We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off To Have A Good Time

Last night I had a party to commemorate the little bit of free time I had acquired through the medical school's generous donation of having Thursday and Friday off. My parents, always willing to help me make and keep friends since apparently they think I have a problem doing that myself, purchased tons o' beer, wine and snack foods. My mom even made biscotti--I know, shocking. I'm surprised my mom even knew what biscotti is. Anywho-- I got to see some people I had not seen in a while--people that I lurv like Lizzie and Curt. I also had Danielle and Matt, who I see everyday, but I still love them, usually. And then there was G.

G is a fourth year med student who I happen to know through studying at the Starbucks down the street. Sweet. As. Pie. Very beautiful girl. But this girl likes to get her drank on. She had some rum and coke and then opened the bottle of Merlot and had quite a bit. We played board games at first and while that was fun, G kept saying we should go out. As hostess, I entertained my guests' ideas as to not sound like an old woman who really wanted the party, which started at 8:30, to be over by 9:30. 9:45 if things were getting wild.

It was 1:30 AM when G, Matt and myself decided to head to a lounge at a local casino. Now, I am a social person and I do enjoy a good time, but there is something about crowds of drunk strangers that really, really annoys the FUCK out of me. G wanted to dance and Matt decided he wanted to as well and thus I was literally dragged onto the dance floor. Picture this: I am wearing a cotton dress that goes down to my knees, brown leggings, maryjanes and a cardigan. I look like a librarian nun who lost her way while handing out pamphlets on eternal life and soul salvation. And yes, this is how I usually dress. Usually the only skin showing is on my face and hands. Sometimes I get risque and you can see up to my elbows--how scandalous!!

ANYWAY, they're all dancing and I'm bending my knees, moving my hips from side-to-side realizing that when I dance I look like a geriatric whose back just went out. G's dancing with all these men she doesn't know. A lot of them are middle aged. In fact, a lot of the people there were middle aged. It was kind of the divorcee/swinger/I-never-grew-up-after-highschool crowd. These women are dressed in these tiny blouses, lots of make-up, boob jobs, bad tans--just dancing and acting 30 years their junior. G meets this guy and runs off with him--and I'm thinking it's gonna turn into a wild goose chase. Also, I dread the bar because men always want to talk to me. BUT, I lucked out here because while dancing to Beyonce's "Single Ladies", G had slipped one of her rings onto my left hand ring finger-- yeah, she liked it and she put a ring on it. So, I look betrothed, plus I'm walking around with Matt and lucky for me, the only hitting on that happened all night was some guy walking past me who yelled "you're hot!!!" right into my face.

One thing I noticed about going out into this type of environment is that if you look close enough, everyone looks like they have some kind of genetic syndrome. Their eyes aren't spaced right or maybe their third nostril is just a bit too big. I mean, I know I was not going to find my future husband in that lounge, but sheesh-- it was like Planet of the Apes. No, scratch that, the apes in that movie were much more intelligent than the combined intellect of that entire crowd.

Anyway, G was fading and fading fast. She was slurring, having trouble walking, etc. They turned the lights up in the lounge and Matt and I realized we were going to have to get G up and out of there before Mt. Vesuvius erupted. So, with Matt on one side and I on the other, we walked G upstairs and she decided she needed to get some contents out of her stomach. So I take her to the bathroom and, even though vomiting was imminent, she said she needed to wash her hands. Personally, I like to wash my hands AFTER I vomit in a public restroom inside a casino, but to each her own. She makes it into the stall and, you know, performed an opera in the porcelain theater. I was holding her bag and her phone kept ringing--it's her ex boyfriend. She makes me answer the phone and I have to talk to this guy I don't know (who is also blitzed) and try to transcend messages from a vomiting G to this drunk guy. Boy howdy. So finally, she's done and we get her into my car. She collapses in the back seat and we drive back to my apartment. She vomits on the side of my car and on Matt's foot--- that's why you don't wear sandals in November or EVER--and I gave her some water. Matt took her back to her apartment and I'm sure G felt amazing this morning.

I think the party was a success.