I totally crashed my younger brother’s high school reunion last night with my best friend from high school. Since I cannot be allowed out in public to drink by myself, she was my babysitter.
High school reunions are pretty much a kitchen pass for amateur drinkers. You know the ones – their wives have no interest in being bored hearing stories about the good ol’ days and they “let” their husbands out for a night. Or girls who get drunk and decide to feel you up. No thank you, I’ve already done my breast self exam this month. How nice of you to offer, though.
Then you get that bitch who has a hard time walking in heels when she is sober, let alone falling down drunk. Literally. The one who stumbles and takes a few friends out with her on the way down.
One woman was trashing her husband right in front of him. Another guy claimed to be “very afraid” of his wife (my bestie had to pry him off of me). It was pretty loud in the place, so I found myself nodding my head and grinning like an idiot while people were talking to me. For all I know, they could have been saying, “I’ve been a serial killer for the last seven years” and I would have responded, “Really? That’s great!”
We were responsible and spent the night at the bestie’s apartment. I am dangerous to sleep with because I’ve been known to punch the non-BF in the face and arms in my sleep. I also speak gibberish and laugh a lot, which makes total sense since I do that on a daily basis while I am awake. I didn’t hit my best friend, though, just started doing some kind of Jane Fonda workout with my left leg and then draped it over her for a while. I’m tons of fun at slumber parties, let me tell ya. And her idea about a Waffle House breakfast was fabulous except that I forgot that eating bacon usually makes me throw up so, yeah, my morning ended up sucking there for a while.
It was a fun party, though, and I’d do it all again. Just not anytime in the near future. I have confirmation that I didn’t do anything too stupid, and I was able to keep up my reputation of being The Most Fun. I’m just glad I didn’t think to show people how I can put both of my legs behind my head at the same.
Today is my second day in Kauai. When I wrote this, it was 4:00 a.m. Basically, we got here around 4:00 yesterday afternoon, went to eat and have a cocktail, got our villa and got unpacked, and then went to lie down “for a few minutes.”
Waking up at 10:15 p.m., I punch the non-BF in the arm and say, “Wake up, we didn’t get to go down to the beach!!,” like it was our last day here or something. I don’t think I clearly heard what he muttered but the words “fuck” and “off” might have been in there somewhere.
I managed to fall asleep again, had horrible Dog Nightmares (dreams in which I am chasing my runaway dogs and inevitably, they run out into the street and I have to throw myself in front of a car, or worse, a DART bus, to save them). At one point, I sat up straight in bed, slammed my palm against the mattress, said rather loudly, “It’s a dream!” and fell asleep again. I slept a LOT, if we don’t count the numerous times my belly decided I needed to get up and run to the bathroom. I swear, I didn’t drink the water.
I often wonder why I’m invited back on vacation with him.
Then I woke up again around three and decided to have a chat with the non-BF:
Me: You have been asleep for nine hours.
Me: Did you know that? (Like he knows what time it is in his sleep)
Me: We need to get up. I want some eggs in case the fear of what will happen later makes me want to throw up. In that case, I need extra time to get ready.
Him: Mmph, hmph.
Him: I’M ON VACATION.
Me: You made a rookie mistake. You wanted to lie down “for a few minutes.” Ha!
Him: YOU made the rookie mistake by closing the fallout curtains. (I hate it when he is right, which is most of the time, since I’m an irrational worried mess on all of our trips.)
Me: Are you mad?
Him: Why don’t you go blog or something?
Me: I don’t have a secure connection.
Him: Well, go type it up or SOMETHING, and then I’ll set you up with one later, when I get up. In about nine hours.
Me: You don’t understand, it isn’t the same. I have to put little pictures in and captions and stuff. You don’t get the process.
Him: What pictures?
Me: Well, that one of the little dog on the plane. That was cute.
Me: Oh, and the one about the Emotional Support Animals. No, wait, that needs to be an entirely separate blog post. I still like what I wrote – “Aren’t all dogs emotional support animals?” Who the FUCK thinks up shit like that? I still need to see about getting a license or a card or something. I want an Emotional Support Animal!
Him: So, let me get this right…so, basically, it’s like Facebook?
Me: Yes, except that I get to curse like a motherfucker. And my relatives and my parents’ friends won’t know it is me.
Him: They will if you repost the same things you put on Facebook.
Me: What. Ever. (I say that to him when I don’t know what to say to him. Or when he is right, and I want to whack him over the head, but think better of it.)
Him: Mmph. Hmph.
I gave up and went to go make a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich because, fuck you, I am on vacation and I can eat totally shit breakfasts while I am.
I really needed a Bloody Mary Breakfast, but a shot of vodka and sugar free Red Bull would have to do. I was going to get in a helicopter that morning! See, I have this horrific fear of heights. The non-BF, all the years I’ve known him beginning with the first trip we ever took together about six months into Whatever It Is That We Are Doing Here, started pushing the envelope to get me over the fear I have of anything higher than a second story balcony. Scratch that, those scare me, too.
I feel like if I get too close to the edge of something when I am up higher than, well, than the ground, that I might hurl myself over and plunge to my death.
Note that I have no fear whatsoever of falling over, slipping and falling over, someone shoving me over, or having whatever I am standing on collapse and falling over. I am afraid I might leap over the railing.
Not because I want to die or anything. I can’t explain it, but I don’t often stand close to a railing, just in case.
I’m weird, I know.
P.S. In case I never post another entry again, just know I died while I was facing my fear because the helicopter went down. Or because I threw my self over the side. Either way, I hope the non-BF gets pictures.