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Drunken Debauchery…. a week late

Picture_0131Oh my goodness what a strange 24 hours it has been.

Yesterday, the lovely Carissa rung up my work line with an intense craving for Olive Garden, which she had been boycotting because they no longer accept checks. Apparently, the need for Chicken Scampi overwhelmed her sense of finance outrage and she succumbed. Thus, the two of us went to lunch together, which always makes for a fun time. Carissa and I are truly cut from the same cloth, even though our personalities are complete opposites. She is my logical grounded ying. I’m her curvy right-brained yang.

We had such a good time, in fact, that she called my work line after lunch to see if I wanted to do a karaoke thang that night, since we haven’t gone out in ages and ages. Esteban’s working on a cover package right now, and I already knew that my night would be spent watching Shakespeare in Love or maybe Last Night again. And making my Valentines. And maybe if I felt really racy, I was going to paint my nails. I asked Carissa if she had any slutty ho clothing, because I was going to go rock star. She said she’d work on it.

So I accepted. I gave Jasmine a call, because she’s another karaoke friend who’d been mentioning that we haven’t sung in a long time. We exchanged cell numbers (how 2002!) and the plans were set.

I did some shopping (bought a retro Italian ad to put in the kitchen when it is complete), picked up some chicken fried rice and steamed dumplings (as the kitchen is still in a state of food unfriendliness) and went home to get ready. I opted for the black velvet ensemble, with its glittery boob enhancement. It was a little more revealing and clingy than I’m used to, but I figured I could pull it off and if I was uncomfortable, I’d keep my red pleather crocodile jacket on. After doing many angry things to my hair, I applied my Skank Ho lipstick and took a look in the mirror. Hmmm’. Damn, I looked so cute! Like a really cute trampy slut.

Carissa picked me up. She was wearing her very cool purply changing colors thingy shirt and a SKIRT MADE ENTIRELY OF GLITTER! That was her Slutty Ho find of the day. She got it for $5. The nylons she bought to wear with it cost $5.95. She looked very dang hot! Just goes to show you: The best Slutty Ho clothes are cheap Slutty Ho clothes.


I realized that I had left my cell phone at home, along with Jasmine’s number but figured that she knew where we were going, which was an untried karaoke joint. Supposedly it was a blues club, but it was really just a glorified hotel lounge. And the karaoke setup was amateur. When we walked in, the crowd literally froze and checked us out. Apparently, this was a Slutty Ho hangout and the legitimate Slutty Hos viewed us as competition. Oh my. We got a table and were immediately approached by a very drunk aged Slutty Ho, who told me that I looked fabulous. I think she wanted to mentor me into the fine art of Skankosity. Carissa piped up ‘I know! Doesn’t she?’ That’s one of the reasons I adore Carissa. So ready to stroke my ego.

Aside from the drunk lady, however, the vibe from the place was very strange. We decided to go elsewhere after we sang the two songs we had already put in.


The people were obviously regulars and there was a strange Urban Flava contingent going on as well. Strange in that this is Green Bay Wisconsin and our idea of ‘Urban’ is a street with three traffic signals and no cows in sight. However, they were definitely players… as opposed to playahs, which is apparently something else entirely. The men sang a lot of really excellent soul stuff, while their women skanks eyed us balefully. I wanted to stand up and get my head bobbing on my neck, finger held up and yell ‘We got our own men, so don’t you be thinking we want a piece of their ass too, aiight, skank bitch?’ But then I would have gotten my velvet-covered ass kicked.

