I do not posess the luck of the Irish

I am not Irish. But, like most Americans, I pretend to be every year on March 17th.

This year, I went out with co-workers. Once again, I decided to forego dinner in lieu of Jameson shots and beer. (The results of this are always spectacular.)

By the time we reached bar#3, I was stumbling all over the place and had been flagged as bad news by the bouncer. (So I was told. I don't personally remember.) Here's a visual:

I crashed at a co-workers that night, and was greeted the next morning with your classic hangover symptoms - cotton mouth, throbbing head, churning stomach. Basically, the way you want to feel when you have to go to work for eight hours.

On the drive back into the city, I was rocking my oversized sunglasses, had my jean jacket coverning my face and has passed out in the lap of my co-worker's roommate.

About 20 minutes into the car ride, I knew I wasn't going to be able to hold it together much longer. Plus, I needed to go home and try to make myself presentable for work.

Using every ounce of energy I could muster, I lifted up my head (which felt like it weighed 500 lbs), sat up and tried and figure out where the hell we were. I could tell we were in the city, but that was about all I had.

So, I asked my co-worker if we were near a metro. We weren't. And he had forgotten to drop me off at my apartment.

But really, all I was concerned about was not covering his car with remnants of last night's alcohol and stomach acid. I figured a cab was my best bet anyway, so I said, "I'm getting kinda nauseous and need some fresh air. Plus I need to go home and change. Do you mind letting me out so I can grab a cab?"

Now, at this point, the three other people in the car were convinced I was going to vom any second. I knew I was a good five minutes off from that happening, but I didn't help my cause when I released some form of a hiccup/burp.

Co-worker's roommate yelled "Oh shit!" and scooted as far away from me as he could in a two-door car. Annoyed and tired of feeling like death, I snapped at him, "I'm not three years old. I know when I'm going to puke."

Five seconds later, the light turned red so I hobbled out of the car. Luckily, there was a cab a few cars infront of where I got out because I don't think I had enough brain cells left to figure out which road I should turn down to hail a taxi. Plus, based on my physical appearance, I don't think many cab drivers would have stopped for me.

Once I got inside the cab, I tried to roll down my window and get the fresh air I so desperately needed, but the cab driver squashed those dreams pretty quickly. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure the passenger gets to determine the climate of the cab during the ride in which he/she is paying.

Whatever. I got my vengence a minute later when I made him pull over on Constitution Ave. so I could vomitando.

For those of you not familiar with D.C., Constitution Ave. is the road that passes by the White House, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial - basically all the major landmarks in our nation's capital. It is also one of the most heavily congested roads in the city.

So basically, during morning rush hour, people were having to swurve around the hungover asshole hanging out of a hybrid taxi (that's right - I was in a Prius).

I think my most favorite part about the whole situation was after I finished decorating Constitution Ave., the cab driver asked if I had been out celebrating St. Patrick's Day.

I really wonder what gave it away...

Maybe it was the green beads I was still sporting around my neck. Or it could have been that a combination of whiskey and beer was seeping through my pores and giving people a block away a contact high. But I think the most likely reason was that he had to pull over for me. At 8 am on a Friday morning. In front of the White House.

Don't you worry, I waved to Obama. I'm sure he's thrilled to have such a citizen of my grace and class representing D.C.

Ringing in the New Year with a...Peck??!!

Happy 2011!

Since I have such lofty aspirations for myself, I made it my goal for the last day of 2010 to find a delectable make-out partner to ring in the new year.

Problem is, I'm not so great when it comes to approaching men. I usually timidly hover by the bar, downing tequila shots in attempt to work up some liquid courage while sending brain waves to the hottie of the night to come talk to me. If I do grow a pair and actually talk to the guy first, my pick-up line usually consists of, "Hi, I'm Miss Procras. Wanna dance?"

Luckily, SK, one of my nearest and dearest, spent the weekend with me. Girlfriend is a rockstar when it comes to approaching men and helped me land the guy I had been eyeing the entire night.

