what you do to me

"Hey there Delilah, what'd you put in those burritos/I am sick and I am gassy/And I can't get off the shitter.../La la la.../You're such a stupid little whore/Stupid whore/Oh what'd you do to me?/Oh what'd you do to me..."

...So I sang on the way to Flag Day.

I don't know what it is about Flag Day that gets me. But it gets me so. Every year, in a town about 30 miles away, people get together, grab a band and erect a beer tent in honor of Flag Day. There's baseball games and a parade too, I think, but really all I'm concerned with is the beer tent.

And so...the point is to buy a bunch of beer tickets and stand around an empty parking lot, with plastic cup in one hand and a pitcher of beer in the other. The obvious obstacle is to drink as much as you can and wait as long as possible to pee - thereby avoiding the wretchedness of Port-a-John Row.

I love Flag Day because it's like a circus. There are the obvious attractions - the fights, the stumblers, the obviously-didn't-look-in-the-mirror...ers. And then there are the REALLY bad dancers - who don't realize that they are bumping and jumping and butt smacking air for all to see. But by far - the best - is the crowd spotting. From the outskirts of the crowd, just near the ticket booth and across from where the band is playing - you can get a good glimpse of old classmates - who don't know you're there. They run along gleefully with husbands they think are cuter than they are. They're intoxicated and flashing body parts...or they've changed hair color. Or they look like they've just eaten a tub of cotton candy and washed it down with Jolt and have no problem telling you - about their love lives while spilling beer all over themselves.

Beer goes down quicker and easier at Flag Day. It could be because they're in those plastic cups. Or because you're walking around looking for people and drinking as you're doing it. Or because it's hot outside. Or because it's Flag Day and why the hell not.

After walking through crowds three times - I found Maegin, Chris & Gabe right outside Port-a-John Row. We met up with Rachel and Leslie on the other side of the grounds, where I filled my cup and tried to forget about the drama that had taken place just before we'd gotten there. And for a few hours, anyway, Flag Day was fun. I wandered back and forth from the stage with a deliciously drunk Maegin - who I can't wait to get drunk with again (damn Flag Day for not serving gin!), I made fun of a man in an orange shirt who was hopping and dancing like those crazy people who try out for American Idol or America's Got Talent. (And I saw him the next day while having Father's Day Breakfast with my Dad & brother...)

And I sung that cute little ditty above on the way to the beer tent - which made Rachel laugh.

When I got home, I crashed on the couch since I had to be up early...but I wished I'd have stayed out longer. It had been a night heavily laden with drama - but the fun still peeked through.

Oh Flag Day...what you do to me.

the beetlejuice theory

Friday night - or I should say - early Saturday morning, a poorly chosen combination of Tequila Rose and Michelob Ultra left me with a queasy stomach and a raging head ache.

I dropped Rachel off at her house and practiced my "I'm-NOT-going-to-throw-up" breathing all the way home. Three Tylenol and a bottle of water later, I curled up under the covers and prayed for a quick trip to sleepydom.

"I'm not drinking tonight," I declared when I answered the phone at noon, still laying in bed.

"Oh," Rachel answered. "You're not? Not at all?"

A few days before, she'd suddenly "remembered" to tell me about a dinner she was throwing Saturday night. No specifics, no need to bring anything, just be there. Those were my instructions.

I arrived with a tired body after a long workout to work out the grogginess that was clinging to my system and a bottle of Vitamin Water.

"Are you dehydrated?" asked my friend Nicole.

"Yeah," I answered. "Don't think I'll be drinking tonight." I use that term with the same superstitious belief as Beetlejuice. Say it three times and it will be true. That was #2.

"What-the-hell ever," cried Nicole. "This is your birthday party, man."

I stared up at Rachel. Five months after I'd contracted a wicked flu on my birthday, shutting down any possibility for partying whatsoever, my friends had gathered up an array of food, a cake, guests and a few bottles of wine for some mock wine tasting and general birthday party fun.

We only got through two mini-bottles of wine before I hit the gin.

living for the weekend

Lately, it's been taking me well into Tuesday to recover from my Friday/Saturday.

I could blame it on a series of events. Birthdays, visitors and other various - albeit weak - reasons for weekend celebration.

That's probably not it. But regardless, I was once again, found this weekend waking up in a crowded bed with very little logged sleep. The weekends when Rachel works at the lodge, I'm usually up until the wee morning hours. After the last of the drunken townsfolk is given the last call treatment, we talk while she vacuums, wipes down the bar and cleans the last of her dishes. Saturday we rushed around in preparation for Mart's birthday.

After dinner was done, presents opened and the family had gone home for the night - the rest of us gathered in the garage and began pumping music into the cd player. Even though I was exhausted, I cracked open a bottle of gin and we danced to every song.

Eventually, I was lying out on Mart & Rachel's deck...drink in hand...with a spinning sky above me. I know I'm drunk when I start to sit down places. I got up off the deck on my own. But throughout the night, I found a place to sit on the kitchen floor, the hallway, the bathroom floor and the living room. With a toss of my head and the closing of my eyes, Rachel quickly jerked me back up.

I tried to sleep in the middle of Rachel's bed...but I drifted in and out every few minutes. Then came the rumbling of her footsteps at 7 o'clock in the morning. She was the last man standing - or rather jumping - on Leslie and I as we tried to score some sleep in her bed.

Before I knew it - I was stumbling through the house to my car - to take my mother to lunch for Mother's Day.

