It's Friday night!

You know you might need to re-evaluate your life when the anonymous person you're playing "Words With Friends" with on your phone asks you what your plans are and all you can answer is "catching up on TV"

The sad part is, that's a lie. You're actually caught up on the TV and you're rewatching the second season of 30 Rock. Also, you've discovered that your new favorite thing is a mixture of medium grade whiskey, crystal light ice tea, and diet off brand lemon-lime soda. Oh, and that the main reader of your blog is your boss.

I came home today after running my awesome errands. And there were three main things that I realized.

1) If you're at the alcohol store that is roughly the size of a Walmart with your dog, and you're talking about wine choices with your dog... You're one of the few people sadder than me.

2) The company I work for... to the public eye, will end due to severe lack of customer service. My mechanic called me today to ask me a favor related to my company, because she couldn't get any service. Then I went into the store and sales associates actively avoided me as I went to ask them for help finding something.

3) One of my basil plants might not make it. As I have taken to talking to my plants, this is very upsetting.

Whatever, I'm still better off than "Chauncy, should we get the Oregon or Washington wine tonight?"

We won't talk about how she threw away my toaster and I had to make toast in the oven

Hattie and I were roommates for about a year, once upon a time.  She moved in six months after she was going to, originally, because I used my dining room table for book storage and she stopped talking to me in a fit or rage one night when she and our friend Dave came over to my house and she was unable to, I don't know, set the fucking table or something?  She hadn't even started to move in, we'd just discussed the possibility, and I was already infringing on her ability to properly entertain guests.  Now, we weren't eating at my house because I don't cook.  It was actually after the super fancy dinner and wine tasting Dave had paid for since he was the grownup with an actual job and salary at the time.  And, well, he still is the only one of us with an actual job and salary, but that's beside the point.

The point is, Hattie got in a giant snit about how many books were on my dining room table and picked a fight with me over it and we didn't talk for six months.  I know it seems like a ridiculous fight now, but, well, no, it seemed pretty ridiculous at the time, too.  I maintain that tables are flat and, therefore, the perfect place to put other flat objects, like books.

But what about bookshelves?  Well, yes, I have those, too.  I have giant, seven-foot tall bookshelves lining my, well, let's just call it a dining room.  I also have smaller bookshelves scattered around my house.  And I used to have cupboards full of books.  Kitchen cupboards.

Look, when you don't cook, when you think of the kitchen mostly as the ice room because that's where you go to get the ice for your cocktails, all those shelves are nothing but empty storage space waiting to be used.  And books fit very nicely on kitchen cupboard shelves.  And the cupboards beneath the counter?  Perfect for shoes.

Do not give me that horrified look.  I'm tired of judgey people looking at me all judgey and being judgey about the choices I make in regards to the contents of my kitchen.  I say all a kitchen really needs is an ice maker, a liquor cabinet, and a toaster, and the rest of it is just wasted space, and if I choose to house part of my truly prodigious shoe collection in my kitchen cabinets that is no one's business but my own.

Unless you move in with me, in which case, like Hattie, you'll fill boxes and boxes with shoes and books and dump them in front of my bedroom door with the demand that I store them somewhere that isn't shared space.  She actually said that storing shoes in kitchen was unhygienic, as if there were any actual foodstuffs in my kitchen before she moved in.

Well, I did have a lot of tea.  That kind of counts as food.

Dusty up in here.

So, long story short. I started a new job, therefore, have not updated the blog that me and my co-blogger and maybe three of my friends read. You know, if they're bored. And drunk. And the rest of the internet is broken. And their dogs won't wake up.

Whatever.

I'm having a celebratory glass of wine right now, because I was very much the adult today. I registered my car 2 weeks early and got my hair cut.

Now, that makes me sound like an adult. But if you think about it, really it makes me a child. Because I haven't changed the oil in my car since February of 2010. And really, my dad did that for me. (In my defense he had the car and I was in another state). And I haven't had my hair cut since June of 2009. Yeah, no that's not a typo. So really, I did some shit that I have been avoiding like the plague.

It's not to say that my hair hasn't been cut. I like to cut my own hair when I have a few drinks. It's why I now have bangs.

So, that brings me to the subject of this post. My levels of drunkeness. I think I have them figured out.

Stage One: I get more chatty and everything seems funny to me.
Stage Two: Everything seems funny, but everyone around me is getting depressed because my version of funny is usually depressing to everyone around me.
Stage Three: I start to find other people boring and attempt to do things like cut my own hair or scrub my fridge (This is the tasking stage, but I never finish any project in this stage properly).
Stage Four: People are interesting again, because people can get me tacos. At this point, all I care about is the getting of and eating of tacos.
Stage Five: I don't know much about this stage, because it starts to get fuzzy and really depends on the results of Stage Four. If I have received the tacos, Stage Five will end quickly in sleep. If not, I get pretty belligerent and wacky.

Just 20 more minutes until my water is turned back on.

I like to pretend that it's a superpower, but it's not.

So, for those over 21, you know what it's like to go out to cheap beer night. And here in Nevada, there's never ever a shortage of beer.

Now, I've been living in the desert in some form or another for nearly 14 years. This fact that does not factor into my feeble brain when I'm drinking cheap beer. If I'm having cocktails, desert survival brain kicks in and tells me to have as glass of water for every, or every other, cocktail.

But, if we're drinking unlimited Bud, Coors, Busch... etc? There is no survival brain. There's just beer brain. This is because I'm highly unlikely to actually get drunk from these beers unless I'm shotgunning them at a rate that with my bladder, means I should just take my pitcher of beer and sit on the toilet until I'm done peeing... forever.

I get so busy keeping my buzz on, making sure my beer is always full, and not drinking so much that I have to urinate every 3 seconds, that I forget to drink water. And even when I get home after a night of drinking beer, I seriously just stare at the bottle of water next to my bed like I am the far superior being. I don't need that water. Until about 2 hours later, and I have to give the water bottle credit for not judging me when I wake up feverish and moaning in the early stages of dehydration.

And I keep doing this... I mean, even rats learn that the cheese is electrified and stop doing it. My superpower makes me dumber than a rat. Go team me, go.