Tag Archive: drunk


Since I started blogging, almost a whole year ago, there as not been one day that I have missed.  Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, like clockwork, I have showed up and put something out there for someone, anyone, to read.

Yesterday, for the first time in almost a year, I went AWOL.

I just didn’t show up.

So, for you who were waiting with bated breath, I apologize. Similarly, if you were worried I had died or had been sucked up by my chest (please reference Dane Cook) by aliens, I’m glad to inform you I am just fine.

What happened is that I actually just got swept up in the long, holiday weekend and forgot it was Sunday.

In fact, this weekend is a whirlwind of activity.

I showed up to my dad’s house ready for a weekend of drunken debauchery with friends and family by the pool in his backyard. But what actually happened was that I arrived at the restaurant for dinner like an hour later than I had originally told everyone I would be in town. Only, after I arrived, I promptly informed my dad that I felt like I was going to throw up and then I peace’d out.  I went back to the house where I found a bathroom just in time to puke my guts out. After throwing up nothing but water and bile (and oh yeah, those two or three Advil I took on an empty stomach- I’m an idiot), I ate exactly two and a half saltine crackers and fell asleep for an hour. When I woke up, everyone was arriving back home, with the food I had ordered in hand.

After that, Seneca and I went to bed early and watched some Forensic Files.

Saturday was even more of a blur.  The day lasted for-fucking-ever.

In a nutshell, the rest of the weekend happened as follows: I probably caught cancer from this shady-as-fuck restaurant called Hibachi Sushi Buffet (it was not my choice), hit my face against the bottom of the pool,  actually won a couple rounds of flip-cup, my computer died/broke, we ate our weight in pulled pork sandwiches, Megan accidentally dumped her almost-entirely-full drink in my lap at the bar we went to, Drew and I got into a physical altercation, Megan walked out at 2am with no word to Seneca or myself, both Seneca and I ended up in tears at some point, made weird references to Hilary Duff for no reason, saw Hangover II, and when we were alerted of bad weather we played a rousing game of Life where I pretended I found out I’m barren and will never bear children(LOL), we also watched a fuck-ton of Lifetime (yeah, including William & Kate, the movie), I quoted William Shakespeare to Seneca in a normal conversation, and I fell in the lake again tonight while trying to get in the kayak.

WINS ALL AROUND.

I promise things will go back to normal.

Well. I’ve been sitting here for 51 minutes trying to think of something to say.

I finally came up with this:

This picture is pretty much an excellent way to sum up a night that Megan and I will never forget, and a night that Rob will never remember. Because he was blackout drunk and crawled through East Lansing trying to get home after we decided it was totally fine for him to leave by himself while we hung out with the complete strangers we found.

And by found, I mean that I flagged down some random Escalade, jumped inside and told Rob and Megan it was totally fine and to get the fuck in the car, and GO GO GO!!

Yeah. Really safe.

A complete blur. And shady as fuck.

We had been drunk for a while and looking for something to do in East Lansing after the MSU vs OSU game. (Can I just tell you how much I love game day?! SO MUCH!)  We were hanging out near Harpers when we decided that we should go to my friend’s apartment because she was having people over. We would hang out for a little bit and go to the bars later, because oh, yeah, it was still light out and too early to be as drunk as we were.

The only thing was that we needed a way to get to my friend’s apartment, which was hella far away.  Instead of calling a cab or even trying to call a friend who could drive, I just decided to flag some vehicle down. Like I’m in NYC or something, trying to hail a taxi. Who am I?

So, yeah, I flag down this white Escalade, which is filled with three or four (I can’t remember) guys.  They stopped and, for some reason, let me hop in.  For some reason, Rob and Megan followed after me and away we went to my friend’s apartment.

Talk about poor life choice. And awkward city.

Shenanigans.

Anyway, I can’t remember what happened, like the exact events of the evening. I do remember Rob, Megan and I going into my friend’s bathroom and all three of us peeing in there. At the same time. Not okay.

