Well, we made it.
We were heading down to the home stretch, the true test of ability and longevity and persistence and dodging cirrhosis of the liver. And, when all was said and done, we prevailed.

Three weeks, three weekends, three Fridays and Saturdays and even a few Thursdays of birthday celebrations were experienced. We came, we conqured, and we have the scars and bruises to prove it. Long live Aubrey’s birthday month.

But enough about that. It’s Sunday, and I’m mending my party wounds, including a toe that basically exploded, a few scratches in places that don’t normally receive scratches, and three loads of dishes in the dishwasher. For the first time in the history of Aubrey parties, which have been going stong since 1995, we ran out of alcohol. Seriously. We found one unopened beer that was hiding behind the empty punch bowl and the chocolate covered strawberries (which are even better when you return home AFTER hitting the bars) and the many, many empty dixie cups of jello shot residue.

The weekend included all things festive and debaucherous and frolicsome and wonderful. There were transvestites de-wigged, sex stores visited, greasy brunches eaten, band-aids needed, and pictures taken. The only thing better would have been if “The G” could have come, but, that notwithstanding, the weekend was a success by anyone’s standards.

And now we’re done. The house is slowly returning to it’s natural state of cleanness, save the random floating bunch of cat hair and empty glasses of diet coke on the coffee table, and – sadly enough – it’s sort of a letdown. I’ve enjoyed publically portraying that it was my birthday. I couldn’t wait to wear my grass skirt & coconut bra, couldn’t wait to see Alish and Lels and all of my favorite people that were coming into town to add to the celebration, couldn’t wait for the Sex & the City premiere that was nothing less than fabulous. And now?

It’s done.
Finito.
Finished.
Kaput.

We’re back to the daily grind, the snooze button-hitting and the laundry and the work and the normalcy that we call our lives. I’m back to over-analysis, to leaving wonderful messages on Mike & Wil with one “L”s machine (instead of singing them in person!), back to wearing full amounts of clothing and drinking like a normal person instead of a girl who thinks that Jager & Goldschlager shots would increase her breast size. A much needed break after a three week bender.

I can’t wait until next year.