I have this thing I do when I sing karaoke. I use a stage name. It began many years ago when Mary Kaye and I were out at karaoke. She was wearing a beret and had dyed her brown hair black. This was at the time of the entire Monica Lewinsky thing, and she looked strikingly like Monica, so as a joke, she put all of her songs in under the name ‘Monica’. Then she declared that I would be Mercedes. Then it came in handy because I was grocery shopping one day and a guy stopped me and said ‘Hi Mercedes!’ and instantly, I knew that he must have been a bar patron at the karaoke bar. If he had said ‘Hi Weetabix!’ I’d have been standing there, trying to figure out if I had gone to high school with him or whatnot. Thus, it’s a good tool because if anyone ever says ‘Mercedes!’ I know to run away very quickly.

wendy&cari singing

So, Carissa was getting us some Diet Cokes and the bartender at this bar we’d never been to ask Carissa what my name was. She replied ‘Weetabix.’ And the bartender said, ‘Oh, must not be who I’m thinking of…I thought her name was Mercedes.’ I have a reputation, apparently.

After a bit, I went up and sang ‘Like the Weather’ to raucous crowd approval. They warmed up to us immediately then, realizing that we weren’t there to steal their babies’ daddies from them with our lures of HBO and bedazzled breasts. Carissa and I sang ‘She Bop’ together (which is one of two songs Carissa will sing unless she’s been drinking, in which case she can generally be convinced to sing solo) and then busted out of there. We went to another karaoke place down on Broadway. For as much as we felt awkward at the glorified hotel lounge with the Playahs and their Skanks, the bar literally stopped and stared at us when we walked in. Up on the karaoke stage, a guy was singing Ozzy Osbourne. A biker guy walked over to us immediately and said ‘Are you guys looking for Melissa?’ to which we shook our heads, wondering if possibly ‘Melissa’ were a code word used between prostitutes and their johns. My breasts were sparkling far too much in that joint, so we fled once more.


Across the street was a club that we had heard was pretty fun. It was a retro place, with Twister on the walls and people dancing on the bars. It reminded me of the TKE parties I used to go to in college, only with more bathrooms and better music. We walked in and immediately bumped into Jasmine, who was there with two of her guy friends. Chuck and Chris immediately accepted us as best friends and we hung out with them.

Jasmine was entranced by my clothing, which is so unlike the very business-like or stylish clothes I wear to work. ‘Where did you get them?’ She asked, to which I replied ‘At a Hootchie Mama cheap-ass rock star store!’ I drank two Diet Cokes with Malibu….wait, it was three… (four?)… from these cool black light glowy cups. We got some candy necklaces. My breasts sparkled like the finest gems and Carissa’s bootie lit up the bar. We danced and sang to ‘I think I love you!’ and ‘Sweet Caroline’. Then I tired of the expensive call drinks and had a bartender, who was dressed like Julie, Your Cruise Director from Love Boat, to make me a Blind Russian. She made it in a 16 oz glass. Even with ice, that’s at least 10 ounces of straight alcohol, folks. Smooth-tasting, yummy alcohol. Julie, Your Cruise Bartender, had never made a Blind Russian before so she tried one and her perfectly-plucked eyebrows shot upwards’. ‘Oooooh’ that’s yummy!’

I drank the entire glass within fifteen minutes. More songs came on. We danced more. We sang more. Carissa, as is her nature, met someone that she knew from childhood. Whenever we go anywhere, Carissa knows someone or becomes his or her best friend. She’s wacky that way.

Then the bartender gave me the thumbs up when she saw that I had finished my drink. And she made me another one.

Oh lord.

Things got a little fuzzy at that point.

There are no pictures beyond this point because I was too drunk to work the clasp on my purse. Seriously. I was storing my money in my cleavage. I think that every alcoholic in my family stood up and cheered.

I know that I was singing a lot. I know that at one point, I was dirty dancing with a guy named Wes. I know that Jasmine and I went to the bathroom at one point and I wrote ‘My breasts are very sparkly and lovely!’ on the bathroom wall. And she confessed that she was in love with the guy she was talking to in the bar. And my sage advice was that ‘Nothing says love like Oral Sex…. And swallowing.’

I’m not proud of that.


