So here I am, drunk and updating for th first time. A first for the drunken updates, and a first update after the holiday.

And all I keep thinking is that my screen name should be Badass instead of partygirl being it's so much more fitting.

Everything I do is to excess and everyone I know, knows that and they love it.

I love it too.

Yes, I am a badass and I was thinking tonight, afetr many vodka tonics, merlot, champagne and shots. Actually, hold on a second, I'm going to open the reserve bottle I purchased and kick this entry up a notch.

Ahhhhhhhhhh, yes. That's so much better. There's something about finishing your night with better alcohol than you started with that makes the whole debacle seem justified. Marnie2000 cannot be happy about the fact that I just woke her up to find this bottle I purchased, but hell, it's Friday and I just gave her a live performance of The Police varying the moracas, bongoes, a tamborine and my hraomica (in #C, I realize #E would be better but I only have #C).

When I was sober this week I thought of telling you all what it was like to be home; how it's like being in a foreign country that you've read a lot about in school. You've seen the pictures, the landmarks, heard the village stories to the point where when you land there, you think you can take off and find your way around - it's that familiar. You think yes, I know and then you get lost, or you think you don't know and you ask for directions but then you start driving and your mind wanders, taking in the scenery and the next thingyou know you car seems to be on cruise control and youare making the right turns and taking the right roads and everything looks beautiful and familiar - if that's not redundant? And you think, "Maybe that was a book I read, about the cheerleader and the varsity tennis player - the girl with the quarterbacker's jersey who painted her cheek with his number for home games, who was the girl about town who left with no warning, said no good-byes and started over and over again." Sounds like every cheesy book I've read.

I could tell you how absolutely fargo it was, but why bother?

I could tell you how at my Thanksgiving, for the first time I sat at the adult table, but I missed the casual banter at the kids table.

This year there was no kids table, with Marnie2000's brother married an off with his in-laws and our cousin L. with her parents and sister out of town. Our other cousin's with their mother, divorced from my uncle. But we always have the random guests, and this year it was two women who worked for the government, just transferred in from california. It wouldn't be a year without the randoms, that's how we work, usually foreigners. This year was no different, except that English was their first language.

And mixing the kids with the adults, was probably not good. And so Marnie2000 told everyone gathered this storyand they listened with rapture, except for my father whom frowned upon me the entire time. And my brother told about my previous regular status at Hogs, and my frequent dances on the bar years ago (before it became starfucker central) and I think, but I can't be sure, I saw my father squinting his eyes real tight to make it all go away.

You have to understand, really, that a girl like me is a father worst nightmare. To him, I'm a bittersweet reality. I'm the girl he was raised by, the one her wanted to hang around, but not the one he would of married and sure as hell not the one he imagined when he saw me (all fo 6 lbs) wrapped in a baby blanket after birth that he swore to love and cherish and protect in that maternity ward.

But girls, isn't the case with all Dads? It's the root of our problems with out parents. We are born, after months of anticipation, and they see us...we are PERECT...we are all that dreamed and more. And in that 1 second, in that ONE SECOND of sight and realization of responsiblity and wonderment and bliss, in that second, they take on the weight of the word to protect us. They see us as surgeons and statesmen and bestselling authors and lawyers and beauty queens and Presidents...PRESIDENTS...all in a second and then we grow up. And we are some of those things or better than that or worse and it's different. It's just different. I'm not a parent, so I can't say if it's disappointment of relief or elation but I think it's different.

And our mothers. Our mothers bear us with the dream that we will have it better than them. That we will be prettier and smarter and marry better but most of all, that we will be prettier, because really, isn't that what our scoiety is based on? You can write me right now and tell me I'm wrong and how advanced we are and how Madeline Albright and Sandra Day O'Connor have proven that we have moved beyond the view of beauty queen as power player but deep down you know. You know that you don't succeed unless you are aethetically pleasing. Or advance because of your husband. Pamela Harriman and Sonny Bono's wife, case in point (and see how I've fallen into that trap, not knowing the widow Bono's name).

And so our mother's see us as everything they could have been, everything they wanted to be.

But I'd rather not get further ensconced in that.

Be there or be talked about. Let's talk about my friends. They are exquisite. Beautiful, stylish people. Perfectly blonde, perfectly couture. Love them as everyone else does. They do not wait in lines at bars, they get the best tables at the chicest restuarants.

I am one of them. but I am not as blonde and not nearly as beautiful. Frankly, I'm not sure why they keep me around. I ask them every so often and they laugh. I think they figure I will make it some day soon. And I will offer some type of fame to the group. I hope I don't disappoint them...

And now they are married or engaged and still beautiful and stylish and the others who whispered about them still do and while this goes on, I stand on the sidelines and get high and laugh. I laugh that they have this influence and that people allow it, and I laugh I landed in this crowd, just me, little old me, the hippie chick who loves her music and hates Frat boys.

What it comes down to, what all my problems come down to, is that yearning for more.

I want to swallow the world whole. With all of it's people. Twice. I want to experience it all. I want to walk the streets of Nigeria. I want to raft down the Nile. I want to race a lover across the Charles bridge in Prague. I want to warm my skin on the grass of the Falkland islands. I want to disperse food and medical supplies to the beautiful children of Ethiopia. I want to kneel down in a parking lot in Compton and stare in a 10-year-olds face and tell him to give me his gun, and put his hand in mine and to follow me, to a safe place. I want to sneak children and old women out of Bosnia on Red Cross planes. I want to bring food to hungry familes in the dead of winter in Siberia.

I want to make every person in the whole world I meet, I want to make them smile, except I don't want to make them do it, I want them to do it unthinkingly.

I want my parents to think I am greatest person on earth. I want a hero's welcome. Not because of what I've done, or what I want to do, but because of who I am.

I want it all.

*~*

I have no idea what this entry was about. Or why I started on this badass theme. But here I am a half hour later...still drunk and passionate.

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