The Way Things Are



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a bit of a hangover
2005-12-30, 11:20 a.m.

So I’m sitting here with a bit of a hangover, because you can’t go to Gruene Hall and drink just a couple of beers. It has to be 4 beers with no food in your stomach because you took a decongestant and lost your appetite and didn’t eat any dinner. And you have to stay up later than you wanted to, because it’s fun, y’all, and can I just get a TWO TONS! TWO TONS! out of you? Thank you.

What kind of a woman am I that four beers leaves me slightly hungover the next morning? A sucky kind of non-party animal woman, that’s what. It’s not a headache, it’s not nausea, it’s not even a craving for bacon and eggs and orange juice. It’s that feeling that your brainial neurons may be firing, but they aren’t meeting each other in the middle, and nothing quite makes sense. I’m tired and ever so slightly confused. Why am I such a light weight? Oh WHY?

I’ll tell you why. Unbeknownst to me (here’s a fun side story: I was doing a refinance on a property with some very fun folks from GMAC in Dallas, and sent the funnest one an email with the word “unbeknownst” in it. He wrote me back and thanked me for saying “unbeknownst”, as you just don’t hear that word enough anymore. But I digress), my weight has slipped about 10 pounds. Oh, you’d think I would notice this, but I haven’t lost any mass. I’ve done the alchemist’s trick of converting muscle to fat. In fact, I think I take up more space, but I’m softer, fluffier, and all squashy.

Laura Flea! Now with bigger, smooshier boobs and back fat.

Apparently, fat does a bad job of metabolizing 4 light beers in 6 hours of sleep, so here I am. Frinkling my brow in confusion, and saying things like “unbeknownst” over and over again.

So that’s one social occasion done gone, and number two is tonight. Snort! Number two. Oh, and I chose to wear my lesser of the two ratty old jeans last night. It’s a ratty jeans kind of place, and in fact, if you are dressed nicely, people will stare at you with a jaundiced, suspicious eye.

Tonight’s outdoor ranch pavilion firepit party merits my darker warsh jeans. I want to be classy amongst all the attorneys and whatnots, although I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hang, unless I get my second wind. I’m dragging ass right now.

And bad news about the New Year’s Eve party I was kind of excited about for tomorrow night. I misunderstood DW when he told me who was having it. I thought it was my fun attorney, but it’s somebody else with a similar name, and God I hope these nice folks haven’t found me, because I’m about to say something not very nice.

AVERT YOUR EYES!

Their parties are not very fun. In fact, when I found out who was having this party, I groaned “Ooooh, nooooo.” It’s because they are so very very very very very very very kid friendly, that you feel you are at a child’s birthday party. Kids everywhere, hanging out on the living room floor, watching a video, toys strewn about. I like other peoples’ kids just fine, but that’s not how I want to spend my NYE, with every light in the house ablazingly ablaze, and trying to have an awkward conversation with somebody while their kid tugs on their pants leg, and somebody else’s kid is sticking the same carrot stick into the dip and licking it off, over and over and over again.

I suppose if I had a little kid, it would be an okay way to wile away the hours. But I haven’t given up my party animal proclivities entirely, and Lil Guy is with his dad for a few more days, and I want as many people as possible to see me in my new jeans, so DW and I are thinking that we might make an appearance and eat some dip before some toddler befouls it, and then head down to the sports bar. Because even though the bartendress hates us, we have some quasi-barfly friends who more often than not can be found there, drowning their sad pitiful little lives in the bottom of a big-ass draft. I want to be part of that scene.

Maybe we should just do what we usually do: stay home, watch TV, fold some laundry (and that’s not a euphemism for anything dirty), have sex (no euphemism there, either), go to sleep, and have the fireworks and whooping and hollering and dogs barking at midnight wake us up.

Y’all have a safe and fun New Year’s, OK? I’ll see you on the other side.

This rambling, disjointed, uninteresting, and completely irrelevant journal entry is brought to you by Coors Light, the beer of squashy middle-aged women everywhere.

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