There’s a little boy chilling in my uterus, sometimes content, most of the time, causing some sort of ruckus, which is fitting as he is my child after all and being well-behaved in utero would be unheard of. I started my new job as an editor/writer feeling deathly ill, vomiting, spitting, dry heaving and dropping 10 lbs. as this nugget sprouted to life. It’s still bizarre to me that I’m continuing the cycle of life by leaving a piece of myself and my husband, separate from ourselves, set to leave his own mark on things.

Well, I’ve got six weeks to go and so far, the little guy is content to sit pretty—as in upright and full-out breech position. I’ve read the horror stories and guilt trips online about c-sections, vaginal breech births…”visualizing” a breech birth or something—very strange. I’ve leaned off my bed with my arms on the floor, ass in the air, so that he might want to flip. I may even take to the pool and try some handstands. I find out next week if I’ll need to go that far when I have another ultrasound.

I’m hoping I don’t have to as the recent bouts staring at my stomach with it’s protruding edges and shifting, misshapen form means he is in the process of, or already has, flipped head down. Watching an arm drag across or a foot jab—or is that a fist?—is crazy. I sometimes wonder if he realizes he’s in there and is claustrophobic and wants to cram out of there before he develops some crazy psychological aversion to small, dark spaces.

I’ve kind of tapped out of normal everyday life during this pregnancy. After I got over the morning sickness, the second trimester was much nicer. Everyone didn’t smell like bad breath and I was sleeping through the night. I even managed to get out and socialize a bit, which was fabulous. Now in the third trimester, I awake five to seven times a night to pee, or choke on my own vomit from the sudden onset of heartburn. He moves around and hits me in the weirdest places, but I’m always glad to feel it. It’s nice to know he’s still getting on OK in there, despite the cramped quarters.

Now I’m just waiting. Waiting as my ass continues to expand, my leggings getting snugger and snugger as I waddle from the train to the office in the mornings, never failing to catch myself in the reflections of the buildings I pass. I haven’t worn jeans since December. On some occasions I manage to spruce myself up to look like a “cute” preggo 20-something, but in most cases, I just throw on some leggings and something stretchy on top. I’ve started wearing my bright red running shoes to work more often, instead of my much cuter and more work-appropriate ballerina flats. Why? Because at this point, some cute flats won’t camoflauge the fact that I’m large and coming at you, so I might as well be comfortable, lest I fall over or slam my stomach into a wall while making a tight turn walking through the office (which has happened, it’s amazing how having 30 extra lbs. in your stomach region can throw off not only your depth perception, but sense of balance).

Most of all, it’ll be nice to meet him. I know he’s in there and no matter how much I think about it, it’s still crazy that in a few weeks, I’ll have a little kid that will look up to me and expect me to know things. Growing up I always thought my parents knew everything and could resolve any suspect situation. My dad could crush any adversary and my mother could outwit anyone.

Perhaps an example of my own laziness, I didn’t fully realize I could have my own set of thoughts and beliefs completely divergent to my parents’ if I wanted until I was in my late teens. I think this time around, I’ll instill the ideas I’d like him to care about, but let him know that there’s no point in believing in anything if you don’t question everything, constantly, to the point of ridiculousness. And I’ll end on that random note.

Friendly French
Whew. People give the French a bad rap. In fact, I think the whole snobbery cliche persona is simply for people who deserve to get snubbed wherever they go, not just while perusing France and not just by the French. All of the French natives we’ve worked with while getting this wedding together have been nothing but cordial and accommodating. And then we met our Dutchman. We met on a May afternoon with the sun high in the sky and sweat beaded on our foreheads. We sat under terrace awnings and drank some cool Rosé and snacked on some foie gras and lobster–our dinner tasting. Food? Amazing. Ambiance? Enchanting. Dutch dude? Interesting.

This guy is so “laid back” and easy going and yet, with two months to go, he has erupted into a volcano–rivaling the Icelandic troublemaker responsible for so many people’s travel woes–coming up with ridiculous demands that were never discussed before. Like forcing people to stay at his hotel since he’s assuming we will blast our tunes so that Monte Carlo will pause and look upward in annoyance toward our cliff-side restaurant. Long story short? He was trying to milk whatever he could out of us and we tried to accommodate, until we realized he was just being an ass. As such, we decided there was no need for us to be bent over–so we switched positions. We’re in our twenties, yes. We’re paying for this ourselves, yes. We’re American, yes. So? That does not mean we are push overs. He’s now fully aware that while we’re excited for the wedding, we’re not going to deal with this kind of insolence when we’ve kept our side of the bargain. And lest he forget, there will be a number of 6ft+/200+ pounder dudes who will show up to his fine establishment whether he likes it or not. Whether they decide to come with the friendly demeanor that Americans are sometimes known for, is purely up to him.