I also remember one of the boys changing his pants in a parking lot.

And I remember drunk-dialing my dad.

We also went to one of the bars in East Lansing for a while and danced our faces off. That was when we let Rob walk himself home despite the fact that he couldn’t see.

There’s also a memory of Megan peeing outside, in public. Twice.

We also walked all the way back to my apartment and kept Erica up until, like, 7am.  I made two of the boys watch High School Musical because I didn’t want to have sex with either of them.

The best part was that after all of the shenanigans and staying up until 8am with a strange man I had met just by jumping in his vehicle, I had to go to a staff meeting at work.  I showed up, all disheveled and loopy from a lack of sleep and super hungover.

Megan and I always reminisce on the shitshow that night turned out to be.  Generally, I just consider myself on the up and up as long as I’m not hopping in vehicles filled with strange men I don’t know.  And when I’m not pounding 100 proof shots of Captain Morgan.

We also try to embrace the whole no man left behind mentality.

Unless it’s Seneca- we usually let her go wherever she wants.

Or Leah- but that was one time, and had I been aware enough to be a part of the decision, I never would have let her wander East Lansing by herself during St. Patrick’s Day weekend. That was not my fault. And things worked out… kinda. She found her way home eventually.

There is no other day that I wish more than anything that I was still in college than on St. Patrick’s Day.

I mean, most days I wish I was still in college, and I think it’s retarded that we were all dying to graduate when we were already in the part of our lives that truly is the best part. Even more retarded is that I didn’t drag out my time in college longer than the four years I was already there.

I mean, where else is it completely acceptable to literally drink all day?  I don’t just mean day drinking, tailgate style.  I mean waking up and pounding a jello shot or two and head to work only to get out at noon and immediately start drinking to catch up to where everyone else is.

A household divided: pepsi vs coke. What’s your pref??

One very important concept I learned in college is playing catch-up. Don’t do it.  Poor. Life. Choice.

Luckily, I had really good friends who reminded me to slow the fuck down and pace myself. A good friend and roommate who looked out for me and made me pb&j sandwiches (on more occasions than one) so I would have consumed something other than caffeine and alcohol when we started drinking.

Lunch of champions/functioning alcoholics!

It’s not appropriate for me to spend the entire day wasted, take a nap at 6pm and wake up an hour later to continue consuming more alcohol than is recommended by the government.  It’s not appropriate to continually lose misplace my ID and debit card only to find it in a different pair of jeans because I had forgotten I had changed pants at the last minute (I would). It’s not appropriate to drunkenly sext frat boys. Nor is it appropriate to try to steal some poor man’s golden retriever (Erica! Okay, it was mostly me.).

Oh, Mandy…!

It’s not appropriate to disappear for extended periods of time with said frat boy under the guise of “washing my hands.” It didn’t matter that Erica knew I wasn’t washing my hands.  No one washes their hands that often, or for more than 20 seconds. Or for, like, 40 minutes at a time.

Whatever.  I never said I was a good liar.

None of that is appropriate.  Anymore.

Because I’m not in college. Anymore.

Because I’m old.

I hope everyone had a safe and very happy St. Patrick’s Day!

I spent mine lunching with a member of the tripod, shopping for new makeup, hitting up the library, doing homework and now I’m going to a Sugarland Concert!

Not too shabby! 🙂

So, I went out on the town with a couple girlfriends last weekend. It was the first time I did something social on the weekend in a month. I’m not kidding.

Oh, except for the weekend before, when the two other legs of the tripod came to my house and we stayed in and watched movies in our jammies.

Anyway.

For this night out, I made jello shots. It was the first time since junior year of college that I had anything to do with jello shots. I think a few years apart did some good. I wasn’t as irresponsible this time as I was when I was 20 years old. Well, irresponsible in the sense that I didn’t black out and throw up for two days.  There was no blacking out nor was there vomit this time. Just other… less-than-wise decisions were made.

I’m putting last Saturday night in the win column.

It seems that the only things I can successfully create in the kitchen are alcohol-related.

