Number 4: "It was almost lifelike."

Location: Kokomo, IN (City of Firsts)
Date: Friday November 30
Event: Out of the Blue show feat. Elise Shrock
Venues: Sycamore Marketplace...
followed by the infamous Sycamore Grille...
the McDonalds on Sycamore...
and, of course, Camp Mitchell.

Chalk this one up to one of my more colorful hometown evenings with my parents, a gaggle of Purdue kids, several buckets of flavorful lagers, Diana's 2am organic brunch and cocktails, and shamelessly enthusiastic best friends.

[To set the stage for the evening, allow me to fast forward to 9am the next morning... when I woke up in my parent's house... in the guest bedroom... in a twin bed... with my brother's friend sharing the bed with me... and another of his friends in the other bed. Yes... classy.]

The evening began chez Shrock, a fashion show extraordinaire to the background television soundtrack of Amy Grant and her husband on Oprah. That's right... Amy Grant in all of her 'let's watch my schmoopy wedding montage and sing carols' glory. To her I say, "Congratulations, Ms. Grant. Your hair has improved since 1991... but we would all sleep a little better at night had we not endured the video of you on the porch of a log cabin in your rocking chair and his-and-hers velvet cloaks."

Apparently this is the ideal conservative religious marital fashion experience. One can only compare the bedazzled, country-fried "Mr. and Mrs. Federline" track suits and shudder. Equally.

By six o'clock the Von Shritzell ladies find themselves at the Marketplace facing down a giant pile of fried green beans, sweet potato fries, wings, and a steaming bowl of fresh mussels. Meal highlight: collecting bones, shells, and corresponding bits in large plastic pitcher fondly referred to as "The Gut Bucket." Said vessel gleefully photographed to preserve memory of its loveliness. It's the art of the everyday that truly brightens life.

The acoustic stylings of Jay and Dave opened the stage. Unfortunately a certain core of Lafayette patrons were not present for this due to a severe case of Being Lost In The Middle Of Nowhere. Things were a little tense upon their arrival due to the flaming daggers shooting out of a certain few sets of eyes toward the unfortunate (and hungover) driver. Pats and Eddy quickly attempt remedy by ordering drinks.

Fast forward to Out of the Blue's second set, a three song number featuring a local radio celebrity. Side Note: Etta James should always be followed by ad-libbed "If I had a Million Dollars." It was spectacular. Favorite verbal praise of performance: "I mean... they told me you were good... but you were, like, really good. Seriously."

I shan't attempt to describe the joy and merriment of getting down on the dance floor with our mothers, brothers, fiancees, and a certain middle aged gentleman who knew me well in childhood who told me directly that I had "grown up nicely."

Have since decided to ignore shady undertone of said compliment and pretend that my... err... physical development had anything to do with it. Because that is simply creepy and I won't allow breast-related asides to rain on my back-home-again-in-Indiana groove parade. Eeeeeeeeekkk.

Kudos to the gentlemen for volunteering to dance with us. Simply astounding what a few liquid dance lessons can do for the manliest of fratmospheres. Well done, boys. Well done.

Determined after closing several sky-rocketing bar tabs that the night should not end, our fraggle of a group proceeds one block west to another downtown drinkery. Although this place remains at the top of the alleged 'where to go for Kokomo nightlife' list, we managed to catch a completely deserted cavern of a bar and descended upon one of many empty tables... Truthfully I was relieved. The last thing most of us wished to encounter was a barrage of awkward meet-and-greets with former high school classmates and any variety of childhood acquaintances.

Although, even in my hazy/giggly/slurring state, I do recall finding the waiter to be most unfriendly. Considering that we were the only patrons (and therefore his evening's source of income) I find that a very unacceptable rudeness. Bad form, sir.

Cue Allison ordering tequila shots. [mistake]

Cue Allison drinking a kamikaze shot immediately after. [worse mistake]

Cue caravan to McDonalds. Pulling around the drive-thru in parallel, we leave our windows open to allow for conversation between my car and Wes's... which I don't actually have any clear memories of but I am certain involved several well-placed Sordid Lives quotes and a good deal of ridiculousness.

As passenger, I find myself suddenly affronted by one husky stack of 20-something redneck man leaning into my face and bellowing inquiries as to the nature of our interaction with the boys in Wes's car. "These guys botherin' you?" He had jumped out of his enormous black rumble of a pick-up truck with the itch to start a fight under the stale veneer of chivalry. Oh my redneck life.