Luscious Loubs
On to happier things…so I bought my egregiously expensive Loubs that I can’t walk well in and make me 6 ft tall. And I love them. A deep-rooted love for their sleek toe cleave that is as deep as their red soles. Having a bad day? Get yourself some toe cleave in a 4 inch heel and walk around not wearing any pants. It’s lovely hahahaha.

Oh Iceland, please cease and desist your bitchy ways and please, big brother of the tempestuous little volcano, which is causing all this commotion in the air–please do not decide to erupt when everyone is trying to head over!

Marliave
10 Bosworth Street
Boston, MA 02113

So far, each time I’ve visited, I’ve managed to pass it by. Why? Because it’s tucked away on the seemingly invisible Bosworth Street. We had friends in town–the infamous get naked weekend–and Jake looked up restaurants in the area on Yelp. He came across this place and we took a cab ride over on a pouring rain evening in Boston. I just had dinner with a friend here last week and feel the need to lament my disappointment at finding my beloved beet salad was altered.

The place is off of Tremont–bang a hard right after you hit the Beantown Pub and walk down the pseudo side-street and it’s on the right hand side. Sit upstairs. They offer an array of Prohibition Era cocktails and their wine list is good too. I ordered my beets, a.k.a. a beet salad with goat cheese, candied walnuts, greens and aged balsamic.However, when I returned last week, the chef had changed it. Instead of the bountiful array of greens and beets, he piled it in a small, round, circular shape. The goat cheese was sandwiched in-between perforated cut square pieces of beets. I didn’t like the presentation or the mix of textures. It seemed more gooey and less greens. Don’t change it up if it’s perfect as it is! I hope they revert back to the original layout and portions.

Despite that disappointment, I have to say that their raw menu is yummy and fresh and affordable with oysters being $2.75 a pop and clams $1.75. Make it between 4 and 6 p.m. and they’re a buck each–not bad.

You get sides of garlic, cocktail sauce but I don’t remember horseradish–but delicious just the same.

I ordered the mussels in garlic wine sauce appetizer instead of an entrée and it was cooked well. They bring you bread and I can barrel through an entire basket. It’s a thin foccacia-type bread with a slightly salty/buttery crust. Soooooo yummy!

The first time we went, Zoe ordered their truffle mac and cheese. It was good but the truffles didn’t add much flavor to the overall dish. We both agreed it would have been better to integrate the truffles into the sauce, as opposed to slicing pieces on the top. With or without truffles, it was velvety and perfect for a cold, rainy night.

We got a simple burger with cheddar. The fries were good and the bun was fluffy and soft. It was cooked well and overall, a good burger but nothing to write home about. Meanwhile, the Sunday Gravy, comprised of San Marzano tomatoes, lamb, pork and beef was a definite crowd pleaser and gut buster. It was just packed full of stuff. We all cleaned our plates though and split a brownie sunday between the five of us.

This is definitely a go-to place when I’m in the mood for comfort food that’s a 10 minute walk away. I still haven’t delved into their cocktail menu but plan on it in the future. I find it hard to believe they don’t have some kind of signage around the area to let people know the place exists! I wouldn’t say it’s completely hidden as I’ve always seen a good number of people gathered upstairs. It seems to be a crowd favorite for larger parties. Delicious.

One of my favorite breakfasts is toasted whole wheat english muffins with cheddar cheese and sunny side eggs–covered in pepper and kosher salt. I suppose I can opt for the cheeseless variety, but they’re certain to be just a little bit lacking.

Why food? I suppose I could opt to forego other indulgences but other than eating, there isn’t much I’d rather be doing. Perhaps drinking, fornication or trash TV watching (Keeping Up With the Kardashians is scheduled to record on my DVR…I know…).

Jake is a bit of a self-taught prodigy when it comes to all things cooked or baked. I am lucky to have a guy who is hell bent on perfecting pizza dough or making profiteroles from scratch. I’ll have a separate post on those lovely babies in lieu of actually being able to have one.

I’m also running the Hyannis Half Marathon at the end of the month and Dallas will be taking on the 10K. I signed up back in November, thinking I’d start training immediately and curtail ruining myself during the holidays. Of course that didn’t happen as I was aware that I had plenty of time until February 28th. So I started training in February with a horrendous run in along the canal in the Cape. Cape Cod in early February is AWFUL. The wind and snow felt like pellets smacking my face and before long, I was picturing how I’d like to position myself when Dallas frantically led authorities to find my contorted, frozen body. My lips remained purple for three hours post race and it was a good half hour before I could bend my fingers enough to wrap them around a cup of coffee. Luckily, we stopped at Peppers Pantry on Falmouth Road in Cotuit, MA for a delicious cup of coffee accompanied by cream from their full-force cream dispenser! Light, regular or heavy cream! DE-licious! I then ruined my 8-mile calorie burn with a “small” but generous egg salad sub. The race is a week from Sunday and I’m plenty nervous about it. The most I’ve run is 8 miles so we’ll see how much of the race turns into a crawl.

