening poses as my third chance. Dressed in my own work attire and not a bit hungover, it’s one more opportunity to indulge my insatiable thirst for alcohol on the company dime. And perhaps it’s a product of age or feeling less like I’m desperately running from my demons and more like I’ve gained some control over a life and behavior I once thought of as uncontrollable, but it’s a thirst I’ve seen become less insatiable over the past two years.
 
However, it’s still a party with coworkers, where the setting will be of forced laughter, awkward conversation and silent urges pulsing in my fingertips to pull any fire alarms I see to end the occasion early. And because drinking oneself obscenely drunk is still not technically illegal - unlike pulling a fire alarm when there is no fire - you can damn well bet that much of that unlimited sangria will be ending up in my stomach.

Multiple Vegasms November 28, 2007

Exiting the plane and walking into the airport, I immediately sensed warm weather. That was Vegasm #1.
  
My skin, it likes sun. It needs sun. Some women look absolutely beautiful alabaster and paler and I salute you and your decreased likeliness of getting skin cancer someday from too much tanning today. But I am not one of you. I must be sun-kissed, tan, glowing to pass as healthy. It’s not something Chicago winters like to encourage so trips like this one during a Chicago November are even more necessary. Even when it means being pestered endlessly by a mother raised in a society that prized porcelain skin untouched by the sun to take along the Dior DiorSnow Pure UV Ultra Protective Whitening Base SPF 50 she gave you last winter before your trip to the Caribbeans that is still sitting inside it’s box. 
 
[Ed. note: For those of you keeping score at home, that's one father who kept me locked up inside a house with a door covered with newspaper articles about raped, kidnapped, murdered women and one mother who applied whitening cream on my face while I slept at night and insisted that I exercise pressing my lips together firmly to minimize their natural pout.]
   
If my laptop would cooperate, this is when I’d post photos from the vacation. Because Zebra-striped Jeep? Sweet. Click. Large black man in Escalade with a 4-foot-tall white teddy bear in the passenger seat? Yes, click, definitely, click again just in case the first one didn’t turn out. The oxygen bar inside the airport? Click. The old couple sitting at the oxygen bar? Click click. The four Jäger shots I ordered to the blackjack table for me, my boyfriend, and our new honeymooning Mexican friends who had never drank Jäger before? Click click click click.
  
And, by the way, palm trees lining the street outside of McCarran International cued Vegasm #2.
  
MGM Grand is where we stayed. And it’s some where we probably would not stay again. While it was fine, it was more a place for us to change clothes, sleep, have sex in the shower, fix broken toilets and pay an additional $30 for a 1979 Sanyo Mini Fridge to store our booze than a place we utilized to dine, club or gamble.
 
But dinner at Nobu? Vegasms #3 to … too high too count. The Toro Tartar with Caviar and Fresh Yellowtail Sashimi with Jalapeño were enough to encourage some genuine Yes! Yes! Yes! moments. Additionally, my boyfriend and I both ordered the Chef’s Choice 8-course menu because we are fatties and foodies and oh my gawd. A ceviche salad that was the perfect blend of acidity, spice and sweet; a Chilean sea bass topped with both black and white truffles (Yes! Yes!); kobe beef accompanied with a decadent portion of foie gras (Ed. note: Stay away, Charlie Trotter. Stay far, far away); and a dessert of potstickers filled with glazed pears is why I am so glad I live to eat rather than the other way around. (Ed. note: This is not a food blog and I am not a food expert so I will stop pretending now.)
  
I did, however, find the service less than top-notch. My boyfriend and I had to wait a while to be seated even though we had reservations; our waiter seemed uninformed and out of place; and the noise was just enough to have to shout at times to hear one another. Little things that could have gone either way and nothing that stuck out as particularly bad, but enough for me to think Thank God the food is so good to make Nobu worth the $450 check. I don’t remember sounding like a prima donna being on my to-do list today, though, so I’ll just stop looking down my nose now.
 
Sugar & Ice inside the Wynn is absolutely delicious and adorable. I would like to bathe in their pistachio ice cream, and the jamón serrano sandwich hit the spot for my stomach filled with at least 4 Bloody Mary’s and not much else. (Ed. note: I like to not keep track of the exact number of drinks I’ve consumed once it gets past 3 or 4.)
 
