29 October 2011

Leg Wrestling, Bar Dancing and Shoulder Rides

I feel the need to stress that my friends and I are not entirely deranged alcoholics. While I do tend to go out of my way on this blog to make us sound entirely mentally unstable... the truth of the matter is that we all tend to process our emotions in ridiculous ways... which most often leads to absurdity and hilarity...and also binge drinking. So...we are actually deranged binge drinkers... 'cause, you know, alcoholics go to meetings and stuff. 

There has been a shit storm of epic proportions around here lately. Life? Is all kinds of fucked up right now. Since I am all about healthy expression of emotions, I have been bottling all of these things up inside of me until they have reached critical mass and I am forced to deal with them... generally through tequila. 

M? Was in a state of emotional crisis. She almost mostly cried and then didn't. I think it was that commercial that got to her.. you know the starving foreign kids? Or possibly the one with the saddest animal faces you have ever seen, set to Sarah McLaughlin music. In any case, M was working on not processing any of her feelings as well. Only with Jager because M hates tequila.

This is where the story generally goes a bit..er..wrong. If you are my grandma or my mom? Stop reading this right now. 

We begin the evening with pool games, At some point we generally forget that we are playing pool at all and move on to playing the jukebox as a sport. This is usually where D steals the remote for the jukebox.

I don't know why or how this tradition began...but a remote-less D? 

Is all kinds of crabby. 

So he holds the remote...to everything. And he also hold the phone. 

D is a control freak.

During this particular evening, where I am bordering on a nervous breakdown and M is determined to make me giggle, a sad song comes on.

So we slow dance.

M then feels that the next logical course of action for the evening is to ask me to marry her. Touched, I tell her that of course I will marry her. She attempts to dip me. 

She is maybe just trying to get a whiff of my armpit before committing though. 

There is a small dispute about which one of us is going to wear the dress, which is, of course going to be white. This is settled by leg wrestling on the pool table.

Why?

Because there are things on the floor of that bar that can not be killed with any known anti-biotic/bacterial/fungal yet known to man. There are things growing on that floor that probably can not be killed through nuclear fall-out. 
So, of course we leg wrestle on the pool table. 
It is entirely possible that the hot ash I maybe dropped in my eye caused my leg-wrestling defeat.
Or? M cheats.



And then I lose. Because mostly?
 M cheats. 

I don't know how one could possibly cheat at leg wrestling, but that is probably why I lost.

I demand a rematch, because I look ridiculous in tuxedos. First, I have to give M another roofie though, because she is obviously developing a tolerance for the damn things.

I am distracted, however, by the next song on the jukebox which almost demands that I dance on the bar with M and A...until I spy Superman come in the building. 


I jump off the bar, sort of like a ninja, if ninjas were mostly intoxicated women with severe emotional issues, and run up to give him a hug and then demand that he allow me to give him a piggyback ride to...somewhere.

Superman declines politely and it is decided that he should instead give me a shoulder ride. 
If there are no trees available to climb? Shoulder rides for absolutely no reason are also great for distracting oneself from emotions.


To the bar. 

That is probably ten feet away from us. 

No one else in the bar wants to play chicken with me, so I get down and of course, drink more tequila. Unless my grandma and mom are still reading, in which case I got down and drank more sparkling grape juice, and went home to bed before 9pm. 

Ahem.



Then, I make it a point to tell every single person that I see how much I love them, whether I actually know them or not. I also hug them. I am all kinds of loving. Mostly to random strangers. And also to H. repeatedly. 

This is about the time in these evening that my car keys disappear. There is a mysterious link between me loving strangers and my keys removing themselves from my ignition and wandering away into one of my friends pockets. 

Since I am all happy and loving? I do not mind.

M remembers that we are supposed to have a rematch... but the way she is looking at me? I think her intention is to kiss me.

It may not have been, but when I inform her that I will not make out with her in public? It becomes her intention. I yell that I need a grown up and something about bad touch and something about saving myself for marriage while M tries to tackle me and we end up on the pool table again, somehow. 

Someone takes a picture. Both of us look absolutely hammered, although I think that was simply the timing of the flash and the shutter and probably had something to do with the planetary alignment, because being responsible adults we wouldn't have been over-indulging ourselves.

And then? H feeds us and gets us home. 

Which is sort of anti-climatic for this story I guess... but the scrambled eggs out of the microwave? 

Were all kinds of awesome.


19 October 2011

Climbing Trees and Painting Penises

I could feel the crazy in my eyes. H could see it. A could see it. I was working, being all kinds of ridiculous, desperate to not let the events of the last few days catch up to my thoughts. 

H puts his arm around my shoulder, leads me to the doorway. "Deep breath, Krissy. Deep breath. Look at that tree. Isn't that an awesome tree? That would be a great tree to climb, wouldn't it?" It would be. H knows I like to climb trees, especially when life is overwhelming. I refuse to analyze why that is. I feel a moment of peace standing there, staring at the tree. Tears come to my eyes and I go back to my work, forcing all the crazy thoughts out of my head.

Later? After work, A says that I seem to be a bit manic. I am. I am running as fast and far as my mind will let me. I decide to paint. Paint everything I can.

I walk in the door with four gallons of clearance sale paint and a few rollers. M looks scared. M looks like she maybe wants to take me to the hospital and admit me with Husband.

"Hi? How was work?" She asks me, hesitantly.

"Fine. I'm painting. You want to paint?" M stares at me, she is all kinds of worried.

"Um. Well, do you want to talk or something?" She asks.

