st. paddy would be proud

"Hey Jessica," Rachel yells. "How does it feel?"

She's sitting right across from me, but has to yell over the band. I can't remember what they were playing at the time. It was either before or after we sang along to a cover of "Last Dance w/ Mary Jane"...of course, I sang along with just about every song. But that's beside the point.

"What?!" I yell back.

"Not having to worry about driving us home!"

I smile. Just the night before while she was closing the bar, I told Rachel I didn't think I was fun. She disagreed. But she's supposed to. That's her job.

So we commandeered a designated driver who wasn't me. They put Noelle in heels and made her look glam and when the waitress came over to check our legalities - Noelle flashed her military ID. Without so much as a glance, the waitress started calling her ma'am, I kept asking about how much shrapnel she took in 'Raq and we didn't have to worry about getting kicked out with a minor at the table.

Each of us dressed in green sipped...okay we more than sipped...green beer, beer in bottles and a few rounds of shots. Every song was a good song. Even the cold air didn't damper our moods after closing down the bar. Noelle and I napped on the couch while Rachel & Leslie fake-boxed each other on Bill & Beth's Nintendo Wii - Rachel dropped her cigarette more than once in the back of the Tahoe o' Fun and Leslie earned the title of Kelpto-Queen when we walked out of the 'Dog w/ five souvenir pint glasses...free of charge.

I stood...tired...in Rachel's kitchen, sipping on ice water. Mart was already out, snoring on the couch. It was almost 5 a.m.

"I did good tonight, didn't I?" I asked her. "I was fun?"

"Yes sweetie," she said. "Lot's of fun."

She could have just been saying that because it's her job. Or because I stuck a bottle of beer into my cleavage and was able to drink from it. Or because I kept crying out like Borat "you will never get this" to the bar.

Never know.