1.26.00

    Last night was a long, restless night. Everyone was tossing and turning. The cat was stomping around the bed and yelling at us for being such ungrateful cretins. T. and I had a meaningful conversation around 2 a.m. At some point I got up to use the bathroom and afterwards went to get a glass of water. I turned on the light in the living room and there was a body on the couch. My first thought was that there were two other people in the apartment besides me. My second thought was that I had somehow completely dreamed the fact that when I flounced out of bed that T. was beside me. (I was flouncing because it was his tossings and turnings that were keeping me up.) I crept over to the couch where a hand and a knee were peeking out from under my old college comforter and that's when I realized that T. must've moved to the couch while I was in the bathroom. It was all very confusing.

    I really didn't want to get out of bed when my alarm went off at 5:30. So, I didn't. I managed to creep from under the covers by 8. Bad, bad, bad career girl. Everyday in the past few weeks it has been a struggle to get up in the morning. It irks me to no end. It's not just laziness, either. It goes beyond my passionate love affair with the snooze button. See, my brain tricks me. It does. I once dreamed that every time I hit the snooze button I received ten dollars. If you were making ten dollars to hit the snooze button, wouldn't you draw it out for an extra thirty minutes or so? That's what I thought.

    Lately, I've been dreaming about design and dhtml. The design isn't so bad but it's the dhtml that is killing me at 5:30 in the morning. My knowledge of dhtml is fairly limited and I haven't even been working in it recently but in my dreams I am making major breakthroughs. Major leaps. So, I better hit that snooze once more just to try and figure out one more concept. If I actually were accomplishing anything useful in my dreams it would be moot since I forget it approximately 4.5 seconds after actually waking up. So ridiculous.

    Speaking of long nights... I've barely recovered from my weekend. Yet another one of my girlfriends (drunk girlfriends! drunk girlfriends!) is getting married so we had a shower and bachelorette party. The bachelorette party was quite the success. Not only did the bride-to-be get to ride around a seedy bar on the chest of a mostly-naked and very short stripper (pretty much against her will) but she got to sing an obscure Neil Diamond song backed up by a bunch of braying donkeys (us) and get really smashed.

    We started with general mayhem at Remi's with stiff drinks and an obscene cake from the Erotic Bakery in Seattle. It was an amazing cake in terms of its sculptural integrity. We were all truly stunned and amazed. Who knew?

    Then we went to a male strip club called, I think, the Viewpoint. I think I was entirely too sober to be there. This was no "Men of Paradise." In fact, I felt like we were watching a strip show put on by the local high school boys in their garage. It was extremely low-budget. So, we felt safe buying the bride a lap dance. Well, apparently, the club was just waiting to unleash the big guns and so it was. I have never seen such a routine. The bride was pretzled more than once. This guy even, with a haughty twitch, launched his shorts which landed perfectly on the bride's head. It was truly... amazing.

    Afterwards, we went to the Grand Cafe for karaoke. There were three kinds of people doing karaoke: the serious girls with their eyes closed practicing for Star Search; the single guys with not-so-bad voices but who I just can't figure out what they heck they're doing wailing away to a love ballad; and us, the braying donkey's who can't follow along with the bouncing ball. We were awful. I hated us. It was not fun to be singing. The song sucked really badly. None of us knew it. I think it was "Forever in Blue Jeans" which I don't think I've ever heard in my life. Awful. Awful.

    When I wasn't ruining other people's lives at the karaoke machine I was downstairs in the Cha-Cha Room. The vibe down there was right on. Chels and Teufel and I sat in a nook and mostly-avoided the curious come-ons of the older Spanish men salsa-ing the night away. I would've danced if I thought I had a chance in hell of not breaking my partner's toes. Teufel and I made a blood pact (that's right, a blood pact, no backing out now, Teuf!) to come back with our boys and try a little dancing.

    Last stop was The Dublin which we closed down with a final pint of beer. I wasn't at all drunk until I got there. Which is just great. I fell asleep on Remi's floor in my new sleeping bag with a headache at four in the morning. Woke up with a headache, too. It was all good, though.

Eminem sings the blues
at the Grand Cafe.
He was actually relatively good
but I'm afraid I just don't understand.

Chelsea, Teufel and I
taking a picture in the ladies room.
Because taking flash photos in a mirror
is a good idea.

Chelsea in a great moment.
Check out our blushing bride.
Notice her strawberry condom. I have pictures of her "bouquet" with it's phallic centerpiece but good taste (for once) prevails.