I used to look forward to pizza nights prior to big runs as my go-to carbo load. Jake’s pizzas are amazing and I will miss them. He hasn’t perfected pizza dough yet and is beyond frustrated as it doesn’t seem like something that should be that hard to do. So until he does that, we drop $3 at:

Ernesto’s Pizza
69 Salem Street in the North End (which also sells yummy slices of their own) and bake it at home.

Laundry nights won’t be the same either as we usually stop over at Il Panino Express at 266 Hanover for a pizza and whatever other cheesy, delicious pasta concoction is on special that day. Their iceberg salad is overpriced but I could drink that dressing!

My birthday warranted a weekend of eating out and filthy while downing dishes with a Guinness or two. We stopped at:

The Times Irish Pub and Restaurant
112 Broad Street
Boston, MA 02110
617.357.TIME (8463)

It’s kind of off on its own so it was interesting to see it so packed, even for a Friday. Their clam chowder was the highlight. In fact, it was so good that I forgot to take a crappy-quality second generation iPhone photo of it before draining my bowl. Jake got their steak and cheese sandwich which was pretty good. Their fries don’t look like they’d be anything special, but I loved them. Straight up crispy with enough chewiness on the inside.

The service was good but I must note that my Guinness was not completely filled to the brim. Yes, there was a lack of frothy goodness and it was not lovely.

The ambience was…interesting. We could tell that the group of saucy-eyed patrons were all co-workers. It was funny watching the ladies get a little too animated with their male counterparts, gesturing wildly and making unnecessary attempts to slap a shoulder or lean unto a decent looking male counterpart. Luckily we finished our meals as a whore’d up troop of ladies marched in, asking if our third seat was taken and then proceeding to almost knock everything off their own table in a frantic attempt to “set up” before they went on the prowl. Good luck fending off those drunk female co-workers…

“We did good huh?” she said, realizing that she’d returned back to my place.

“Yea, I think we did,” I replied. We smiled and high-fived each other, laughing heartily. We faintly heard Jake bitterly telling us to “shut it!” and we quickly heard the pitter-patter of feet rushing over and in burst Dallas.

“Hold up before you high-five–neither of you have ANY idea what happened last night, do you??”

I should have known that waking up completely nude was never a good sign…

*************************************************************

Post dress shopping, we met up with Jake and Rog for some dinner, themselves nurturing a fledgling “bromance.” We were already eating when Dallas arrived, so she stood in line to order her dish. While in line, she managed to have a verbal exchange with another patron, albeit brief, nonetheless a decent display of effortless flirtation. “She’s good,” said Coco, as she eyed Dallas’ technique.

From then on, we all got ready, steadily sipping and enjoying ourselves. We headed out. We ended up at the Ames Hotel on State Street. A hotel employee noticed us looking over the interesting hallways and took us on a personal tour of the place. “If you don’t know where we are, we don’t want you here,” he remarked, emphasizing the exclusivity of the place (must not be that exclusive if we found our way there). Leather ceilings, light fixtures and creepy hallways, reminiscent of a “REDRUM” moment in the “The Shining,” made a perfect backdrop to our Saturday night. When we returned, the party was already well-underway. The sleek, modern and white decor was a unique and different backdrop than what you’d normally expect to find in Boston.

Coco eyed a stocky specimen with more hair on his chest than any of us had on our heads. He was surrounded by plastic women of an older vintage–those women gave our group the evil eye throughout the evening. Eh. And just like that, Coco decided it was a no-go.

We were all smashed–even Zoe, who usually kept it together.

“Don’t let me go home with ‘Sam Adams’ over there,” whispered Coco to me, referencing the bartender who poured Jake an old fashioned.

“Geezus, Coco–NO–that will not happen,” I assured her.

Thankfully, Coco, Scarlett and Dallas set out back to my place–without me. I remained with Jake, Zoe and Rog and one of their friends, smoking outside the hotel and began the process of walking home.

*************************************************************

“So this is why the high-fives should stop this instant!” started Dallas. “You two have absolutely no idea what happened last night, do you?”

Dallas explained that once home, Coco decided to kick Jake out of the tempra-pedic bed and help herself to it. Jake, eager to pass out, set up the air mattress in the kitchen and hoped that would be the end of it.

Jake noticed Coco had returned, standing over him in the kitchen.

“I have to pee,” Coco told Jake.

“So go pee,” Jake replied.

“I can’t…”

Jake, who couldn’t understand why Coco wouldn’t just pee in the bathroom, soon realized what was holding up the show–Reese. She was crumbled on the bathroom floor, wrapped up in the bed comforter, having made a makeshift bed in the bathroom.

“Reese–get up–Coco needs to pee and why are you sleeping on the bathroom floor?”

