Time flies when you’re an alcoholic.

I’m afraid I might start drinking this french vanilla coffee creamer straight out of the jug. I’m glad there aren’t any straws nearby, or I’d be in some serious trouble. At least this kind is sugar free. Fifteen calories a tablespoon is better than sixty calories a tablespoon I guess. Hopefully I can just get ahold of myself and put the jug back in the fridge where it belongs.

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WELL, I apologize to all of you for not writing a single syllable for like 10 weeks. I have not been in this neck of the woods since the Jurassic Period. Contrary to popular theories out there, I have not been murdered, kidnapped, in a brain-damaging accident, or in Madagascar for the past month. I’ve just been drinking. A LOT. So sorry to keep you all biting your nails and staring longingly at your email accounts and mobile devices, waiting for a new fat steaming slice of Sheppard’s Pie to arrive. I’m back in action, boys and girls.

Let’s recap this gap in time:

1) Christmas happened.  I binge ate a holiday feast that would have made an Ameristar Casino buffet look like Tiny Tim’s Christmas dinner. For me, Christmas is about chugging 11 metric tons of gravy, shoveling sweet potatoes into my pie hole with my bare hands, stealing all the good parts of the turkey before anyone else has a chance to get to them, and consuming teeth-rotting amounts of Welch’s sparkling grape juice. I did all of those things and plunged deep into a coma afterward. It was good.

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2) New Year’s didn’t happen.  I awoke on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, feeling unwell. At first I thought it was day two of my life-threatening hang over, as I had gotten Lindsay Lohan wasted the Thursday before. After spending all day Friday with a skull-shattering headache and a hurting liver that would have killed me if it had hands and a loaded weapon, I figured my vodka-soda holocaust was just spilling over from Friday into Saturday.

I was wrong. My throat was aflame, I was sore and achey, and had what I like to refer to as “sick breath.”  By high noon, I had full blown strep throat. My fever was extreme. I was flip-flopping back and forth between menopausal hot flashes, bursting into sweat and watching steam rise off of my forehead to becoming frigid, icy cold, shuddering with the chills and freezing half to death. I spent 22 hours laying in my bed or on the couch, with half a dozen blankets stacked on me, shivering my ass off and sobbing like a baby.

I have never had strep throat before. My throat was hurting like a bitch, but I was so ill all day on Saturday that I never bothered to get up and investigate my throat at all until Sunday when I woke up. I busted out the flashlight on my Droid and took a look. “HO-ly f*ck.” I shouted. My throat was DISGUSTING. I have pictures, but I’m afraid to post them on the world wide web in fear of losing readers, and also my readers losing their lunch. It was extremely swollen, bright red and black (BLACK!), and nauseating. I have never seen anything like it. I thought I would die. This lasted for about four or five days, and then I finally kicked it. Anyway, the point is, I couldn’t get drunk on New Year’s, and that was depressing.

3) I went to Cancun, Mexico.  This was a 7-day free company trip that I took with 18 other co-workers from the ol’ roofing outfit. I have been to Mexico twice before on company trips, and let me tell you, it is a trip made for raging alcoholics who like to party. The last two all-inclusive resorts I stayed at had four bottles of liquor on tap INSIDE my hotel room, mounted on the wall for easy access, plus a mini fridge filled with beer, soda, and water that was safe to drink. Room service ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, wherein you could request whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and it would be delivered to your room, stat. Sixteen Sol beers, four plates of nachos del grande, a Scrabble board, and a few extra towels at 4:15 a.m.? No problem. Eduardo would show up with a shiny cart within minutes to suit your drunken desires. It was fantastic.

Everyone was wasted. Beginning at 8 am, Enrique Iglesias and Ke$ha songs would be blaring from the bars, drunken hooligans were playing chicken in the pools, doing shots of flaming Dr. Peppers, dropping beer bongs in the hot tubs, screaming like assholes and speaking Spanglish to the resort staff. This continued well into the night until we would head to the clubs (conveniently located just a couple blocks from the resort) around 11 pm, where we would rage until 3 or 4 am at clubs the size of football arenas. Little Mexican girls would prance around shooting water-guns filled with tequila into your face, free Jello shots came around every few minutes, and music would pound into the night until the wee hours of the morning. It was insane.

Why would I expect anything different from this trip?

We showed up to the resort on Saturday afternoon. After getting settled in, we began strolling around the property to see what kind of mayhem we would encounter. Instead of half-naked hotties doing strike-outs and crazy twenty-somethings being crazy drunken lunatics, we saw a lot of Florida-retirees in Tommy Bahama shirts and socks with sandals. Something was a little off.

After exploring the pools, beach, and restaurants, we realized we were basically at a 55+ retirement resort. Olds everywhere. There were tits on the beach, but the kind that fell below the bellybutton (just ask Trent). A lot of the bars on site closed at 11 pm. There was practically no music.

Mistakes were made.

Instead of spending seven days drunker than David Hasselhoff in 2005, I spent seven days eating my weight in resort food, which was also fine. We made up for the lack of binge drinking with actual activities, including snorkeling,

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deep sea fishing,

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eating (a lot),

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and the highlight of my trip, swimming with dolphins!

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Don’t worry, I still got really drunk.

