And to some that good time might translate into, say, raging.
It might be more easily said that, even though I am a responsible adult during the week, I like to let down my hair, and sometimes dignity, on the weekend. The month of May, specifically, has been just ridiculous.
It started on May 1st. One of my best friends surprised me in California to celebrate my birthday. She couldn't make to the actual birthday weekend (the 10th as you all, of course, know), so decided to have a one-on-one hang out the one before.
We went to a lovely brunch in our fancy brunch garb and then decided to plant ourselves at a dive bar, one of the many favorite things of Catie Kruse. The only two females, or young people for that matter, in a bar surrounded by old dudes who like to drink beer. Six pitchers of Coors Light later, we were everybody's favorites, even though I tried to fight that guy who put in $30 worth of Eric Clapton and Nickelback into the jukebox.
The rest of that weekend was a blur, not to mention almost calling poison control because we thought we took too many Motrin, bits of the weekend were coming back. Walking around the streets of Venice and the dive bar with bare feet. Asking the bartender to "make up" shots for us. And knowing that every new place we went to, the stench of booze was (b)oozing from my pores.
|Motrin labels are hard to read.|
This was weekend number one.
Weekend number two was my birthday, so I shouldn't have to explain myself or the events. One rockin' and groovin' 70's themed party later, I was back to the (b)oozing pores.
Weekend number three was a bachelorette party. I won't go into detail, but I came back with no voice, a lot of memories, and the crotch eaten out of my pajama shorts.
I will say I wore the shorts and realized my dog had eaten the crotch, so erase what your imagination was thinking.
This last weekend was a wedding extravaganza. Staying on a resort, in the sun, with friends, and more alcohol than I care to admit had its ups and downs. (Downs because I literally went down 4 times.) Day one of wedding weekend is where the meat of my story comes from.
I went to high school. I went to college. I'm friends with Farris Hopkins. I know what it's like to be hungover.
But in that moment, that Saturday morning, the precious day when two of my friends were to very beautifully become one, I have never encompassed the definition of hungover better than that moment.
I showed up to the hot tub that morning, meeting a number of other friends and guests. I walk in with a Bloody Mary in each hand, a throbbing headache, and both legs covered in bruises, one of which looks like a bite mark? If anyone, still, has any information where this odd bruise that runs down my leg came, I am still offering a sort of sad reward of bud light and a handwritten note.
As I step into the hot tub, chugging gatorade and spicy bloody's, waiting for the Advil to kick in, the cherry on top of the hungover sundae is plopped and beaming vibrant red shades.
Boyfriend turns to me and whispers that I have a large hole in the back of my swimming suit and that the spot where the "sun don't shine" is clearly visible.
Great. I passed maybe 8 strangers staying on the resort, not to mention all of those surrounding the pool area, some of which happened to be young, impressionable children.
Boyfriend had to cover the hole with his hand in front of family and guests I've never met as I side stepped back to the hotel room.
So anytime you are worried you look like hell from whatever activity you performed the night before, you have a minute to catch up with me and my most ridiculous hungover escapades.
No worries, though. Saturday night I managed to make friends with the bartender and successfully do a keg stand in a fancy dress.
I like to have fun and would like to simultaneously apologize to my grandmas.
Thanks for soundin' down.
Also, this needs to be seen as well. And, Joe Cyr if you're out there, I owe you $10.