“What? I’m fine, I’m trying to get some sleep.”

That’s it! Jake began peeling the calm, almost serene Reese off the floor and into the bedroom. He felt a strange massaging motion on his ass–”Coco??”

Coco, laughing, was rubbing Jake’s ass as he peeled Reese off the floor. She scampered off and Jake forgot about the molestation and returned to dealing with his crumbled fiance.

Meanwhile, Dallas and Scarlett awoke to a stark crazy Coco who was drunkenly laughing hysterically and standing right in front of them.

At first, Dallas thought she was having a “REDRUM” moment of her own, but when she fully awoke, she realized it was Coco standing before her and asked, “Wait, are you peeing??”

“YES!” shouted a smiling Coco, fully dressed as she relieved herself, hands akimbo, while standing next to the Christmas tree.

Scarlett and Dallas instinctively pulled their bags out of harm’s way. Scarlett noticed her foot touching the sewage creeping up toward her, “It’s ok, urine is sterile…” she repeated over and over again.

Jake, about to loose it, rushed out of the apartment and began punching the hallway walls to relieve his pent-up rage. He and his swollen, bleeding knuckles, knocked gently on the door and Dallas let him in.

“I’m sorry,” he said especially to Dallas, who was new to the crew. “They’re not usually this crazy.” He rushed over to the kitchen and grabbed paper towels and cleaning supplies and they cleaned up the mess.

As they sopped up the mess, Coco decided it’d be a good idea to remove her tights, post-pee. She pulled her dress up over her head and removed her tights, now fully nude, and traversed the apartment. She somehow managed to rinse out her tights and crawled into bed. Reese was later dragged onto the bed next to her and must have woken up in the middle of the night to strip and continued napping.

*************************************************************

After this revelation, Coco and I looked at each other and laughed, apologizing and realizing we were starving. We headed to Joe’s American Grill on Commerical Street for Brunch, where Zoe and Rog were brought up to speed. We ordered our drinks and waited for our food, “High five,” toasted Coco as she turned to me. Wearing Jake’s sweatpants and a stained sweatshirt, I went in for it–high five!!

My Google Maps was failing me as I reassured the ladies that, “This is in no way a precursor to how the wedding abroad is being planned!” Luckily, after walking into multiple establishments, we were told that it was indeed on “Main Street,” except that it was one town over so we had to walk a mile or so to get there. We stopped in a local liquor store to pick up some bubbly, settling on poor man’s champagne, aka Prosecco, to commemorate the dress fitting. “Did this town just get better looking or are you not from around here?” remarked the shopkeep warmly.

“I don’t know about that, but you will all be better looking after some of this…”

We trekked down Main Street and passed some lovely New England/colonial-type homes, a horse farm/stable and finally, the shop. Inside, we met the bubbly lady who would be creating my dress. Before trekking upstairs, we meandered around her shop, looking at the little knickknacks, headbands, purses and other girly items that struck our fancy. “I need to buy some stuff,” announced Coco, who felt her cash burning holes in her pocket.

With mental notes made, we marched upstairs to the design table and got right to it. Scarlett, the future Esq., made sure the contract was in line as I was in no mood to hammer out loopholes and details. Zoe was snapping photos, creating “memories” to reflect on after all was said and done and Coco was….hungover. I felt a bit overwhelmed myself–the amount of “swatches” of fabrics and colors were massive.

After selecting a design and fabric–this close to deciding on a RED wedding dress, I signed a contract and felt like I’d accomplished something.

We headed back to the train, myself still wondering if I could really do a red wedding dress. Coco walked up beside me and reminded me: “You don’t get to pull off wearing a white gown all that often unless it’s your wedding–you’ll end up regretting it. And what about your mom–would it bother her?” Her simple remark and traditional take on the situation made it clear that white was the way to go and I could squeeze in some red perhaps in my hair, in lieu of a traditional veil.

Waiting for the train, Coco and I decided we needed some “travel juice” for the ride home. Scarlett was avidly opposed, having gotten into some trouble with the law for relieving herself on the streets of Philly, her mind cloudy with the effects of whiskey.

Still, Coco and I had no law schools to impress, so we signaled to each other to “make a break for it,” before the train came–in truly a over-dramatic fashion, Coco darted to the liquor store. She rushed back, bottle in brown paper bag and we boarded the train. Unfortunately, the train was packed with commuters and some sketchy guys who seemed like they’d had their fair share of hooker spit and Natty Ice–it was not a situation to get saucy in. So we saved the bottle for later. We’d soon find out the consequences of drinking all day and into the night…

I’m 26 and engaged, so nights like this shouldn’t still be happening–you know, those liquid dinners accompanied by outpouring of deep secrets and revelations due to an obscene amount of Ketel One martinis and Gimlets. However, it was a couple of days before New Year’s and I was feeling “festive.” I went out to Ditka’s in Chicago on Chestnut Street with my three brothers and one of their girlfriends and Jake. We made our way to the upstairs dining room and were greeted by tables full of bustling people, Sinatra and Elvis tunes in the background. We sat down, excited and breathing in deep the aromas of BBQ sauce and fresh seafood. I felt a bit nauseous–my loss of taste and smell was definitely on the rebound and some days feel like I can smell the slightest tinge of aroma.

