Fiesta? Not for me.

On Saturday, Amy's company was having a party at the owner of the company's house in Kent Island. The party was supposed to have a Mexican theme, full of mexican food, margaritas, and dancing. Amy went one step further and prepared (on the company's dime) table settings or gift bags or some shit like that, which was a small bag with a shooter bottle of Jose Cuervo, a plastic cactus shot glass, and Hot Tamales. It seemed like it could be a good time, plus these parties usually have some sort of train wreck occur, so I didn't complain that I was missing a night of excessive drinking with my own friends.

The night starts with the same two gay guys (the one Amy works with and his friend that I mentioned in the Cruise blog entry) coming over to our house so that we can drive them both to the party with us. They're pretty flaming, so I can't even begin to describe some of the ridiculous shit I had to hear on the 1-hour ride to Kent Island. Thankfully, I cracked a few beers at my house beforehand to take the edge off, and Amy had agreed to be the designated driver, though we were in my car, so I could drink the ensuing awkwardness away.

We get to her boss's place, which is a freakin' amazing place right on the water, with a dock for his boats. (yeah, plural) I'm taking in the sights as I order my first margarita and new friend for the evening, the bartender. (I don't know why, but she kept talking to me the whole night...I guess she could tell I was bored) So, all is going well, I've had three margaritas and I'm working on my second beer...and we've only been here for an hour. I know, I have a problem. Some of the people I know have shown up, though I'm informed that the Hawaiian Tropic fake boobs girl will not be making an appearance, which sucks, but I'm enjoying myself. Then we get the food and the down turn begins.

The food is horrible, overcooked, and the tortillas are hard. I suffer through it so I have some food in my stomach, as I plan on drinking much more. Then it happens. Amy brings out the "party bags" she made...and within seconds she's taken three shots of tequila. What the fuck?!! And so has the 110 lb. gay dude we have to drive home. FUCK!! It is at this moment that I look at my friend Miller Lite, and bid him a good evening. Within an hour, everyone in the place is shit canned, including the old-but-thinks-she's-young manager (who is doing an ass shaking dance with the gay guys while the black guy is doing his best Usher impersonation) and Amy is stumbling about trying to get other people to take shots.

A little while later, someone announces that it's time for a game and the winner will win a Margarita set. Everyone heads into the backyard, where they've set up an obstacle course type thing where you need to race through it while holding a hot tamale on a spoon. By this point, I'm relatively sober and somewhat bitter, and my competition probably can't even see straight let alone hold a hot tamale on a spoon. One girl keeps sticking the spoon on her nose, while another guy says he's just gonna eat the hot tamale instead. Obviously, I win the Margarita Set, which is still sitting in my trunk, as no one even understood the instructions let alone finished the race. I've never seen the Special Olympics before, but I believe I just got a taste of what it's all about.

I put my prize in my car, and when I return to the party, Amy is now dancing by herself, and the gay guy is in the bathroom puking. I sit by myself at a table, enjoying my Caffeine Free Pepsi (they don't even have the real stuff) and praying that this evening will end soon. But that's too much to ask.

Dude finishes puking but is now refusing to come out of the bathroom, because he's crying and embarassed. Crying?? I've puked on the metro into a bowl that I sculpted out of newspaper, and this guy's crying over puking in the toilet?? People are going there taking turns trying to console him and the old folks are now starting to waver as well. One lady, I swear, asked me the same question three times. Now I know how the sober people feel when they go out with me and my friends. Amy's giving me a hard time because I'm pissed that I have to drive now...though she insists she'll be OK to drive. (More on that in second). Finally, it's close to 1 AM and most everyone has left the party. Dude is finally coming out of the bathroom, but I want some barf bags for the road, since I was forced to take my car.

Everyone piles into my car and we put all the windows down for the hour long drive. Dude has his barfbag ready and drive heaves into it within 5 minutes of the drive. FUCK!!! Ten minutes later and we're at the Bay Bridge. There's no way I can stop on the bridge, so I hope nothing catestrophic happens. Did I mention that I didn't have my real glasses (which I need to drive) and instead am wearing my sunglasses? We're about 100 yards from the end of the bridge when I see what I think is Amy jumping out the window. Then I hear it. "BLUAGH" (best puking sound I could write) OH, FUCK!!!

Amy just puked out the window at the end of the bridge. I'm sure the people driving around are loving this. The real unfortunate part is that I am going about 70 MPH and that tends to send the puke back at the car...and all the windows are open...and now there's puke on my backseat and on the passed out gay dude in the back. FUCK!! I stop at the next gas station I see and Amy cleans up the mess, which was basically the entire right side of the car. (and she thought she was OK to drive??)

We make it back to our neighborhood 45 minutes later, but Amy doesn't quite make it home as she leans out again about 200 feet from our driveway and leaves behind two more piles o' puke. When we finally get home, I go right for my garden hose as Amy tends to the guys as the one carries the other to his car. Nothing like hosing down your car at 2 in the morning while your drunk, puke-covered girlfriend helps one gay guy carry another gay guy to his car.

Fiesta? Oh, I don't think so.