Boozie...fat, drunk and happy

i may have forgot to mention my skankiness

So this weekend, after drinking the equivillent of 10.667 beers, I ran into two girls that I went to college with.

And of course they both have stories.

One was sweet as pie and got hit in the head with a bottle rocket one Fourth of July.  I remember this particular Fourth of July well because I had the worst sunburn ever and I was wearing a blue tank dress for days and I couldn't shower or sit down because I was so burned.  I slept in the dress and wore it daily for about 4 days.  Yeah, I was hot...especially with the sun blisters on my lips and around my mouth, my greasy hair and my awesome mid-summer Virginia Beach BO.

The other girl f*cked my boyfriend.

Okay, not totally true.

She slept with the guy I was sleeping with at that time, whom I was under the impression that was more than just a "f*ck buddy" but then later found out that my low self-esteem had gotten in the way of actually knowing what was going on by just imagining that I was in a real relationship.  (It was not a relationship, unless by "relationship" you mean that you would hang out with this person during the time that you skipped class to smoke pot and then go hang out with your other friends until one or both of you was drunk and happened to end up at the same place...obviously, this was before cell phones were abundant and a booty call/text would have been the easier step.)

I don't know why, but I still don't like that girl.  She's married and her husband is sweet.  People say she is, too, but I don't really care.  Its not a grudge, its more of a "you kind of disgusted me 10 years ago and I don't really want to force myself to be undisgusted."  I know that is bad and its kind of close-minded, but so be it.

She did say that she was going to text the aforementioned hook-up and tell him how good I looked.  I said, "nah, that's not necessary."  The 19-year old me was not happy with the 29-year old me. 

But I don't need acceptance from someone like that. 

That's why I have a blog, duh.

i so did not sign up for this

When we decided to have our wedding in Las Vegas, I was most excited about the fact that I wouldn't have to plan anything, which was shocking to most people.  I am, by nature, very type-A and enjoy planning things to the very last detail.  I could see myself being a professional wedding planner.  Or a professional party planner.  Or, as most people know, some sort of nutritionist.

What do things things have in common?  I'll tell you: they are all things that you do for OTHER people.  I do not enjoy planning my own parties but I love, love, love the opportunity to plan someone else's party, right down to the tiniest details.  If I could tell other people what to eat, I would be oh so happy, but I rarely take my own advice and in fact, just ate 3 pieces of candy after my carefully measured out Trader Joe-O's, banana and 1/2 cup of skim milk. 

So, by choosing Las Vegas, I thought, "yay, we can just pick a day and then let someone else do everything else and I can give minor guidance (I think I want to have a red bouquet and the bridesmaids can have white.  Do not ask me about the actual flowers, just go with the colors and don't ask me anything else) and all we have to do is show up."  But nooooooooooo.  I found out very recently that we have to find our own DJ and decorator/florist for the reception.  Oh, and they suggested that the DJ be booked already.  Oh, well, fantastic.

Then my head exploded and I had a minor freakout because OH MY GOD WHAT IF WE HAVE TO HAVE MY DRUNK BROTHER PLAY HIS IPOD HOOKED UP TO MY DAD'S DEWALT CONSTRUCTION RADIO AND THE DECORATIONS ARE STREAMERS AND BALLOONS.

I guess it wouldn't really matter, right?  I am marrying the man of my dreams and even if we have to have a white trash wedding at The Four Seasons, then who cares, right? 

Right?

just like the olden days

Friday night, I drank approximately eleventy hundred beers and neglected to eat food, though there was an offer and then later I wanted a corn dog in the worst way imaginable.

Anyway, during the time that I was sucking down the 900th beer, I was outside and somehow began talking to a 23-year old Joey Fatone look-alike who convinced me to use his money to buy him and myself a drink.

In my defense, I was indeed very drunk and he also told me that I looked like I was 28.  I am 29.  Apparently that won my heart.

So, I go and get Joey Fatone a Miller Lite and contemplate not giving him change or giving the bartender some ridiculous tip, but he thought I was ONE WHOLE YEAR younger than I actually am, so I decided to not be a jackass.

Upon my return, it dawns on me that this guy is on the patio and more or less forced me to go inside to use his money to buy him a beer.  "Why can't you go inside?" I asked.  He hestiated and told me he'd tell me later.

I made several mention of a fiance, who was eating take out Ethiopian at that point in time, to reassure Joey Fatone that there would be no "later".

Turns out that I was an unwilling accomplice in contributing to the delinquency of a delinquent.  He'd been "escorted out" of the bar.  For a fight?  I asked.  No, not quite. 

For peeing in the closet.

I more or less turned my back on him at this point, but there was some random insult about my engagement ring being the "untraditional" (which is really traditional, don't sell out to DeBeers!) and about me being a hippy.

I think I also told him to "go to hell and die."