Being home has been lovely. A time for friends, family and constipation. For the first five days of my vaca here I expelled waste exactly twice. That...is a lot of blockage.
Last Sunday was an extended family dinner which quickly devolved into a debaucherous booze fest once the Mennonite card games were brought out. My cousin was mixing me martinis all night and by the time the grownups left around 10:30 I was well in the bag. By midnight, I had compiled a list entitled, "Things that would make me put a ring on it" and thrown up all over the kitchen table mid-laugh. Vermouth in the nose...not fun. Much else is a blur until my brothers got me home at which point I began emptying the contents of my stomach into the main floor bathroom. A firm believer in equity, I then crawled up the stairs and ralphed in the upstairs loo. After throwing up a solid quart of vodka, my body had nothing left to give and began heaving in all sorts of directions. It was at this moment that my bowels graciously decided to relieve me of the previous two days' build up. I will spare you, my reader(s?) the delicate details of this evacuation but it ends with me calling my 19 year old brother into the bathroom and demanding that he "draw a bath." I managed to crawl to the tub and after properly washing away the vomit and shame, I then required his help to lift me out of the bath (while I one-handedly concealed my junk; boy's gotta have some modesty) and he escorted me to bed. He then, at my request, brought me water and a pail, cleaned up the bathroom and did my laundry. He was truly a champ. Well, runner-up champ. The true champ was me who, having completely expelled all the alcohol from his body, woke up hang-over free the next day.
I am a magical being.
New Year's was fine yet sorta lame. It would have been far worse had I not had zero expectations. I went to a house party (Q: does it count as a party if the only organizational element is a table on which to place the booze?) and I was the first one to arrive. Well, not the first exactly, but the first of my ilk. Ya see, our host for the evening is a lovely boy from a small town with a fetish on for opera and separate friendship groups to match this dichotomy. By the time I got there, the small town contingent, which I will delicately label "urbanely-challenged," were already a dozen strong and in various states of world hockey juniors frenzy and inebriation. Fortunately, I was shortly joined by Mikey J and we awkwardly sat on a couch as the women whispered drunkenly (read: talked) in one corner while the men ("men"?) set up an elaborate game involving two bar stools roughly three meters apart, two empty beer cups and a Frisbee. Guess what the goal was. Take your time.
Eventually, my music peeps showed up and we segregated ourselves upstairs, modestly drinking and playing Apples to Apples. This was fine, but it just kind of felt like any old Thursday night. Even midnight was kinda lame as no one could find a television channel in our time zone with a countdown. Someone just kinda started mumbling, "10...9..." and then we all blew our noise makers with all the gusto of a pre-Viagra octogenarian. I had also decided to participate in the Great Decongestant Experiment, Part 2 and had downed three of those puppies. Unfortunately, they just kinda made me restless and caustic, which occasionally drew laughs, but generally I suspect that I was just a big bitch. I'm still down for a third and final attempt in some sort of club setting, but should that prove unremarkable, it's strictly back to street narcotics. That's a promise.
In other news, I made the mistake of telling the little Portuguese that I tend to only be interested in guys that don't reciprocate my feelings so he shouldn't act overly interested. He responded by acting no less available but rather has taken to frequently calling me 'cockweed'. This one may be a keeper.