I, on the other hand, just completed a quasi-bender. It doesn't quite count because I was only in true "bender mode" for one night, but I did consume alcohol and I did stay up until obscenely late hours for about five days. This included an extra two hours of weekend thanks to Alaska day, some late night dance parties with Miss A, and plenty of Wii bowling. I know, that sounds totally rock 'n' roll.
Tonight I am refreshed to be curled up on the ghetto couch watching Netflix on demand. As suggested by a friend from high school, I am watching Californication. Part of me doesn't want to admit to it, but I have to say that there is something about the show that I really do like. Maybe it is that the main character is a pretentious douchebag, just as I can be (thank Mr. M for my "snooty bitch" title), that it's sort of raw, or maybe it is that it does a pretty good job of portraying relationships. I know, I know. It's a Showtime Original, not a literary masterpiece. Just gonna say that I nearly teared up when David Duchovny's on-screen daughter gave him the speech about being consistently let down and basically told him to fuck off.
If you have read regularly and long enough, you might know that I spent Christmas of last year with my own biological father, step mother, grandmother, and three half siblings, one of which, a seven year old brother, I had never met. So, when I was 11 or 12 I, without actually saying "fuck off," told my dad the same thing. When I was 13 years old, I was hundreds of miles away in another state and continued to say the same thing, with more fervor. Aside from my high school graduation I didn't see him for approximately ten years. So cute little emo 12 year old reminds me of my side of the story, but I really wanted to shed a tear for David Duchovny because, well, he's pretty fucked up, but he obviously loves his daughter. I wanted to tell the little 12 year old character, "If you turn your back now, you'll never have a real relationship with your dad, it'll never recover!" Is it for the best? Is it for the worst? Is it a wash in the end? Because, let's face it, what real tie is there between a father and child after conception? And a mother and child after birth? It's all relationship. Love isn't in the DNA.
Oh, hey, got a little deep there. Watching Showtime Originals, eating chocolate, getting sappy - this probably means that next week is going to be lame.
To add a little levity to the end of Alaska Day (observed) I leave you with some good news and a little Alaska Day pub crawl anecdote:
I have found a wonderful new roommate, so my money woes mentioned in the last post are somewhat lessened. Hooray, good news!
And after a ridiculously fun weekend playing Apples to Apples with new friends, including a lifetime bartender in her early 50's who could make a sailor blush, I locked the doors and closed up shop. Fellow friend and bartender, who shall remain unnamed and unnicknamed, staggered down the steps and lurched to the bar, I looked to see if there was anything I could do but after touching down for a moment he grabbed his phone and walked to the back. I watched El Drunko stagger back past the entry, back past the bathroom, back into the back room. I mentioned the mysterious destination but didn't think much of it, as the man can generally hold his liquor.
After I finished closing, after we played a late night game of Wii bowling in which I kicked everyone's ass, El Patron went to check on El Drunko, who was not in the bathroom (which, I guess I knew) but, rather, passed out on a table in the very back. He was stirred to wakefulness and guided to El Patron's guest room, where he went to sleep. I did some more cleanup once I had the bar to myself again and then gathered my things. Except my phone. Where was my phone? I searched the bar, the tables, the floors, I emptied my purse and backpack. It was nowhere. Then it hit me. El Drunko grabbed "his" phone from the bar. My phone was on the bar. He must have grabbed my phone. So I went to El Patron's house and asked where El Drunko was. Upstairs, passed out, guest room.
If he reads this, he might feel violated, so let's hope he doesn't. I went upstairs and into the room. He was passed out and snoring. I tried to coax him to a lucid state with words, then gentle prodding, then with louder words and less gentle prodding. Then I sucked it up and decided that I would reach into those pants pockets if I had to, damn it. So I lifted up the covers to discover he had removed his pants, but thank Hanes for underwear, I didn't see a thing. I found the pants on the floor and searched the pockets. Nothing. Well, not my phone at least. There was some cash, but I'm an honest woman, there was still cash when I gave up the search.
In a last ditch effort, I borrowed Miss A's phone and returned to the scene of the crimes, all the crimes, and I called my phone. Once. Twice. Then, another epiphany, I went to the back room and like a fuckin' private eye, I found the phone where El Drunko had apparently passed out. Finally, at almost five in the morning, I could go home and go to sleep. Happy Alaska Day.