“Hey, Steely Dan!”, or, When you begin the evening with the comment “You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve been really drunk,” things can only end badly.

Yesterday was Brian’s birthday, so I spent the better part of my afternoon shopping for the perfect birthday present, which meant asking several salesclerks, “No, no: do you have a skull drinking mug that doesn’t say Metallica on the side?”, because I was honored to be invited to his family birthday dinner. After the best meal I’ve had in months, which included lots of garlic and cilantro and bloody steaks and at least four bottles of wine, I felt comfortable enough to pluck a flower from the centerpiece, stick it behind my ear, and tell his parents that “even the food I took just to be polite was fantastic!” Then Brian’s aunt gave me her Chanel lipstick from her purse just because I complimented her on it, and I’m pretty sure I’m now in an arranged marriage with a 50 year old Chinese attorney who lives in Brooklyn, but I think I’m cool with that.

Then we went to the bar, where Erin set the tone by ordering White Russians, and Kelly and Aaron showed up with an Alleged Double Action candle, and things jumped off pretty quickly. The evening ended with some of the braver, drunker souls at the table swallowing something that still had eyeballs, chasing it with hot sauce, and then, in my zest to cure the birthday boy from his hiccups, hitting him soundly in the ear. I knew it was time to call it a night when Jon said, with a look of awe, “Sarah, you’re like, prom drunk!”

I woke up this morning with no idea where my car is, a bruise on my knee, and this scrawled on my palm, in my own handwriting: “If you’re not going to eat that, at least put it in your pants.”—Kelly Foshee.

Happy birthday, Brian. I’m so sorry about the ear thing. However, please remember that the boilermakers were Jon’s idea.