Return of the killer hangover and my brush with pedophilia

I got my drink back.

It started last Sunday night at the Radisson Hotel bar in Peoria where I found out I can't be trusted to stay in a hotel alone. Mamatee was doing much better, so I had to celebrate and spent the better part of the evening unwinding in the Medieval-themed lounge with just the bartender and a Red Stater to keep me company. While Trish the bartender told me all about her goodfornothing kids, Louisiana Larry sucked down Makers Mark whiskey and let me smoke as many of his Carlton cigarettes my lungs would allow.

Dirty old man or not, Larry made a find drinking companion. Before he left the bar I told him he looked like James Carville, which surprisingly he took as a compliment. "Really?" he asked, smiling. If you can imagine James Carville being left in a bathtub too long, that would be Louisiana Larry. Good people, that Larry, but rather unfortunate looking.

Last night I went to a coming out party of sorts for a friend who moved to Chicago from Sucklanta this month. Ariamay (she asked that I use pig latin to conceal her identity) looked stunning and surprised me with her ability to stay atop her 19 inch heels after drinking half the liquor in the city. Even during a specially-choreographed yet underwhelming dance to Christina Aguilara's Dirty at the Liar's Club, she didn't stumble.

Ariamay and her friends are all about 5-6 years younger than me and a couple went to my highschool.

One girl told me she graduated in 1996.

"I graduated in 90."

"Shit. You guys were like done with college by the time we graduated. " Her mock horror was refreshing. I wanted to hug her for not saying things like, "Age doesn't matter."

"Yeah, and not only that," I told little Miss 26, "I was on like my third husband in 1996."

I really appreciate honesty. A couple of years ago when I went out with this guy who was several years younger than me, his sister had simply this to say when she found out how old I was.

"Gross."

I thought it was hilarious. And after telling said youngster that he wasn't Ashton and I wasn't Demi, our tryst was over.

At the last stop of the night, one of the even younger girls caught the eye of a gentleman. Though I've been a little out of practice I knew it was important to encourage her debauchery. He and his friend invited the two of us back for a nightcap. Of course I asked them if they were going to kill us, they said no, and off we went.

The two hit it off which left me with the friend, the TWENTY-ONE (maybe 22?) year old friend. Though nothing happened, I have to admit that I entertained the idea. Coo, coo, ca-choo right?

Toddler and I were talking and he asked me if I ever lived in other big cities besides Chicago.

"Yeah, I lived in DC for about five minutes in 1994."

"I was 10 in 1994."

When I thought about the things I was up to while this kid was watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in his jammies somewhere . . . dry spell or not, it definitely was time to call it a night.