Your Sleeves are Pushed U-u-u-p. That Looks Pretty Awesome.

I ate some Cape Cod chips for breakfast and now I want more. A tell-tale sign that I drank too many mojitos at last night's fundraiser. Too many mojitos is a tell-tale indicator that I likely shed clothing, spilled liquor, and danced inappropriately in front of fellow Board members and guests. I was well enough to find my way to the bus stop, take it all the way to South Station, change at Park Street, help a blind man (carrying a stuffed animal he called "Molly Malone") from the Westbound side of the Park St. stop to the Eastbound, accidentally get caught on the train I helped him get on to (which was going the opposite direction of where I wanted to go - but we had a nice chat about the Lord and Molly Malone and some other interesting topics), and eventually caught a BO (I'm calling it that from now on - har) line train at Government Center back to Brighton. My recollection tells me that I was less hammered and more drunk weepy. These days, I'm a hideous drunk, since I rarely drink and, for whatever reason (could be hatred for Boston, sadness about leaving, missing my friends, the demise of my relationship, whathaveyou), when I do, I get blubbery. I start listening to the Cranberries on my ipod and feeling very misty. It's in this state that I start placing calls to people I should not. They're not inappropriate calls, they just have an air of patheticism about them that makes me cringe when I wake up the next day. I didn't do any of those last night, so that's cool.

I also did not win the silent auction Elie Tahari orange pebbled leather clutch with cute top-stitching (Abs, you would've loved it). It was paid with a $200 Saks giftcard and Sven and I were bidding as a team so we could cover more ground and split the cost (he gets the giftcard, I get the purse as the spoils), but in the last hour some newbie to the Board outbid us to the max and I hadn't the stamina to keep going, especially when my friend Sarah (who's an ebay enthusiast) reminded me that I could "get it on ebay" for a lot cheaper than what I was bidding. Who let me near the silent auction anyway? And with a drink in-hand! I'm moving and should be saving money for chrissakes. I realized I didn't even want the purse - I just didn't want my competitor to have it because I'm mean spirited like that. She did say something like, "you can take the clutch in exchange for your purse and I can take that" - I'm sure she was being playful, but I wanted to be like, "This is Prada, sister. That's not a fair trade for a fucking Elie Tahari clutch. Throw in a Cartier Love Bracelet and a French swimmer and we have a deal." Shit was getting wild at ye olde fundraiser. Oh, and the dancing. It goes without saying that, if you're my friend or you know me at all, that I need little-to-no prodding to get the dance party started. It must be my pale genes, but I just can't ignore a good beat. In Boston, it's a cardinal rule that women are usually boring. They wear no makeup (please refer to my father's comment about the Avon lady making "a killing" here), loads of polar fleece, and generally have a frigid, fearful social presence which precludes them from dancing (gasp! what would people on the Vineyard think?!), or if they do, it must be in a very tight circle with only people they absolutely know. You'd think that when we get to be 27 or so, we say "fuck it" and embrace the lunacy of dancing like my Uncle George on our Carnival Cruise vacation when I was 8 (he wore pants that were too tight, and proceeded to glide and gyrate around the dancefloor like a madman. It was nuts, but he was happy and thus, everyone else felt at ease to be happy and have fun, as well). No such luck at le fundraiser. Picture this: A bunch of banker girls in a circle wearing Lily Pulitzer capri pants and Tory Birch slide loafers (what? yuck) be bopping from side-to-side to "I Like Big Butts," the whole while sporting concerned looks as if they're thinking, "If I dance to this, will all of the guys here think I do, in fact, have a big butt?" Yes, you do. So, let's get busy.

The guys are not much better. While tall and clad in nice suits, the choicest pick up line of my night was when a guy grabbed me to dance (he was wearing a fedora, which always implies sanity and gainful employment :/) and started doing a bunch of spastic cha-chas while telling me about how he works in "telecommunications" and do I "like a man who lays cable?" har har har. I laughed it off as a courtesy and then he passed me his card with an odd flourish of the wrist, as if I should be so super impressed. As if I call men. Please, hasn't anyone read my blog? I am totally gonna start dabbling in lesbianism. Well, I mean, I haven't done anything yet (and really don't want to), but as I warned Haley last night, I might just get all gussied up, go to Toast on my own on Saturday night, and hang out and see what develops ("hang out in ro-o-o-bes and see what develops" - thank you, Air Supply). Like a social experiment. Like so many impressionable teenagers in middle America, I am heeding the message of Katy Perry. God help us all.

I love casual Fridays. I can wear my converse and my Porsches on the Autobahn belt and jeans and be comfy and eat lots of food. The latter is not really part of the prescribed casual Friday, but it's my own agenda. I also really want to go home and sleep. That, or give in to the siren song of the Traveling Pants. Alas, I have stuff to do tonight, but really really really want to go nigh nigh right now. Mmmm, sweet sleep. Mmmm.