Unfortunately for me, dream boy wasn't one for PDA, so my midnight make-out sesh was downgraded to a few pecks. I've had steamier kissing escapades in middle school. Specifically, while sitting in the back row of the movie theater "watching" 'Titanic' for the twelfth time. Ahh memories...

But seriously, who the eff cares about PDA on New Years Eve??

I just hope this isn't symbolic of what my love life will consist of in 2011...

How to win over your date - i.e. guarantee you'll get asked out again

I'm clearly a little rusty at this whole dating thing, since I haven't been single in basically four years.

But I had a date this past Thursday night. A first date to be more specific.

We decided to meet for drinks, and I suggested the best happy hour spot in Arlington, because, well...I like to get my drink on.

I proceeded to have two ginormous mugs of beer (you seriously need two hands to grip these bad boys...that's what she said), a shot and a vodka tonic...on an empty stomach. Because drinking your dinner is always a splendid idea.

Halfway through my mixed drink/night cap, I definitely started to feel the effects of my libations. I tried to play it cool by challenging my date to arcade basketball and masterfully concealing my left eye so he couldn't see it do its drunken half open/half closed thing:

If that doesn't scream sexy, I don't know what does.

Yeah, um....mission FAILED. I'm not sure if it was the drunk eye or insistence on drunk food that gave it away, but it was completely obvious I was shit-housed.

So, being the gentleman that he is, my date offered to drive me home. And I decided the best way to show my gratitude would be to get into his car, recline the seat back as far as it would go and immediately pass the eff out.

Can we say Classy, table for one?

Obviously, I never thought I'd hear from this guy again. I mean, between downing drinks and becoming comatose at the end of the night, I clearly I presented myself as prime dating material - the kind of girl you would totally want to introduce to mom and dad.

At least that's what went through my mind the next day as I told the story to my friends, while laughing hysterically at my hot mess of a self.

I guess I really shouldn't be surprised - boy logic never ceases to amaze me - but, I have another date with this guy tonight. Maybe he just likes lushes or maybe he's a glutton for punishment, I don't know. What I do know is I completely abandoned any standard etiquette guidelines for behavior on a first date.

So now the real question is, do I keep up the lush act or behave myself this evening??

Since I honestly can't remember if I clicked at all with this guy or not (shocking, I know), I'll just have to wait and see how the date goes. Sometimes these things can be so painful you HAVE to drink yourself into oblivion.

Hopefully I'll have an equally exciting story to share after date #2.

So, that whole grad school thing...

...don't think it's gonna happen. Not right now at least.

I signed up for one class. On Thursday nights from 7:20 - 10 p.m.

Let's think of the problems with this scenario:

1) I won't get home in time for Jersey Shore.
2) That's prime time for Thursday night debauchery.
3) I have to get from downtown D.C. to Fairfax during rush hour. Yes, I could rely on mass transit; however, at 10 p.m. the metro runs every 20 minutes and then I have to take a bus which runs every 30 minutes back to my apartment. So we're looking at midnight arrival time. This leaves driving as the alternative - after metroing and taking the bus to my apartment. Getting from Arlington to Fairfax should theoretically take 20 minutes. In rush hour, it takes 45 mins - 1 hour. Then, I have to pay $9 for parking each week (the equivalent of 6 beers at Whitlows mug night).

Some mayjah negatives.

Plus, I'm just not sure I'm ready to give up a huge chunk of my time drinking/socializing/crashing on the couch for hours on end to write term papers and read 500 pages a week.

Six months ago, I was trapped in a job I detested and thought there was no way out. Grad school seemed like a way out. At least a way to open up more job opportunities.

Now, I like my job and I no longer feel like grad school is my only salvation. I've already found it.

And shelling out $1400 per class seems mighty stupid for something I'm not so sure I want. It's like buying a pair of shoes I know I'll never wear.

So yeah....I'm going to drop my class for this semester. I still have next semester to sign up if I change my mind. But right now life is looking pretty good the way it is.

Routines and Miss Procras. do NOT get along

Routines have never really been my thing. Must be why I detest working Monday – Friday 8:30 – 5. Can’t we get a little variety and spice things up a bit? I.e. allow me to sleep later than 7:50 – 8:05 am?

