Boozy weekend.

I really wanted to post a recap yesterday of what turned out to be a really fun weekend...but my brain was a bowl of useless, unthinking slop. In fact, I spent my lunch break yesterday at home, slunk into the couch with my head cocked to the side, scowling and making nasty remarks about the kids on "My Super Sweet Sixteen." It was that kind of day. (side note: since when have sixteen year old boys needed a "sweet sixteen" party?). Anyway, the weekend. It was good.

After staying out until 2:00 am on Thursday night (sushi + drinks) and working all day, I was tired. I wanted to go home and crawl straight into bed, especially since I had to be up at 7:30 for defensive driving. But my friend Barry was in town and I wanted to spend some time with him. He and I were really good friends throughout high school and then when we graduated, he went one direction (Los Angeles) and I went another (Lubbock), and somehow we lost touch. He's been in town to take care of some family stuff, and when we reunited earlier this year, we picked up right where we left off. One of those things about old friends, I guess.

Anyway, he and I walked over to the West Alabama Ice House and we ended up staying there for awhile. We met up with another long lost friend (Lauren) and another friend (Ceci) and her friends. Then went to another bar to meet up with some long lost middle school(!) friends and another...uhhh...friend. I would list their names, but really? It was a nice. Talking, catching up, etc, etc.

Anyway, I allowed myself until midnight since I had to be up so early. We ended up staying out til about 1:30, which wasn't too bad, but still. Not midnight. I woke up Saturday morning and the sun was shining. I dragged myself into the shower, threw on some flip flops and headed out the door, knowing I'd be spending the next six hours in Ballroom B of the Holiday Inn.

Now, I've taken one comedy defensive driving class before and it wasn't very good. I found that stand up comics can be mean and short-tempered and they get angry if anyone in the class tries to crack a joke. So I walked in skeptical.

I was greeted by our instructor, who was easily 70 years old. I sat down with a cup of coffee and he kicked things off by saying, "Well, we've got about ten minutes til we get started. The real speeders haven't even left the house yet!" Rimshot! This guy proceeded to rattle off one-liners for the next six hours. Apparently, last week was the most eventful and hilarious week of his entire life, because every story started with "I was driving down 290 last week" or "A guy tells me last week..." or "my wife was driving last week..." But seriously folks! At one point, he says, "You know they have to change the names of certain products to sell them in Texas. Like that 'I Can't Believe It's Not Butter' stuff?" (pause) "Here they just call it "shiiiiiit, that ain't butter?"

Usually those kinds of jokes would depress me and make me slap my forehead, but there was this old black man sitting next to me who was absolutely in stitches. He was loving every second of it. And that was making me laugh. So the jokes may have been dated, and the instructor may have been dated (he used an overhead projector, for cryin' out loud), but he was also really friendly and we took plenty of breaks, and it was all-in-all, a very manageable six hours.

Afterwards, I met up with Barry at the Country & Western bar he owns (voted Best Country & Western Bar in Houston for fifteen years!). They were having a chili cookoff and asked if I wanted to be a judge at the Final Table. Of course!
As you can see, their judging guidelines were pretty strict. I had to consider the aroma, red color, consistency, taste and aftertaste. I was looking forward to this, actually. I've been watching a lot of Top Chef lately, so I've been looking for a reason to say "the balance just wasn't there" or "I feel like the concept wasn't well-executed." So I got a beer, grabbed a few napkins and settled in. This was before I realized there were nineteen finalists. Uh oh.
There's Barry getting ready for the chili. He looks so happy, doesn't he? When I got my first chili, I tried to do the best I could. I sniffed it, I stirred it, I looked at it to make sure it had that elusive "red color." I gave the first one a score of four. I was clearly going to be the Simon Cowell of chili judging. As the chili's were passed around, they began to taste alike. And look alike. And smell alike. So I got to where I would give it a quick sniff ("Yup. Smells like chili."), give it a quick look ("Yup. Looks like chili.") and give it a quick taste. I subtracted points if the meat was too soft or the chili was too salty. And I would add points if it was spicy. That's it. I ended up giving out three "eight's" and only a couple of "four's." I kept waiting for one of the chilis to just blow my socks off and earn that score of ten, but it never happened. No "Kelly Clarkson" chili this year, I'm afraid.

After the chili extravaganza, we headed over to St. Arnold's Brewery for their fourteenth anniversary party (yes, I said "fourteenth." Apparently they have a very impatient marketing department). Now. When I say, "we went to a brewery," what do you imagine? Well I was picturing an old brown building and smokestacks and beer trucks and...I don't know...not this.
We basically spent the afternoon getting drunk at the offices of Dunder Mifflin.
After this, we headed over to a bar and hung out until 2:00, then everyone reconvened at my apartment with more drinks and cigarettes and we swam in my apartment pool until about 4:00 am. Needless to say, I felt like absolute and utter crap on Sunday. But! It was a fantastic weekend.