Without further ado…

ZOMG Yum!

  • 6 ounces of Jello (the big box!)
  • 16 ounces boiling water
  • 6 ounces cold water
  • 10 ounces alcohol

I used Bacardi Razz, obviously, to go with my raspberry jello but you can use whatever flavor jello and kind of alcohol you like!

The first thing I did was boil some water. I didn’t watch the pot the whole time, though, because we all know a watched pot never boils. (hahaha)

Then I poured the boiling water into a big measuring cup.

Next, I dissolved the jello dust into the boiling water.

Once the jello was completely dissolved, I poured in the cold water and my alcohol of choice.

PRETTY!!!

While the water was boiling, I set up the little cups the mixture was going to be going into.

I used the smallest little Dixie cups I could find. I put them in a cake pan type thingy to keep them all in one place and to cut down on the mess I was inevitably going to make.

I filled each cup a little less than half-full.

Told you I’m a mess-maker.

It was after this that I realized that using a ladle would be way easier.

This proved to be much easier. And less messy.

Once all of this alcoholic liquid was poured (or ladled) into the tiny cups, I was done! It was time to refrigerate those little babies.

pretty!!!!

I didn’t remember to get (attractive) pictures of them when we were consuming them. I did, however, manage to snipe a pic of Chiefy for you. He has a weird thing happening with his eyes, so we can pretend that it’s because he’s drunk/hungover even though it was mostly that I woke him up from a little catnap because he looked too cute for words all curled up on his blankie.

how cute is he!?!? Crazy eyes and all!

For Halloween weekend, Seneca and I did something special.

We made Skittle Vodka.

It was a couple weeks ago that I read one of Barefoot Foodie‘s posts and immediately knew that it was something I needed to do.

It was something I had never heard of and I was a little embarrassed that I didn’t think of it myself. Regardless, when I saw it, I knew I needed to enlist someone to do this with me. Seneca was just the girl.

While I was going by the instructions I had found and making vodka with the regular version of skittles, Seneca opted to make her batch of skittle vodka out of the tropical kind.

I posted a preliminary picture of this activity on my facebook page the day I started this project.

Ohhhh, yes!!

What I Used:

  • 2 big bags of skittles
  • (just over) a fifth of vodka (any kind will do!)
  • four plastic bottles
  • measuring cup
  • 4 glasses
  • lots and lots of coffee filters

I sorted each of the colors into cutesy plastic cups we had in the basement. One of the “recipes” we found said that only 60 skittles were necessary per 6 ounces of vodka but I just used 2 whole bags.  I started out by counting but decided it was a waste of time since I didn’t intend on wasting the leftover skittles.

Once they were all sorted, I sniped a pic because I like when things are organized. The purple ones are in a different cup because they were being rejected. I hate grape flavored things.

I should mention that I poured about 7 ounces of vodka into each of the plastic containers. Once all the skittles were sorted by color, I dumped the skittles into the vodka. Right away, the color started dissolving off of the skittles. Every time I walked by them, I gave each of the plastic bottles a good shake to help the candy dissolve.  It takes a while for the skittles to dissolve all the way. I let mine sit overnight.  Actually, they probably sat for a little over 24 hours.

Once all the candy was dissolved I began the long, long project of straining the skittle vodka mixture. You can see in my picture that I used hair ties to secure the coffee filters around the glasses and poured a little bit of the vodka in each glass. If you plan on making skittle vodka, I suggest you make sure you have plenty of time to strain your vodka. It took a long time and it’s a messy job. (Or I’m a child and always end up making a mess. Or, I’m a shit show and no matter what I do, I always end up sticky and covered in vodka. Either one.)

I don’t know if you’re supposed to strain it more than once, but I only strained mine once. I didn’t have any more patience by the time it was done with the first round. The most important thing is just to make sure it’s not lumpy and that you don’t have any white stuff floating around. (That sounds disgusting.)

Oh, I also changed coffee filters often.