This whole I’m-so-not-a-routine-person has started to wreck havoc on a facet of my life I adore…blogging.

A few months ago, I would blog at work during the 6 hours I had NOTHING to do. It would keep me entertained for a good hour or so of my work day. But now, I’m working two jobs, and my 8:30-5 job is crazy. I am working non-stop for a full eight hours. I barely have time to pee! Not that I’m complaining, I much prefer this type of job to the one I had before. The days fly by and I actually kind of enjoy the work. And it’s not like I have internet access while working at the mall. Unfortunately, no iPhone/Blackberry/Smartphone for me yet.

So, this leaves me with zero time to blog.

I could say, okay, no matter what, I’m going to blog every Tuesday and Thursday at 10 p.m. when I get home from working at the mall or happy hour or whatever. But I know that won’t happen. I’ll grab a beer or glass of wine, plant myself in front of the television, and watch Friends, Snapped, Forensic Files or Golden Girls until I pass out. (I may or may not have memorized the line-up of awesome shows that are on between the hours of 10 pm and midnight.)

I’m not going to write lies (maybe that’s why I can’t find a job as a journalist), so I’m not going to promise that I’ll do better and post more often. Because I know the minute someone suggests happy hour or I find a Snapped marathon on t.v., blogging will be thrown out the window.

Sad, but true. Because I do love blogging. It’s introduced me to some pretty rad people (Hi, Pho and LiLu!)

But I can say I’ll blog when I can. And hopefully I can kick my ass in gear and make it happen more often.

In other news, this weekend, I will attending horse race with Lo and my Richmond nearest and dearest. Lo and I are bringing a bottle of firefly, a bottle of Absolut Apeach vodka to mix with lemonade (which will actually end up being peach vodka with an itty-bitty splash of lemonade) and a 12-pack. I’m driving my mom’s mini-van there and then my dad is chauffeuring us back. (Thanks, Daddy-O!) It’ll be just like high school….except it’s legal for us to drink.

Two words: SHIT SHOW

Guaranteed, I’ll have some fun pics/stories to share.

Happy Friday!!!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

As of Monday, I've officially finished all my grad school applications and taken the GREs. I.E.-I'm due for a MAHJAH celebration tonight.

I don't care that I'm not Irish, I can drink green colored and Irish inspired libations with the best of them. I think I'm going to alternate between apple martinis and Killians all night. It should be fabulous!

Now that I'm done writing essays and studying my ass off, I'll have more time to blog and catch you all up on the craziness that has been my life this past month.

Cheers!

Why does the entire right side of my body hurt?

Because I'm a drunk asshole, that's why.

Let me explain.

This weekend, I experienced the shitshow that is Dewey Beach. I've heard DC-ers and NOVA-ites rave about this place for three years now, and I figured I needed to see what all the fuss was about.

The Hoff and I decided to take a trip with his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend. I found us a hotel that ended up being in prime drinking location (i.e no more than 4 blocks from the all the good bars.)

Friday night was normal enough. I was in that happy-drunk state where everything is right in the world.

But Saturday was a different story. I was pissed to begin with because the Steelers lost (I know it was only preseason football, but I still hate when they lose).

Then, two sleazy d-bags decided it would be a good idea to grab my ass. Side note: I'm often told I have a ghetto booty, and have been blessed with such nicknames as 'junk in the trunk' and 'bootylicious,' so I've grown accustomed to the attention my ass attracts.

That being said, I do not appreciate random dudes grabbing my goods. You have to be inducted into the super-exclusive Miss Procras. ass-grabbing club to have that honor bestowed upon you.

Problem #2 is I've never been that good at sticking up for myself. (I usually have Lo around to do that for me.) My rebuttal (no pun intended) to being assaulted? Throw ice fat one of the guys from five feet away. Yeah, I'm bad ass.

I decided that after the bar, some good ol'fashion drunk food was in order. But by the time The Hoff and I got our pizza, I felt sick and asked if we could go back to our room.

This is where things get really, really fuzzy.

I ate a slice and a half of pizza, then kept mumbling over and over that I didn't feel well. The Hoff escorted me to the bathroom and held my hair back while I vomitandoed a few times.

