The Last Hurrah

Once upon a time there was a guy who loved wine and a girl who loved tequila.  They decided to attend a build-a-baby workshop for two, and were thus gifted with a zygote that turned into a fetus that would (hopefully!) turn into a screaming child that would be a healthy non-asshole.

One day the girl looked at the boy, who was drinking his 3rd glass of wine, and got really, really jealous.
"I want booze."
"Baby, you can't have booze!"
"I KNOW that, but I still want it."
"Poor baby," as he finished his glass and poured himself another.  The girl seethed, and rubbed the rounding belly.
"I need a last hurrah."
"A wha?"
"A Last Hurrah."  The girl got very sly.  "You need one too.  I mean, the baby will be screaming to be fed every 2 hours.  You're not going to get sleep either.  I'm going to pump, so you're going to get to feed the baby every other feeding.  Really.  And if you're not feeding, or going to work, you're going to be doing laundry because we'll be covered in shit and vomit.  I mean, this *is* an equal opportunity fetus."
The boy sobered, then became horrified and slightly green.  He drained the rest of his wine bottle directly into his mouth.  "Oh my god you're right.  Let's go to Vegas." 

The Missing Pieces of Life

About four in the afternoon, my friend and I were at a bar playing with these little plastic toys left in a basket for drunk kids like us. She had set up a wall of fencing with soldiers and cowboys, defending it from my wall of teepees and Indians that pointed their little bows and arrows at the guns. My toy horse was adorned with a hot pink cocktail umbrella. It was Sunday and I was spending it doing what I always did - Bloody Mary's over Brunch, shopping at consignment stores, and happy hour. I loved life as a cocktail waitress, a life of 5am bedtimes and tequila and bar-hopping fun. I loved it, but all this was about to change. With bourbon in hand, I laid out my plans for the future.
"What the hell? Seriously?" My friend almost spit her gin and tonic out of her mouth.
"Yep. We're moving to Hawaii to start a family." I finished my bourbon and ordered two shots of Patron. Shots were a good way for people to absorb information. We cheered silently, clinking our shots before they went down respective gullets.
"Wow. What a decision," she said.
 More, Here...

How To Get Put on the Disneyland Watch List - or - Another Good Reason to Quit Smoking

 I quit smoking on May 8, 2009. I was in Disneyland the week prior, hiding out behind the House of Blues with cigarette in hand, creeping in the bushes, a dirty, filthy smoker. I was defiling Disneyland with lung cancer.
         Disneyland Jail.
[Technically, I was in Downtown Disney but still. It's still Disneyland. Disneyland is Disneyland no matter which part you are in; even if you're drunk and puking, the kind old security guard with the Mickey Mouse name tag will escort you away from the kids and families, lightly chastising but in all ending up like a kindly old grandfather, scolding a misbehaving kid. Like you got lost from your Mommy and need to find her. Except you're 28 and have vomit in your hair.]