High times
I've never been much of a substance abuser, thanks to my pathological fear of becoming hung over and--gasp!--vomiting. After a couple of incidents this weekend, though, I'm even more inclined to stick to Pepsi as my beverage of choice.
Saturday night was my future sister-in-law's bachelorette party, my first experience with the stereotypical form of that rite of passage. (Note to women with little brothers: Unless you have a really open relationship with your sibling, attend these gatherings with caution; you will learn way more about him than you ever wanted to know.) The bride was actually only mildly drunk and obnoxious, but one of the bridesmaids, who didn't even spend the evening with us, was, in her own words "a disaster and a half." She was supposed to meet us out, but instead called the bride at 1 a.m., hysterical, because she was blind drunk, at a hotel, and had lost her wallet. The bride then had to call a timeout on the festivities, talk the bridesmaid's drunk ass into a taxi which we then met at the bride's apartment, and then had to physically restrain her from driving home to remotest suburbia. The next morning, of course, she remembered nothing except to blame a mysterious someone for buying her shots. Guess they must have poured them down her throat, too, since she obviously felt no responsibility for her actions.
Sunday afternoon I rose from my post-bachelorette party nap to find a car smashed into the tree on my front lawn and a small crowd of neighbors trying to assist the dazed woman in the driver's seat and her six-year-old daughter. Both of them seemed relatively unhurt and were able to walk over to my front steps, which is where they were sitting when a police officer came and asked, "What happened?" I was expecting some sort of mention of the car; instead, the mom turned to him and said, "I was smoking some bad shit." So much for the right to remain silent and avoid self incrimination.
Even better, a passerby who had witnessed the accident sidled up to me and asked "Does this sort of thing happen here often?" Why, yes; those of us who live on the wrong side of the expressway in our swanky suburb routinely allow crackheads to park on our lawns.
Saturday night was my future sister-in-law's bachelorette party, my first experience with the stereotypical form of that rite of passage. (Note to women with little brothers: Unless you have a really open relationship with your sibling, attend these gatherings with caution; you will learn way more about him than you ever wanted to know.) The bride was actually only mildly drunk and obnoxious, but one of the bridesmaids, who didn't even spend the evening with us, was, in her own words "a disaster and a half." She was supposed to meet us out, but instead called the bride at 1 a.m., hysterical, because she was blind drunk, at a hotel, and had lost her wallet. The bride then had to call a timeout on the festivities, talk the bridesmaid's drunk ass into a taxi which we then met at the bride's apartment, and then had to physically restrain her from driving home to remotest suburbia. The next morning, of course, she remembered nothing except to blame a mysterious someone for buying her shots. Guess they must have poured them down her throat, too, since she obviously felt no responsibility for her actions.
Sunday afternoon I rose from my post-bachelorette party nap to find a car smashed into the tree on my front lawn and a small crowd of neighbors trying to assist the dazed woman in the driver's seat and her six-year-old daughter. Both of them seemed relatively unhurt and were able to walk over to my front steps, which is where they were sitting when a police officer came and asked, "What happened?" I was expecting some sort of mention of the car; instead, the mom turned to him and said, "I was smoking some bad shit." So much for the right to remain silent and avoid self incrimination.
Even better, a passerby who had witnessed the accident sidled up to me and asked "Does this sort of thing happen here often?" Why, yes; those of us who live on the wrong side of the expressway in our swanky suburb routinely allow crackheads to park on our lawns.
posted by Madame Defarge at 7:35 PM
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