So I'm sure some of you out there are asking yourselves, "Where did Whiskeymarie go? Does she hate us? Does she hate fun? Is she in detox again?"
Quick answers: Nowhere (except a quick jaunt to Duluth, MN), No- I love you so much sometimes I lick the screen, Only when fun hurts, and not this time- though my punch card is finally full and I've got a free visit coming!
Oddly enough, where my life usually finds me debating which activity will fill my day- Competitive nose-picking vs. Competitive ass-sitting- I have actually been a busy, busy girl this past week.
A brief rundown lest you don't believe my normally wildly exaggerated claims of "having a life":
Get up, eat, work out, shower, get dressed and decide to go shopping for birthday gifts for Saturday's belated b-day festivities in Duluth. Also decide to forgo my usual outfit of jeans, a t-shirt, flip-flops and a ponytail and wear something cute. I toss on a skirt, a t-shirt, flip-flops and a ponytail. Oh, and adorable red wedgie heels that I have only worn twice before.
Go to Rosedale mall feeling marginally attractive, put together and ready for the day. Start shopping.
10 minutes in, I feel something "pop" on my right shoe. I look down and notice that the strap is busted.
Damn you, cute but really, really cheap shoes.
Realize they can't be salvaged, start looking for a new pair. Quickly. Find $20 pair of red wedgies that will do for now:
Go back to shopping.
10 minutes later- yes TEN minutes- my feet are killing me. I look down and notice that I have matching bloody blisters the size of a dime on both feet. Bloody. TEN minutes.
Start looking for ANOTHER pair (and no, it does not occur to me to return the blister-makers. Can one return slightly-worn, now bloodied shoes anyways?)
Find #2 at DSW Shoes for $40. They are the kind of shoes that a 20 year-old heavily tattooed slightly goth girl named "Violet" would wear, but I don't care as they are cute and seemingly comfortable, however age-inappropriate:
10 minutes later, they are falling off of my feet. The straps seem to be allergic to my heels and are rebelling.
I have, at this point, also purchased one of the gifts, which happened to be a cast-iron roasting pan that weighed approximately 68 pounds.
So here I am hobbling through the mall, lopsided from the bag of cast iron, sweating, with bloody band-aids that I scammed from the coffee girl hanging off my feet, clutching my iced latte and wondering why I even bother to leave the house. Ever.
Go to work, eat my salad for lunch, get through the day.
After work, my gal Waffle calls. She is in town for work all week and do I want to get a drinkie tonight?
I agree, thinking that we will have a civilized glass of wine, some lively discussion and a reasonable bedtime.
One glass of wine leads to five, The hotel bar leads to:
1) a 50-something guy who looks like Dr. Phil and talks like Paula Deen and seems to have endless stories about his anal polyps joining us.
2) a bar where the impossibly hot women bartenders work in what appears to be fairly skimpy boy short unders and tight t-shirts. That's it.
3) A gay bar that I only have a cloudy recollection of actually going to.
4) Crashing at Waffle's hotel, but only after drunkenly wandering in the hotel hallway after sending waffle to get chips out of the vending machine.
5) Wake up after 2.5 hours of sleep, fully clothed, fully makeupped, fully hung over.
Which brings us to...
Wake up hungover in Waffle's hotel room. Get car, get coffee, go home.
Crash on couch for a while until the Mr. comes home early and laughs at me. Realize I need to finish my birthday shopping as this is my last chance to do so. Go upstairs and crash in bed with the cats for a bit to think about it.
Shower, get dressed: Jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, ponytail and big, dark sunglasses.
Drive to Woodbury to get these for my girl Waffle:
Get Chipotle burrito and giant Dr. Pepper, go to work.
Hardest day at work- EVER. My hangover, which seemed manageable at first, has morphed through the day into something that makes me want to extricate my own eyeballs with rusty forks. No amount of beverages consumed or cheese eaten is helping. I sigh heavily and repeatedly. The 47 Excedrin taken throughout the day make a small dent, but being at home in bed would be better. Also, my allergies picked this day to go totally freaking haywire on me and my nose/sinuses feel as if bugs were jell-o wrestling in them. I sneeze every 3.5 seconds, in-between sips of more Dr. Pepper.