I don’t have any more pictures of the skittle vodka process but once everything was strained and the original plastic containers were cleaned, I put the newly strained skittle-infused vodka back into the plastic containers. After that, I put the vodka in the freezer. Where it belongs.

It remained in the freezer until we were ready to drink.

There are lots of different ways to enjoy this fun little treat but we drank ours in the form of shots. Because we’re out of our minds. We did chase it with sprite, though, and that was delish.

If you drink responsibly, you could probably mix it and use actual ice cubes or something. And sip it rather than chugging it. I don’t know.

Anyway, it was awesome and I would totally do it again. Only next time I would think about laying down newspaper on the counter or something and covering myself in plastic and wearing gloves so I didn’t end up covered in it like I did this time.

1.) Last night was a top night.

a.) started drinking perhaps wayyy to early.

b.) drank wayyyy too much

c.) the real question is what didn’t I drink last night?

d.) poor life choices were made.

e.) I’m a little embarrassed by my behavior.

f.) it was awesome.

2.) I spent almost the entire day on the living room couch, watching Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip on dvd that I got from the library. I got up to shower, brush my teeth, and get something to eat with my dad.

3.) My head hurts still. And my throat hurts a little bit. I hope I’m just hungover and not getting sick for real

4.) This weekend went by too quickly.

5.) Tailgate is still my favorite fall activity.

6.) I hate that tomorrow is Monday.

I am really, really sorry for this list today.

This list is really bad. But I just can’t think. It’s hard to put words together to form complete thoughts.

Well, I can tell you that 23 doesn’t really feel any different than 22.

I can also tell you that last night, out on the town, celebrating my 23rd year on earth with some of my best gals, I had the best time. It was a top night.

Thankfully, none of us had the sense to bring a camera to document the shitshow that was my birthday celebration. I did manage to snap a couple pics on my crackberry, which I will of course share with you here.  I can’t post all of them because some are embarrassing, so those will just stay on my phone for my own viewing pleasure, for moments when I need a good laugh. Or to remind my old ass that I was once, indeed, young, pretty, and fun.

that measuring cup doubled as a shot glass

At dinner, I ordered a Shirley Temple. I turned 23, I’m at a nice dinner with my mother for my birthday and I ordered a Shirley fucking Temple. Who am I?! And while I was sipping my mocktail of sprite and grenadine, I had a thought: cherry vodka and sprite! So I went and got burnetts cherry vodka, like I’m in high school and will drink anything with alcohol in it ’cause you take what you can get when you’re underage. Except not me, when I was underage I almost exclusively drank Bacardi. But that is neither here nor there.

I sent the following text to my friend: “So, I bought cherry burnetts for tonight… I’m pretty much gonna die”

It was pretty much right on point.

the only appropriate photo of the entire evening

I had a birthday crown. It was made for a four year old, I’m sure, but I wore it all night long. The “jewel” on the top of the crown had a button on it that made it light up and blink different colors. I was very excited by this for the simple fact that I could use it as a beacon to locate my girls when we inevitably got separated. Needless to say, that idea didn’t really work out, but in theory it was genius.

The best part of last night was that we haven’t had a night like that with a bunch of us girls together in a while. And we also haven’t scattered like that in a hot minute. There were six of us and there was a time when none of us knew where any of the others were. It was awesome. I decided to wander away from the group (okay, so that’s pretty normal) and go somewhere else with someone else, and as I was leaving I ran into Meg and Kirsten. We went to another bar and didn’t have any idea where the other three went. We only found out later that Le and Mil went home, and Sen had left to go to another bar with other people.

I woke up this morning still drunk and thanked my lucky stars that I was alive! Then I ate a piece of birthday cake and found religion, it was that good.

It was a top night.

I hope 23 is a good year!

Remember last time I was here and gave you a half-assed blog post because I was hungover?

If you said yes, then you can suck it because despite being hungover, I shared a precious father/daughter moment with you. And you’re an ungrateful little shit.

Okay, let’s be friends again. I really wanna tell you a story.

