Before I even interviewed for the new j-o-b, I decided to listen to the warning e-mail from my editor that the end of the year was coming up and we could only transfer 40 hours of paid time off into 2009 (I have well over 80 hours), and take a few days off to visit Whittah in Denver again. All of girls visited back in April for my 25th birthday — best birthday ever! I need to update that entry with hilarious pictures...
Of course the nature of my current job (one more week left!) only allows me to take two or three days off at a time and three days is pushing it, so I took Thursday and Friday off this week. I flew out yesterday afternoon and here I am, chillin' by myself in Whittah's apartment while I wait for her to get off work. But I don't mind hanging out for a while because it lets me get some things done. The feeling of boredom is foreign to me since I ALWAYS have something I need to do especially since I just quit my job. You work two or three times harder during that two week notice period with all the catching up, cleaning up, exit interviewing, goodbyes, e-mails, organizing...and here I am on vacation right in the middle of it when I have a whole week of vacation coming up Oct. 27 through the 31st. I didn't know I was going to be saying "peace out" to this job when I booked this mini vaca and I unknowingly screwed myself. But, I'd much rather be here right now and just work a few hours longer each night next week, than be working right now because I LOVE Denver...and I guess Whitney's OK too...I joke, I joke! She's my adventurous pal and we always seem to come away from a night out with each other with an absolutely ridiculous story that would never happen to anyone else. We have a stockpile of stories already and a shitload of things planned for this weekend, but before I get into that, I would like to take a minute and share a bit of the debauchery that is "Crawl For Cancer," which happened Saturday.
Yes, I did it again. I participated in the best semi-annual fundraiser that has ever been invented — Crawl for Cancer. Millions of people form teams of 10 or 12, migrate to all the bars in Westport and drink themselves retarded with four pitchers of Coors Light at each of five bars all for the sake of kicking cancer's ass. In fact, some cancer survivors on the Crawl actually write that on their shirts and I'm sure at least a portion of the proceeds from this event are set aside specifically for liver cancer. To make a long story short, although we had the same bar schedule as last time, we grew from two to three teams, including many of my close friends, plus I know all of the people I met on the last crawl better, so it was even more insanely fun and shitfaced than it was in May. Here are some of my favorite shots from the day:
Go pink team!
Yes, this many of us from high school were there.
I don't know who this guy is, but he was rockin' the stilettos.
The shitfaced-ness has begun. Kate, me and Kendall stopping to capture the dance party on the bus in between bars.
Our rival flip cup team let me borrow one of their killer 'staches, which totally improved my chugging/cup flipping ability.
Dave + Sam = Hot Man Lovin'
The only time you will ever set foot in America's Pub to dance is when you're wearing a pink poodle balloon hat. (Jeff, me and Lacey)
The first pic of much of Kate and Sam's future wedding party a.k.a. their pride and joy.
Just because we graduated, doesn't mean we can't relive our college sorority days with a faux candlelighting at the bar.
Why yes Kate I will marry you. I'd rather marry you than most men.
And now back to Denver. Things have changed in six months since my last visit. Instead of south of the city, Whittah now lives near Washington and Colfax, which is apparently a bit 'hood except her apartment is gorgeous and right near downtown. She's also done with school and now social works many ghetto children in the Denver School District where tales of 16-year-old mothers dressed in blue from head to toe that come in for parent/teacher meetings reeking of weed abound. Like I've said many times before, I could never do her job. She wanted me to meet one of her favorites today that does a little dance when you ask him what he's doing over the weekend and says "paaaaartay," but he wasn't there. Gotta love ghetto children.
I had "the best burger in Denver" for lunch at Citygrille today, so I guess I can die happy now and other things on the agenda include a birthday party tonight in LoDo (Lower Downtown — look at me and my Denver lingo), heading to Boulder to tailgate and watch the K-State/Colorado game Saturday with Andrea and Logan, going back out on the town Saturday night and of course the typical visit to the neighborhood psychic on Sunday.
I love how Whitney sent me a text message Wednesday that said, "we should go to a psychic while you're here!" and I was all, "hell yeah!" So apparently I'll be taking my first trip to a psychic this weekend. I wanted to have my palm read on the street in New Orleans when we all went for our sorority senior sneak in 2004, but between the gallons of hurricanes and hand grenades along with the trip to the county emergency room, an incident with a one-armed homeless man, a run in with the cops and taking our jobs as Bourbon Street band groupies very seriously, it sort of slipped my mind. Yeah, it was a good trip...
Psychics freak people out because of the fear of bad news, but I just say, hey, if she tells me I'm going to die next week, it's just all the more reason to go skydiving, catch a plane to Vegas, marry a hot stranger in the Elvis chapel and perform during amateur night at a strip club within the next five days, right? At least that's how I see it...