Smile Politely

Making it rain

After a week of mostly innocent fun with my family at Hilton Head, I returned home to find myself with less than a day to polish the details on a bachelorette party my friend and I were hosting. Thankfully, our charitable husbands gave us day passes.  This reprieve left us with enough time to shop for new, totally-conservative, age-appropriate outfits, get the booze and other necessities for the evening, shower and get ready at the hotel, throw down like it was 1993 for ten hours, and then pass out at said hotel, all while still allowing for some morning recovery time before returning home to those sweet, sweet angels we call our children. 

Our first stop was meeting the girls for dinner at Fiesta Café. Pitchers of margaritas and sangria flowed freely, and multiple piles of guacamole accompanied the beverages nicely. After we filled ourselves with beans and chorizo, twelve of us headed over to the hotel for drinks before our entertainment arrived. As it turns out, maybe getting Mexican for dinner wasn’t the best idea. A strict rule had to be enforced regarding bathroom usage—the comfort and general rights of others deserved protection. So, anyone who felt “the urge” was forced to travel to the lobby in search of relief. Normally, this would have been embarrassing enough; however, given that the hotel was hosting a firefighter’s convention only complicated things, and raised the level of shame exponentially. 

Speaking of enforcing rules, we also enacted a Facebook embargo for the night.  Once again, this regulation came to fruition with the safety of others in mind. The details of our entertainment, while fascinating, will forever remain in the vault. I will say that “Mike,” the graduate student from Washington University, did not disappoint, and that horrified giggling reigned for about an hour.

We spent the next few hours dancing to mad beats by The Hoeff, and drank Vegas Bombs like people probably do in Vegas. After about fourteen of those, we cabbed it back to the hotel. In the morning I was told that I really pissed off the cab driver because I was messing with his radio. Although I was still drunk at this point, I realized that this complaint is one I’ve heard multiple times before, and had to ask my friends why the fuck I always sit in the front seat of our cabs. Now that I know better, you’d better believe I plan to do better.

Five of us remained the next morning, and after stumbling down to eat the free breakfast, we went our separate ways. I was a complete waste of flesh most of the day, moving from couch, to bed, to floor, hoping 8:00 would come around so I could go to bed with at least a shred of dignity. Some of you may recall I’ve been dealing with a new strain of what I’ve diagnosed as tuberculosis, and staying out all night only encouraged the disgusting bacteria in my body to kick me when I was down. 

The following morning was my rock bottom. Day sixteen of the plague, I drove my sorry ass to Convenient Care with one goal—Z Pack. Seeing the sun gazing on the clinic was awe inspiring, and when the doctor clicked his mouse to zap my prescription over to the pharmacy, I had to keep myself from weeping—which I managed to do until I got in the car and called my husband asking him to pick it up for me because I was too damn broken.

Feeling relatively human today for the first time in almost three weeks, I anticipate another exciting weekend, including Saturday night’s street fest. The Dirty Feathers and Elsinore probably sound even better when they’re free, and nothing says sophistication like drinking draft beer in the street. On Monday I’m off to watch the Cardinals slaughter the Cubs…I heard ESPN picked up this game, so watch for me.  I’ll be the one picking popcorn out of my teeth during the Jumbotron’s “Kissing Cam” as I will have turned forty earlier that day. Pray for me.

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