So, there I was, perusing Miss Kendra's birthday shenanigans, and I had a moment. It went something like this: "oh-shit-I'm-old and can no longer wear my latex platform boots and purple wig for any decent reason--and while Miss Kendra is having girl nights involving hot wax and loud music, I'm planning out the colors of my living room and trying to figure out how to tackle grout with acrylic nails and oh-holy-shit-I'm-old." Scary.

Anytime I start to doubt my coolness factor (never exceedingly high), I combat it with Flogging Molly and The Dropkick Murphys. And anytime I listen to drunk Irish, I think about drinking, and when I think about drinking, I hearken to college, and simultaneously think of the Air Force situated near my college, and then I think about getting drunk with air force boys. And that is never a good idea.

So, in Omaha, there is a club called Guitars and Cadillacs, and it is as absolutely dreadful as the name would imply. I could not be convinced to patronize this particular joint without having several shots of Goldenschlagger, but once evinced of this liquid poison, off I would be dragged to Guitars and Cadillacs, and forced to dance to 'Cotton Eyed Joe' and poorly mixed Vengaboy songs. And this ludicrous activity would wear my soul thin and usually lead me to throw up in the corner of the dance floor before being dragged outside by my dorm 'friends'. Ah. How many cheap camisole shirts did I ruin? Countless numbers. Yet, I never competed for the obligatory Wet T-shirt contest, though why is beyond me. I mean, at this point, my cruft and intolerable behavior would have best served me as the dumb-ass college girl getting sprayed with cheap American microbeer. Whatever.

It was on one of these evenings that I wasn't so drunk as to not attempt a conversation with some poor, sad loser at the back of the bar. Skinny and a little malnourished looking, this kid had the weathered look of a dog that had been left out too long in Chernobyl. I was instantly smitten. Numbers were exchanged as were drunken flirtations.

Funny how liquor does that crap--makes you think someone is attractive, and the next day you rave to all your friends, "Oh, I met the cutest guy last night at Guitars and Cadillacs!" Uh-huh.

Brian had a 1990 Mustang. You know the ones. The cars that scream "I'm a fast piece of shit"? He was from Alabama (warning sign #2) and stationed at the Air Force Base in Omaha. He smelled weird. His smile was nothing short of lecherous. His breathe was kind of fetid. He smoked Marlboro Reds. I bypassed these issues--he had a car, a loud speaker system in the car, and a bad attitude. Plus, he had friends. My friends plus his friends? Instant drinking buddies. It all fell apart about three weeks later when I fell out of a folding chair in Brian's bunker (or whatever the hell they call military dorms) and hit my head on his shitty half-refrigerator. As I lay on the rug, blinking at the stars and the furry mice produced from the four shots of Jose Cuervo, I wondered what in the hell did a guy like Brian see in a girl like me? I was eventually hauled off the floor by a guy who weighed about a third as much as I did, and I was unceremoniously dumped in the bathroom for the remainder of the night. I'm pretty sure I won some money at a poker game prior to this, but alas, I lost out on that hand. Thank goodness, I vomited up enough sense on that particular evening to avoid such a mistake again. The next time I wanted to date a loser, I would do so while SOBER.

True to my word, I met the next guy sober as the day is long at a music store. After that, nothing much was different. Malnourished and jaundiced, Randy had a partial bridge in his twenty-year-old mouth. He asked for my number--I gave it blithely. A date was made. He would pick me up. Seven o'clock came and went--no Randy. Seven-thirty and I started to call friends for alternate plans when a call came.
"Hey, uh, it's me. Randy. I'm on my way. I just wrecked the Camaro at the gas station. I had to go back home and get another car."
(wrecking the Camaro didn't dawn on me as a problem--just then...)
So, obligingly, I stated I understood and would wait for him to come by. And so he did.
Driving a Plymouth Acclaim missing two windows, conveniently remedied with plastic and duct tape. And Randy? Drunk as a skunk, missing his two front teeth.

I claimed a headache.

Man. I love being married. And I think it will be awhile before I get sad about being a silly college student.