Partay!

LDs, did you ever party hard on a Saturday night?

Did you ever party hard on a Saturday night and wake up with no hangover?

Did you ever party hard on a Saturday night, wake up with no hangover, but come Monday morning, your brain was fuzzier than it was on Sunday afternoon?

I answered yes to all three questions. There was another party this weekend at J's house. Now, normally, I let my husband do the drinking. I may have one or two at the beginning of the night, but that's because one of us has to drive home. This time, we took our air mattress, claimed a room in the basement, and both set into some good partying. That hasn't happened in a while.

Now, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. If I drink too many beers, I will have a hangover the next day (without taking the "medicine*" to counteract said hangover). I can drink whiskey (namely my good friend Jack Daniel's) all damn night.

I drank 4/5ths of a fifth (figure that one out). By myself. Starting with a shot (to impress the boys, of course). Did you know that Jack and Diet Coke marry up well?

The night started off just fine - drinking, grilling, never staying in the same room: Beiruit and karaoke in the basement; WoW (nerds) in the dining room; poker in the living room; and smoking on the back deck.

Things I'll tell you from Saturday night.
1. If you've ever seen Police Academy and remember Eugene Tackleberry, you've seen my friend Shane (he's adorbs).
2. Don't underestimate the power of a drunk girl who doesn't like confrontation.
3. Sometimes, you really should just let a cat fight happen. I would have taken bets.
4. Don't piss off a 15-year military man.
5. If you bring your first date to a party of this magnitude and she still likes you, you might have just found a keeper.
6. Do NOT eyeball former police officers and semi-pro football players while flicking your knife open and closed after they've told you to knock it the fuck off. You will go down and you will get hurt.
and
7. Truth comes out when a guy's a bit inebriated - some good, some bad.

Number seven is what got me Saturday. Ben and AJ and I get into this conversation out on the porch (none of us smoke), and Ben's the one who brought it up.

He apologized for my auntie being here (yeah...). Ben's a big man (about three inches taller than Mr Realist), and he likes his women with a bit of meat on their bones. His wife, before she got pregnant with their second son (they've been married 16 years; took them eleven years to get pregnant w/Son 1, five for Son 2), lost 75 pounds, and he still finds her smoking hot.

They made me cry...in a good way, of course. AJ (who has the most beautiful grey/green/blue eyes I've ever seen) is one of those hot muscular guys who normally never give girls like me (shut up...) more than "you're a great friend" position.

Let's put it this way: I think I'm beginning to believe what Mr Realist has been telling me all along. I know that it's sad that I'm just shallow enough to need reassurance from people whom I just met or haven't seen in years. Mr Realist tells me all the time that I am beautiful. I'm beginning to think I am.

Yeah, I know. I went from partying my ass off to a reassurance. Let's get back to the party.

There would have been no less than five fisticuffs that would have happened Saturday night. What I just wanted to say to everyone was just "Suck it up, put on your big girl or boy underwear, and deal. You don't like him/her - don't look/talk/breathe in their general direction, or go to a different fucking room." Gah. Stupid young'uns.

Anyhoo...how was your weekend? I'm looking forward to this Saturday: St. Patrick's Day parade in Springfield. Need to get my greens together, bitches!

Love you all; heepwah, and be safe out there.

Ms D