Jasmine made me steal a light-up glass from the bar, sticking it into the pocket of my pleather coat. Then we departed, as Carissa had to be up early in the morning to go to church. I told Carissa how much I loved her and cherished her friendship and that she was one of my very best friends in the whole world, which is absolutely true. And she told me that I was one of her very best friends also, which must have been true, because she hadn’t been drinking all night. And then she drove me home. She asked me about the cup in my pocket. I explained that Jasmine made me steal the lighty-up cup. She said ‘You know it only lit up because of that lighting at the bar, right?’ And the news completely crushed me. It was enough to make me cry. ‘Those fuckers!’ I slurred.

Ok, I’m not entirely proud of that either.

Then, while I was stumbling up my front stairs, the cup fell out of my jacket pocket and I stepped on it. It was all karma. Now I have a broken non-lighty up cup.

I made it into the bedroom and proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh and then laughed some more. ‘You’re drunk out of your gourd, aren’t you?’ Asked Esteban, because that’s the way he talks sometimes.

‘Tee hee heee heeee!!!’ I answered back, doubling over into a giggling heap.

I stripped, like some tittering Gypsy Rose Lee and then collapsed into bed. Esteban apparently quizzed me about my evening and then the room started to spin. I made him sing ‘Daydream Believer’ and ‘Cecilia’ to me because that made it stop. He’s so great, that Esteban.

Then I got sick.

I’m really not proud of that.

For the record, I have only gotten sick from drinking three times in my life, the first time being when Mary Kaye and I went out to celebrate her 19th birthday and I ordered and drank, by myself, two flaming volcanoes (which have 14 shots in them… apiece). The last time being two months after my 21st birthday (I didn’t celebrate my 21st birthday, waiting until Fern turned 21 two months later so we could celebrate together). Esteban was there taking care of me both times. He’s the best person when you’re drunk and disorderly. It’s true love when he’s willing to hold your hair and coo encouragingly while you vomit.

But it was almost ten years between the last time and last night. One would hope that I’m learning my lesson. I’m not a drinker. I’m totally a novice, but I can generally hold my own. Hopefully, it will be at least another ten years before I do that again.

So, the moral to the story is that you shouldn’t drink the equivalent of something like 20 ounces of straight alcohol in sixty minutes. And don’t go out with disco ball boobs.

That won’t make you sick, it’s just plain tacky.

Oh, and here’s something: having cramps AND a hangover is a punishment which should only be reserved for child beaters and the makers of Showgirl. That really sucks.

Esteban got up promptly at 7:00 a.m. this morning, after my drunken ramblings went on for a good portion of the night and then my marathon tooth-brushing session after I called out to ‘Earl’. He went to work, leaving me to sleep off my bender. I almost killed Chelsea when she decided that she wanted to lie upon my hip and lick herself repeatedly. I slept until noon, took a shower and some Advil and then got lunch with Esteban.

My throat’s really sore today. There’s this whole Kathleen Turner phone sex voice thing going on. I’m fairly certain it’s from singing ‘I Will Survive’ at the top of my lungs. I had originally planned to do housework today, but opted instead for low impact shopping. I went to Appleton and found a black $159 double-breasted suit on quadruple clearance for $19.99. Can I get a hallelujah, brothers and sisters? Praise the Lord Almighty Hallelujah!!! I think it will be my Agent Scully suit, because I totally get an FBI vibe off it, especially if paired with my kicky eyeglasses.


Houston… we have Hobnobs!!!

I now have in my possession three packages of chocolate Hob Nobs. Irish Lady finally had them in stock. The irony of this is that my throat is so sore I cannot really eat them right now. That’s ok. Having Hob Nobs is almost better than eating said Nobs. I noticed that now they’re in a stay-fresh type canister rather than a wrapper, which rocks, although I can’t ever see them sticking around long enough to get stale. Oh, and how funny is this …those wacky Brits have the calories figured out per cookie AND if you eat half the container. They’re realistic. I like that.

So that was my last 24 hours. It will take me at least another 48 to recover, I think.

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