Denver, Land of Excitement

My early morning flight consisted of me grabbing a blanket and pillow, sitting down, nodding at the person on my left, and then drooling on myself for two hours while in a deep, dreamless sleep.

I awoke to exit the plane, and was immediately hit the wave of nausea and worry that comes from realizing a person with a cocaine/pill/booze addiction is going to be your ride...if he shows up. Luckily, after scanning the crowd, I spotted his avaiators among the crowd. Further investigation revealed a purposely-messy haircut, a black Prada polo, skinny jeans, and ankle boots. This was definetly my boy.

I had felt funny all morning. My lip was numb, my stomach hurt, and I was short of breath. As we drove to downtown Denver to get some lunch, the situation worsened. By the time we sat down to lunch, I was shaking. As luck would have it, the Almighty had arranged for DJ to pick me up that day so he could see my symptoms and inform me that I was not going to die. I was, according to him, having a panic attack. I guess the stress of returning home and seeing old friends was a little too much for me.

My beloved manic depressive ex is a walking pharmacy. So, we rode home with lunch in hand. He offered me one of his Lithium, and after I refused, he gave me one tiny Colonipin and a foot rub intead.

But the night was just beginning.

The plan was that I would be the designated driver for a group of 12-20 women celebrating Whip's wedding. We started off the night with party games, like sculpting penises out of Play Doh and dropping cocktail weiners into a simulated vagina made out of a moonshine jug. We also pinned the naughty bits on the Muscular Fireman poster (Oh, come on. He wanted it. Look how he was dressed).

The real challenge came with the cherry-eating contest. The woman who could ingest the entire bowl of cherries and whipped cream first would regain her virginity, and this one really got us all revved up. I didn't win (apparently Shawna, Whip's step-sister, needed her virginity back a little more than I did. No comment.).

Before we left the hotel room, I was bestowed with the Spirit Award. The prize? A purple vibrator. Hoorah! Sadly, I was not provided with batteries, and the vibe taunted me the entire night.

We dressed up Whip in her "Buck for A Suck" tank top covered in LifeSavers, gave her a pink boa, and set out for the bars. We were armed with penis straws, penis keychains, flavored lube, and copious amounts of cash. Downtown Denver was in trouble.

The first bar was made painfully aware of our presence, because Whip was forced to climb on a chair and announce "I'm getting married Saturday and would anyone like to suck a LifeSaver off my shirt?" A line formed, and I found myself disturbed that everyone in it looked both suspicious and hungry at the same time. We toasted numerous times, talked about ye days of olde, and swore a lot, all at an inappropriately loud volume. Everyone really loved us. We decided to spread the drunken joy over to Market street and got into the car.

I was driving an Expedition, and our directions to the next bar were bad. This caused me to have to occasionally careen around the street, regardless of city ordinances or pedestrian presence. I just kept screaming, "Look out, I'm from Los Angeles!" as the Humpty Dance blared on the car speakers.

The minute I dropped the girls off at the dance club, some guy ran off with Shawna's purse. He pushed her, she fell, and the cops came. They were followed by an ambulance AND a firetruck, although she only had a mildly-twisted ankle. Eventually, she insisted that they load her in the ambulance and Whip ushered us into the bar. As I cast a backward glance towards the vehicle carrying my newly-virginal friend, I saw her batting her eyelashes at the medic and touching her collar bones in that "Check out my knockers just south of here" kind of way. I knew our little girl was going to be just fine, so I entered the bar.

We asked the DJ to play "Let's Talk About Sex," and we all climbed onto tables, benches, and large men's backs in order to dance properly. A few songs later, someone produced breakfast burritos, and we piled back in the car to return home.

I had a plan for the night. I would get my stuff back from DJ and crash on his couch, then return to my house and say hi to my 'rents who would have just gotten back into town. But DJ wasn't answering his phone or text messages.

So I was forced to break into my own house.

About an hour after I broke-and-entered the good old 2550 estate, my celly blows up. DJ is almost completely incoherent, and I am trying to explain that I need my stuff back. He is drunk beyond repair, saying something crazy about not being able to get my stuff back to me...and it was that moment that I realize something upsetting. I have no extra clothes to wear. When my born-again Christian parents arrived home later that day, I would have to wear the same clothes I had worn to the bachelorette party. This wouldn't have been an issue if I had been wearing something appropriate. But no, I had to be "in the moment" and "wild."

I was wearing a tee shirt that said "Vagina is For Lovers."

I was panicked.

When I awoke the next morning, I went through my closet in hopes of finding something to wear. All I came up with were an old genie costume, a button down shirt large enough to fit Refrigerator Perry in it, and some pleather pants. I was fucked.

That morning, I was able to negotiate the return of my clothes. I asked for a ride to the Whole Foods to get something to eat, and as DJ dropped me off, I waltzed in towards the hot food counter. My shoulder brushed against another woman's, and I said "Excuse me." She smiled at me, and I realized too late that it was DJ's EX (who I have mentioned before in previous blogs). The one who he punched in the face while fucking her. Who spent her days stalking his family and breaking the side-view mirrors on his car.

I kept walking. I went into the bathroom and pondered my escape. There was none, so I boldly exited and went to find something organic to curb my hunger. And by bold I mean I scurried around, biting my lip and laughing manically while glancing over my shoulder. I caught her once behind me, squinty eyes and all, holding a plastic fork in her hand. She followed me around the store that way, and I finally walked up to a security guard named Chet and said, "Hey! Do I know you? No? Weren't you in that one movie with Jean Claude VanDamme? Universal Soldier? Oh, but you LOOK like Dolph Lundgren." and she walked out. I didn't stop trying to convince Chet he was a movie star until I saw her drive away in her faded blue hatchback.

I have been here exactly 32 hours. What lies in store for the next 112? Someone say a prayer for me, this could get rough.

rocky mountain high. g