Alleys are not toilets, people! Trust me, I know.

Reflecting on tomorrow's all important and poignant holiday, St. Patty's Day, I realize that I miss bars, and expensive watered down drinks, irritating people whose elbows constantly graze my forehead, and noise.  But mostly the drinks.  And the bars...  The people...  Noise.

I miss the obnoxious, self-satisfactory, ego mania that ensues when my imperviousness to bar lines takes full effect.  Shaaaaah!

I miss the thrill of standing on the foot bar of the bar stools to be tall enough to get the bartender's attention for yet another tasty adult beverage.  I long for the days when bartenders would tell me by name to "get off the goddamn barstool again, Nicole!" and the sheepishness mixed with delight of my new [diluted] Captain and Coke.  I miss knowing that even though my fingers weren't crossed, my acquiescence was a sham and that bar stool was my stage and I was going to stand on it as long as I had legs.  Leglessly kerschnickered or not.  In fact, especially when I was leglessly kerschnickered.

Kerschnickered.

As I sit here, with Nug-meister all tuckered out, I sip a homemade bev and I contemplate the status of my life.  Despite my now very typical, very worn in yoga pants and pony tails, I clean up pretty nice, and my husband annoyingly (and quite pleasingly) looks good in anything he wears (men).  I think we need to nut up, get a sitter, (mom?), and do the DAMN THANG.

We have to go OUT.  Where people are.  With noise and elbows.  And bar stools.

Happy St. Patty's Day, bitches.