Monday, November 7, 2011

LAST FRIDAY NIGHT

I know I promised you guys a post about sex, music, and drunken texts, but I am going to have to split those topics up into separate posts. It's just too much to cover in one. The fact is, my Friday nights lately have turned into a Katy Perry song. This most recent Friday was actually the tamest. Before we even left the house, my outfit was deemed unacceptable and not sexy enough and I was forced into borrowed attire. Here we are at the beginning of the evening:


That's me, T-Dawg, and T-Dawg's friend Kim. Here's Theresa and me:

 
It looks innocent enough, but this was before we met the two lesbians, got hit on by an octogenarian and another man who may or may not have been a serial killer, and convened to discuss whether or not this was an appropriate picture to send via text to a work colleague:



(the answer was no, mostly because Theresa is a big buzz kill, although there were texts sent that mentioned escort services and phone sex, as well as texts to Theresa's husband about which the less said the better). We moved on to a bar where 90% of the men were wearing flannel shirts and then went to a place that Theresa had billed as "an Irish bar" but was actually a club that I swear to God was one step above an episode of the fucking Jersey Shore. First of all, I am too old to be going to clubs. I was aware of this fact, but I am even more aware of it now. I am lucky that there was not a replay of that scene in Knocked Up where the bouncer tells Leslie Mann that she's too old to even get in to the club ("I mean, you're not old for the earf, you're just too old to be coming in here...") Anyway, suffice it to say that we went to bed around 2, and when I got up at five to go to the bathroom I fell into the goddamn tub. Don't ask how I managed that, because I have no idea. I also have no idea how I got out of the tub. Theresa apparently thought that I was slamming doors from all the commotion.

The previous Friday night was even better (or worse, depending on whether or not you are my mother). I was out with three gentlemen work friends:

Brian, Scott, and Dave (AKA Sparky)
(and Theresa, of course, from whom I am apparently inseparable these days. Lucky Terry!) We started the night in a bar across the street from Grand Central where I laughed so hard that I spit my drink out:



It was especially uncool because my jeans got all wet and it looked like I peed in my pants which was really the most embarrassing part of the whole thing and I really couldn't relax until my jeans dried out. Anyway, we ended the night in a  Mexican bar doing tequila shots and looking like this:





The Friday night before that has already been covered, at least the parts that can be discussed in a blog that decent people read (or probably used to read, after this post). Next Friday I am going out with my sweet husband Ted to for our seventh wedding anniversary (which is actually today but Ted is in Cali so we had to postpone the celebration) so who knows what will happen? Will the Friday Night Streak continue? Tune in next weekend to see.

XOXOXO
ABC
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24 comments

Anonymous
November 7, 2011 at 4:41 PM

You forgot to mention the part where you spit up on my pants

Anonymous
November 7, 2011 at 4:42 PM

It's T-Dawg, btw. Apparently, I'm anonymous now bc my google account is linked to Consumer Reports

Logan AKA Sissy
November 7, 2011 at 10:47 PM

ok - the picture of your cleavage I think has divorced me from your blog

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