I should be blogging about technology and whatnot considering I'm totally unemployed and verging on poverty, but screw it. Just call me rebel. I'm going for transparency--it feels so fresh right now. (And apparently I like to indulge in feeling sorry for myself in front of a quasi-audience. Maybe you should call me exhibitionist.)
Decided to go to Tahoe with the boyfriend this Christmas. He loves to snowboard, and a really good girlfriend of mine has a house near Squaw with a guest room--So there it was.
Just prior to leaving however I started to realize this may not be the best idea ever. It was revealed that many other guests with much alcohol and mischief were also planning to come up to the same house, and I could foresee this chilled out snowboarding trip turning into a tequila-fueled bacchanalia. Not that I'm generally opposed to such events--just not during the holidays. Feels a little creepy.
Despite my better judgment, boyfriend and I get on the road and head towards Tahoe. I brought champagne along for the road. Also probably not the best idea ever.
Two hours in, I was picking on boyfriend's driving chops. He was trying to remain silent. I was getting more boozy by the minute.
The snow is falling heavier now, and the fact that we're in a rear wheel drive BMW is just now dawning on me. Drunkenly, I sulk.
Boyfriend and I pick up another friend of ours on the way to Tahoe. The snow is falling really heavily now, and I'm drunk enough to attempt becoming BFF with my friend's tipsy mother. We pose for pictures and pronounce eachother as undying allies. I slip and fall on the way back to the car.
In the mountains of North Tahoe, the three of us are pulled over by a Chain Check police blockade. "Crazy night for driving. You got chains?"
Boyfriend pulls out his chains and I sit becoming bitchier with worry by the second. Boyfriend tries to put chains on, to no avail. Thirty minutes pass and finally the other friend has joined in on the boyfriend's efforts to put the chains on the tires.
With the chains attached and my head in the clouds, the three of us head off toward the house. At this point I'm too drunk to remember where I've put the address, but I don't let the boys know this yet.
The chains fall off the tires and I begin calling boyfriend a "useless fuck."
No, I'm not a happy drunk.
I'll save you the hellishness of hearing every detail, but suffice it to say that by the time we arrived at the house - (by the hair of our chinny chin chins, considering I'd lost the address,) I had unleashed such a torrent of rage and hatred onto my boyfriend that he was utterly destoyed.
The finale to my grand Christmas moment was when I fell on the ice in front of my friend's house and blew out my knee. Again. ACL. Torn.
Still would all be okay except that the boyfriend wants to break up. That makes me an unemployed, gimpy, broken-up with girl.
2009?! Save me?!