I immediately knew what I was going to order–oysters and the baby back ribs. With the ocean no where to be seen, the oysters were just as fresh as they’d be in some harbor-side joint in Boston. The calamari was light and fluffy AND they had a small list on their wine menu specifically for $20 bottles of wine. Happiness.

My brother Johnny was excited I was getting to know his girlfriend, Mae, whom up until that point, I had had little contact. I can be a tad intimidating so I think she was relieved to see that I was ordering some wine off the menu, “Want to split a bottle?” I asked her. She heartily agreed and we all ordered our entrees. The ribs were amazingly tender and the BBQ sauce was just the right amount of sweet with a kick. The other popular item ordered was the Fridge Burger–and it lives up to its name. Packed full of cow and all the fixings, the sauce they ladled over this decadent burger separates it from the norm.

We ate and bellowed with laughter when we all realized that the Sinatra and Elvis tunes we had enjoyed were emanating from one guy with a microphone and a guitar. Simply amazing (we were all wondering why people kept clapping at the end of each song as we thought it was a recording–we simply chalked it up to a bunch of drunken Chicagoans, which wouldn’t be completely hard to believe).

We ended the meal by sharing one ginormous slice of decadent chocolate cake, with all 6 of us digging into it. The boys patted their stomachs and thought we’d all be on our ways home…or so they thought.

“Let’s go to Luxbar or Jilly’s or something!” I shouted as I raced out of the restaurant. Having given away “tastes” of my ribs to my brothers and taking some of it home, I hadn’t really eaten much to supplement the wine. At Jilly’s, Mae and I ordered drinks–myself “upgrading” to a Ketel One dirty martini, “Let’s get this pahty started.” There Mae and I discussed Johnny and herself a bit–I didn’t know much so I was interested to hear more about her family and where she came from. I learned her stiff ass Irish grandmother held a muted disdain for her Italian daugher-in-law–with tensions remaining two decades after the nuptials. “How horrible!” and I continued to sip.

Meanwhile Jake and my three brothers were more than annoyed, having wanting to go home after a satisfying meal.

“Uh, we’re having a conversation here…chillax, it’s a pahty.” I told them.

From there we moved on to Kelly’s in Lincoln Park, where I switched to Gimlets. We continued with the tom foolery, enjoying ourselves and Johnny even starting to down a few. Jake sat next to me, watching me, most likely dreading what awaited him at the end of the night (I’d “pahtied” like this before). He began a steady momentum of drinking himself.

Well…I blacked out after Gimlet number two. I was later told that Mae, also hammered, started feeding me rum and cokes (which I don’t drink but apparently became my new favorite drink at that moment) and we partook in rounds of shots. A friend of Johnny’s was visiting from out of town and apparently told me some sentimental story, himself getting choked up at the fact that I was happily engaged. Touched, I put my arm around him and we continued to chat. I later learned that Jake was ready to kill the dude and my younger brother alerted me to the fact that, “You know that douche is in love with you right?” Smooth.

Channeling my neurotic and loopy aunt Wilma (for some odd reason as I haven’t seen or talked to her in years now), I started to yell, “I am Willmaaaaa!” In a ferocious rage…and it was then that we all headed back to Johnny and Mae’s.

As you can imagine, I did a number to their bathroom. I’m not one to vomit readily so that was an epic moment in itself. Hurling insults at Johnny and Jake, they peeled me off the bathroom floor and brought me home–to my parent’s house.

“Does she do this a lot–if so, I’m going to kick her ass,” mumbled my father as I stumbled into the house, my anger toward the men in my life still vibrant.

“No, this happens like once a year if that,” assured Jake. He paused for a moment, reflecting on the fact that most other guys probably don’t have to deal with this display of debauchery even on an annual basis. He hauled me upstairs and laid me on the bed.

I awoke the next morning, naked, face down, with my contacts still in and full make-up done up.

“Uh oh…”

My sisters, much younger than myself, marched in and reminded me I was taking them out that afternoon.

“Well maybe now you’ll lay off the sauce,” said the younger 12 year old.

We went ice skating for two and a half hours at Wrigley Field’s ice rink, the bitter cold being the only thing to slap the hangover out of me.

“You realize now why boozing is bad, right? I mean, just take a good look at me and remember this face,” I told them.

“Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!” they shrieked.

