It's My Party and I'll Barf If I Want to

Real lady-like, I know. Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. In honor of the occasion, my friends and I went to Margaritaville to celebrate with Jimmy Buffett and his tequila. What better way to celebrate my birthday than wasting away in Margaritaville searching for that lost shaker of salt?!

Turns out Margaritaville isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's actually a cheesy place with bizarre characters and way too much Jimmy Buffett memorabilia. I get it that it's his restaurant, but that much Jimmy Buffett just isn't healthy. And after last night, I won't mind if I never hear another Jimmy Buffett song for as long as I live.

We started off with a round of margaritas. What else? My Desdemona Raspberry Rita was good, but too sweet. For my second drink, I opted for a Bahama Mama. Yum. And for dinner I ordered a Cheeseburger in Paradise. How could I not?!

My Cheeseburger in Paradise made me barf. No lie. I barfed it up. It's not because I was drunk. I had one margarita and was only halfway through my Bahama Mama when my meal came. The burger was DELICIOUS. I was thoroughly enjoying it until I started to feel sick. I got this awful pain in my chest like heartburn, so I tried to breathe deeply hoping it would go away. It did not. Then I started to sweat. I could feel cold drips of perspiration rolling down my cheeks and back. I had to take off my cardigan. Then I got a bit dizzy. I repeat: I was not drunk. I hadn't even finished two drinks! I had to excuse myself, went to the ladies room and puked up the burger, fries and pickle (which was the size of a canoe) that I had just eaten. Happy Birthday to me! GROSS! I felt much better after I barfed.

My sister came in to see what was taking me so long. She wasn't entirely concerned. (Mainly she was asking because our 18-year-old neighbor who tagged along wanted to know if I planned on finishing my burger because he wanted it.) She immediately noticed that my face was as green as the paint on the walls. When I told her I yakked she shrugged her shoulders, asked if I was ok and went on her way.

Upon returning to the table, I did not finish my burger, fries, or canoe-sized pickle (my 18-year-old neighbor who tagged along ate it despite the fact that it made me sick), but I did eat the complimentary birthday ice cream sundae that came later. No one even sang to me, though. The waitress brought over the desert and said "Sorry, I can't sing. You're friends will have to because I can't." WHY NOT?! Where's the rest of the wait staff? Aren't you supposed to sing to someone when it's their birthday?! Isn't that in the job description?! PLUS, we were in a VIP section because one of my friends knew someone who worked there. You're telling me they don't sing to birthday girls who sit in the VIP section?! JIMMY BUFFETT! WHAT KIND OF RESTAURANT ARE YOU RUNNING?!

No one sang me "Happy Birthday." I didn't get drunk (though at times I questioned whether or not I was simply because everything about the evening was so strange). All I got was an upset stomach and a dumb balloon hat that some guy on stilts made for me. (I told you the restaurant was filled with weirdos.) Next July 29th, I'm staying home.

TMLYM

Jack White, you are so cool.

Independence Day (the Gay Way)

I celebrated the Fourth of July on a rooftop in Manhattan with a handful of fairy godfathers and a bottle (or 2...or 3...) of champagne. No one makes me feel more fabulous than the hottie in the fedora pictured below.
To top the weekend off, Lady Gaga (yes, THE Lady Gaga) commented on one of my pictures on Facebook. This is not a joke. I thought it was a joke when the hottie in the fedora pictured above called to tell me the news. "No way," I said. "She did not. This is a joke, right?" Hottie in the fedora replied, "No! She did! I'M SERIOUS! YOU HAVE TO CHECK IT OUT!" I did check it out. Now you have to check it out. It's super awesome. Click here.