I make it to my drinking engagement at The Gingerman. Madame V, her husband JT and his friend Nice Guy are already enjoying delicious beverages. I dive right in like a champ and order a Hefeweisen. An extra day of drinking! Wheeee! Oh, right, I’m supposed to be remembering my fallen bretheren.

JT has decided that because he was born in a “decade year,” it’s always easy for him to remember how old he is.

“You always remember what year you were born in?” JT’s friend Nice Guy says.

“Yup,” JT agrees. “No matter what year it is, I know I was born in 1970.”

“So, when you were telling that story earlier about your friend in college…”

“It was 1990 and I was still born in 1970.”

This strikes all of us as hilariously funny, especially after a few more beers. I’ve had to switch from the Hefeweizen to a safe and easy Dos Equis, but still I’m rather impressed with my stamina. Somehow, the conversation moves into urination, bed-wetting, and the ultimate combo: somnambulist/urinators. It turns out Madame V actually knew a guy who peed into the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. Ewww. It is then that I recall a night when Nurse Egon had a few too many Rolling Rocks. I woke up to a light sprinkle on my leg. Oh yeah, that was pee. Right there in the bed. We spent the rest of the night on the floor.

“That happened in 1998,” I tell JT.

“Nineteen ninety eight?” he says. “I was still born in 1970.”

The group is talking about food. I’m not sure I’m allowed to eat anymore after the smorgasboard I put away yesterday. Oh look, it’s Mizz Cartier on the phone! Well, not really. It’s L.A. Cowboy on her phone, inviting me over to play yet again. Hmmm. I was hoping to christen the third day of the weekend with a third boy, but I figure that he’ll do. I sign my tab and head out to the lake.

The group is gathered on Mizz Cartier’s Plateau – or so we named it the day before, since it’s Mizz Cartier’s favorite place to look at the sunset. They’re also gathered around a bottle of wine, and again, it’s L.A. Cowboy to the rescue, running up to the house for another glass for me. He’s such an excellent host! I settle back with my glass of wine and take a look at the lovely scenery. Yup, we’re definitely going to have to get married. This could be my house!

Cutty brings us another bottle of wine and tells us we should head in for dinner soon. Lord, L.A.’s mother is going to have to feed me again. I wonder briefly if she’ll kill me before I can get to the stove for my portion. I wonder if she saw us kissing last night. Oh yeah. She probably was hip to the game this morning when I left. Dammit.

I sway gently up to the house and make small talk. Is the kitchen revolving? Oh, that’s just me. We take our plates to the patio table and I proceed to give L.A. Cowboy unending shit. I don’t know what about, but he keeps getting irritated with me. But not irritated enough to cut me off! Or stop kissing me. He loves it! He’s fun to look at, fun to abuse, and thinks I’m adorable. Yes, this boy has fallen under the Gorgeous and Sassy spell!

We’re told we have to leave the porch due to our volume, so we move inside to the kitchen. We’re really supposed to go downstairs, but Cutty is opening another bottle of wine. And there are brownies next to the stove. It’s a little known fact, but brownies and wine are quite delicious together.

“Will you still marry me if I’m fat?” I lick my fingers and smile at him.

“That’s a topic up for discussion,” he says, kissing me.

Again, we’re reminded of our volume and banished downstairs. Didn’t this happen last night? Wasn’t that bottle of wine full when we came in? Where was the door downstairs again? We’re hanging out downstairs watching Desperado while I talk about unknown filmmakers gone bad when Cutty shows up with Brandy Freezes. Oh my God. Have I died and gone to Drinker’s Heaven? This shit is good.

“Cutty, I really want to marry your son, but the three kid thing…” I tell him. “Tell you what – we’ll adopt Slim and then we only have to find a couple more.”

Slim is in agreement with this – he’s been trying to get adopted by this family for years – but I’m not sure about Cutty and L.A. Cowboy’s take. Whatever! Their feelings are secondary at this point. For some reason, we decide to go to Mizz Cartier’s Plateau again.

“You know, this is more of a terrace,” I decide, sipping my 8,000th glass of wine.

“Yes, you’re right,” L.A. drunkenly agrees. The two of us can barely keep our eyes open and decide to head up to the house for bed.

I decide as I pass out…that if every weekend lasted three days, I might be dead.

-Shakira 06.15.04