Well, that was me jumping and screaming and acting an idiot because I finally finished my novel. All thirty eight chapters and 76,565 words of it.
I was ecstatic, to say the least. I still am.
So, I decided to celebrate this weekend.
Look, I'm no longer a 21 year old party animal, okay? I'm a 31 year old woman with a husband and children and a dedication to the Lord, to which I've put my partying ways in the rear view.
So, it's safe to say that on the rare occasion that I do drink, I end up sick as a dog and in need of Gatorade, fatty foods, Ibuprofin and prayer.
I can't drink all evening and wake the following morning ready to compete in a triatholon. I just can't do it anymore.
So, as I'm sitting here with my head spinning, my stomach churning, and such a severe case of cottonmouth that I'm surrounded by dozens of Popsicle sticks, I'm going to tell you about last night's events.
I went to a friend's Christmas party. That was loads of fun. I talked non-stop, and I'm pretty sure that people were laughing at me instead of with me all night.
My old high school BFF's and I also thought it would be the perfect time to take cheesy photos that resemble the cheesy photos that can be found in our decade old yearbooks.
Who doesn't love the pyramid?
Side note: I'd just come in from a light sprinkling rain. This explains why my hair was puffier than usual. My hair is like a Chia Pet. Water makes it grow.
I'm so in love with this photo that I can barely contain myself. It's as if some old photographer guy with thick glasses posed us this way. No. We did this ourselves.
I'm unsure why my friend's hand ended up on my non-existant derrier, but it works.
So, after the party, everyone decided they were in the mood to dance. Because alcohol does that to white people.
Being the old fart that I am, I cannot hang in the dance clubs anymore. It makes my ears hurt. And I don't like being the oldest thing in the room. Talk about a blow to your self esteem. I don't need to see that young girl sipping some fuschia colored drink and dancing in a tube top to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me". She was probably still a speck in her father's eye when that song hit the charts. Go do your homework, you drunken hoe bag.
So, in a very old woman way, I suggested that instead of going dancing that we go bowling. Yeah, I said bowling.
My friend Courtney and I ended up on a lane with bumper guards. Why? Because the guy that gave us our shoes noticed that we'd been partaking in alcohol. He knew that the score would end up 0/0 if we didn't have bumper guards. Good looking out, bowling alley dude.
He also said that he used an antibacterial cleaner on the bowling shoes that was proven to kill 99.99% of germs. This wasn't good enough for me. I demanded that he find somethng to kill all of the germs, all 100 percent of them. He couldn't produce any such chemical.
We succumbed and wore the shoes anyway. With tapered leg skinny jeans. It's an awesome look.
Across the lane from us were some Tennessee rednecks. You know, the kind that go bowling at 11 pm in pajama pants and a John Deere hoodie.
The redneck guy nearly had a conniption when I reached for a green ball.
"Mam," he said.
Yes, he called me mam.
"Me?" I asked, looking to see if Betty White was standing behind me. I'm not old enough to be mam, am I?
"That's my green ball. I brought it from home. Don't use it."
For several reasons.
A big ugly dude just called me mam and told me not to touch his ball.
"I will never lay another finger on your ball, good man. Thank you for the warning."
So, I reached for a pink ball. Because it was pink. And because it was light. You know, for children. Or intoxicated 31 year old women.
"I've been using that ball," the big ugly guy's side kick, in her pajama pants, stated.
And she wasn't happy.
"I've been using that ball all night. I had to show my ID for it."
I don't know what this meant. Why did she have to show her ID to get a special, 6 pound bowling ball?
"What?" I asked, noticeably bewildered.
"What's the issue?" Courtney asked.
To which the disgusting white trash began ranting about her pink bowling ball. Except it isn't really hers. She didn't bring it from home. It didn't have her name on it. That bowling ball is the property of the bowling alley. That bowling ball belongs to all of us. Share the ball, PJ pants! Share the damn ball!
So, she's still ranting about her ID and how she's been using the ball for hours.
My friend Courtney lost it. It was epic.
Meet Courtney. She's fun.
After a five minute altercation with these rednecks over bowling ball terms, Courtney steps to PJ pants and says, "WELL, WHICH BALL CAN WE USE!?"
I wanted to punch John Deere hoodie in the face, but all I could do was cover my own face and laugh. I was laughing too hard to argue.
I just love when that happens.
Everytime this pink ball rolled out, the pajama pants girl was anxiously waiting on it. And she would grab the ball and sit down with it before my friend and I could use it. She held the ball close to her chest, gaurding it, protecting it, making sure that my fingers wouldn't find their way into the pink ball's holes.
Hey, lady. No one is that concerned with your precious bowling ball. This is a bowling alley. There are plenty of good lightweight balls lying around.
So, I walked over to the bowling alley guy, and I told him that I needed a lightweight ball before I got all Kingpin on somebody and gave them a five finger sandwhich and a ten pin concussion. He gladly complied and handed me a small, purple ball.
You better believe that I gaurded that purple ball with my life.
And once the rednecks were gone, the coveted pink bowling ball was left behind.
Haha. In your face, suckers.
I got home and threw up a bucket of chili. I crawled into bed, and I vowed to never drink again.
After all, I'm too old for this.
Someone get me another Popsicle.
**After posting this, I took a shower and noticed a large bruise on my knee. I remembered not letting go of an extremely heavy ball while bowling one frame. I didn't slide down the lane, though. I kind of skidded and bounced. I'm certain this wouldn't have happened if I'd been able to use PJ Pants' light six pound ball. And I'm sure that the alley needs to put a little wax on the floor.