Thursday, December 6, 2007

holy shit. (a more clever title than one might initially think)

A few months ago a couple of my friends and I were lounging around a friend's apartment, enjoying No Pants Day. No Pants Day is an all-too-rare treat that happens when massive amounts of alcohol are consumed the previous night, causing party participants to collectively pass out in one location (usually in what is called "9-Spoon", where everyone faces the same direction and sleeps in a big spooning formation). The following day, the apartment crashers must abide by the following rules:

1) No pants are allowed. The name is not Pajama Pants Day, it is No Pants Day. If they must, participants are allowed to wrap a blanket, afghan or throw around their nether region.

2) Someone must provide breakfast and Gatorade. If breakfast and Gatorade are not readily available at the friend's apartment, someone must go out to retrieve them. Again, under no circumstances are pants allowed. This is why God invented drive-throughs, both of the fast food and convenience store variety.

3) At least three movies must be watched. Past and often-recurring favorites include Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, Super Troopers, Reality Bites and Sixteen Candles.

4) Appropriate underwear is highly recommended.

On this particular No Pants Day, one of my friends Lynn had an unfortunate stomachache. This is hardly uncommon, given the nature of traditional No Pants Day Eves and their natural association with buckets of hard liquor. Lynn eventually wrapped her lower half in a blanket and excused herself from the movie-watching festivities to spent some alone time in the bathroom.

Ten minutes later we hear - through the bathroom door - Lynn erupt in giggles. She throws open the door and yells "You guys! Get in here and look at this!! OHMYGOD!!!"

Three of us immediately jump up without even the slightest hesitation.

The Boyfriend (who was actually just Best Guy Friend at the time) remained seated on the couch, expressing his disgust for our bathroom interest.

"You guys are jumping up and running to look at her poop! That. is. sick. Sick. and. wrong."

Lynn showed us her twosie treasure and we all had to laugh. She had been in the bathroom for over ten minutes and barely had one goat-poop-sized ball to show for it. How is that not funny? We all had a good giggle and then resumed our positions on the overstuffed couches.

A few months later, the above event somehow crept into our conversation. The Boyfriend (no longer Best Guy Friend) had apparently been haunted for months and now felt it necessary to have a sit-down with me.

The Boyfriend: "I want you to know how much I love you."

Not Lisa: "Are you breaking up with me in a really fucked up fashion?"

The Boyfriend: "No. But I do have something very serious that I need to tell you. It's important that you remember this for always and forever."

Not Lisa: "Hmm... okay."

The Boyfriend: "I love you so much that I can't even begin to describe it. It's an embarrassing amount. I'm ashamed of it sometimes because dudes aren't supposed to feel this way, unless they're in an Oxygen movie. But - no matter how much I love you - I will never, ever, under any circumstances come and look at your poop."

I didn't know what to do with this. My friends and I have always been very open in our poo-communication. I was raised this way. My mom taught me how to count by making me take inventory of my poop in the toddler trainer potty. I paused for a bit before responding.

Not Lisa: "What if my poop came out looking like the Messiah and I needed a second opinion before taking a picture to upload on eBay?"

The Boyfriend: "Only if the Messiah had a holy halo created by pee. That's the ONE exception."

Fair enough.

Monday, December 3, 2007

tequila + bourbon = genius

I went out with The Boyfriend to grab dinner on Saturday night at one of my favorite walking-distance restaurants. We split fajitas and I ordered two grande margaritas because my throat hurt. Don't judge; it totally helps.

After dinner we walked home, congratulating ourselves on not giving into our alcoholic friends who were sending us text messages and asking us to come out and meet them. "We're so responsible! We're so grown-up! We can go to dinner and drink without being tempted to keep drinking! We're so mature!"

We walked right past a bar called Lakewood Tavern and both of us piped down on the self-congratulatory exclamations.

Not Lisa: "Ohhh! So that's where that place is! I've heard about it several times but haven't ever been."

Boyfriend: "Yeah, me neither. I've always wanted to check it out, though."

Not Lisa: "Yeah... me, too."

We kept walking, neither of us saying a word and neither wanting to be the first to break. I won.

Boyfriend: "You wanna get a drink?"

Not Lisa: "Yep."

We about-faced immediately and strode straight into the bar. It was there that we decided to have many a drink (not singular by any means, who were we kidding?) while we waited for the PhotoHunt computer to open up.