It’s pretty clear by now that I was a hot damn mess last Saturday night. My antics are still being described to me by those who were present (or received drunk-texts… I was particularly pleased with the ones I sent to my boss. OOOOOPS!). There were some events that I had forgotten took place. That’s the best, by the way, when your friends let you know about all the dumb shit you did and said DAYS later. (Thanks, guys.)

The point is that because of what a shit-show I was on Saturday, I reached a new level of lazy on Sunday, which, after all, is the day of rest. So go ahead and hate that I did NOTHING but sleep and watch Dawson’s Creek all day long. Just know that Jesus says it’s okay.

I mentioned it on twitter but I totally got a new phone on Sunday. I got myself a Blackberry. WHICH, by the way, they call it a Crackberry for a reason. I’m obsessed. I’m in love. It’s glorious.

Dino is superior to the stupid LG Shine.

I had to get a new phone because my old one just like… stopped working. It kept turning itself off and then told me to insert my sim card and I didn’t get why because my sim card was totally already inserted. Like, all Saturday night while I was trying to drunk-text the shit out of my contacts list, it kept being like “Katie, you’re a drunk bitch and you don’t even deserve me.”  But, we made it through the night alive, so that’s all that matters. Sunday, though, apparently all bets were off because it just decided to really stick it to me and really stop working.

So, to the AT&T store I went, in all my hungover glory and told that little bitch of a phone, “fuck you, I’m getting a smartphone, you idiotpieceofshit.” Just like that.

Luckily for Jon, the poor soul who had to deal with me, I had just showered… kinda recently. And by that I mean an hour before I went. But I didn’t brush my hair or even put make up on (duh). I had gotten up from the couch long enough for me to shower, put some underwear on underneath my sweatpants and brush my teeth before I started another episode of Dawson’s Creek and my brother Skype’d me.

As I walked into the mall from the parking lot, a group of four or five attractive African American gentlemen were walking out right towards me. One of those guys decided to fuck with me. He looked me up and down and was like, “how you doin’, pretty girl?” and I actually laughed at him.  Irony. Bahaha I mean, I did nottttt look “pretty” so he was clearly just rubbing it in. Rude.

Anyway, I got into the AT&T store and decided I should probably remove my sunglasses. And OF COURSE the hottest guy working had to be the one to have to help me. Jeez, this hangover was just fucking me left and right.

Long story short, turns out I was due for an upgrade so I had the best pricing available to me. And when I went to look at phones and figure out which phone I wanted, my hands were shaking so bad I finally told Jon I wasn’t actually a meth-addict or some other drug addicted degenerate despite the looks of me. I told him, “I’m sorry, I’m fine, I’m just really, really hungover.”

Right after that, our conversation flourished and I definitely felt a connection. We had similar attitudes towards drinking and terrorizing East Lansing. It was nice.  We also had a brief conversation about how I repel technology. It was nice as well.

Even during all of this embarrassment, I had resigned myself to the fact that this is just kinda how my life goes. And then I didn’t feel embarrassed. I stood at the counter, watching the Shake Weight commercial on the TV on the wall while he did all the crap he needed to do on the computer and transferring all my contacts and shiz to my new phone. We conversed about how awkward and hilarious that commercial is and I decided that my little hungover adventure into public looking like a huge mess was a success.

I feel pretty good about it.

Not too long ago, I got a message on facebook from a family friend. She is younger than me and definitely not of the legal drinking age here in the lovely USofA. Luckily, good old Canada is just next door. So, she asked me to borrow (have) one of my old IDs so she and her friends could cause a raucous among the canucks.

This normally would be no big deal; my moral compass does not frown upon aiding the youth in their drunken debauchery- just ask my angelic brother (keep on fighting that peer pressure, brother bear! love you!).  I thought, oh what the hell! As long as her father does not find out that it was ME who supplied those hooligans with an over-21 ID, then shooooot, those girls better have a good time. I refuse to be held responsible for the corruption.