Last night, I worked out obsessively while watching 'Brothers & Sisters' to avoid my usual, Sunday night panic attack that I could feel coming on. Tired and achey, my mind glanced at the calender on my wall. Interviews all week, phone calls to make and bills to pay. Then I remembered that Rachel is bartending again Friday. I'm sure I can find a reason to celebrate by then.

It seems as quickly as I was analyzing my "I-Want-To-Settle" phase, I jumped into a "Can't-Wait-To-Get-Drunk-This-Weekend-Like-I'm-Nineteen" phase. I'm sure there's a behavior psychologist drooling over that right now.

seriously.

"Your boobs look amazing!"

Rachel is in her bathroom. Trying to figure out what to wear.

"You're drunk already, aren't you?" I ask her.

"I'm not drunk," she says. "But I've got a buzz."

She sprays me with something that smells delicious and puts something in my hair to hold the curl. When we join the boys out in the garage, she instructs them all to give them a good once over. A couple of feels were even copped.

I'd not yet had anything to drink.

When we got to the bar - I was drinking without thinking. Normally thinking while I'm drinking leads me to be more responsible. To take in account my behavior, my well being... But there was no thinking. There was, "look how quick I finished my beer!" and "look how I can drink beer from a bottle stuck in my cleavage!" and "I just did another shot!"...

Boobs were prevalent throughout the night. The girls were comparing theirs...the boys were watching.

The next day I would feel completely humiliated. And even a little sore.

By 7 a.m. Saturday - I still hadn't gone to sleep. I was supposed to be home, in bed. I was not. I was laying in Rachel's bed.

It sounds porny.

I can assure - it was not porny.

By 7 a.m. Saturday morning, I'd made sure five people were taken care of and passed out - some more than once - scattered about Rachel's house. Mart has told me not to worry about going home, that he'd take the couch and let me take his side of the bed next to Rachel. But I still hadn't slept yet. I'd cleaned up bodily fluids, picked Doritos off the kitchen floor, put beer cans by the sink and helped with soaking up water from the living room floor.

It sounds responsible...but that was just in regards to the aftermath of when we all got home.

After an eventful morning...the events of which can't even begin to be detailed here...everyone was - once again - passed out. We kicked the boys out of Rachel's bed and the two of us finally made an attempt at real sleep. It was around 8:30 a.m.

Leslie - who'd passed out in another room - brought us water and breakfast by 1 o'clock. Then she climbed into bed with us - and the three of us lay there, virtually motionless until 4 pm - when we finally went home.

Sunday, against what could be better judgement, we were all back in Rachel's garage...drinks in hand. We drank them slower this time...and in lesser quantity.

"Why do my legs hurt so much?!" I finally asked.

Details were recounted. The shots, the beer that I spilled all over myself, the boobs that were paraded around anyone present. The groping, the puking, the rest of it all. As we talked about it - I felt sixteen. The kind of sixteen I never was. The kind that stayed out too late, drank too much and partied a little too hard. And it felt good. I looked around the garage at my friends and didn't want to ever leave. We'd go to our jobs the next day, eventually get back into our routines....at least until the next Friday.

We told the stories over and over again. But it's hard to sum it up all here. But that's okay.

The nights you can't sum up - tend to be the best ones.

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.

friday night "eye candy"

There's a reason why they call it "eye candy". Because it looks good on the outside. To the eye. Like candy. Delicious. But then....it might not taste so good. It could crack a tooth. Eventually too much of it could lead to multiple cavities, subsequent dentist appointments, bills, debt, etc. etc. etc.

That's why they call it "eye candy".

Hrm. I think from now on when I say "eye candy" - I'm going to use air quotes.

The "eye candy" sat on the other end of the bar. He was visibly drunk. Visibly drunk = swaying, slanted eyes and smiley. But it worked for him. Because he's "eye candy". So any time he addressed me in conversation - I tried to keep the conversation going. Just to look at him. He tried to get me to partake in a game of shuffle board. I balked. He used the words "finesse" and "touch". I conceded. Luckily, two even drunker people wanted to play a 'championship match'. I was happy to reclaim my seat at the bar.

A sidebar...

Depending on my mood, the company and the overall atmosphere - I can be relatively un-shy. Big men who drink a lot and ogle women they know they'll never have with a healthy sense of humor - don't threaten me. This is how the conversation went to my underwear.

Are you following?

It wasn't dirty. The conversation. Or the underwear. Shit...just follow along.

The point is that my friends and I had a fun, flirty conversation about underwear (according to a man poll at the bar...which = two men...women who wear matching bras and underwear are super sexy) but "eye candy" wasn't paying attention.

The subject then switched over to sex and dating - and big, drunk, horny but harmless guy sitting next to me - called "eye candy" over to our side of the bar.

"C'mere," he said. "This girl wants to make out with you."

It was all very pedestrian and high school and the like. But it didn't bother me as it normally would. Because he was "eye candy" and I could get a closer look.

But then he started to talk. And talk....about how there was no point to life in that drunk, random, rambling, unable to stop, hear other points of view or change the subject way that just becomes....waning. We begged him to stop talking. The words 'shut up' were cried out from all ends of the bar. But it wouldn't stop. And I was his only audience. Horny but harmless guy mouthed an apology to me from the other end of the bar where he'd escaped to. "Eye candy" continued to tell me how there was no point in my being a journalist...because one day the world would wake up and decide it no longer wanted to read newspapers. Or magazines. Or anything.

There's a reason...they call it "eye candy".