It didn't. And, as I am not a terribly patient person, I entertained myself with Jack-and-waters.

The Boyfriend has never considered himself a patient person, either. He entertained himself by employing his own, very special, very tailored form of torture on me (and drinking Coors Lights, the hick that he is).

Boyfriend (with a sly look in his eye): "You know, I know you say all the time that you don't want kids. But really, you know you'll want them someday."

Not Lisa: "Stop it. You're trying to get me all worked up and I'm not giving into it."

Boyfriend: "No, really. Just admit it. You love your little nephew-type-person. You would love to have one to call your own." (nephew-type-person is my best friend's 9-month-old and it's true - I do love him. ONLY HIM.)

Not Lisa: "Shut your face. Quit being crazy."

This cheeky little cat-and-mouse game continued for the next two hours, breaking only to talk about sports and whatever headline happened to be scrolling across the television at the bar.

Finally, the combination of tequila, bourbon and baby talk attacks blended together in my veins and brought my blood to a raging boil. I could take this harassment no longer.

Boyfriend: "Don't you think it would be so much fun to have tiny little versions of the two of us running around the house?"

Not Lisa: "Sure, but the first thing they'd get into is your porn."

Boyfriend: "What?!"

Not Lisa: "You watch too much porn for us to have kids."

Boyfriend (whispering): "Could you please use your inside voice when you're talking about porn?"

Not Lisa: "Don't you whisper-yell at me. I am talking quietly. I'm sorry, I just don't feel comfortable having kids around someone who watches and owns as much porn as you do. One day, if we have kids, they're going to stumble across Mega Tits in the closet and have all kinds of questions. Or they'll come to me and say 'Mommy, when I grow up can I be a Hot Tight Teen?' They'll be watching Baby Einstein on the laptop and a pop-up will come across advertising 'Fuck dolls who like it in every hole!' I can't live like that. I don't think you want to live like that, either. Do you?"

He hasn't bothered me about the kid issue in days. Thanks, tequila and bourbon! I couldn't have done it without you guys. You two are the little liquors with the big, big hearts and I love you for it.

"hi, my name is Not and I'm an..."

This weekend I received a late-night text message from a good friend of mine (we'll call her Lynn):

"Mega-Date is tomorrow and G-man still doesn't have anyone to go with him. Can you go? Just say yes."

Lynn and her roommates (both dudes) had come into some free Six Flags tickets and decided to plan The Event of Winter 2007: Mega-Date. Unfortunately, G-man was the only roommate in the house without a significant other and is, apparently, lacking in available-girls-who-are-just-friends. He and I are good friends so this request wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Except, you know, G-man is one of my ex-boyfriends. That should come as no big surprise, given that I recently calculated that I've had a boyfriend for going on 11 years now.

Anyhoodle, I asked Boyfriend what he thought.

"Hey, do you mind if I go on a date with my ex-boyfriend?"

"Which one?"

Oh-so-funny, that Boyfriend.

When he realized I was talking about the non-threatening G-man that I dated so very long ago in another collegiate universe, permission was immediately granted. That was one motivating factor; the other was that he passionately abhors all things involving great heights (see: Six Flags' roller coasters).

So off we went on the Mega-Date. We rode the Titan three times, the swings, the Runaway Mine Train, the ShockWave. We ate funnel cakes and drank hot chocolate. We laughed at the Looney Toons characters in tights and took pictures while skipping through the park. G-man shot free-throws in the arcade while I yelled "Mama wants a Shrek doll!!" All in all, we had a blast. We acted like small children again and loved every minute of it.

This morning I was re-living the fun day through a conversation with The Boyfriend. And then I noticed a strange realization welling up in the back of my brain.

"Oh, my lord."


"I just realized that I can't even remember the last time I did something with my friends that, in some form or fashion, didn't involve alcohol."

"Wow. You guys have issues."

I dared him to name the last time he was with his friends and they didn't consume at least a little alcohol. He named two times and I reminded him that, on both occasions, his 11-year-old brother was the reason they all got together. That they really would have problems if they involved him in their binge drinking.

I've tried all day long to remember the last time I got together with friends and didn't drink. I can't recall a single instance. Sure, we'll get together to watch TV together or meet up for casual dinners but someone has always had a rough day and comes equipped with wine or vodka.

Surely this isn't what they call addiction... is it?

Good grief, this is difficult. I need a glass of wine to get me through these hard times.