boston creme pie-eyed

Another life lesson in alcohol abuse: just because it sounds like a sissy drink and there is chocolate involved does not mean you will not end up a drooling idiot who realizes waaaaay too late that you cannot detect your arms or legs anymore, and, oh yeah, your teeth are so numb you would not utter a peep if they were maliciously knocked out by a mallet-wielding chimp. And when you say to Cecil, the adorable latin waiter: "No thanks, I'm good," really, really say it like you mean it, because your kamikazee wild-woman companion will insist you really do need one more and you will give in and end up in the condition described above.

Did ya'll know that they serve these fancy schmancy thingies in Boston called Boston creme martinis? Well, at least at the fancy schmancy hotels, they do. They are $9 each and well worth it. The rims of the martini glasses are actually dipped in smooshed up Boston creme pie and the drink itself amounts to about 5 different shots of likker which I really did not consider until the following afternoon when a few of my surviving synapses finally began firing again. Did I say I had five? I had five. Idiot.

So my friend Christine (who currently lives in Colorado) and I hook up each year at a professional conference held at (gasp) Harvard because we really hit it off a few years ago when we met by chance attending said conference. Actually, it was not chance. It was unavoidable. We were like two magnets flying at each other in a bowl of clotted macaroni. Because that is how fucking boring the people are at this conference. We are both naughty girls who like drinking, cussing and smoking and looking at boys and saying "What the fuck?!?" a lot which is not the standard with this particular crowd and I guess we could tell all of this by looking at each other through a crowd of 500 people. The two cool ones ended up together. Go figure. Anyway.

After all the daylong head-nodding and note-taking and harrumphing at the conference each day, we take off and PAR-TAY like there is no tomorrow because we only see each other once a year and she is a pithy riot and I feel the need to unwind and be no one but me--no one's wife/mommy/sister/daughter/aunt/co-worker, etc. Just me, the great and powerful ell, amok in America for one glorious weekend a year. And god, was I ever amok. Oy.