The demon whiskey

Last night, I went out. It was my usual once-a-month Thursday thang on the patio at The Keg. This particular location used to be a train station and they went to great expense to change it into the coolest of 50's-era lounges. There's a picture above the leather couches of one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen; if I could have a do-over, I would so totally be this woman. (I must snap a pic of her the next time I go out).

The patio, it also rocks. Our server Robyn is getting to be our regular wench, so she takes good care of us. I imbibed way too much for someone who is the DD, but it was on Mr. PW, so it's all good. We planned on making our way to the pub for the final two sets of Our Band so I figured I would burn off the alcohol riverdancing. (I did). The problem with my drinking habits are they still stem from that high school mentality of 'drink what's put in front of ya!' So I started with a glass of Stoli and iced tea, moved on to the more familiar Guinness with assorted iced Bucca and Crispy Crunch shots, then I accidentally pounded back half of Patti's CC & Coke when she urged me to try it and tell her if the mix was diet or not. Blerg. Thank heavens I didn't succumb to that shot of Jameson's PW put in front of me, evil man. He will be punished at a future time of my choosing, be sure.

Still in all, I managed to keep my extreme coolness about me. I was even approached by a young cutie to dance with him to a Barry White tune. He went on and on (and on) about how it was 'concentrated sex, man!', to which I simply nodded and smiled. I kept the overt sexuality reigned in for fear of permanently scarring the poor lad, but enjoyed the dance nonetheless. The aforementioned riverdancing has caused my calves to become two inches shorter today when you factor in all the knots that materialized overnight. Alas, I am not as young and resilient as I used to be.

I even passed over the traditional late-night poutine feast (necessary grease to help with absorption...it's all very scientific) since I'd stayed behind to help the band pack up and talk to Greg about his recent wedding. I was dismayed that he hadn't listened to my loving, sisterly advice about the nuptuals. Months ago I had stood on the bar's footrail, looked him straight in the eye and fairly hollered,

"Don't do it! For the love of all that is holy, RUN!"

He'll remember our little talk later when he's chewing off his arm to get away and smile a little smile, I'm sure.

So today I'm sore, dehydrated and this Venti Soy Tazo Chai is only comforting me about 65%. Maybe we should make these little romps a once-every-six-weeks thing....