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Tabby came over to hang out last night, something she hasn't done since last July 4th. This was due to a recent discussion I had with Tabby's co-worker and our mutual friend, who believed Tabby needed a stable influence in her life again, and somehow I was the only one who could fill that role. I agreed with her on that point, however Tery and I both took exception to her misguided feeling that I could also provide someone "non-judgmental" in this capacity as well. I will be the first (and Tery is the second) to admit that I am one of the most judgmental people on the planet (well, someone has to be).
So after two weeks of hesitant planning Tabby came over last night, ostensibly for a South Park marathon, but when she realized from the plot synopses on the DVD case that none of the episodes featured her beloved Towelly, the pot-smoking towel, she quickly lost interest after only two eps (I did catch a funny reference that might be missed by those not lucky enough to live in the Denver area....in "The Tooth Fairy Tats 2000," someone gives their address as "off Arapahoe Road on Emporia Street," directions that have been permanently hammered into the heads of Coloradans by countless Shane jewelry company radio commercials. Hee!) But before we could do anything, naturally we had to go to the liquor store, in the time-honored traditions of Tabby's visits, where I got to wear my sexy new creepers, seen here:
True, they make me almost two inches taller, and Tery delights in comparing me to Herman Munster, but what does she know about cutting edge fashion? Nothing, I tell you.
Tery got home and the drinking began in earnest (for them). I am not a drinker. They love to joke that all it takes is a few wine coolers to get me dancing on the table, which is a gross exaggeration...all it takes is a few wine coolers to get me sleepy and passed out. I am a cheap date, true. And Tabby is about the only person on the planet who can coerce me into drinking. I partook of their "Jolly Rancher shots" (watermelon Smirnoff and Red Bull) which were grotesque. I fared slightly better with her "root beer floats" (A&W and vanilla Smirnoff) but still only had two. Pleasantly buzzed and rendered motionless, I lay there and watched their antics for amusement.
I like Tery when she is drunk-but-not-too-drunk. For some reason she is filled with admiration and love for me and extols my virtues to anyone who will listen. She told Tabby I was the most stable person she knew, and the most real, and that I wouldn't let her get away with anything at all and she needed that from me. I told her I was going to remind her of this conversation the next time we were fighting because I wouldn't let her get away with anything. And who can get tired of hearing someone say that you are the person they wish they could be?
Tabby, however, goes through very specific and predictable stages when drunk, only one of which is endearing. She starts out mellow, sweet, flirty, deeply appreciative of her drinking companions' friendship, which isn't so bad. Then she progresses to nostalgic, weepy and heartbroken over her latest disastrous breakup (Stacey, dumped by Tabby after being discovered in flagrante delicto with a man, not only took back the Sarah McLachlan birthday tickets she had given Tabby, but later actually called and offered to sell them back to her. What a class act). This phase's arrival was hastened by Tery showing home video of a recent cabin getaway everyone went on but me. Even the extremely limited footage of Tabby and Stacey was enough to send her into the bathroom with the phone for a very ill-advised but dramatic conversation with the white trash, ho-bag psychopath. She started to tell us the details but went off on so many of her own tangents that she forgot the point of her original story. Drunk people are so entertaining!
Then, slowly and insidiously, she moves on to belligerent, uncontrollable and very, very loud. Obviously this is the stage I dislike the most. She hates being told what to do even when sober, and when drunk she is 20 times worse. She thinks we are excessively considerate (which I honestly think is not even possible nowadays) because we won't let her run around the place, shout with the windows open, or carry on her heated, frenzied, angst-filled phone conversations with her ex on our balcony at 11:30 p.m. To make matters worse, being raised on blaring MTV her whole life, tragically she is now half-deaf at age 21 and needs the TV at movie theater decibels to watch anything, regardless of the time of night. She does these things in her rented apartment without fear of consequences. She just doesn't get that in a covenant-controlled condo complex we could get fined for such behavior if someone complained.
But before we deteriorated to this phase, there was actually good fun to be had.
( ::unrestrained debauchery behind the cut:: )
Tabby finally passed out in my bed, much to Alsatia's displeasure. Alsatia loves our bed a lot. This should give you some idea how much:
So she was none too pleased to have a drunken Tabby taking up way more space in it than is fair for her small size. Nor was I, as I spent most of the night sleeping with her crooked elbow jammed into my neck as I clung to the 6 square inches of space she had left me. At least she didn't throw up, so I can see that bright side of things. I wish I had a picture of it, but come morning I emerged from the bedroom to see Alsatia curled up in the loft (where she never, ever sleeps at night if I am in bed), facing the living room to make sure I saw her sour, glowering disapproval first thing.