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4) I had a baby.

Just kidding.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I will be posting more regularly again now that I’m back in the great state of Colorado and have nothing to do but snowboard and laze around like a bum. Ciao, folks.
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Me:   “Do we have any ranch dressing?”
Mom:   “I’m sure there’s some in the fridge.”
Me:   “Let me clarify—ranch dressing that didn’t expire in year 2000.”
Mom:   “I’m sure there is!”
Me:   “Oh here’s some. Let’s see……….great, February 2010.”
Mom:   “That’s not that bad!”
Me:   “MOM. TWO-THOUSAND TEN.“

Cross-Country.

I am currently riding shotgun on I-90 with Trent, driving through the state of Indiana. We left Council Bluffs around 9 a.m. this morning and drove through Iowa and Illinois before crossing into Indiana. Soon enough we’ll be stopping somewhere for the night, and then we’ll be up and at ’em bright and early tomorrow morning to drive through Ohio, Pennsylvania, and then finally, Connecticut. If you can believe it, Trent and I have not once switched spots to pass off the responsibility of driving. I can’t believe it. The man is a machine. When I drive long distances, I can’t

¡Pura Vida!

Alright boys and girls.

…and whatever gender category people like Lady Gaga fall into.

I understand you’ve all been sweating profusely, having cardiac-arrest-inducing night terrors, and wretching in pain due to blog withdrawal, but don’t you worry, I’m back in the 66206 and ready to write your ears off again.

….of course when I say “ears” I mean “eyes.”

Anyway.

I have been making like Magellan, hop-scotching all over the western hemisphere for the past several weeks. Cabo San Lucas was a good time, although it would have been better if mi esposo futuro had been along for the trip (only moment of mushiness for the next month at least, don’t worry), but Costa Rica was a whole ‘nother animal, people. Let’s begin.

12,998 feet.

My week has been spent thus far in Breckenridge, Colorado, shredding like Shaun White, hanging with Jim, visiting my brother, and Drew “I do what I want” Henderson. Of course when I say I’ve been shredding like Shaun White, I mean I’ve been shredding like Shaun White at the age of 3. You know, a little less….”advanced.” The first four days I snowboarded my ass off, like literally off. I have no ass. It’s scattered about the mountain. On Tuesday I

On the road again.

Pass me some NyQuil, Dad. It’s time to render myself unconscious for my 12 hour trip to Colorado. Hopefully my father doesn’t deem it necessary to make a “pit stop” at Cabela’s this year, but you just never know with that man. Soon enough I’ll be hitting the road toward Denver where we will stay for the night, and then continue to Breckenridge the following morning. I hope the hotel we’re at tonight has free WiFi. Otherwise I’ll kill myself.

Oh, and the Cindy Crawford photo? Just to get your attention.

Peace out, girl scouts.

“Hey guys, what’s up?”

Xanga: 1

Due to boredom, I explored my old Xanga webpage, circa 2004. i found an entry I thought worth posting. Haha.

Hola, folks. What’s a-goin on-ah? I just returned home from my trip to Minnesota with the McDermott clan. It was a fun time, I must say. Their entire family is a riot. Myrna is absolutely insane, like totally off her rocker, although after the voyage to the north I think I learned to appreciate her “quirks,” if that’s what you can call them. Ohh Myrna.

Aside from the fact that I lost nearly two quarts of my blood to mosquitoes, thus acquiring the West Nile virus and also developing paranoia due to feverish scratching (p.s. I drew blood today while scratching my bug bites), it was a pretty good time. I’m not kidding–Minnesota’s

Prenup.

Tiger Woods has finally realized that claiming he did not cheat on his wife is about as believable as Star Jones telling people she lost all her weight by simply cutting soda out of her diet. Since the cat is out of the bag and there’s no use attempting to cover it up, Woods is now offering his wife 60 million dollars to stay with him for, and I quote, “at least two more years.”

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Alright—Tiger, a marriage is not like a Verizon Wireless contract. You can’t resign it for another two years. What kind of deal is this? What kind of

Jailbird.

I’m sorry, I thought it was November 6th—–oh, it IS November 6th? Why the FACK is it 70 degrees and sunny outside? By this time of year, I want to be frolicking about in galoshes, wearing a fur-trimmed parka and singing “Sleigh Bells” everywhere I go, not confusing my back yard with a sunny San Diego boardwalk and applying SPF. Has Mother Earth been drinking? It’s not June, Ma. Get with the program.

On that note, I went to jail today.

iTrip.

*~*OkAy, so here’s what 2 do…. put ur iPod on shuffle, and the first ten songs that pl@y are the soundtrack to your li—–Oh wait, I forgot I’m not a faggot with no life.

Gravy Train.

I am currently sitting like a bump on a log, digesting gravy by the gallon and sweet potatoes by the barrel. That is to say I drank quantities of gravy by the gallon and ate sweet potatoes by the barrel just now. Seeing as I will be moving to Kansas City a week from tomorrow (November 24th for those of you with fewer brain cells than the average teddy bear hamster), I would be missing Thanksgiving, so I told mom to strike up the band and cook a giant turkey dinner early. Jamie, Richard, Trent, Laurel, the parents and I feasted like kings until we threw up. On each other. Good times.