Holidaze, Part III

Another year goes by and the holidays--or what I like to affectionately term them, The Holidaze--arrive. It's gotten especially bad as I have aged and also because I try and see EVERYONE in the five days that I am home. Thus, a Saturday night rounds out my Holidaze, complete with El Dilector, his girl Blondie, Bro and his friend Flip.

When I arrive at El Dilector's place, Blondie opens the door dressed in a tube top and teensy shorts. Because I am 800 years old, I say: "Aren't you freezing?! Sister girl, you need to get a sweater!" Apparently being old means worrying about dressing properly for the weather.

At--you guessed it--Molotov, we gather around a table near a heater and begin working on getting drunk. El Dilector is already planning the after-party and it's only 10:30 p.m. Bro says he cannot after-party because he has to pick up his lady at the airport in the morning.

"So, you're going to pick her up drunk and with four hours of sleep, instead of two hours of sleep," El Dilector days.

"Exactly," Bro agrees. They both think those two hours make a good bit of difference.

"Whatever," I say. "You should after-party and then you can have her make you a sandwich when she gets here."

I am pretty sure Bro considers this piece of advice seriously, and I am pretty sure asking her to make him a sandwich would be a bad move, ah, romantically. But it's funny.

El Dilector next refers to someone as "loosey-goosey"--this is his term for a girl who is...shall we say...rather free with her goodies. This cracks me up and I tell him so. Apparently that term has been cracking me up for years and he was testing me.

"He says a lot of stupid things like that," Blondie tells me.

Yes, Blondie, I know.

"What did you say the other day?" she continues.

El Dilector shakes his head. "I don't know, honey--I say a lot of stupid things. Could you be more specific?"

While Blondie ponders this, I tell El Dilector that Sweet Thang saw him at the pool this past summer but she didn't say anything because she wasn't sure he would remember her. Apparently this was a smart move, because El Dilector narrows his eyes in concentration. "Who is she? Wait--is she blonde or brunette?"

"Brunette."

"Did I like her?"

"You made out with her once."

"I did?"

"Yeah, we were in a cab and I looked in the rearview mirror and saw you."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh," El Dilector is nodding. "I remember that now. Sort of."

Flip--who is so named because he is wearing flip flops and says he refuses to wear real shoes while in law school--I think most of the boys at my school also agree with this philosophy--asks if there's a DJ in this bar. I incorrectly answer no as Bro shakes his head and tells me that there is.

"Ah, how appropriate," I say. "Bachelor Brad and DJ music--he doesn't have to choose!"

This astute observation earns me a laugh and a high five from Flip and Bro.

And now it's time for the inevitable "Why aren't you on Facebook?" discussion. My typical response is that I am too old, but I am younger than two people at the table who appear to heartily enjoy it.

"I don't get it," I say. "Is it so you can type I am feeling gloomy today?"

The table agrees that yes, that is pretty much the allure.

El Dilector says he is trying to coordinate with Dancer via text message. We wind up going to Momo's. (I know it's shocking that we leave Molotov, but fear not, we will return in just a little while.)

Here's a summary of what happens at Momo's: There's a guy playing music who is supposed to be very good. It's really, really, really cold. Flips's feet might have frozen off. My makeup looks excellent in the darkest bathroom ever. We run into some old lovers of El Dilectors. Bro runs into some of his groupies. My makeup still looks good, but no old lovers nor groupies for me. Not fair!

Oh yeah. I get really, really, really drunk.

And.....back to Molotov. On the way, El Dilector and Blondie are literally dancing through the streets. He's trying to spin her on the sidewalk. The two of them are knocking the rest of us over like bowling pins.

I think this might be the catalyst for the broken necklance and subsequent waterfall of beads all over our table at Molotov. El Dilector seems to be responsible. He starts taking the beads and putting them in the crocheted holes in Blondie's hat. And then he refers to her as his Bejeweled One. (I think. I am telling you--the rocket sauce vodka has me all cracked out.)

The little hand creeps closer to the two and Bro decides he will after-party for ONE HOUR. Joke's on you, Bro. Those are famous last words!

The lights are on and we are getting kicked out for a change. Oh wait, never mind--that happens every night. Back at El Dilector's house, my fuzzy brain registers some commandeering of vodka from GB's place, and then Dancer and his crew bust in the door, and then Dancer picks me up and twirls me around and tells me I'm gorgeous--I love him!--and then he and some dude are making out in front of the refrigerator, and then everyone appears to be drinking vodka and grape soda, and then I am hoarding the last of my wine because God knows I need to DRINK MORE, and then we are talking about whether or not Michael Jackson's kid is REALLY named Blanket or if the media just calls him that, and then Dancer and his people are gone. Now, all of that could have happened in five minutes, or it could have been a whole hour. I have no idea. Such is the pickling of my brain.

Bro has convinced Blondie that El Dilector's Christmas present to her is a song written by El Dilector. I think Bro is supposed to play the guitar while El Dilector sings. Bro tries to tune the guitar but it is hopeless.

"Give me a D," he keeps saying.

I keep singing the first few bars of "Desperado" because it is fresh in my mind from our sing-along on Christmas Eve. "I have no idea if there's a D in there," I say, because I am hampered by my lack of vocal training and the fact that somewhere along the way (Momo's?) I lost my voice.

"Never mind, I'll just play it!" El Dilector says, and grabs the guitar. He strums it a bit and sings a few, um, lyrics. If only I had the faculty to write them down...I could have captured their beauty; but alas, the song is lost to me.

And good night, my Holidazed friends. See you in Breckenridge!

-Shakira 12.29.08