What? I'm totally fine. Not wobbly at all!

But then I remembered I’m a hot damn mess when I drink. And although I drink waaaay less than I used to (I may have been black-out drunk for the years of 18 and 19), old habits die hard. At 22, I’m responsible. I’m an adult. I make wise choices. I know my limit.

Stop laughing, okay? SOMETIMES I make wise, responsible, adult choices.

ANYWAYYYYY, I accept that I am a heap of trouble after two drinks.

Unfortunately for the family friend who shall remain nameless to protect the innocence of both of us, I had to tell her that I’m irresponsible and lack any identification other than my current ID.

I decided not to share with her all the details as to why I no longer have any past IDs or any extra ones laying around. But, dear readers, I’ll share some of those details with you now.

Junior year of college is when I really started getting sloppy. Or when I just stopped being as accountable for hanging onto my own belongings. Looking back, it seems like sophomore year of college was better because I had other people to hold my stuff when I got too drunk. One winter’s night, I was over-served.  Generally, when this happens, I’m still pretty anal enough to feel the need to brush my teeth, take my contacts out and remove my eye makeup. I’m fairly certain I even changed into some semblance of pajamas (read: no pants).  I can’t remember now how I made it home that evening, but the important part is that I did indeed make it home.

I awoke the next morning with the panic that I had noooo idea where my cute little wristlet was. Frantic, I launched myself out of bed and ran into the living room. There, I found evidence that we had done some “pre-gaming” (the counter and glass table(s) were stickyyyy and a couple of empty fifths remained). I also found that I apparently struggled with my shoes and had made like Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail not of breadcrumbs but clothing, beginning at the front door. Nowhere in the million pockets of my zip-up fleece (at least that made it home, unlike the one that was STOLEN at that one party… RUDE.) was my wristlet. I checked my jeans. Not there either. Not even looped through one of the belt loops.

I stalked down the girl who lived at the place I had been the night before and sent her a message on facebook, asking her if someone had left a wristlet behind. I scoured mine and Erica’s apartment. I called my other friends, asking if they had it, remembered me having it, or knew where it might be.  NOTHING. No one knew anything.

Begrudgingly, and under the advice of my all-wise mother, I reported my debit card “lost or stolen” and resigned myself to the fact that I had indeed lost that tube of chapstick, a $20 bill, and my wristlet. AND that I would have to give up a perfectly adequate break between classes usually dedicated to a nap to waiting FOREVER at the Secretary of State’s office that Monday.

A WEEK LATER, I finally got around to making my bed. (My dad probably was probably stopping by, lol.)  Before I even got a chance to get busy making hospital corners with my sheets, I noticed there was a lump I didn’t appreciate. Something black and small had found its way underneath the blankets.  CAN YOU GUESS WHAT THAT SMALL BLACK THING WAS?!

My freakin’ wristlet. Filled with my now-canceled debit card, a tube of chapstick, a $20 bill and my driver’s license.

I don't want to talk about it.

FACE-PALM.

I’m an idiot.

I know this story just makes me look like an idiot who just misplaces things only to find them in random-ass places rather than someone who has had to replace her license three times in the last year, but the point was that I’m a shitshow and shouldn’t be allowed to carry my own stuff. I also understand if you think less of me now.

Ps. I now have two driver’s licenses because the one I lost a month ago was magically sent to me in the mail. If only she had waited one more week to go to Canada…!

So, I think I mentioned this before but my mom is building a house. Well, obviously she is not the one doing the hard labor and constructing a dwelling deemed livable. There’s just no way that could actually happen. But you know what I mean.

Because of this new house, my mom is basically a basketcase and walks around life like a ninny. (I really wanted to use that word!) She has been trying to get her house “ready to put on the market” which means making repairs and throwing all of our random shit away.

None of this would really be worthy of telling you about except it is now encroaching on my life. I have been told that I must pack up all of my childhood books and the rest of the crap in my bedroom that I haven’t taken with me anywhere. Okay, fine. I can do that. But the repairs?  At least give a girl some warning!

