So apparently it took the nausea a little longer to abate than origionally predicted. I’ve truly been mentally vomiting since Tuesday afternoon.

So, I did what any sane, rational girl would do…drank a bottle of wine with Army Guy, bitched about my ex and then proceeded to have mind blowing sex. Charming, no?

You know what they say: The fastest way to get over one man….get under another. Truer words - never spoken.

You may think it strange that I would bring up the ex to the current boy toy – not at all. Oddly enough, Army got his heart sliced, diced and handed to him on a silver platter right around the time I was having mine pureed and served up as road kill. Therefore, the bitching of the ex’s really isn’t all that uncommon – though it has become significantly more infrequent as the weeks roll on. Healthy? Most likely not – and I don’t know what it actually implies about our current relationship other than the fact that its nice to be able to relate to someone, perhaps it’s a flashing neon ‘rebound’ sign that I’ve chosen to ignore? At any rate, there it is.

He’s not like normal rebounds I’ve experienced throughout my roughly dozen years in the dating world. Example: After severing ties with my college boyfriend I immediately started seeing a rock star wanna be who wrote punk rock songs about my eyes and lived in his mother’s basement. After the football player, it was an IT guy who told me he loved me after three dates  - and frankly, I’ve tried to block out the memory of the rest of the month or so that we dated. Scary stuff.

Rebounds are SUPPOSED to be inappropriate. They’re supposed to remind us that most of the time, our own companionship is preferable to that of being with someone for whom we do not care a great deal.

That’s why this one is a tad trickier, if it is, in fact, a rebound. Who knows, it may be something more. It’s in no way inappropriate. It’s in no way unhealthy. Army is everything a girl could want – handsome, together, sweet, thoughtful, doting, sexy as hell and a great cook! However, he’s being deployed in August – so at least I know approximately when this relationship will hit its expiration date.

Frankly,

I AM posting today, I apologize for my absence as the following things have happened…..

1) Easter, obviously, the holiday weekend brought marvelous friends into town, so that kept me occupied along with celebrating the holiday itself;

      2) I've seen pictures of the Russian’s (who will henceforth be known as Fuckhead) new girl. I’m rather tempted to post them here. She looks like a man. I WOULD tell you that she looks like a man, but I’ve decided to be the bigger person and not mention her rather... masculine features. I’ve felt like throwing up since I saw it. If someone could PUH-LEASE enlighten me as to the reason why, after nearly two months of not speaking, one glimpse of the girl that he’s currently fucking throws me into a state of complete emotional paralysis? Even though I have a ‘perfect’ and I do mean perfect, man in my life and I keep coming up with reasons why Fuckhead is a totally inappropriate choice for a long term relationship!? UGH!; and

      3) I’m currently in professional limbo – long story short: I was planning on starting a new job, however, the security clearance may or may not come through in time as I’ve been replaced by my current job and the prospect of unemployment is rather frightening.

I will post again later today – once the nausea subsides.

So now that the drunken marathon of days and nights of drinking in the name of St. Paddy has come to an end and even though my hangover is creeping up on me, I owe you a report.

Shamrock fest– where to begin?

Well, the indications of a promising day came not when my first Irish coffee was consumed, or upon stepping onto the blue line to see the other emerald clad celebrators. It was when I heard my name called out through the rushing crowd to disover Red and her new beau behind me! What a wonderful surprise! I hadn't seen this woman since a blogger happy hour in 2006! (You look great, btw!)

For the 1% of the DC drinking population that WERE’T at Shamrock Fest, let me sum it up for you. First of all, the weather was AMAZING! As my wifebeater tan lines can attest, my shoulders now carry newly minted freckles from being on black asphault all afternoong with the sun reflecting up and down. It was wonderful – the first real taste of spring, and I can’t think of a better way I could have spent it.

After several trips to the beer carts to refill our mugs, we ventured out into the crowd and experienced the always amazing Synthian, followed by the rousing cover songs sung by Below Sixth all dressed in matching Boston Celtics Jerseys. Soon after, Red and I had the amazing opportunity to interview the band, Carbon Leaf. (Interview to follow).

And while we were by no means the only scarlet haired gals roaming about RFK grounds on Saturday, we each received more than our fair share of redhead admiration - which ALWAYS makes for a good time. And the day went thusly, dancing, drinking, running into random friends. That is until, the sun went down.

Upon sunset, I found myself in the front of the stage of Burnt Sienna, an amazing cover band, that was inspiring some pretty ‘amazing’ behavior from the crowd. Please realize that by this time I had gained and lost my buzz several times over, eaten some alarmingly greasy food, danced in the sun stood in many many lines and lost track of Red! 

Drunken guys are pretty ridiculous in general – showing their apparent intoxication and would be virility. In college, stupid drunken frat boys would set things on fire (this incindiary adventure was usually spearheaded by the Russian). At Shamrock Fest, the boys surfed over crowds, slammed against each other mosh pit style and grabebd girls' asses as they walk by (an ill advised move when one is holding hands with a big tough army man - as the man who tried to manhandle my tusch soon discovered). I expect such angsty fraternal stupidity as I lived with a prime specimine last year. But drunken girls.

Stupid, bitchy girls – was more than I could handle after a day of beer in the sun. Not only stomping – literally stomping on my feet (which would have been bad enough in tennis shoes, but was especially unpleasant Trailer Trash Tammy chose to dress herself like the prom queen in 4 inch stillettos to come to an outdoor festival); the pushing – oh the pushing; the vommiting (not ON me but near enough to make it unpleasant); and last but not least the Drunken falling down on top of semi-sober people, pushing the crowd in all directions.

I've come to the conculusion that I am either WAY too old or was way to sober for this kind of environment.

At this point I limped over to the main stage not because I was especially jazzed about Great Big Sea (who proved to be more than amazing - truly), but because a little bird told me that Russell – be still my heart – arms the size of tree trunks – bad boy all the way – aussie accented - hourse riding- band playin'- do me up against the wall - someone hand me a fresh set of batteries – Crowe was to play with the band.

And so I waited, again, up front, in the crowd though pleasantly surprised to find that that I had left planet 'drunken bitch' and returned back to earth for this was the crowd of ‘normal’ people who weren’t proned to puke, stomp, push, or engage in other such asshole-ish behavior all over you. It was a lovely group of people.

And so even when it started raining, I stood there. My feet hurt, my sunburned shoulders hurt, my head hurt, my hair hurt, but I stood there. In the rain. With no beer. And the band played and played. And I got sober-er and sober-er. 

Finally, he came out and he played a song by Johnny Cash I could hear his voice echo accross the emptying, litterd lot as I walked towards the exit. I admit it. I had given up. Somewhere along the line, about 5 whole minutes before he came on – I couldn’t take it anymore. Because truly, if I had stayed to hear that man who defines all things sexy, the nice, sober, unasshole-ish people around me would have been picking my ass up off the soggy, dirty ground. I had just enough energy to let Army Guy guide me back to the metro and then up the stairs to my apartment, complaining all the way - because I was DONE. 

So I am only sorry Russell, you didn’t come for me when I was younger, more intoxicated, and able to withstand an entire day’s partying and dancing and drunk people. I haven’t outgrown you, my darling it just turns out that there are limits to my love.

Frankly,

Happy St. Patrick's Day!! While I'm still piecing together the events of Saturday afternoon, please feast your eyes on all these GEORGOUS redheads!

Slainte,