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It’s been quite some time since my last post, nearly a year in fact, and my what a year it has been. Since having a fairy tale wedding, including a European adventure in which I managed to break our rental car while learning to drive stick, climb down Mont Blanc while tipsy wearing my Nike Free “weightless, grip-less sneakers,” getting a sly eye from the owner of a winery in Bordeaux as my husband winced knowing his lushy wife was way over the limit, and a host of other “incidents,” I’ll just surmise the entire collection of experiences to be a plethora of fond memories. I might break those down later as I’m nostalgic for last year’s excursions, which I would be incapable of doing presently since I’m about to spawn a new generation of life.

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.

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You know, when wedding planning, it’s not uncommon to run into some “problems,” especially if you’re having a destination wedding. For 20 months we’ve been saving scrill to throw this party and we’ve saved QUITE a decent amount while on somewhat pathetic salaries. Living in Boston and saving for our overseas nuptials hasn’t been easy–but it hasn’t been impossible either. So it’s kind of funny that our woes are really not money-related, they are Dutch related. And volcano ash related.  Twelve guests are family, out of the approximately 30-some people coming to our lovely Euro nuptials. That means the majority of people flying over the pond are friends. Not just any friends, the type of “I’ll take a bullet in the ass for you” friends that are hard to come by. The kind that pee on you and molest your man and the kind that take 12 hour round trip bus rides from Philly to spend 36 hours to see you in your dress in the first stages of its raw, before-silk version. Here’s to hoping Eyjafjallajokull’s big brother doesn’t decide to up-one his kid brother and cause a blackout throughout Europe this summer.

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!

Hankering for some delicious comfort food while strolling around Boston? I highly recommend:

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.

Every year I find the need to inflict some sort of torturous deprivation and this year is no different. Today is day two of Lent. Ash Wednesday was yesterday and while I am not Catholic or receive ashes, I do like to give up some items I lust after on a daily basis. This year? Sweets, soda and cheese. This. Will. Be. Hard.

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…

I awoke that Sunday morning, naked, laying next to Coco, who was face down and still wearing her dress from the night before. I put on a bathrobe and noticed the bathroom and hallway mats crumbled beneath the bed. How did those get there? No matter, I laid back down and Coco sheepishly looked over.

“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!!

Continuing from the “Get drunk, get naked and BE somebody” post: The day started off well enough, although a little out of sorts from the previous night’s festivities. Coco had scampered off with her man and Zoe made it safely back to her hotel with her boy. Dallas went back to her abode to recollect herself, having been sober the night before and not planning on repeating that feat on this Saturday night.  Post breakfast, Coco presented herself just in time for us to all make a break for it to North Station to hit up a dress shop where I am getting my dress made. We made the train, arrived in the quaint little town and then promptly got lost.

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…

“She’s going to have to leave if she doesn’t calm it down,” said the bartender sternly to Jake.

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