When Tabby left she said we should go back to doing this sort of thing more often. Boy, I can't wait!
-=Lainey=-
So after two weeks of hesitant planning Tabby came over last night, ostensibly for a South Park marathon, but when she realized from the plot synopses on the DVD case that none of the episodes featured her beloved Towelly, the pot-smoking towel, she quickly lost interest after only two eps (I did catch a funny reference that might be missed by those not lucky enough to live in the Denver area....in "The Tooth Fairy Tats 2000," someone gives their address as "off Arapahoe Road on Emporia Street," directions that have been permanently hammered into the heads of Coloradans by countless Shane jewelry company radio commercials. Hee!) But before we could do anything, naturally we had to go to the liquor store, in the time-honored traditions of Tabby's visits, where I got to wear my sexy new creepers, seen here:
True, they make me almost two inches taller, and Tery delights in comparing me to Herman Munster, but what does she know about cutting edge fashion? Nothing, I tell you.
Tery got home and the drinking began in earnest (for them). I am not a drinker. They love to joke that all it takes is a few wine coolers to get me dancing on the table, which is a gross exaggeration...all it takes is a few wine coolers to get me sleepy and passed out. I am a cheap date, true. And Tabby is about the only person on the planet who can coerce me into drinking. I partook of their "Jolly Rancher shots" (watermelon Smirnoff and Red Bull) which were grotesque. I fared slightly better with her "root beer floats" (A&W and vanilla Smirnoff) but still only had two. Pleasantly buzzed and rendered motionless, I lay there and watched their antics for amusement.
I like Tery when she is drunk-but-not-too-drunk. For some reason she is filled with admiration and love for me and extols my virtues to anyone who will listen. She told Tabby I was the most stable person she knew, and the most real, and that I wouldn't let her get away with anything at all and she needed that from me. I told her I was going to remind her of this conversation the next time we were fighting because I wouldn't let her get away with anything. And who can get tired of hearing someone say that you are the person they wish they could be?
Tabby, however, goes through very specific and predictable stages when drunk, only one of which is endearing. She starts out mellow, sweet, flirty, deeply appreciative of her drinking companions' friendship, which isn't so bad. Then she progresses to nostalgic, weepy and heartbroken over her latest disastrous breakup (Stacey, dumped by Tabby after being discovered in flagrante delicto with a man, not only took back the Sarah McLachlan birthday tickets she had given Tabby, but later actually called and offered to sell them back to her. What a class act). This phase's arrival was hastened by Tery showing home video of a recent cabin getaway everyone went on but me. Even the extremely limited footage of Tabby and Stacey was enough to send her into the bathroom with the phone for a very ill-advised but dramatic conversation with the white trash, ho-bag psychopath. She started to tell us the details but went off on so many of her own tangents that she forgot the point of her original story. Drunk people are so entertaining!
Then, slowly and insidiously, she moves on to belligerent, uncontrollable and very, very loud. Obviously this is the stage I dislike the most. She hates being told what to do even when sober, and when drunk she is 20 times worse. She thinks we are excessively considerate (which I honestly think is not even possible nowadays) because we won't let her run around the place, shout with the windows open, or carry on her heated, frenzied, angst-filled phone conversations with her ex on our balcony at 11:30 p.m. To make matters worse, being raised on blaring MTV her whole life, tragically she is now half-deaf at age 21 and needs the TV at movie theater decibels to watch anything, regardless of the time of night. She does these things in her rented apartment without fear of consequences. She just doesn't get that in a covenant-controlled condo complex we could get fined for such behavior if someone complained.
But before we deteriorated to this phase, there was actually good fun to be had.
( ::unrestrained debauchery behind the cut:: )Tabby finally passed out in my bed, much to Alsatia's displeasure. Alsatia loves our bed a lot. This should give you some idea how much:
So she was none too pleased to have a drunken Tabby taking up way more space in it than is fair for her small size. Nor was I, as I spent most of the night sleeping with her crooked elbow jammed into my neck as I clung to the 6 square inches of space she had left me. At least she didn't throw up, so I can see that bright side of things. I wish I had a picture of it, but come morning I emerged from the bedroom to see Alsatia curled up in the loft (where she never, ever sleeps at night if I am in bed), facing the living room to make sure I saw her sour, glowering disapproval first thing.
When Tabby left she said we should go back to doing this sort of thing more often. Boy, I can't wait!
-=Lainey=-
