And then there was this Night...
One would think at a certain age no matter the trouble and
chaos we create in our teens and early twenties, by the time 30 is knocking we
all sort of fall into this place of maturity whether we realize it or not. Our
credit cards get paid off and our cars become nicer and faster and our jobs
suddenly seem secure and locked. We look now to finding a mate and having a
family instead of chasing after one night stands and filling our closets full
of shoes we can’t afford. We attend work meetings and have someone do our taxes
and use Groupon as a smart way to financially dine on Friday nights. But, some
of us aren't quite there yet. Or more, we are still the same 18 year old binge
drinking and drunk sexting pervert, just in designer jeans and with a higher
credit card limit: Regardless, this “group” finds themselves in limbo, a
constant struggle between adult yin and party time yang.
And in limbo is exactly how I felt as I lay on the cold hard
pavement, fully sprawled out, head resting on my purse, tears streaming down my
face. I continued weeping like a child and cried even harder when I realized I
had to pee. It was a Thursday night and I was drunk and alone and stuck on the
other side of town. I had literally hit sidewalk rock bottom.
Let’s start from the beginning: I have a good job. And I work
with super smart people. That being said I have a ridiculous amount of
responsibility and stress placed on me each and every day. So, when my bosses
proposed a small raise with the opportunity to do 2 jobs at once I immediately
began googling the proper way one cuts oneself to make it seem like a suicide,
yet keep the body alive long enough for a co-worker to find them writhing under
their desk. But, being the pussy I am, I put the razor blade down and accepted
the challenge AND swallowed my new 3 hour round trip commute to our satellite
offices located in Hawaii.
Luckily my new work load made the time fly by but after 4
weeks of 18 hour days, 7 days a week, plus the long hours spent chain smoking in
my car, I was fucking exhausted and looking to blow off some steam. The night
of wrap everyone propositioned going next door for a celebratory drink. Now, I
don’t know where you come from, but I have never in my life ever celebrated
with just the one toast – even when I was in a high chair enjoying my first
birthday you can bet your ass I was washing down my mini sheet cake with a
liter of yoohoo. Homie don’t play.
However, having not done well at my last 2 or 13 work
functions I decided to class it up and show these people I was a working adult
who could handle a night of slow sipping with the bosses. I enjoyed a casual
glass of bubbles in the office and planned to walk over to the bar with
everyone for one quick celebratory drink. 1 chard, 2 sips, finito. But, before
I knew what was happening an older colleague of mine ushered me into a dark
corner of the office to have a shot to us! Oh great, just what a crack head
needs, a barrel full of crack. I tried declining the half glass of patron that
was being offered up in the shadows but gave in as he talked of his
deceased granddaughter and how much I reminded him of her. He had never been
prouder of a young woman and her work and dedication to a project. FUCK. The
next thing I knew I was on guilty glass number 3 and my lips were officially
numb. I licked the rest of the salt off the rim as we both wiped our eyes,
swallowed my lime wedge whole and told him I’d see him Monday. I had had enough
to drink and the last thing I needed to do now was take my worm sucking ass to
a bar.
I had quite a walk back to my car and began in hot pursuit -
Steamy tequila smoke tendrils curled out of my nostrils and the fresh air made
me feel clear as I entered the elevator bank excited to make my 2 hour trek
home. Once in I ran straight into yet another co-worker. Hey! Where the hell
are you going? Oh, I'm going home to let me dog out. Home? Home is for
quitters! Before I had time to protest he punched the elevator back down to the
first floor and looped his arm through mine – Upon entering the bar, I scanned
the room and saw the entire team throwing back drinks and getting rowdy. Ce la
vie. When party fate comes aknockin’ you gotta fucking answer the call. Plus, I had the
company credit card in my back pocket.
Rounds of chardonnays and kettles and soda were ordered at
my discretion, as I became court jester to my work kingdom. I made sure
everyone in the room had 3 more drinks than I as I sipped water in an attempt
to be a lady – I was already feeling quite groovy from my tequila shit storm from
earlier so needed them to catch up and fast. After I saw at least 75% of staff
take down the hard stuff I began my fun. Chardonnay after chardonnay, pool was played,
and ping pong was executed and then ass grab was on the menu. Bosses were on
assistants and managers were on interns. Everyone was feeling loose and I held
the plastic keeping it all together. After feeling like I’d had one-teen drinks
too many, I appreciate me in moments
like this: 1 more drink Waz, and well,
you are either going to be crying, puking, or breaking up a marriage. Put the
drink down, chug 20 waters and go home to bed. You may pass McDonalds but do
not pass go and do not collect that drink at the end of the bar.
Luckily being the boss I am I had worn my six inch Michael Kors
boots to work that day to really show the people not only my camel toe but that
I too could work in heels and still kick ass. As I paid the enormous tab and
filled out the tip portion in Mandarin and the signature in Swedish, I Pirate-walked
out the door without saying good-bye to anyone. (Note: The Pirate walk is done by one who exits an establishment
dragging ones foot behind oneself, heaving their shoulders forward in an effort
to gain momentum to move or rather walk, while drooling slightly from whichever
way the neck is slightly cocked. I usually lean left. This is because my left
boob is bigger.)
Out the bar I go hobbling and heaving my heavy work bag and
lap top case behind me, suddenly looking out and staring at 4 parking garages.
