And They Said it Couldn't Be Done

Last night I went to the bar with my sister. She'd encountered a horrific site earlier in the evening and wanted to go out for a bit (I'd prefer not to get into it. Let's just say she still lives at home with my parents and there was nudity involved). I explained to her that I'd been gardening most of the day and that I looked like ass. She said she did, too. I've known my sister my entire conscious life and I've never known her to leave the house looking like ass. Sure enouh, I'm drinking a beer on my porch, dirt under my finger nails, raggedy jeans, a pair of Tevas and a fairly nondescript sweater when she comes up the walk in a lowcut, black sleeveless shirt with some sort of sparkly arrangement, some dangerous looking heels and a perfectly fitting pair of jeans, her blonde hair flowing behind her as she walks toward me. "Wow, you were right," I said. "You totally look like ass." (When in doubt prey on the insecurities.) So we headed off looking even more opposite than usual. We went into what's become our regular haunt and when the bartender went to get my usual, I stopped him. "I'll just have some fizzy water with lime, please." He thought I was kidding. My sister shrugged her shoulders and told him that I was not. So we sat and talked and argued and laughed (mainly about the number of strappy black numbers and a dangerous looking mole on the girl sitting next to us. Yes, we're catty bitches.) She drank her Blue Moons and I sipped on soda water. I did break once and have a Shiner Bock and I fought the Blueberry martini craving that was growing within, but we had a nice time, one of the nicest I can remember having with her in a long time. And while I don't think I'll be giving up the Junipers, or the Shiners, or the Blueberry martinis or anything else for that matter, it was nice to rememer that I can have a good time in a bar and wake up to enjoy the next day. It's been a long time since I've done that. And by the end of the night, I'd almost forgotten about the incident which brought us out in the first place.

Night of the Living Metaphor

Ask anyone who's known me for any amount of time and they will attest that I get weird around my birthday. It started when I was thirteen throwing a tantrum in the TJ Maxx parking lot and I've only become moodier since. I turn twenty-nine in a few days and I recently sent an e-mail to friends and acquaintances. As I begin my thirtieth year on earth, I wanted to know what if any regrets or advice my friends had. Some responses were unhelpful, "You are a complete idiot!!!" wrote a college friend. Some were thoughtful, "I think you should fuck," said my oldest friend. And some were hilarious, "Start an urban commune and document everything." I'm at that age where my friends are married, divorced or thinking about one or the other.

I met a college friend for dinner on Saturday night. She's recently engaged to a man she met online and I'll admit I'd been dreading this dinner since it was suggested. I talked my sister into happy hour beforehand feeling confident that this would be a dinner necessetating drunkeness. I wasn't wrong. The fiance had finished dinner by the time we arrived (just five mintues late) and grunted two or three words the entire time. The only complete sentence he managed to put forth was to dog my neighborhood. And then to tell me that his college was really difficult to get into; bully for you, jackass. After dinner, I headed to another bar and ran into someone with whom I'd gone to high school. This is what happens, when you live less than twenty miles from where you were raised. We talked about things and laughed about the grudges people carry with them and then I moved on. We met up with another friend and I ran into a guy I'd had a brief sexual relationship with and continue to have lingering weirdness and then my past walked from one end of the bar to the other. My junior high crush. The first boy to give me butterflies and the only boy to make me hyperventilate through the simple act of saying hello. He'd aged certainly, but it was him. This time there were no butterflies, there was no hyperventiltion. Just laughter (on my end) and on his a man in his early thirds with an abnormally large head and an extremely round face set on a very short neck. I'm guessing he's now a drug rep, maybe an accountant and most certainly a golfer. I'm going to also go out on a limb and say that he's dated a number of women longing to bake cupcakes for the PTA bake sale and maybe even wear pearls. Don't get me wrong, I frost a mean cupcake and I can rock the twin set if I have to, but pearls just aren't my thing.

I started writing this a few days before my birthday. And while it came and went without too much fanfare, I had one of my best yet. I took the day off work had lunch with a newer friend and dinner with one of my oldest. In between, I got to see the circus train, walk around downtown in the middle of the day, sit on my porch and read and just enjoy the simple act of living. It was one of the best days I've had in a long time and the fact that it was my birthday was just icing. I didn't blow out any candles this year and I didn't make any wishes. I don't think there's any secret to life except to keep living it.

I was drunk...

When I run into people who've been out at the bar for a few hours, I always assume that 90-95% of the words coming out of their mouth are bullshit. This number increases to 100% if said person needs assistance being carried to or from the restroom or out the door. I have the tolerance of a 98 lb runway model and as such you can pretty much guarantee when the words "cock" "masturbation" or "I can't believe I'm saying this, but..." start flowing from my mouth that I AM DRUNK. I understand that, so why can't others? A bar is no place to defend why you like someone or why you don't and it's certainly no place to say, "I don't hate you, I just meant..." Ultimately we should all be held accountable for our words and actions, but there are times when the words coming out of my mouth are total bullshit and Fridays at Sam's anytime past 8 it's a good bet that the words I spew forth (the bad ones anyway) are total bullshit. If you expect others to not hold your drunk words against you, you should give them the same courtesy -- that's all. I'd like to think that someday I might not offer, "Oh, yeah, sorry, I was kind of drunk," as an excuse, but that day is not yet here. It's not a good thing, it's just the way it is. And please, please don't try to pull Oprah with me (you know who you are) and make me defend my issues. Bar therapy is just too cliched, even for me.