8:45- finish work finally, go home. Order Pizza Luce', take a benadryl and settle into the couch.
Fall into a coma.
Had gone to sleep Friday night thinking that I'd wake up Saturday feeling great, but instead some sort of flu-like thing has taken over my body. I hurt down to my bone marrow. I know I can't cancel on the Duluth trip, so I rally myself, get up, get dressed and go to breakfast.
Finish some last-minute shopping, wrap gifts, pack & hit the road for the 2+ hour drive North.
Briefly visit with the in-laws, head to Waffle's house to get ready for dinner & whatever else.
Dinner is here. Good, not great. I ordered the lamb, got excited to eat the lamb, thought about the lamb for a while after the waitress left, hoped the lamb would be delicious...
then she comes back and tells me the bad news: No lamb.
I order a steak au poivre for double the price of my original choice, and it's just o.k.
Not terrible, but it wasn't the lamb I wanted so badly at that point that I was making little "baaaaa..." noises.
Drinks afterwards at Quinlan's where I see this lovely girl and her charming gentleman friend, but only after sitting, confused, listening to one of my ex-boyfriends who is what I would delicately call "not real smart" drunkenly try and carry on a conversation with us that consisted of random sentences seemingly put together by monkeys:
"I got new shoes. Have you seen that one movie with that tall guy? That boat was cool. I haven't seen you in years- why aren't you wearing makeup? Pants! I ran into Bob yesterday. Fuckers stole my beer. Woo-hoo!"
We fairly soberly returned to Waffle's abode after that, opened the awesomely awesome gifts (my girls give very wonderful and slightly extravagant gifts for b-days. It's actually gotten a bit out of hand. Next year I expect to get my own gold-plated helper monkey), then retired to the basement- also known as "Waffle's husbands bar".
I have expressed my issues with "WH's bar". Mainly that it NEVER CLOSES. Plus, their basement is nicer than most people's houses: totally finished, pimped out, fully stocked bar, giant-screen Wii, hot tub, clean and gorgeous bathroom, great sound system for shaking of the booty, and snacks. Why would we go anywhere else?
We stayed up until 3:30 A.M- Mr. WM becoming our own little "Guitar hero", and me taking turns between the massage chair and playing DJ Jazzy Whitegirl.
Enter hangover #2.
Get up, down copious amounts of water and advil. Get dressed, go to in-laws.
I was under the impression that we would probably possibly be going out for brunch. Unfortunately for me It was decided that we (read: I) would be cooking breakfast for everyone. I knew this was a remote possibility as it had been briefly discussed at one point earlier in the week, but I wrote it off as wildly misguided speculation, much like global warming.
Cooking eggs with a hangover. Ugh. Not my best work, but I got through it without throwing up. Happy Mother's day, Mom to Mr. WM!
Drive the 2+ hour drive home, super excited to see the cats as sad and pathetic as that is. We, in fact, discuss on the drive home what good caretakers we are to our feline friends and how we spoil them so.
We are idiots.
Open the door expecting to see TWO cats meowing for "squishy food".
Where's Pooter? I can't find Pooter!
I hear a faint meowing coming from the front of the house.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.
I accidentally locked her in the front porch with no food, no water, and most importantly- no litter box- for about 34 hours. This after we (read: Mr. WM) accidentally locked her in our VERY small and kind of chilly pantry overnight once.
I/we suck and should not be allowed to care for pets, it seems.
Then a few hours later I accidentally jabbed her in the face hard with my hand whilst trying to smother her with love to make up for me locking her up like a kidnapping victim and forcing her to poop on the floor.
Once I finished reporting myself to PETA, I made dinner (what I like to call fancy taco night) and we finished the day watching the Trailer Park Boys movie.
I'm back, kidlins. And after today I have buckets upon buckets of free time.