good thing there was no responsibility section on the sat

Those naughty Bush girls sure like their booze! Last night at work Lauren Bush and her boyfriend David Lauren (please God let them get married) had a six-top reservation at a table downstairs. I did not have the pleasure of being their server, but apparently all were very nice. Too bad for her, because the responsible server she did have had no idea who she was and carded her when she ordered wine. Her awesome response? "I'm 17." None of that "I forgot it at home" bullshit. The girl has a monkey for an uncle but at least she has some dignity.

Speaking of responsibility, here's how my week is going so far:

Sunday Night
Finish article in record time after inviting self to dinner at Otto with friend S. Gorge self on red wine and a surprise assortment of gelati, including gorgonzola dolce (yeah, it was as weird as it sounds.) Go to work and drink more wine while waiting for fellow servers to get off and go to going-away party. Volunteer to trade my early Tuesday night shift for the Tuesday closing shift when closing server complains about it. FATAL ERROR NUMBER ONE. Drink some beer and turn in my worst Big Buck Hunter performance thus far (note: my best Big Buck Hunter performance was really, really bad).

Monday Afternoon
Wake up around 1:00, blissfully ignorant that this is the last time I will sleep for 48 hours. Eat muffaletta sandwich. Solve the shit out of the New York Times crossword puzzle. Take bus to work.

Monday Night
On the bus, curse hangover, resolve to take sparkling water for a shift drink, and ponder what I need to pack and clean before I leave for Thanksgiving. Learn at family meal that the chef of a famous restaurant that's affiliated with my not-quite-as-famous one (though we're totally gonna be on Rachael Ray!) is having a going away party in the downstairs room on Tuesday night, attended by his staff and the owners of my place, starting at midnight. Die a little inside, knowing that they will be boozing like restaurant folk (rockstars schmockstars) until the sun comes up. Smoke post-work cigarette, and decide that one glass of prosecco won't kill me. FATAL ERROR NUMBER TWO. But hey, it's free, the novelty of which will never wear off, even though about 62% of my drinks these days are free. Drink prosecco. Decide that one beer across the street with a fellow server and former server won't kill me. Drink beer. Drink another beer. Split a cab home to Brooklyn at 3:30 a.m.

Tuesday Morning
3:40 a.m., Bartender calls. (Didn't I just resolve the other day not to sleep with him anymore because I accidentally started liking him? Whatever.) 3:42, call cab to take me to Bartender's house. FATAL ERROR NUMBER THREE. [Use your imagination. Actually no, that's creepy.] 8:00 a.m., leave Bartender's because he has to go back on tour selling t-shirts. Go home and pack. Lie down and pet the cat for an hour. Leave for internship in Midtown. Take really long time to write blog post because of diminished brain function.

Tuesday Night
Projected: Feel like complete and utter crap at work. Drink a double espresso every 45 minutes. Fear the clock striking midnight. Try really hard to be pleasant despite being sober and surrounded by drunk people, at least three of whom have the ability to fire me. Try really hard to replace everyone's cocaine with Equal. Pray they leave by 5:00 so I can catch my train.

Wednesday Morning
Off to my friend's parents' house in beautiful Cockeysville, Maryland! (Assuming I haven't passed out in a ditch somewhere. Oh wait, New York doesn't have any ditches. You know what I mean.)