Logistically there are only 2, Pirate Wazzy sees 4. As I moved on in my enormous
wooden boots each step felt harder and more Danish than the next as the tequila
and bubbles and bottle of chardonnay kicked in. Dammit, I knew I should have
had those spicy wings to soak up this bullshit. Finally after a half blacked
out amount of time I made it to the elevator banks - Next task, find my car. I
fell into the elevator cab sweating and sunk down to a seated position as it
rose to the top. Crawling out on my hands and knees lugging my bags behind me,
I hoped a car wouldn't fly by with his lights off and behead me like the bad
wench I was. Finally making it to my feet I two-stepped across the dark top
floor garage and Dougied into my car. I immediately jammed the keys into the
ignition and fired her up. Nothing. Maybe I did it wrong. I pinched my nipples and
focused my Asian looking baby blues and tried once more. Key in ignition. Foot
on brake. Twist key right. Fail. FUCK!! I only had 1 hour and 12 minutes to get
home and order a Papa before they closed (Papa as in John, not as in someone I
sometimes meet up with on the weekends from Sugardaddy.com to collect an allowance – Oh and ladies, you’re welcome. It’s a real thing).
I decided to take a step back and re-examine my situation.
In doing so I suddenly realized how light my keys felt. Removing the key from
the ignition, to my horror I saw the battery had fallen out making it USELESS!
Without the battery I could not properly unlock the car meaning I could not properly
start the car and drive it into the ocean. Somewhere in between me walking the
plank and leaning like a Cholo I had busted them. Before I had time to panic my
car began doing the screaming for me – the alarm kicked off ringing and
wailing. So, I handled this like any single white female: I cried, and screamed,
and beat my steering wheel and eventually lay my body on the horn in defeat Rihanna
style. After realizing no one was coming to my rescue and I was all out of
cigarettes I switched to my next option: Call my girlfriends from work and make
it their problem. Dial. Ring. Voice Mail. No one was picking up. They must be
pirating too. Finally one of the girls answered - I began choking on my spit
and inhaling my tears as I tried to explain my situation, starting with the
tequila and dead granddaughters. I got 15 seconds into my story and blurted out
one dead girl ghost moan when there was silence on the other end – my phone had died. At this
point I actually felt worse than Rihanna and waited for the cops to come.
When they didn't show up I decided to move onto plan B. I
grabbed all of my belongings and made the long trek back to the elevator bank.
At this point my face was so red and swollen from crying, I looked like the love
child of Hitch and The Crow. I took the bank down to the first floor searching
for a friendly face and noticed the entire lot was dead – no lights or people
but I did see a guard shack off in the distance about 3 miles. I felt like Don
Quioxte drunk and schizophrenic as I began yet another long march sans Sancho
Pancho. I finally arrived at the shack winded and heaving, doubled over in my
heels, face a mess, smelling like the remnants from a Lindsay Lohan bath. The
guard looked at me half scared half worried as I begged him to call me a cab.
My phone was dead. My car was broke. My $300 heels were grated down to a
piece of mozzarella. The kind guard agreed to call me a cab. He also recommended
waiting with me so I didn't get arrested or taken to Compton to play rodeo
clown to a dog fight.
We walked another mile to a busier intersection and the
minutes kept ticking by for this rogue cab. Realizing it was going to take a
while I threw my exhausted defeated body down onto the sidewalk, boots in the
air, and rested my head on my bags. Arms folded I began to cry again, like a
sad, bloated child. No cab and no pizza. This sucks. After 30 more minutes of
waiting and no naughty texting as my usual form of drunk entertainment, I’d had
enough. Sitting upright I looked desperately over at the guard and asked him where
the hell was my cab! Did he even know how to call a cab company? Did he even
know how to use a cell phone? (At this point I had also taken off my bra) Sir, I am a WO-MAN sitting on a cold
sidewalk waiting for a ride I can’t afford! I am a college graduate!! I HAVE A
BACHELORS DEGREE!!! He looked at me hard letting me get out every word and
black tear, then responded: Ma’am. If I were you I would be a little nicer. I’m the only
friend you have right now and I can turn and leave your ass, out here, in the
dark. Understand? I laid back down one vertebra at a time, and silently
continued to cry. Another 30 minutes passed and my cab came. I peed a little
then jumped in elated. I looked over to thank the guard but he was gone.
I rode all the way home looking out the window and wondering
why these things always seemed to happen to me. Another $80 cab ride home alone,
another giant receipt to explain to my bosses. I looked over at the clock. 2
AM. Papa was closed.
The next day I sent my assistant to get my car after explaining
a more convenient version of the story. During my lie, another assistant passed
by and stopped in to listen. He shamefully admitted he had seen me and heard my
alarm go off but due to the enthusiastic rendition of “Push It” I was
performing for myself he decided it best to let me be.
Later in the day my bosses came in to congratulate me on a
job well done. The room was spinning as I stood to shake their hands, steadying myself on my desk. I gave them my best hangover smile and felt the giant bar
receipt in my back pocket as they walked out, thanking god they hadn’t noticed
I was in the same clothes from the night before, minus a bra but plus an eye
patch.
Cheers to Great
Intentions and Crocodile Tears,
WAZ
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