Jake smiled and shook his head at me. My family is more in love with him than ever I think hahahaha

The work day ended early, our manager summoning us to the nearby athletic club downtown to join in drinks and food. I’d just started that September, reluctant to make friends, certain I wouldn’t stay there long. However, today was no day to be anti-social. The day still shining through the windows, I felt it was strange that carts of top shelf alcohol was being wheeled around, my co-workers helping themselves to generous servings of hard liquor. I was just getting used to post-college life and daytime drinking was usually a no-no.

Some co-workers ordered some lemon drops and ushered me over to the bar. I got carded. Everyone roared in laughter and for whatever reason, I felt at ease and that I could absolutely drink any of these pansies under the table. Drink after drink and making fast friends, we all decided to go to a bar. A girl from a different department at the firm–I had no idea who she was before then and I had no idea who she was afterward–and I bounced from the party and got in a cab. I thought we were going to another bar but ended up back at her lakefront apartment. I should have just called it a night right then, but that would make too much sense. She changed into a scandalous outfit (weren’t we still meeting up with mostly male co-workers??) and shuttled back to the bar. We arrived and she bounced in and disappeared, myself being greeted by the saucy dudes and given a drink. For whatever reason (maybe the scared look on my face or glassy-eyed expression), the bartender eyed me and asked for my ID. We all laughed and I fumbled for my wallet…OMG it’s missing!!

A normal reaction would have been to freak out internally and try to trace my footsteps. Instead, saucy me got wide-eyed and darted out of the bar–and then darted back in.

“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have an ID, you’re going to have to leave,” said the bartender.

All of a sudden the table of guys started pumping their fists on the table, “She stays!!”

“She goes or I’m calling the cops. No minors.”

I was 22.

Then things got loud…drunken testosterone decided it’d be chivalrous of them to berate the bartender and threaten to drink directly from the taps as payback. Meanwhile, all the noise–and the fact that I’d lost my wallet–left me feeling…vulnerable. Out of no where, my usual stoic self began to cry quietly. The guy who hired me, a thirty-something, came over and cradled me, caressing my head (to be fair, I don’t think he was exactly sober) and telling me it was “going to be alright.” Then the sirens came. All of a sudden a table was knocked over, everyone running, chairs scattered and I was snatched up by Justin, a preppy/burly co-worker, and carried out of the bar.

“It’s the poh-poh!”

I have to assume this drastic reaction was due to the alcohol–or was I working with a bunch of psychos?? My co-worker placed me down in front of our building. It was just us now and I was horrified and embarrassed at the whole thing. For whatever reason (even though I’d been carded at the athletic club and hadn’t returned to the office since before then), I agreed when Justin suggested he accompany me upstairs in search of it. He was quite tall and good looking enough (why I felt the need to confirm this with my single-self, I can’t rationalize), so I thought, sure. It’s a good thing I’d given his aesthetics the “OK” because we got in the elevator and he proceeded to makeout with me until we hit the sixth floor. The doors opened and I scampered out, swiped my card and surprise! No wallet.

I looked out my work window and could see the two police squads leaving the bar across the street. Guess I can’t walk in front of that place ever again, I thought. Of course I couldn’t find my wallet and Justin asked if I’d bothered to eat anything. I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast so he suggested sushi. And just like that, I was on a date.

We went to the sushi place and I stuffed myself full of dumplings and sashimi. He seemed amused and it almost seemed normal, except for the fact that I was still wasted (although he thought I had sobered up by this point). I drunkenly lamented about my lethargic sense of being, my hate of cubicles in general and my penchant for whiskey. He even gave me a ride home and I was like, “Peace out, see you tomorrow.”

I woke up the next morning (this is why it’s bad to have work parties in the middle of the week) and shuffled into work. When I arrived I was swarmed by the females. “OMG the police came and everyone left because you didn’t have ID?! Didn’t you leave with Justin?? What happened??” Apparently, aside from the skanky chick co-worker with the fabulous lakefront digs, there were no other ladies at the bar that night. I looked super classy.

Hungover and red-faced, I just smiled and was like, “Nah, nothing happened. Justin just raped my face and then took me out for sushi.” Realizing what I’d just said and that it was too late, I knew I had royally f*&%ed myself from there on out. A normal person would have sauntered over to Justin’s cube and been like, “Thanks for the grub, I was totally sloshed.” But instead, I proceeded to tuck and roll between cubes whenever I went near there and avoided him like the plague. I literally pretended like nothing ever happened. I never cried, the cops were never called and I did not engage in an unsolicited face-rape in the company elevator. I stayed there until November the following year under these pretenses. It was my goal that I would not stay at the firm long enough to see another Christmas party–and I did manage to leave right before the next one. Score!

You might wonder how I was able to live that down. Luckily, I was so good at pretending like it was all good and “who cares?” that no one bothered to mention it. I felt bad later on that I had ignored Justin like that–but then again that’s how I always dealt with weird situations–just pretend they never happened (and hello, I was crying while being caressed by my director, the cops looking to arrest me for underage drinking and my co-workers for stealing beer–and it was simply a total face rape). Of course another reason why everyone let it lie was due to the fact there were a plethora of work boundaries that were inappropriately crossed and everyone preferred to keep it to themselves.

