Proposal, plans, present plea

From Jason's Notes: "Mammalian birth is sloppy and inefficient. I say we go back to hard-shelled eggs. As a side benefit, most problems of bad parents raising hooligans would be solved as maltreated eggs simply wouldn't hatch. Although, the sociological ramifications of having young that spend a few months being delicious with cheese are potentially terrifying."

Jason, if you're out there, not a psychopath, know how to cook, don't have fused toes or fingers, chew with your mouth closed, don't have a southern accent, like to hold hands, have never run repeatedly over anything (alive or dead, out of anger or irresponsibility) and--oh yeah, almost forgot--are single: marry me. No seriously. I'd be a kick-ass wife. Just saying.
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This weekend, this girl, K, (she was also involved in this drink-a-thon, which is begging to be topped) is coming home to spend the weekend. The occasion is a weekend of pre-birthday celebration.

K and I are both May babies, and we both love the simple things in life, namely dressing up for dinner, dressing down to party, and acting ridiculous around our best girlfriends in the world. The plan is as follows:

10 a.m.: Meet our two other best friends in the world at Hector's for drinks. Sorry, what I meant was breakfast and drinks.

12 Noon - 3 PM: Kick it on the deck at my apartment, in the sun, while imbibing and talking about the things girls talk about. We've been over this, but the list includes work, sex, people we hate, people we love, men, family, religion and music. Among other things.

4 PM: Get ready, using an entire hour and every hair product and/or toiletry item that exists between the four of us.

5 PM: Dinner on a lakeside deck at a restaraunt walking distance from my house. With about 10 other rad people we collectively love.

7 PM: Back to my place for CAKE! and MARTINIS! (I am keeping mindful of my martini-drinking alter-ego on this night. I have determined the magic number of martinis to keep her at bay is 2. The number where she takes over and I either get in trouble, hit on inanimate objects or take a knee in a bar is 4. Three I've never done. Because, well, no brakes.)

9 PM: Party. Preferably while dressed down at some dive bar in the middle of nowhere which just happens to have karaoke and where the bartenders may or may not know our names but definitely -- definitely -- flirt with us all, buy us drinks, play our songs, and don't kick us out for either too much hugging or too much drinking, even if we deserve it.

It's going to be a very good weekend.

Stories to come, I'm certain, as the cast of characters that will be involved in Saturday's festivities are almost unbelievable in their color:

One will be canooeing to the bar, from his house, certainly under the influence. One will almost definitely be wearing a Michael Bolton shirt, and no, he's not kidding. Three will want to sing EVERY song anyone sings -- with them, and uninvited. These microphone-snatchers will suck terribly, but be terribly amusing, all the same.

One of my friends is just this side of a midget, two are Jack-Mexicans (mexicans who speak no spanish, making them in fact more caucasian than me), one is a Jack-Mormon (Mormons who don't do Mormon -- and this one's name, to add to the fun, is Jack), and one chipped her tooth on a beer bottle the last time I hung out with her.

These are my friends. And god damn, do I love them. Stay tuned. And no, this does not mean I'm off hiatus. It just means it's my birthday week, almost, dammit, and I can break rules if I want to.

Have a good weekend!

(Also, you can send presents to me, no problem. Just shoot me an email, I'll get you my address -- or paypal account, if you just want to do cash -- and we'll set it up. I love presents, you guys. Chocolate covered gummi bears, too. Seriously. Bring it. It's the least you can do after I've entertained you for, like, going on three years. It's only right.)