Four Handles Later

I have no idea what I last wrote about my life on this here blog, and I don't care. I just added another ridiculous adventure to my life.

(I'm currently sitting in the back room at my work, surprised at how quickly I just sucked down this Bloody Mary. Hm. Apparently vacation really upped my tolerance levels.)

This all started one week ago. It was last Monday around midnight, as I was getting drunk at work, stressed about the amount of packing I still had to do for Party Bus 2011. By 2 in the morning, I was at home, tipsy, but had somehow managed to stuff a week's worth of short shorts and tank tops into my duffel bag.

The next 24 hours was a blissful blur of drunkenness. Those involved in the cross-country revelry included myself, my boyfriend, boyfriend's best friend Rylan, my old roommate Josh, Josh's new-ish girlfriend Erin, Erin's two besties CJ and Liz, and, of course, our humble Party Bus owner/driver: Dennis.

We arrived at the airport in time to suck down a couple o' Bloody Marys each (this became a definite theme on our trip), then proceeded to run to our gate and board the plane for some more airplane alcohol. By the time we arrived in Texas, we were doing preeetttty good.

Good thing we were drunk because the news we got when we got off the plane was not good.

Dennis (who had been in Texas for 4 days at this point, doing the final touches up on the bus engine to ensure our safe journey), greeted us with a somber face. The bus, he said, as we huddled around in a team circle, is absolutely unfixable.

Remember how we bought ONE-WAY tickets to Texas? Yeah.

With absolutely NO plans, nowhere to stay, no money and no idea how we were going to get back to Seattle, the eight of us did what most people should do in this situation: we went out and drank. A lot. Texas bars, I tell ya. Its all country music, friendliness and stiff drinks. Maybe the best night of my life.

By 4 am I am running around a pitch black cemetery, my shoes somehow gone, in a mini skirt and tank top I am somehow still sweating lightly in the still 85-degree weather, shouting, leaping, hollering, wooping it up. I am wondering how I came to be here. We stop at a grave and take grainy pictures. A quiet tombstone reads: OSWALD.

The next day we all wake up in a crusty motel off the highway, all sticky and in big friendly piles of stiff blankets and empty beer cans. We laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and drive to a Starbucks to steal Wi-Fi to try and buy some tickets back home. The cheapest tickets are the following day, but we already are reluctant to leave Texas.

Dennis, Rylan, my boyfriend and I find cheap tickets to LA and decided, what the hell, let's make the most of this crazy vacation. After another two days in Texas in which we overeat (the thought of Texas fried chicken and BBQ instantly makes me salivate. You cannot even imagine.) and overdrink (We had bought a half gallon of Irish Whiskey, Bourbon, Vodka and Tequila and put it all to good use) and fulfill Rylan's lifelong dream of visiting the JFK assassination sight, the group splits up. The three girls and Josh fly back to Seattle, and Rylan, Dennis, the Boyfriend and I take a Bloody-Mary infused jet to Los Angeles.

LA. What a different world. It's all highways and designer sunglasses and image and status. My boyfriend's brother lives there. James is a highly paid, fast-talking business man, more than likely a good deal insane and definitely an alcoholic. The second James picks us four up at the airport, the old sibling conflicts arise. James wants to go back to his apartment (which has recently been ransacked and partially destroyed by his crazy stripper ex-girlfriend) and drinks; we want to go find some cheap, delicious tacos.

Now I have always had trouble with James. I have a short temper and little room for offensive behavior when it comes down to it. I have always had to bite my tongue whenever James starts drinking and verbally abusing his brother in front of me. The Alpha Female in me wants to punch him squarely in the nose, and stare him down until he puts his tale between his legs. But I can't do that. He's not MY guy friend, he's not a stranger in a bar. He's my boyfriend's brother. He's family. And family you just have to put up with.

Anyways. The next three days involved a lot of 'putting up with James.' Our first night he got drunk at a Mexican Cantina, and kept ordering us rounds of insanely expensive shots of tequila. That was nothing compared to the next day. James woke us up blasting insanely loud music, demanded that we go to brunch, ordered food for us (his trademark habit, ordering things for people to remain in complete control), went back to the apartment to do shots of vodka (it was barely 11am at this point), insisted that he drive us to the Getty (we, thank GOD, convinced his to let Dennis drive), arrived at the Getty and found that they were full at the moment, watched James swear at the doorman, finally got into the Getty where we were dragged into the museum restaurant where James got RAGING drunk and started yelling at little old ladies, children, whatever. While the boys went to go find the car, I sat with James while he drunkenly pronounced me ugly, annoying and told me that he hated me. FAMILY. Yeah. Great.

We got James home in one piece, where he passed out cold for the next six hours. From then on, we had a splendid time, walking along the beach, taking pictures, exploring, meeting up with Rylan's sister, going to bars in Silverlake, and finally passing out for a few short hours before waking up to go to the train station. Oh, yeah. We couldn't find any cheap flights so we decided to take Amtrak up the coast.

After saying a stiff farewell to James (who had woken up and seemed a bit penitent for his drunken offensiveness), the four of us boarded the train for a breathtaking 34-hour trip up the coast from LA to Seattle. We still had two handles of liquor, and tons of snacks, and cozy seats to watch the country zip by. We kept buying orange juices from the club car and sipping little screwdrivers in between long naps for one of the most relaxing train trips I have ever experienced. We met a couple of nice kids our age, with whom we shared our liquor with (until I realized one of the boys was 17 years old. Yeesh). Overall, a wonderful end to our trip.

By the time we were back in Seattle, we were pretty much perma-drunk. We all raced up back to the hill to drop our stuff off at my apartment and head out again. In half an hour, we were sitting at a cozy booth at the Unicorn reunited with all eight of the vacationers, reliving the magic of having the stupidest vacation EVER.

On that note, maybe I should get another Bloody Mary.