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Waking Up in Hunts-Vegas

August 5, 2009

Warning: may contain some adult content. Mild sexuality. Language. Drunkeness. No violence though. This film has not yet been rated. Consider yourselves warned.

So Sunday morning my hubby woke me up as he came home from his camping trip-“do you know your car is missing?” I mumbled thru my half lost voice that it wasn’t missing as I knew exactly where it was-801 Franklin. Him-“Are you sure? How did you get home?” More mumbling about taking a cab, being kidnapped, etc. Praises from him about how responsible I was while he manages to ignore my mention of being kidnapped (Pseudo kidnapped. More like separated from my car under threats of never being spoken to again if I went home). It should be noted that I rarely go out (other than fundraisers, rugby games, and people who I like’s houses). I very much like to be at home. And we don’t drink very much anymore. I did enough of that in my 20’s to practically be considered a Lohan.

A few hours later I woke up, still practically voiceless, in dire need of tacos from Taco Bell (my fave upset tummy food), and wanting to go get my car immediately because I am convinced it will have been towed. We consider having sex. And even clumsily attempt it. After much groaning and ouches from both of us, and not in a good way, we conclude that we are both too old and beat up (Him from canoeing/camping. Me from falling down our stairs. Again) to be anything resembling sexy at this point in time. You know you’re old when intoxication prevents sexual activity rather than causes it.

My ass cheeks hurt and I can barely move. Showering makes my hair hurt.  As does the sandpaper and soap combo required to get asinine ink from bar stamps off of my delicate hands. Black suspiciously straight stripe across my ass (obviously from where my booty landed directly on the edge of one of our steps. Do it enough and you’ll recognize the signs. This is different as I usually fall sober and barefoot)  and a gash down left arm-diagonal from wrist to elbow. Can barely lift arms to put on deodorant. I wander downstairs (without falling-success!) and glimpse 8 bracelets, 3 paper armband, and a butcher knife on the kitchen table. Gash on arm is explained. Injury obtained during attempt to remove those damn armbands while drunk. Obviously, I chose the biggest knife in the house. Hubs is clearly impressed I didn’t severely injure myself. He’s also quite delighted to realize that previously mentioned gash was not the result of a misguided suicide attempt due to missing him while he was camping. (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was just happy I didn’t have to go along.)

So how did my stay at home, writing, reading, chilling with hubs and bracthild self get here? Girls’ Night inspired by Boys’ Canoe Trip (thank God I don’t get invited there. Again. Really.).

We grab dinner at 801, honestly the first really good meal I’ve ever had there and I attempt to go home as I don’t want to walk in my shoes and/or drive downtown. After numerous threats of never speaking to me again, I acquiesce, ending up in the back of a car at a bank to get cash for cab and VIP area at bar. (I don’t drink and drive. Hell, I prefer to not drink and not drive. I don’t understand the celebusluts-they have people pick out their clothes for chrissakes but they drink and drive? If I ever become even remotely famous the first thing I am getting is a driver. Second? Someone to blow-dry my hair everyday-I really hate that.)

We go to this new place called Club Rush where a friend arranged a VIP table. Honestly-I think the place is a great concept and I get what they are trying to do and it could be really cool.  Currently, it’s just a little TOO, as in it’s a little too stark, a little too hot, and a little too loud. They also had a little too many rules. No bad attitudes was the first on the list-shocked I wasn’t immediately turned away at the door. Also on the list? No excessive jewelry? (Have these people seen a fashion mag lately? Are my 8 bracelets that I wear on a daily basis considered excessive?) Also no white tshirts, which I don’t understand, and several other rules that I got bored reading and promptly forgot.

The people watching  alone was worth the price of admission (in retrospect, I don’t know that we actually paid that…). You know those crazy short, super tight, genius engineered dresses that barely hug the ass and roll up at the slightest hint of booty shaking? Or strong air conditioning?  Come on, you know the ones. They are so short that if the girls wearing them didn’t have all of their pubic hair removed, it would totally be hanging down longer than the dress. (Those geeky boys from school finally found a way to see some ass. And I, for one,  applaud them for it.) Some people consider this the perfect attire for dancing and “getting low”. I can no longer “get low” unless there is someone kind enough to pull my ass back up off the floor. Seriously funny stuff. I personally enjoyed trying to time/guestimate how long it would take to see bare ass. Could be a great game show: I’ll take 3 seconds for $500! Loved our reserved VIP area, am all about having a place to sit-if we ever could have gotten our waitress to come by-I would have actually been pretty happy. But, as we were hot and sober and both of these conditions were just unacceptable-we headed to Sammy T’s which comparatively seemed like paradise. Frightening.

Current count of hand-stamps and stupid paper armbands? 2 and 3. I tried to argue at all 3 bars about this ludicrous practice but it didn’t work out the way I would have preferred.

My shoes, like most of my shoes, were not made for walking. Most of my footwear is geared towards standing, preferably sitting, and looking cute.  They excel at being dropped off curbside and escorted to a table. My comment on this led to an altered version of These Boots Are Made For Walking which went something like: “These shoes aren’t made for walking, that’s just not what they do, one of the days these shoes aren’t going to walk all over you”.  Which is what led to me being barefoot. In a bar. Dancing to an 80’s band. The shots (which I normally don’t do but in this instance were an attempt to wipe out the hot, sober, walking on uneven bricks misery that was the previous hour) possibly contributed as well. Color me Britney Spears. Unlike Britney, there are some lines I absolutely will not cross and I did put my shoes on when I needed to pee and sort of hobbled/slid to the bathroom. This was partially necessitated by my inability to refasten the “complicated” ankle straps on my fabulous three tone metallic heels. Combo of shots and difficult shoes:1. Amy:0.

When I could no longer talk or breathe (have I mentioned that I’m allergic to BOTH smoke and beer? Irony is a cruel and hateful mistress), I decided a cab was in my immediate future. I considered calling my dad to get me. At 1:30 in the morning. But then realized that may not work as well when you’re 32, not 22. Being  slightly intoxicated and in a cab led me to feel all nostalgic about my former cab driver, Mike. Mike was,  in short, the absolute best driver ever. He would pick me up anywhere, get food and bring it to me if I paid fare, food, and tip, and he even punched a guy for me once.  And when I got fed up with my date and kicked them out on the side of the road? Yes, this totally happened more than once. He would laugh, take me where I wanted to go, go back for them and take them home AND even, when they asked, answer that no, I would probably not go out with them again. He’d even been known to deliver smokes (when I was a drinking smoker) and beer. In one word? Perfection. Mike retired about the same time I quit going out and drinking on a regular basis. Ummm…wow. I hope MY retirement from bar hopping didn’t push HIM into early retirement. I had never considered that possibility before. I proceed to tell my current and somewhat freaky driver all about Mike. I was probably trying to feel him out to see how he felt about getting me some tacos although he seemed to take it another way, like I was some sort of delusional cabbie stalker.I really just wanted tacos, maybe someone to carry my shoes up the stairs-at least toss them in the general vicinity of my front door. Or maybe some Krystal. No luck on any of the above.

Around that time I fell down the stairs. I’ve been falling up and down stairs as long as I can remember. My mom does it, my sister does it, and I’ve even passed it along to bratchild. Some people pass talent thru the generations…my family shares accident inducing skills.

And after all this? The hubs has decided we need to move. To a house with no stairs. Not a one. But… my car was just where I left it. And you people wonder why I would rather stay home…

© Amy Lloyd Mayfield and Amy’s Blam, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Amy Lloyd Mayfield and Amy’s Blam with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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