Next thing I knew, I woke up wondering why the hell the right side of my body ached so much and realized I was passed out on the floor of the bathroom. Apparently, I refused to move after my vom sesh, so The Hoff gave up and brought me a pillow and blanket so I could slumber peacefully on the cold, hard, germ-infested floor.

My side is still in pain.

Oddly enough, that was the first time I passed out on a bathroom floor. Picnic tables, stages and underneath tables are usually more my style.

I really need to find more comfortable places to lay my head when wasted - or just don bubble wrap before I go out drinking.

Bermuda (aka Paradise)

I didn’t realize this post would be so depressing to write. Maybe it’s because instead of being surrounded by crystal blue water and foreign waiters who bring you drinks on demand, I’m drinking hot chocolate to try and stay warm in my sub-zero degree office and squinting from the blinding flourescent light. Why, oh why, can’t I be by a window so I can watch the squirrels play? (Quick! Name that movie.)

Anyway, here's a smattering of pics from the trip. We were at Bermuda during their 400th anniversary celebration and the annual cricket tournament (basically their version of the World Cup.) Kinda cool, except that the bars close wayyy early those days. Maybe because they serve FREE beer at the cricket match.

Approaching Bermuda. See that small opening between the two pieces of land ahead? Yeah, the cruise ship had to fit through that. (That's what she said...)

Right after arriving in St. George, Bermuda. That's the cruise ship in the background.

Walking around the town of St. George, where our boat docked the first day. Virtually no clouds in the sky, but there was still a rainbow.

I went on the cruise with my parents, little brother, and some family friends who have a daughter my age and a son my bro's age. Luckily, the "parents" wanted to drink just as much as we did. I found this sign at the first bar we went to. Note that Michael Douglas made the list, along with other fine citizens such as "White Rat" and "Sambuca." I'm sure Catherine Zeta-Jones is thrilled...
They have Michael Jackson-themed snow cones! Of course, I had to try one out. I got the "Beat It" flavor, which consisted of strawberry, blackberry and gingerbeer. AMAZING!!

Day 2 in Bermuda-Horseshoe Bay. By far the most beautiful beach I've ever seen. The sand is pink (I ended up getting a handmade pendant that holds some of the sand) and the water is so clear it's like being in a swimming pool. You also get to see really pretty fish swim right past you.

More of Horseshoe Bay. They had these really tall, rocky cliffs surrounding the water. I decided to climb to the top for some photo opps. Kinda hard to see, but on the a ledge of the rocks below, some guys were jumping off into the water. I'm definitely not brave/crazy enough to try that stunt-I kinda wanted to live to see more of Bermuda.

Martini bar we stopped at after a day on the beach. I got a yummy blue raspberry concoction.

The cruise ship had an on-board art auction that I only went to because they were promising free champagne. Unfortunately, I never got my champagne, but I did stumble upon the best football jersey EVER. If only I had a spare $1100, this baby would be MINE.

Bermuda, Bahama. Come On, Pretty Mama

Meant to post this on Friday but I got busy wrapping things up at work and never got around to it.

I'll be MIA this week because I'm cruising to Bermuda. Never been on a cruise, or to Bermuda for that matter, so I'm pretty stoked.

It's been fun so far (minus a little motion sickness), but gotta love being on a boat with a casino, pool and LOADS of alcohol - even if they make you hand over your first born as payment.

Full recap of the week's events when I return next Monday. I'm off to work on my tan and my alcohol tolerance...

Later, Bias!

You Know It's a Good Night When Miss Procras. Passes Out

I'm not a mean drunk. Or a dramatic lush. I'm actually the exact opposite.

I become extremely relaxed and somber after I've had a few. (Unless Britney is playing, then my ass is prancing around like a hooker on crack.)

But once I hit the point of no return, I have a habit of passing out in inappropriate places. Actual examples:

-Underneath a table at a bar on New Years Eve.
-On the ledge of a stage (please note: a band was performing while I was zonked out. I'm sure I did wonders for their confidence.)
-On a picnic table in the middle of a vineyard surrounded by families enjoying their lunch (as they watched me puke up mine.)
-A bathroom stall in a frat house...while still sitting on the toilet.