After a night out terrorizing East Lansing with a couple of my best gals, I awoke this morning at 6:50 am (ish) to hear my mother fluttering around the kitchen and down the hall as her heels clicked against the hardwood floor. I immediately rolled back over and continued right on sleeping. Much too early to be awake. THEN, a text woke me up (thanks a lot, Nikki- lol just kidding! love you!) around 9:30 am or something. I deemed this a suitable time to rise. So after texting back and forth a for a while, apologizing to a couple people I happened to inappropriately drunk-text, and deciding I needed to watch an episode of Dawson’s Creek, I heard someone walkin’ around downstairs. I assumed it was my mom. (I have this joke with her lately that she just never goes to work anymore- but it’s totally a joke. She does go to work. And she loves her job. FYI. hahaha)

So, because I assumed it was my mom, I got out of bed, opened my door and took a first few tentative steps out into the loft before saying something snarky to Tam (my mom) about how she’s a slacker and never goes to work.

Oh. It totally wasn’t my mom. Whoever it was totally heard me get up and was like, “HELLO!?!”

Uhm. That’s a man-voice. WTF?!

Uhm. Hello?

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE SAID?! (Maybe I should have gone with something like “WHO DERE?!” bahahaha at least I crack myself up…)

“I’m John,” said the odd man in my home.

Suddenly, I was thankful I put pants on. I almost didn’t!

Uuuuuum, I’m Katie?

“I’m just putting up some drywall here for your mother?”

This is when I just retreated towards my room. I would hide until he was gone. My hair was huge and completely weird shaped. The X drawn on my hand in permanent marker from the bar last night was probably now transferred to my cheek. I didn’t need to know what this man looked like or what he was doing. Just. Go. Away. But he sounded busy, so I figured I’d wait it out.

Oh. Okay.

I hightailed it back to my room, closed the door, took my pants back off, and crawled back into bed. I texted my mom “it’s not awkward at all with this random man in my house or anything…” but she didn’t care enough about me to text me back.

It seemed like I was waiting forever. After an episode of Dawson’s Creek that I pretty much slept through, I decided I couldn’t live like a prisoner in my own home anymore. So I grabbed my clothes and tip-toed to the bathroom. After showering and getting dressed, I got the f outta there and ran my very-important errands. Yeah, right. I basically invented a reason to gtfo of my house for at least an hour.

HE WAS STILL THERE WHEN I GOT BACK. AND HE LOOKS LIKE SANTA CLAUS.

AND HE CONVERSED WITH ME AS IF OUR AWKWARD INTRODUCTION NEVER TOOK PLACE.

meredith grey knows what's up

So, I went right along with it. I pretended this morning never happened, just like the annoying thing that happened last night. And the awkward thing that happened yesterday after work.  If Santa can handle avoidance behavior, then I’m just gonna continue living my life “under a banner of avoidance.” Really, this just instills in me the idea that being “dark and twisty” and an avoider is okay. This all just really reinforces my belief that if I’m any one character from Grey’s Anatomy, it is indeed Meredith. And if you watch that show, she’s not exactly… stable. But whatever, she gets help and becomes bright and shiny. Maybe someday I’ll be bright and shiny Meredith too. Change does happen, you know. I used to be very Cristina, but as I just told you, I’m not so much anymore.

This got very off-topic. Where was I?

Oh yes. Santa. (Sidenote:  As I was writing Santa, I almost wrote Satan. Interesting.)

Santa Claus just continued on merrily, putting up drywall or something. And then he finally left, but not before asking me if it was okay to leave his ladder here since he would be returning at 9 am tomorrow morning.

I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll ask him for a pony tomorrow. Or maybe not since horses freak me out.

Oh, I know. I’ll ask him for a boyfriend an *NSYNC reunion tour! Ooh, or for Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears to bury the hatchet and get their love-fest back on. Or for Mel Gibson to not be so terrible and make him go away. (I could do this forever.)