Tea Bagging & Drunkedness

I meet the dad tomorrow. O.M.G. For real. And last night I confirmed it via a drunk dial.

Who the F drunk dials someone they never met before? Much less someone who could possibly be, I don’t know, future FIL? Who? Seriously, who does that?

Well, in someone defense happy hour began waaaaaaaaaaay early yesterday. Monday. Happy hours are not just for Thursday and Friday nights. Not anymore.

We have one of our many agencies in town. This one I actually like. Have I told you that I no likey some of our agencies? They are so bland – no creativity or openness to new ideas. It kinda sucks for me because anything I think up with them is mostly trashed.

But the agency I like? They are so fun. They’re mostly young hip women. We check celeb gossip on their blackberries instead of using the bathroom breaks. We share new websites and blogs daily. One always tells me when a super secret sale is going down somewhere online. We tight. They can also be a bit raunchy, like Samantha Jones raunchy. And their raunchiness brings out my boss’ never seen until they get here raunchiness.

My boss is older than 50; I’d say she may be older than my mom – I haven’t confirmed it yet. My boss and I do not speak raunchy when its just the two of us here day to day.

Back to yesterday…we have an all day meeting, the bathroom breaks let us on to why Lindsay Lohan is stealing and the fashion breaking news of what Sarah Jessica wore to the London premiere of Sex and the City. Then, between 2pm and 3pm – the can of raunchy was opened with tea-bagging. TEA. BAGGING!

And my boss is leading this discussion. My close to my mom’s age boss is talking about tea bagging. If I was white, I would’ve been red. I begged one of the agency girls to stop the questioning that my boss was answering. But, no. Then my boss actually mentions her husband – OH MY BRAIN! He works here, too. I see him everyday, at least twice a day. I have visuals. TEA BAGGING visuals of my boss. With her husband.

And I am here to tell you that there is not a drink strong enough to erase that. After work we all went straight to the bar of the restaurant we were eating dinner at and guess who joins us? The husband.

I needed an effing drink – wouldn’t you agree? And since this particular bar specializes in rum drinks, well, I was down for a count. At dinner, I sat next to the agency girl who did all the tea bagging questioning and she had the nerve to bring it up again and retort the story to another coworker who was not present for the original convo. We’re eating dinner and I’m no prude, but come on. There are two men at this table and both of them are old enough to be be our dads!

Then in the middle of my rinsing the visual drinkathon, I totally forgot that I was supposed to call Cowboy’s dad to confirm his travel plans. It was getting late and I didn’t want to call him too late; he is older and all. Command Central cannot let Cowboy down.

I excused myself from the table and drunk dialed Cowboy’s dad. I know I was yelling. A lot. And I know I repeated a lot of what I said. And I know for sure I straight up told him that we are going to such and such hotel at the airport because they make fun drinks and what's a layover without being tipsy?

Oh. Yes, I think I did.