Thankfully, I have friends/babysitters who keep me from drowning, getting thrown out of bars, arrested, etc. Lo keeps joking that she's going to get me a leash or a tracking device for when we go out.

My most shining moment as of late? The quarter-century birthday extravaganza.

I meant to post a recap sooner, but we all now punctuality isn't my thing, so better late than never. :)

Needless to say, it was a succesful night. Good friends, good food, good tunes and most importantly, my wine glass was never empty.

After killing a bottle of pinot with SayJo and pounding the large juice-box shaped container of wine Biggie Smalls brought me, I was good to go. And quite appalled when the concert was over and the attendants began kicking people out of the venue.

I demanded, I mean, politely suggested, that we continue drinking at my apartment. I just wasn't ready for the party to stop.

Fast forward ten mintues later. Badass Roomie graciously served as our DD. I decided I needed to repay her by helping her drive. And by helping her drive I mean impending her ability to shift gears.

Then, I got a little frisky and tried to get fresh with her.

At least there was no passing out on stage next to Huey or in the bathroom. Maybe it's a sign I'm improving with age...or getting progressively lame. Hopefully it's not the latter.

Anatomy of a (Sober) Kiss

First kisses. You always remember the first one – even if it was awful.

I had mine when I was 13. I couldn’t tell you what I was wearing, or even much about the kiss. I just remember my heart racing and my stomach flipping over and over again.

That feeling never really goes away. Sure, it’s a little less intense after that initial experience, but it’s always exciting to kiss someone you really like for the first time - even if it makes you feel like you're going to vom.

Then there are those once-in-a-lifetime, heart-pounding, heel-popping kisses, that make you completely lose yourself in that moment, so much so, that you want to stay there forever. They’re the ones that make love stories great, and can catapult an otherwise boring date into exponential proportions.

I experienced that feeling – maybe for the first time, ever – last night.

The Hoff and I went out to dinner. Over the weekend, we talked and decided we want to try and work things out. I suggested that we come up with a list of ways we want our relationship to improve. I figured it was the first step to starting on a clean slate.

After dinner, we were going to go to a movie, but decided to walk around the mall instead. The whole time, it seemed like there was an unspoken tension between us. Maybe because we’re so used to the way things were that we weren’t sure how to act around each other.

So, we found a bench and talked. And then hugged. He kissed me on my cheek, softly, but intently. My heart started racing as I grew anxious with anticipation of what was about to happen.

I moved my face closer to his and kissed him a couple of times. After a few minutes, our faces got closer again and we started kissing.

It was the most involved I’ve ever been in a kiss. I picked up on everything – his smell, the softness of his lips, his fingers brushing against my cheek and then through my hair. I know it sounds cliché, but everything around us faded. I felt like we were in our own bubble – nothing else mattered but that kiss and that moment. I have no idea how long this went on, all I know is I didn’t want it to stop.

When we finally parted, after sitting in silence for a few minutes, I finally asked, “Was that what our first kiss was like?” (Our first kiss was at a bar on my birthday when we were both wasted. I remember him being a really good kisser, but I don’t remember any of the details from it like I did from the one we had just had. The Hoff doesn’t either.)

Then, he said, “I think that’s the most passionate kiss we’ve ever had.”

Agreed, The Hoff, agreed.

I started thinking, and the last time I remember feeling anxious and excited about a kiss was my senior year of high school. Probably because a majority of my kisses in college and post-college have been alcohol-induced. Making out when you’re drunk can be fun, but you can also wake up the next morning, find pictures of your scandalous smoochfest from the night before, and wonder a) the name of the person you played tonsil hockey with all night and b) why you left your standards at the bottom of an empty Jack Daniels bottle.

Holy shit, the feelings associated with a sober kiss (unless you’re making out with Slobbery Mcslobberson or someone who hasn’t shaved in eight months), are so much better than a drunk one. How the hell did I go seven years without feeling anything remotely close to what I felt last night?

Or maybe that kiss was just that good…

Either way, I’ve decided I want more of the sober kisses and less of the drunk ones.