Am pretty sure I did my best drunken-blonde-bat-of-the-eyelash-breathless-gasp, "What? Ohhhhh! noooooo! [giggle] That's my fiancee!"

[I must give thanks here for our heroic sober drivers, Wes and Eddy. Most deeply appreciated, especially in the circumstances. Sobriety in Kokomo is not an easy thing.]

We return home to Camp Mitchell and descend upon the kitchen like animals to the food trough. For reasons unknown, Mama Mitchell was still awake and whipping up cocktails and scrambled organic eggs with the gusto of an infomercial chef. Have been informed that I paired my snack wrap with a couple heady crown old fashioneds. [yet another terrible mistake]

We split into each and every room in the house, pulling out beds and blankets and couches like the drunk refugees that we are. In my now-blacked-out oblivion, I decide to forgo my own down-feathered cocoon of a bed upstairs for one in the guest bedroom. Am quite positive I invited myself and forced one of the boys to sleep with me. In a twin bed. In my mother's guest bedroom that she calls 'the pretty room' and my grandfather calls 'the dead ladies room' due to its set of heirloom furniture and many family photographs of now-deceased female relatives.

As I said, I do not recall this portion of the evening. I do recall, however, waking up and squinting at my wrist for the time. 9 am. Completely disoriented, I swivel my gaze around the room in exhausted stupor and wonder where the hell I am and how the hell I got there. Am wearing my black bar top and a pair of my youngest brother's athletic shorts. I turn over and come face to face with my brother's friend staring at me with a look that says, "I don't know what to do with you and cannot make up my mind how to politely address this awkward situation."

Allow me to clarify that this night was not one of aggressive romantic intentions on my part. To be quite honest, I. hate. sleeping. by. myself. This sentiment is exponentially magnified by massive consumption of alcohol and my general sense of decorum is thereafter discarded entirely.

Cue Diana entering with water glasses, a barely concealed smirk and roll of the eyes, and ibuprofen for all three of us. Drew soon follows with a shot of Mona Vie for me. [best hangover cure ever] Let it be said, this situation is most entertaining in view of my mother's staunch no-sleeping-together-in-my-house-unless-you're-married rules. Ah yes. Turns out I do have an inner sense of rebellion. Very Easy Rider. Take that, Mom.

Although... in all truthfulness... Eddy's shrugged summation,' You sleep where you fall,' is closer to the truth of my choice of bed.

Breakfast finds a few stragglers and I seated around the kitchen table pouring over the local newspaper and heralding the town's landmark tourist attractions, specifically Old Ben (the taxidermied remains of the largest steer I have ever seen in my entire life and subsequent proud town trophy. Additional bizarre fact: Old Ben's tail was stolen years ago and remains mysteriously absent to this day. I'm not kidding).

I miraculously managed to eat about a third of a banana and later some of Diana's world famous banana bread as well... followed by a 30 second shower and change of clothes.

I say my goodbyes and kiss my parents. I walk down the driveway to where E had parked my car the night before... only to find one dead-ass battery and a car that not only won't start, it won't even gurgle a complaint. As in silent. No. Juice.

I hobble back inside and plead for my father's help with a jump-start. It just so happens that we are a household with its own car-starter. Yes, auto troubles are so typical of our clan that my father felt the need to invest in a product specifically designed for dumbasses. Turns out it just wasn't man enough to get the engine started. I mean honestly, when E and I hit the skids, we really go for broke. Our motto? "Go big or go home." We therefore turn to the tried-and-true jumper cable method. 20 solid minutes of revved truck engine and linked motors later, my battery is still absolutely lifeless.

Mind you, it is a Saturday (the second busiest of the holiday shopping season) and I am due to be at work.

Thankfully Dad roots around in the basement workshop and discovers the God of All Jumper Cables. These things were seriously the thickness of Paul Bunyan's wrists and had the aura of brawny man's man oozing out of their sinister copper jaws.

Well, those actually worked after a while and I managed to peal out of the neighborhood and make it to work only 15 minutes behind schedule. Of course by this point my fourth hangover of the year has me in its evil clutches and I am stuck in the anxiety nightmare of a whirlwind retail cyclone. Oh, and my bosses' boss spends the afternoon at the store. I swear this woman has a sixth sense for when I will overindulge and purposely schedules her visits exactly one day later.

Yikes.