...Steroid?

Just as I begin to fancy myself invincible to the effects of stress, late nights, little sleep, and enough champage to fill a bathtub, my temple of a nearly 30 year old body becomes a diva and demands attention. This attention usually takes the form of a sinus infection, which keeps me just nerdy enough to never develop an ego that would get out of control. I swoon over Puffs Plus with Vicks for crying out loud.

Well, dear old body of mine, I believe you have been thwarted with the help of my new ENT doc. He prescribed a short course of steroids which cleared me up in one dose. It's a miracle! Hopefully no one will be curious when I am able to bend steel with my bare hands or develop a case of 'roid rage.

Interestingly, as I write this post lauding the power of drugs, Leighton Meister's "Your Love's a Drug" is playing. She can't sing worth anything, but she sure can talk really well to a beat through a vocoder.

I created this post as a public service announcement in case a whole flock of computer programmers or scientists suddenly become avid fans of this blog. They'll get a balanced mix of nerd-specific health advice and much-needed exposure to surely the best/worst pop music ever created.

...Skinned Knee

In a throwback to what could only be called my most awkward years of life when I had glasses, braces, and the coordination of a newborn foal, I made sure to skin my knees last Sunday night. Was I slipping on ice, you ask? Did I slide into home plate? As if I would stoop so low!

The reality of the scraped knees was the result of all-u-can-drink champagne brunch followed immediately by an opening of a Broadway show. One would think that the 2 hours between unlimited champagne and open bar would have given me some sense, but it was quite the opposite. I was shocked to find myself (slightly) sober after the show, so I quickly remedied the situation with Jack and Cokes all night long. And at the after-after-party? Oh, then I realized I needed to start buying myself more drinks. And then I rightfully skidded down some concrete stairs and skinned both my knees.

Just when I think I'm getting a hold of myself as I near a new decade of life, I take a few steps in the wrong direction. In this case, these were drunken, stumbly steps. At least my 20s will go out with a bang, if not with an ounce of class.

...Giant Boot

I either feel validated or manly for the fact that Justin Timberlake and I have the same snowboots from Sorel. I cannot say enough good things about these boots, but the one issue is that they give me giant man/clown feet. So, all you ladies out there who are afraid to truly protect yourselves from the elements, know this: embrace the yeti-like boots, but always wear them with leggings or skinny jeans. No one wants to see a giant clown boot peeping out from under your pant hem.

OH GOD--I just realized I also have nearly the same jacket as him, too. Again, I'm torn as to how to feel about this. JT has quite the style, and yes, it skews metro, which some see as fem, so I guess I'm in the clear? Of course I own nothing that would resemble any of Cameron's ensemble. Dammit.

...Broom Closet Makeout

My night on Thursday began with the image to the left. And it ended with a makeout with a restaurant manager in the broom closet at his fine establishment around 5am. What transpired in between to lead me from fancy to floozy in roughly 6 hours? Booze, my dear readers, booze. Also a bit of Broadway and some interesting bacon guacamole, but mostly booze.

These adventures begin late Wednesday night when my brother's BFF from CA (we'll call him Sean) met up with me both pre- and post-show. The night's journey began with beer towers, had a pit stop at a piano bar with Cement Mixer shots (woof!), and then finished at the happy hour spot of the famed broom closet. Mr. Broom Closet was so generous and welcoming on Wed. night, buying our drinks and hanging out. Laying the groundwork, indeed!

I woke up Thurs morning to a post-barf scenario. Sean crashed on my pullout couch an managed to wake up puking at 6am. He tried to clean up and then took off with a bag of barfy blankets. He also managed to lose his cell phone on the cab home, so he was really winning on all fronts.

Oddly, I was in perfect shape that morning. Amateur!

Anyway, I survive the day at work while Sean doubles back to my apt in search of the phone (didn't yet know he lost it in the cab), so I get to call both my doorman and cleaning lady to inform them my "friend" left his phone at my apartment. And I'm sure they knew it was platonic, right? Sean doesn't find the phone, so he is now the proud owner of my old Palm Treo.

Thurs night started off mellow--I even wondered if I'd stay out late that evening. And then...5 frozen margs, 7 shots (of Patron AND Jameson), and 4 beers later, it's no wonder I found myself in a broom closet makeout session. And yes, I did knock a broom down the stairs, so it's a legit moniker.

Moral of the story? Just when you least expect it booze will separate the weak from the strong and reward the survivors with a broom closet makeout.