7:13 a.m. | 2001-05-22


So yesterday's entry struck a chord with a lot of you. I received some very eloquent responses, of which I plan on posting a few excerpts tomorrow.

For now, we will continue with our regularly scheduled Partygirl chronicles.

*~*

It would appear that the Partygirl doesn't subscribe to the rule another year older, another year wiser.

After Wednesday night's fabulous birthday surprise, I carried on through the weekend and celebrated the birthday with the various groups of friends.

Thursday night, the remaining stateside Waco girls came over and we drank beers at my place. My roommate was having a BBQ for her work friends, and we crashed the party. I didn't really eat, but drank my way through the early evening. This is always a mistake, because as we know, Partygirl cannot hold her liquor.

I had 5 or 6 beers. Maybe I had 6 or 7. Okay, maybe it was 7 or 8. Maybe it was 9 beers. Over the course of the evening. Dark, heavy beers, like Sierra Nevada Porters. Because you know, I don't really like a dark beer, but I *hate* light beer. Truly. So I went with the Bass and the Sierra and had a great time.

Yeah, I had a few spins when I went to bed around midnight, but I in no way expected the 1:40AM wake-up, running to the bathroom to violently vomit. Yep, rang my b-day in with style.

*~*

Friday night, again, another mysterious birthday night. My friend says she sent a car to pick me up and to be outside my apartment in 10 minutes to start the night. I end up at her apartment near Lincoln Center.

I buzz her and we head for a quick dinner and margherita's. Next, we head to this pub where she knows the entire Scottish bar crew, to see our favorite band. I need to state that the Scottish are Satan's Spawn. These people are superhuman drinkers. I am just trying to be adult about the whole thing and drink my ciders. But these people were sliding flaming triple shots of sambuka down the length of the bar at me and what's a girl to do when challenged by a Scotsman but light her finger on fire, stick it in the air, blow out her shot and throw back that buka like the warrior she is?

After two of these, it's all I could do but beg for a mercy shot. "Something fruity," I plead like the former cheerleader I am. What comes my way? A chilled shot of Citron vodka. No chaser. And you can't really argue when the bar staff is joining you.

I escaped for a while in the crowd of the band, where they surprised me by working in a rendition of "Happy Birthday." When I emerged back at the bar, I find a car bomb waiting for me. For those of you not in the know, that would be a shot of whiskey dropped into a pint of Guiness. It must be chugged in one gulp. I did it. And smiled. And then I excused myself and went to the bathroom, where I puked three times.

I walked back into the bar as if nothing had happened.

There's another version of the car bomb waiting for me. A boilermaker. Another shot of whiskey, this time dropped into a Stella Artois, which I am sure was considered letting me off the hook. In a move that would take away the breathe of David Blaine, I chugged about half the pint/shot, swung the glass down below the bar and as I opened my mouth and taunted "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!," I poured the rest of that bad boy down against foot of the bar.

And then they placed another cider in front of me. I evaluated my options as I saw the bartender heading for the whiskey again. This was the man who admitted to drinking a bottle of gin and a half of a bottle of sambuka at a wedding the weekend prior. In a word, he is the alcohol samurai. And I, am just a childlike warrior. I know my limits.

So I houdinied.

*~*

Saturday, I relaxed. I went out with Gingi and Joaninha to my favorite new spot - as yet undiscovered by the Manhattan trendy invaders. Gingi gave me a Janis action figure! How rad is that?!? We had a totally chill night as my liver was probably distended at this point, asking to get a transfer to Larry Hagman.

My friend L. showed up, bombed. That's always a treat. She didn't even need a cocktail to coax her to start on the "you know how much I love you, don't you?" You got to love those nights.

*~*

Sunday, my friend read my cards. Gave me a year reading. It was okay. High and lows, story of my life.

*~*

Monday, my Dad checks in to see if I'm still standing or if I've gone the Judy Garland route. I start to give him the cleaned up version and he noted, in that annoyed voice, that it's time for me to take a break. Partygirl, I think you need to cool it, he says in that sharp, brusque manner. I mention that I still have birthday plans tonight and tomorrow (I don't even get to Wednesday or Thursday of this week) when he suggests that it's time for me to throw in the towel.

My Dad gets *really* annoyed with my lifestyle. I mean, really, annoyed. I haven't determined if that's because he's jealous that he's not doing this or bitter because he didn't do it long enough before getting married or because he just can't relax until he walks me down the aisle and passes me off as someone else's problem.

Possibly all of the above.

Cause you know, I'm daddy's little girl. Even though I am the heathen hooting it up in New York City every night of the week like it's my fucking job.

Oh, that's right. It *is* my fucking job.

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