I screamed out to the cyber world via Facebook to no one in particular that my cronies were coming–and quickly noticed that one of them answered with the phrase that became the slogan of the weekend: “Get drunk, get naked and be somebody!” A well-weathered and straight-up inappropriate “mentor” of Coco’s had inadvertently christened the weekend and we were happy to try and live up to that standard.

There were four of us at the first bar, with Alexis leaving to tend to her comparably grown-up home-life situation, but expecting to rejoin us later that weekend. Meanwhile, Zoe, Coco and myself met up with some other college friends while bouncing around the North End, dropping in and out of bars, wondering if they’d been there years before. Coco smiled while at Bricco, where she recalled a tryst with an off-the-boat Italian pizza-maker whom she fancied for an evening while in college. We kept drinking…

We rushed over to a dive bar over on Commercial Street, the ocean-effect snow stinging our cheeks and chipping away at our buzzes. There we continued our party, talking faster and remembering less of what was being said. We left with one less of us, Coco having drunkenly decided to pass out face-down a few blocks away from us with a Masshole of Irish descent, who warned her of his people’s affliction of having ‘small members.’ She awoke the next morning to find that her original portrait of him had been greatly affected by an overload of booze and a lack of dinner. We realized that the weekend was only beginning.

Coco cursed me as she crept up the five flights of stairs the next morning, “Five flights of stairs–really, Reese??” She promptly passed out face down on the pull out sofa bed until she was peeled off and shipped downstairs for some retail extravagance with Alexis and Zoe.

After work (yes I made it to work that day), I joined them at Copley Mall, losing interest in our shopping tasks quickly and wondering where my first drink was coming from. We snacked and drank up at Haru, with Susie from the night before stopping in and chatting it up. We enjoyed our happy hour appetizers, the salmon avocado roll being fresh and the warm sake satisfyingly numbing. We were awaiting the arrival of Scarlett from her laborious bus trip from Philadelphia. The bar was dark, drafty and lulled me into a state of lethargic impatience. The scene didn’t seem to fit the crowd and after lingering a bit longer, we set out back to the North End to regroup and “go all out” for Coco’s post-birthday fete in Beantown.

Now, it’s not often a new presence is introduced into this group’s dynamic. The girls in town this weekend all happened to be bridesmaids, with bonds running deep, crooked and often half-remembered. Dallas was forewarned but also reassured that she would “love them,” and I knew they’d love her too. She met up with us back in the North End as we gussied up and continued to drink our liquid courage to face the bitter cold outside. Zoe joined us in the midst of our whoring up, having checked into a hotel earlier that evening, expecting her man to meet us all out later that night. Meanwhile, my man, having rewarded himself after a stressful week of work with a $10 bottle of whiskey, downed it with a vigor I was all too familiar with–he wouldn’t last long tonight.

We all joined together and headed out toward Alibi in The Liberty Hotel. While I’ve been to places with onslaughts of vagrant douchery, this place served as no exception. Glassy-eyed metros eye humped the tits and asses of the ladies that funneled in. After downing a round of tequila shots (of which, I’m not a fan of, yet always seem to succumb to), the room got smaller and someone farted. We bolted to airier spaces.

I glanced over to my man, leaning against the wall for support, a half-sided grin across his face. Aw, my preppy lover had had his fill for the evening, and let me know he was calling it a night. I walked out with him to ensure he got into a cab, but when I was told I couldn’t have my drink outside and they’d have to take it from me, I quickly placed my concerns for my fiance aside and darted back toward the club. Of course my man scampered off, choosing to walk from the Beacon Hill/North End spot, saving the cab scrill for the following night.

Zoe’s dude showed up and the drinking continued. We shimmied over to Bond at The Langham Hotel in the Financial District. The interior was impressive, if not memorable, despite the alcohol. However, the douchery level in this place was beyond belief. All of a sudden I felt less cool. I was quickly and happily distracted by the carefree Dallas as she shook her ruffled décollage, her eyes veering toward a Brian Urlacher-like bouncer. She quickly decided against it, having heard him try to utter a intelligible sentence, and the party went on.

Coco, combing through the douchery, found herself a decent conquest and he quickly took a liking to her. They danced some kind of tequila-laced salsa and I knew she’d found a favorable bed fellow for the evening. The night came to a close and I headed toward the door, hoping to find my man in bed, myself ready to pass out.

I found myself sidelined by a douche of Kanye West-like proportions. “Hey there, I like me some vanilla–why are you alone?” Wondering where the rest of that crew went, I smiled and said I was just dandy but felt I was more of a buttercream than a vanilla. He continued, his Burberry/Hermes/Chanel knock-off scarves (yes, he was wearing all of them at the same time) and cheap aviators made me smile, except he took that to mean I was enjoying our witless exchange.

