I thought the weekend was going to be a wash because I was so irritated when I left work late on Friday night and embarked on a 2 1/2 hour ride on a bus packed with people looking to blow their welfare checks on slot machines. That statement sounds so elitist, but after taking this bus every summer weekend for 7 years, I can tell you it's true. Welfare and Social Security. Sometimes I walk past the slot machines and stare at senior citizens and wonder what percentage of their bucket is FICA money that came out of my check the week before. FICA, which I've been paying into since I was 14 years old. FICA money that I will never see.

That shit pisses me off like you don't even know.

I ended up taking a taxi to my house, after speaking with my parents, who were having happy hour with frogs and her parents.

There was a back and forth on their end over who would pick me up later that night and so I told them I would just take a taxi. Later, Frogs told me that the parents were arguing over who should stay sober to pick me up and were pushing Frogs to do it because they had been having happy hour and had dinner plans.

I'm not sure what drinking has to do with anything since as long as I can remember my parents have picked me up with the drink tray in the front of the car filled with tumblers of perfect Manhattans on the rocks, with a twist. They are so practiced at that, I don't even consider that drinking and driving.

Which reminds me, NOTE TO SELF: record in journal story of parents running through drunken driving checkpoint in France and out running French police.

Moving on. Saturday night was absurd. We went to this swanky place for dinner to celebrate my oldest friend's birthday. Basically, we set out to drink. Our bar bill before dinner was $150 among 6 of us.

One of our friend's fringe friends showed up tanked and made it a party of 7. Most of us didn't know this guy, who was a complete hammer. He had sailed his boat over and docked at the marina, stopped at some party and got slammed and then showed up for dinner. He kept trying to speak in Italian to maitre'd - all he kept saying was "Bene, bene...si si." It was hilarious.

So this guy starts ordering bottle after bottle of '95 Brunello's that must have been $120 a bottle. And we are all throwing it down like it's bottles of Budweiser. After dinner, I then decide we need champagne, and I order up a bottle of Vueve. Not the orange label, the Gold label.

And then we order another bottle.

So, this guy is totally inappropriate to the girls through dinner. I was wearing a dress with cherries on it so he named me "cherry pie." He came outside when I went to smoke and trying to light up against the wind, leaned his mouth into my chest, which was somewhat exposed via a plunging neckline.

He made a comment about my breasts, and as a retort, I said something smart inferring that I was wearing cherry pasties.

Shortly, after that, he called me over to the bar so I could watch him sign for the bill. Just me. I offered to give him money, as it was close to $1000 for dinner, but he refused. Clearly, he just wanted me to see what he was paying. I should have picked up on that sooner.

The restuarant was closing and we all wanted to ditch this guy. I gave him like three hundey from two of us for dinner and told everyone else to pay him.

We leave the restaurant and a taxi pulls up so we all urge him to take it. We all say good-bye and he turns to me and says, "Pasties, you in?"

Literally, I just met this guy 3 hours ago. He's a complete stranger who tried to stick his face in my boobs.

"No, thanks," I smile. "Have a good night!"

We headed back to my place for late-night, as it was about 1:30AM when we left the restaurant, and I called it a night around 5:30AM. The last two of party went to bed at 7AM.

Sunday involved a great deal of rest, then travel to get back to NYC. Slept from 11-3AM, and then up again for an early work call time.

What ever happened to the old 9-5? Does that exist for someone somewhere? Pls. advise as I'd love to hear what it is that you do, to work normal hours.

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