"Nope." Because there are tears coming again. "No talking. I am painting."

"Okay, well, uh. I am gonna run to McDonald's. I'll be right back, are you gonna be okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Just painting." I am smiling, but from the expression on M's face, I suspect it has a sort of terrifying effect. She leaves. I start to paint. No tape. No prep work. I cut in around the room.

When M returns I am all into painting. I have cut in around the room, painted as much of myself as I have the room, and the baby has paint on his butt cheeks. No shit. M brought T with her. T looks scared too. They offer me beer, because that is how we process emotion around here.

I think that I have never seen T and M look so worried. I am attempting to make small talk, aware that my voice is an octave or two too high, so I stop. I focus on painting.

"Krissy? Have you eaten today?" M asks me.

"Yep. Ate tacos. At work." They don't believe me. M texts H to confirm, then texts A also, just in case H is lying for me. 

Satisfied that I have in fact eaten that day, we are all drinking beer and talking about M's drama. Because I like other people's drama more than my own. M suggests that we should make boob prints with the paint. T says he will leave the room. We do not make boob prints, although I think it would have been awesome. I go to pee. When I return, T has painted a stick figure on my wall. A stick figure with gigantic boobs. M has painted a penis. I love these guys. 

They are narrating their actions, anticipating the blog entry. .."And then T, the sleepless stripper..." Says T, and I collapse into giggles that almost become tears. I jump up and roll the wall, considered leaving the stick figure and penis, but then decided the kids may be damaged by them. I was sorry to roll over them. 

At some point, my legs threatened to give out. I had been running on adrenaline for too long I guess, and my body was tired, even if my mind was not. T and M were scared again. They got all kinds of serious.

"For fuck's sake, guys... this is like an episode of Friends." I tell them.

T tells me to sit. "You know, even if you think your mind can take a lot more stress, at some point, your body can not. You have to stop, rest." 

Tears in my eyes again. God damn it!

"Really, Krissy. If you don't stop, you are going to hurt yourself. Listen to your body, before you end up in the damn hospital." 

"Pshaw. Like I am going to take advise from T the sleepless stripper!" But I know that he is right. I have never felt so awful in my life. My legs refuse to do what I want them to, my hands are shaking, my head is pounding and I think maybe the bugs I am seeing are not entirely real....There is a feeling that I will simply explode if there is anymore stress piled on top of me.

I agree to sleep. They do not believe me. They stay until I am sleeping, they drink beer in the living room and I am comforted by their presence. T is gone when I wake up in the morning, M is sleeping on the couch. 

I realize, quite suddenly, that I have the best friends in the entire world. Truly. 

I love you guys.


04 October 2011

Butterflies, Canadians and Puppas

This is not my absurdity. Not really, although I may have contributed in some way to the course of events... I did not actually roofie M, no matter what she says.

It is against the law to serve liquor to an intoxicated person. So probably M was just very tired when she decided to curl herself up inside of her sweatshirt and take a nap in my van until closing time. I am reasonably sure that I told her to turn the heat on if she got cold. She did not. She made herself a cocoon of sweatshirt.

After closing the bar and doing most of what I was supposed to do at the end of the night, T and I walked toward the van. He commented that M had build herself a cocoon and said goodnight to us. And then he abruptly abandoned me with M. Asshole.

"Ha!" M slurs at me. "A cocoon." She laughs. "Cocoons are fucking creepy." 

I snicker.

"No, really. Everyone is all 'ohh, look at the pretty butterfly. Everyone loves butterflies. I do not love butterflies. I think they are creepy. I think the fact that they go in a worm and come out a butterfly is disturbing." I am giggling now. M is not. M is serious.

"In fact, right after I lay a cuppa out of my ass, or where ever it comes from, I am going to tell everyone about this butterfly thing."

I snort. I can't help it. I have no idea what  a cuppa is or how it found itself in M's ass.

"A cuppa? In your ass?"

"Right, Krissy. As soon as I get Cuba out of my ass..." M giggles. "Cuba."

My stomach is aching from laughing at, with her. "Cuba."

M stares at me like I have lost my damn mind. "Uh. Krissy. They are called PUPAS, not cuppas and certainly not Cubas." Which only makes me laugh harder because her tone implies that I am a drooling idiot.

"In any case, I do not know about these butterflies. I mean, really, it's fucking creepy. It would be like if we went into a cocoon and then came out a dog."

I am struggling to imagine the comparison here. "A dog? Cuba?" I ask her, because I really love screwing with drunk people. 

"Right! And what about those Canadians? Huh? What's up with them?" 

And right there... she lost me.

"Canadians M?" 

"Yeah, sitting up there, in caves I think, going out of their way to make my life more difficult."

"I see." I say, because I have nothing to pull out of my ass on this one.

"They keep telling me to 'shh'. But I am not ready to 'shh'." I had no idea M was delusional.

"You know, H hates Canadians also. He got kicked out of Canada for like ten years or something."

"Whoa!" M is all mad at Canada now. " Kicked out of Canada! Who the hell cares, I mean really. It would suck to be kicked out of, like, Italy. Or even Ireland. But Canada? Who the hell even wants to go there. It's cold and snowy and shitty, and you can't come in. Well hell. Big deal. Who the hell wants to go to Canada anyway."

I am almost afraid to tell her that my grandma was Canadian. Instead, I ask her if they have butterflies in Canada. It seems to be a safer course of conversation. 

"Agh. Butterflies. Have I mentioned that I really hate butterflies? Ohh. Do you still have pizza? Can I have some pizza? I will be all quiet and shit."