Meanwhile, knowing Jake would appreciate his efforts, Zoe’s man, Rodge, began his chivalrous attempt to deter the douche–to no avail. Not believing that myself and Rodge, more of a toffee himself, were an item, he finally relented, noticing that an unsuspecting Zoe was smiling at us, amused at the situation. Kanye mistook that for eagerness and moved in on her.

“Hmm…you realize my plan has backfired, as he is now hitting on my actual girlfriend,” sputtered Rodge. We laughed and found ourselves interrupted with yet another character handing me a business card.

“Cha?” I asked.

“Just call, I’ll see what I can do….and they always call–like you? You’ll call.”

“What? Isn’t this from vistaprint.com?” I laughed and tucked the card away, if for no other reason, but to be able to refer to it the next day when I wouldn’t believe myself. Cha, satisfied that I’d secured the card, bowed and exited…what just happened?

The weekend continued…

The meal went on and chatter started up again. Creamy cheese-covered broccoli and buttery, silky mashed squash had a new taste this year. I recalled the previous Thanksgiving where the same dishes offered no satisfaction. I had already forgotten, as I stuffed my face, about how just one year earlier I didn’t realize the turkey had finished roasting or that there were pots simmering because I couldn’t smell a thing. The concussion I suffered the July before last Thanksgiving rendered me impaired. Instead of dropping an obscene amount of weight, I simply gorged more (and I’ve read in some places this has to do with the fact that the brain doesn’t compute that you’ve had enough deliciousness for one sitting and therefore are full–because there is nothing delicious about the mechanical action of shoving food in your mouth without the right nerves in your brain working!). Instead of only being able to distinguish sweet from sour, salt and spice, I was able to taste the walnuts in the cranberry sauce and the buttery nuttiness of the mashed root veggies I was enjoying. Just one year earlier, only white wine tasted somewhat palatable, with red wine having the same effect as a cup of coffee or a glass of flat soda–well, with the added value of total inebriation if I drank enough of it and the off-chance that I’d forget my current tasteless plight of an existence (it was a big deal).

The night progressed, ending at a neighborhood dive bar where cans of Pabst were $2 each and the proprietor of the fine establishment donned nothing more than a dingy white undershirt and a penchant for calculating tabs in his head–to the detriment of his intoxicated patrons. After downing one too many, the liquid courage of one sibling announced that no one wanted to go abroad for the nuptials. A bit taken by surprise, the thoughtful husband-to-be and his lethargic lady were more surprised by the choice of venue to make the announcement rather than the actual statement. Words flew, we listened, bantered light-heartedly…and then I left, at first just annoyed, followed by extreme pangs of anger, resulting in a rage-induced, sobbing cell-phone rant to my brother from the top of my lungs as I combed through the jet black roads in this now suddenly hostile Maine backdrop. Such sentiments would have been appreciated 18 months earlier (not that we would have changed any of it).

With encouragement from my brother to “not give them the satisfaction” of knowing how upset I was, I slapped myself a few times, ran in place, thought of the eye of the tiger, and marched over to the backdoor, where I preceded to creep in with the hopes of not running into anyone. Of course fast-forward to sobbing in the mother-in-law’s embrace and then bolting when I realized the crew had returned, having themselves been kicked out of the bar and calls to the police threatened. In mid sentence I darted off yelling that I had to “hide!!” And immersed my face in a sink full of ice cold water. I sauntered over to the stairs, feeling like I’d been beat up and had too much to drink (after only having had half a beer an hour earlier, I was wondering what happened to the rest of it. Was it still on the table at the bar or had it been flung at someone after, of course, being finished off first so as not to waste anything…)

I tried to sneak upstairs but was intercepted mid stair-climb. My man took one look at me and his glazed over expression of defeat transitioned into a moment of epiphany. Realizing I was full of shit and was most certainly bothered by the night’s events (I had previously assured him on the phone that I was fine and just tired), he marched over to the kitchen and bellowed to the family to meet him in the living room. I sat at the top of the stairs cuddled up with the family dog, both of us thankful to have one another to lean on as it was quite drafty up there. This usually respectful guy got his point across, most likely getting the desired effect due to the sheer volume of his voice and use of occasional profanity, and the parental units were more than cool about the situation, taking it upon themselves to speak for the family in that “from today onward, you won’t have any [passive aggressive emails, hints, or complaints] negativity from the family.” The ordeal was rounded off by an awkward but maybe even sincere group hug and we scattered.

It was strange since we went to bed, my man and I, feeling better about everything. We knew it was just a matter of time before things blew up–we just didn’t realize it would blow up that huge. That was probably the first time they seemed like family to me–although I’m sure I could have had that same feeling without the blowout…but maybe not.