The casinos at New York New York (cute, quaint, cozy - for a casino?), Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall & Saloon (loud, unpretentious, mullets and tank tops on men … and a saloon!), and the Wynn were my favorites. The Wynn gets included because Kanie the Blackjack Dealer is the coolest lady I have now ever met and I wish very much I could have packed her into my suitcase and brought her back to Chicago with me. She and I talked and talked and talked (leaving my boyfriend to card-count, apparently, which he later told me was why he was so quiet) about the pearls or diamonds question asked to Hillary at the end of the Democratic debates that occurred the week before; Wolf Blitzer (woof); People magazine’s choices for Sexiest Men Alive; the famous elbows she’s rubbed; the kiss on her cheek from Bon Jovi; and her role in the movie The Cooler as a craps dealer. (Ed. note: When she asked me if I had Netflix to order The Cooler, I answered “yes” a little too emphatically.)
 
Eva Longoria & her tall French basketball-playing husband played craps not too far away from us at MGM and yes, she is that beautiful in person and yes, her body is like whoa.
 
We never made it to the pool or rode the roller coaster at New York New York (I like roller coasters in all shapes and sizes pleasedontmakefun), and I can’t believe that with all the time we spent at Bill’s, we missed seeing Big Elvis in person.
  
Our last night in Vegas was the Friday after Thanksgiving. We arrived in the evening after three days in Mormon Utah, his parents kind enough to drive us and, really, they couldn’t be any sweeter. Although being dropped off on the Strip by my boyfriend’s parents that include a Mormon mother was, in a word, surreal.
  
This night justifiably deserves its own post.
 
And I have some NaBloPoMo catching up to do for the 9 posts that never were during my vacation.
 
So scoot along.
 
Come on, to the next post, off you go. 
  
Yes?
 
Yes! Yes! Yes!

Sparks In The Morning, Sparks In The Evening, Sparks At Supper Time November 4, 2007

Back in 1998, Ben Affleck poignantly hoped aloud while pantomiming the Australian Outback on Liv Tyler’s stomach that there was someone doing that very same thing at that very same time somewhere in the world or otherwise what the hell was he trying to save.
 
I can’t say I share the same attitude towards what I am doing right now.
 
Not because I’m permanently breaking jostling the doorknob to the bathroom where my boyfriend has locked himself to get away from me (No, that was two Fridays ago) and not because I’m changing my mind from getting my nose pierced to instead getting my hip tattooed mere instants after arriving at Tattoo Factory (No, that was three Julys ago).
  
But because I can get worse.
 
What I am currently doing this Sunday morning, at 10:04 a.m. (Oy! Daylight Savings!) 9:04 a.m., is watching Newsies, the 1992 Disney dramusical about A Thousand Voices A Single Dream, alone, and finding myself singing along - New Yawk accent included - with the beautiful Christian Bale while sipping 16 ounces of Sparks Plus (7% alcoholic as opposed to simply 6%), amazed how even though it’s so early, and doctors would probably disapprove, the brain is able to recall every lyric to a song that one used to know by heart back in the day but hasn’t heard for many moons.
 
All this after going to bed early last night because I am sick. It’s as though my body has a given quota of alcohol it must meet in any 24 hour span. Some may chastise and call me an alcoholic because of this weird conception that if one still drinks the way they did in college, it’s no longer seen as “having fun and being young” but “wasting your life”. I simply like to call myself consistent.
 
However, my mother back in Michigan, the woman who still attends church every Sunday morning and expects my company whenever I visit home - and also known as the reason why my departure times are suspiciously always before 9 a.m. should I be leaving on a Sunday even though I am not one to like the early rising - was probably not expecting this when I told her that I had very important things to do on Sunday mornings, something that trumped saving my eternal soul.
  
I’m enjoying myself right now. But it’s just as well I wasn’t responsible for saving Planet Earth from a collision with an asteroid the size of Texas. Ben Affleck may have thought a world with more than one person enacting The Discovery Channel with animal crackers on a gal’s stomach was worth saving, but if I learned there was some other person watching Newsies, at 9:04 a.m. on a Sunday morning, singing along with Bill Pullman and sipping Sparks Plus, somewhere in this world, while an asteroid hurled itself to destroy humankind, I would have to stop, think and conclude Well, maybe it’s for the best.