One for the Record Books

You know your blood alcohol content was likely near the .20% range when you wake to a ball of chewed bubble gum firmly planted on your nightstand. Gum you apparently put there at some point during the hours of 2:30 am (give or take a few) and 10:34 am. Because upon the realization you'd a.) gone to bed with a wad of gum in your mouth b.) slept a few hours and been fortunate enough not to choke to death on the wad of gum in your mouth, you'd decided the five feet from your bed to the nearest trash can was an impossible feat.

Saturday was T.'s birthday so we went to dinner and did some shopping. Afterwards we got ready at her place and watched Steve-O get his butt cheeks pierced together on Jackass. Some people decided they were too cool to hang out with us, but it turned out for the better since we had way more fun than we ever imagined. Per C-Sharp's suggestion, we decided to check out a new bar downtown. It didn't look a whole lot different than the old bar it replaced with the addition of some booths and a better dance floor, but it was a different crowd that seemed to attract more people in our age group (25-30).

We arrived way-too-sober, but fret not for there were drinks to be had (8 or 9 of 'em + 3 shots), dancing to be done, lack of skill aside, and boys vying for our attention. It seems the black guys have been into me lately for one approached me as we were standing near the bar. As I stood there, arms crossed, he approached from behind which is never a good thing as I learned from The Game. It caught me off-guard and made me ill-at-ease. He introduced himself, but that was it. There's nothing I detest more than awkward silence. I was too sober to carry on a conversation with him at that point, and he really just failed with his introduction. I'm sure he thought I was a total bitch but I couldn't come up with anything to say to him so he just walked off.

Fast forward to drink 6. T. and I were rather amused by the males on the dance floor. One guy insisted on raising his hands high above his head as if he were taking part in one of those energized sermons where you sing and clap and praise the Lord. Or whatever it is they do. Then there was Scary Scarf Boy who wooed women with his scarf. His red and orange silk scarf possessed the power to seduce women. He managed to invade a group of four girls and danced provactively with one who happened to either be a stripper or knew Carmen Electra's striptease video by heart.

Not quite drunk enough to dance yet, we stood beside the dance floor as innocent bystanders, mocking all the dudes making fools of themselves. All in good fun. And then the second guy to hit on me came up and asked why we weren't dancing -- the standard pick-up line of all-time. Guys should really be more creative in this regard. He was attractive and sort of charming and he was actually older than me (doesn't happen often these days). I talked to him quite a bit but he was really too good-looking for me. I know that may sound crazy, but I prefer to be the more attractive one when it comes to dating. And I instantly don't trust good-looking men, particularly the ones who know they're good-looking. I also felt bad that his friend spent some talking to T. and as we headed to the bar for our next drink, she revealed the guy had bad breath. Gross dude, get a mint. Or take a step back.

The night really didn't get started until we took our first shot and decided to occupy two seats directly beside the dance floor, slowly inching our way towards it. This is the point in the night when we met Wheelchair Guy. He and his buddies had been out on the dance floor all night so it wasn't much of a surprise when he walked up to us and said, "Hey, why aren't you girls dancing?" Again, where's the originality? "Oh, we're waiting for a good song," the standard BS response. "You look like two girls in wheelchairs sitting there," he said. Then, in unison, he motioned with both his arms as if he were spinning the wheels of a wheelchair which became this hilarious dance move for the remainder of the evening. Not only did it get us to get up and dance, but he'd managed to provide an opening for himself. Not that either of us were interested in him in that way, but if that had been the case, he'd successfully opened the lines of communication. Ever since I read The Game, I've found this sort of thing fascinating: they way men pick up women and the interaction between males and females. It also turned out that Wheelchair Guy had a possessive girlfriend at home that called every fifteen minutes to check in on him which was rather comical. We had a good time dancing with Wheelchair Guy and his buddies. That is, until we realized we needed an umbrella to deflect Wheelchair Guy's saliva as he spoke.

After about drink 7 and shot #2, things get a bit fuzzy. I know another guy tried to say hi to me on the dance floor but I just laughed it off and wondered if I happened to look extremely hot i.e., easy or if the guy-to-girl ratio just tipped the scales in my favor. We wound up talking to another group of guys but by that point, I can only imagine what I must've sounded like, slurred speech and all. Drunkity, drunk, drunk. Toward the end, T. was so wasted that she decided it was time for her to go home -- right then and there. I offered to go with her but she pretty much bolted for the door. That's usually my move. I get too drunk, vacate the premises and put myself to bed. So I stayed and hung out with Jason and our new friends and it was somehow decided they would give me a ride home. No clue if I asked or they offered, but I'm willing to bet it wasn't my idea. Fortunately Jason didn't try to invite himself up or anything (not that I would've let him), for he had to give his two friends a ride home. Or maybe that was just his excuse, for I have a feeling I was "that girl." You know, the really hammered one they felt obliged to take care of, but couldn't wait to get rid of. After I got out of the car, they probably reiterated to one another how I was indeed "that girl."

Point of No Return

In my last post, I shared what I could remember from Friday night. Here is what I do not recall...

While GC and I were drinking our chocolate martinis, I texted TheGuy and asked him to pick me up. He arrived promptly at 12:30 (this is where things begin to get a bit fuzzy). He stopped outside the bar, but then GC and I were really loud and slow to get in the car. Meanwhile a cop pulled up behind us and yelled at us over his intercom.

