This is how we do it!

This is how we do it, all hands are in the air. And wave them from here to there. If you're an o.g. mack or a wanna-be player. You see the hoods been good to me. Ever since I was a lower-case g. But now I'm a Big G. the girls see I got the money. A hundred-dollar bills ya'll.

No apologies from me. I'll admit that I LOVE that song. Love, love, love it! Reminds me of driving to my high school sorority's winter formal in 1996. My date was chugging a flask full of Jack Daniels in his beige Isuzu Trooper as we dashed off to the ball (yeah, it's so lucky I didn't die as a teenager). We were jamming out to Tupac, Montell Jordan, and LL Cool J... in my overly-expensive red velvet gown and long white gloves with my hair in a perfectly designed French twist with sweeping bangs courtesy of my hair dresser. My silk wrapped nails were divinely manicured, and I swung them about singing "This is How We Do It" while tucking the nips of Southern Comfort my date had brought me in my bra (oh, mom, you're reading this now, and I am so sorry for all the trouble I potentially could have cause you! I was so dumb!)

Drinkin' was a huge part of growing up in Bama. I, at about 100 pounds and 16, would get completely trashed on the thickest, straightest alcohol at my Winter Formals. If I couldn't find a chaser, I'd chug completely from the flask or nip or bottle of NyQuil (okay, I wasn't thaaaaaaat bad, really).

I drank far more in high school than I did in college. Truthfully, I'm unable to drink hard alcohol for hours anymore.

St. Patrick's Day always reminds me of how old I am. I tend to spend the day talkin' about Kegs and Eggs at McMurphy's in Amherst rather than waiting in 2 hour lines for 17 cent beer at Rumors (btw, not even for 17 cent beer would I succumb to waiting in line to get into Rumors, like, ever).

However, I have learned that being out on St. Patty's Day evening sober is about as fun as watching the E! True Hollywood Story on Pink twice (um, yeah, I'd forgotten that she died her hair pink after she took the name. She and an African-American guy friend were interested to see what private parts look like on different races so they showed each other. Her friend exclaimed "It's pink." The first time I watched the show, I almost barfed thinking about Pink's privates. And, then yesterday, a second time. Visual: pretty please, leave me now!!! Forever.)

But anyways.

I stayed in Friday night. I assumed drinkin' would be better on a rested soul. The Master and I met up for some Tyson's Corner shopping on Saturday afternoon. She was disappointed to learn that the Tyson's Bloomie's doesn't carry the famous frozen yogurt that Bloomingdale's nationally is known for. I can't eat frozen yogurt on a must-be-flat-to-try-on-clothing stomach, but I obliged to join in the complaining.

At Nordstrom, a flamboyant 40-year-old sales man corrected my pronunciation at the Laura Mercier counter. I walked up as he was unloading 30 boxes of product. (Who's the one that obviously did better in English? I know I'm such a bitch.) I wanted to buy Petal lip gloss. I asked for the Petal Glaze lip gloss. He yelled to a (friendly) saleswoman at the other counter, "Can you get this some Petal Glaaaaahsay?" It's Petal lip glace, apparently. I bit my lip, smirked at him on his designer-jean-covered knees unloading a box of women's makeup.

Saturday night, I intended to meet Jess and crew at Rockets in Chinatown at 9pm. Peter had mentioned going to Lucky Bar with some friends, and I said I'd either stop by quickly before or call them later to meet up. Then the Colonel called and said he too was at Lucky Bar, on the outskirts of the same group as Peter. So, I went to meet them around 8pm. Around 8:40pm, I texted Sassy to let her know I was there instead for right now. She came and met me, and the time disappeared with several glasses of alcohol.

We followed the Lost Boys to some dude's house in Adams Morgan where we rationed his 6 beers and 1oz of vodka. Finally, we convinced the boy to mobilize. The clock read 11:30pm. I called Jess to apologize for the side tracking. I wasn't making it to Chinatown, officially. Drunken St. Patty's Day randomness is always a valid excuse. We ended up at Chief Ikes. I have no idea why. I don't like Chief Ikes. It's not an Irish Bar. There was a $5 cover charge and $8 mini-drinks. I was too drunk to care, and bounced around in boots until I had a blister on two toes.

I started yesterday with a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel followed by buying 3 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. Glamour is right. You do lose food inhibitions when hungover. Would I stop drinking to appease, nada Big G.