Grampa's corn whiskey

Weakly, she writes:

Last night was one of those 3 AM, ok I have to go to bed after this LAST beer, nights. I had some friends over, a couple of which spent the night. Good. DUIs are nasty things. I had some other friends come by late in the evening after 8 hours of drinking at the bar. GREAT! Except they brought the BAR with them to my house!

I, of course, find this funny, delightful, and slightly inappropriate. I mean, these aren't friends of my friends, these are just folks from the bar. No one knows any one's last name. I can assume the strangers were all too drunk to ever remember how to get back to my house, but if one of them shows up at my doorstep this weekend I'm calling my friends to come and pick the strangers up and take them back to their house. I am not, contrary to what my neighbors might think, running my own pub, safe house, dance club, or brothel.

I like the friends. I don't even mind the strangers. They seem harmless enough. The "problem" was with Grampa Lucky. Dude was fucked up. He had to have help getting into the house and finding a chair. It was kind of sad. I mean, this dude is about 50 and still wearing a baseball cap out to clubs. He has those 1993 Ralph Lauren looking glasses and bucked teeth that he conceals with an oversized salt and pepper mustache. I've seen him at the watering hole before, each time he's been as inebriated as me or even more. I drink for fun and then forget things. I think Grampa Lucky drinks to forget and thinks that is fun. See the difference?

I stepped to the back of the house for a bathroom break and I heard all this commotion- my closet door was flung open and then I heard the front door bang against the wall. I'LL BET GRAMPA BROKE HIS HIP AND FELL was my initial thought. Incorrect.

Luckily, he made it outside to the bushes before vomiting. Now, I won't try to be Ms. Fonzi and tell you that I have NEVER puked from drinking because I have. FORTUNATELY I have not puked in a stranger's front yard since the late 80's. I hate vomiting. I could never be bulimic because I so disdain hurling. If I over do my vodka drinks I will lay down, very still, in a dark and quiet place. ANYTHING to not puke. And I don't only hate when I puke, I hate to be around puke. I could never be a nurse or doctor because the first time bodily fluids spewed violently from a patient I would turn in my badge immediately. The sound, the smell, the viscosity.... NONE of it is on my list of things I handle well. You think I don't have kids because I don't like children? Nope. I don't like shit or vomit, so I don't have kids. Even my cats are on thin ice.

When Grampa Lucky came back into the house, he had vomit on his pant leg. Ewww. He came bouncing in, like nothing had happened, and requested a beer even though I was trying to sell him on a glass of water. I know the feeling. You feel like you have to play it off like everything is kosher. When he left, he again needed much assistance getting out of the front door.

How embarrassing.

Especially when the stranger whose house you vomited at is going to post this story on her blog.

Today is a rainy day. I'm sincerly hoping that by the end of today all that remains of Grampa Lucky's vomit is a burnt patch in the grass and a memory of the time the bar FINALY came to me instead of me going to the bar. I wonder if this ever happened to Sam Malone?