Even though we were only going several blocks away, I gave TheGuy horrible directions to GC's car. Then she decided to meet up with some people at a club so we dropped her off there. This is where the point of no recollection whatsoever begins.

I told TheGuy I wanted to go to Santana's for greasy drunk food. I bitched about how cold it was the entire twenty yards from the car to the place. Once we got inside, I decided I no longer wanted food. So we left.

We came back to my place and he tried to put on a DVD, but I flat-out refused to perform the three complex steps required: 1.) Put the TV on channel 3 2.) Push DVD button 3.) Push power button.

At one o'clock, without saying a word, I got up and went into my bedroom. At 1:02, I hurriedly opened my door and rushed into the bathroom. To puke. In the meantime, TheGuy cranked up the volume on the TV. I later emerged from the bathroom and headed straight back to bed. TheGuy waited twenty minutes to make sure I wasn't dead. When he heard me breathing, he left a note and made the wise decision to get the hell out of there.

Leather Coats with the Fur

I hang out with some hard-core drinkers (it's a requirement for being my friend). Get one or two drinks in me and I fail to remember this very important tidbit. Instead of drinking twice as slowly, I feel the need to keep up with them. A total of three hours elapsed last night and I had had 4 Captain Cokes, 1/2 of some fruity shot, 1/2 a watermelon shot, two glasses of wine and a chocolate martini. I was done for.

Another requirement for being my friend is your ability to make fun of complete strangers. At The Drink, there were two older gentlemen on the dance floor. Both were equally terrible dancers, but that didn't stop them from trying! If their thinning hair didn't give them away, their clothes sure did. I almost died laughing when C-Sharp said, "Those dudes are wearing Wilson's Leather jackets circa 1990." That just may be the funniest quote of 2007. The older of the two men actually had fur trim around the collar of his coat. Bad dancers makes for great entertainment!

Eat, Sleep, Drink, Play

Not necessarily in that order.

Hey peoples. Stats have been up -- I s'pose a trip to Sin City has nothing to do with that. I arrived at work Monday morning only to be hounded by co-workers. One by one, they entered my cube, occupying the spare chair in the corner and took turns cross-examining me. "So..." they'd each say with a knowing look, "what'd you do in Vegas?" Sorry to disappoint that I didn't come back a convicted felon or married or pregnant (that I know of).

1.) We stayed at the Bellagio.
It was really nice but imagine our surprise when we opened our mini-bar to find a half-eaten Snickers. The first cleaning person we told said, "Don't worry about it." When we called the front desk, they laughed and said, "That's disgusting." Finally, we told another cleaning woman who did nothing until we asked her to remove it from the fridge. When I told TheGuy about the Snickers, he said, "Why didn't you just throw it away?" Apparently, we were the only ones who thought it wasn't our responsibility!



2.) We didn't gamble. Not a single penny.

3.) We went to a club called Asia.
With no plan, we basically closed our eyes and randomly selected the first destination from a directory in the Miracle Mile mall. When we first walked up, we were hurriedly greeted by a gentleman in a suit welcoming us and personally escorting us to the front of the line. Had we not been rushed in, we surely would have turned and walked the other way. To say the least, this certainly wasn't the classiest place in Vegas. Ghetto is what comes to mind. After the bouncer checked our purses at the door, we ordered a drink at the bar and took a seat near the dance floor. The scene was something like this: black chicks in booty shorts gyrating on the speakers, and one lone white guy with no rhythm sidling from girl-to-girl in a trainwreck of attempts. Points for persistence though.

4.) We went to Pure Nightclub.
Befriended the bouncers, partial to one named Odie. Or so his nametag said. Much to our dismay, he informed us Pure would be shut down Saturday night because Celine Dion ruins everything. As alternatives, he told us to check out Drai's, LAX, and Tryst.

5.) We went to Drai's.
Danced into the wee hours -- the place stays open until noon!

6.) Stumbled into bed around 6:30 AM.
Slept 'til 3 PM, failed to see the light of day.

7.) 3 PM - 9PM: Food, wine, and bad TV.

8.) We saw Thunder From Down Under.
Hysterical. Loved it. No one enjoyed it quite as much as the middle-aged women at the center table. After the show, you're given the opportunity for a photo-op. Hottest Body was in charge of collecting the money while Hottest Guy was snapping photos so we politely requested HB and HG to be included in our picture, forcing two of the uglier guys to be switched out. At $20 a polaroid, I don't think it was too much to ask. I closed my eyes in two of the three pictures. I blame Rejected Guy for premature timing. I got a kiss on the cheek from Dave, a blonde dude with roots.

9.) We went to LAX the nightclub.
The place was packed. We wormed our way through a group of guys to a prime balcony spot that oversaw the entire club. I pissed off some guy by "stealing" his drink i.e., sucking it down real fast and handing it back to him empty, but I bought him another to make up for it.

10.) Made an attempt to go back to Drai's but gave up and called it a night. Around 6 AM.

One last thing I'll say is that I had such a great time with my college friends. I really miss the days of going out with them. This post really doesn't do the trip justice, but in the words of Deborah, "I ain't got no time!" Plus you know what they say, "what happens in Vegas..."

Bachelorette Party Part Deux this weekend. To be continued.