friday night

I got a comment on that last post regarding something about not leaving out any details of my baby-free week.

Which started about 5pm on Saturday, by the way. Just an hour after my hard drive bit it on the computer that just got "fixed". So now I'm stuck writing things by hand and typing them up at work three days later.

I remember a decade or so ago having a terrible problem with sitting down at a computer and allowing my brain to work creatively. I wrote everything longhand and then typed it later. It didn't seem to be such a pain, I had done it my whole life in school. Now I have a hard time handwriting anything more than a grocery list. Funny how things change.

My freshman year of college I took some sort of Math one-oh-something where the professor felt that there was no need to go over how to figure tangents and sines and cosine (that link is like porn to me {also, don't you learn that in like, ninth grade? College math was funny to me}) because he said that in the future everyone will have calculator technology at their fingertips. I called shenanigans on him. But he wins the argument. As it turns out, my phone can figure sine faster than my old $90 Texas Instrument Scientific Calculator.

Anyway.

I started acting babyfree a bit earlier than scheduled. Mara and Lauren came in town Friday night and after we polished off a bottle of wine, a few beers, and $30 worth of locally made cheeses we dumped the boy on Dave and hit up the new bar around the corner to talk about everyone we used to know way back when we were rocking the alldayallnight longandstrong coolkid lifestyle. Then we stopped at the bar on my corner so Mara could say hi to an old friend. Round about 1 or so in the morning I thought that everything going on around me would make an excellent blog post but not really, lest you are the judging type.

Somehow I can't find the words to appropriately explain to you how we ended up drinking shots of BYOHennessy* in an ill-reputed and oft-surveillanced cokebar surrounded by the guys that I like to watch file into the whorehouse across the street from my house every two weeks and a bunch of girls that look like trannys but are really just typical brutish South Philly girls looking for a good, hard, random lay while laughing hysterically in the corner by the payphone because we can't figure out whether we should tell Mara's friend that he has a big wad of, well, wad all over the front of his sweater as a result of his sexhaving with his girlfriend in the ladies room** and when we finally do let him know he tries to convince us that he didn't spill drugs on himself. Because, you know, drugs tend to have viscosity and splatter patterns.*** We left shortly after his girlfriend puked all over the place. Good times. Makes me wonder what we would have done if I didn't have a two year old scheduled to wake me up at 6 in the morning.

There just don't seem to be words for all that nonsense that make me sound like a good mom.

***

*Mara's friend had it in his car so he brought it in so we wouldn't have to buy shots. The bartender asked us if we got it from behind the bar, but we said no, we brought it in ourselves so she gave us shot glasses so we wouldn't have to pass the bottle around. What? Your bars in your town don't condone that? You should move here. It makes your night cheaper. In every sense of the word.
**Lauren caught them, so there is no denying. Etiquette says that you should always lock the door when doing it in a public restroom.
***I may have crossed the proverbial mommyblogging line with this post.