First, I invented a new outfit. It involves wearing a skirt over jeans, which I have always wanted to try. No idea if it's working for me, but the beautiful thing about the hair is that I look like a mushroom regardless of what I do. Perfect time to take fashion risks.

Then I went out and tried on trashy lingerie. I don't know why this seemed like a good idea, but it was fun. Despite that whole purported seven-pound loss, the annoying parts of my body continue to annoy me. Perhaps they annoy me slightly less. And some of the trashy lingerie looked pretty cute. All the outfits that were boob-oriented, anyway. But I'm sure you guessed that.

(And no, this does not mean that I am submitting an application to Playboy's Women of Starbucks photo search. Thanks to all of you who sent me that link. While I'm on the subject: I have worked with some gorgeous baristas. And yet, no barista has ever been fawned over as much as Ry the rockstar. People. Love. Him. There needs to be a Men of Starbucks issue, so Ry could be the centerfold. I don't know what it is about him, but, I swear, that Hansel. He's so hot right now.)

Then I went home and... well, I was going to say "played with my mushroom" but then realized how incredibly dirty that sounds. For the record: that is not what I did. I experimented with my hair and the blowdryer. It is slightly less hateful now:

Just then, when I was all dressed up with no place to go, Laurie called and invited me over. For lack of a better plan (my plan was to read and mope all night) I headed over to her place. What followed was one of those nights that is impossible to plan: it just happens.

We ended up at The Mint (a short walk from Laurie's house) to meet Joey for karaoke. We sat near the bathrooms, began introducing ourselves to people and having people do the same, and by the end of the night, we were best friends with half the people in that bar, and the bartender was wearing Joey's clothes. Four different random people bought me drinks. And I had a beer spilled all over me, which is the incontrovertible sign of an excellent evening.

There was Harry, who told me I had a great singing voice (and therefore clearly was smoking crack) and gave me, randomly, donuts. There was the lesbian who held my hand while she waited in line for the bathroom and who, if she had been only marginally cuter, I might have ended up making out with in a bathroom stall. There was Kieran, the smoking hot British guy who gave me tons of suggestions for my trip to London and bought us all a round of Guinness. There was the guy who bought us a round of Frangelico shots for basically no reason. There were the three deeply drunk people who called themselves Randy, Paula, and Simon and (you guessed it) bought us a round of drinks.

It was that kind of night.

Laurie and I dueted on "Like a Prayer" and "Time After Time." My solo was "Closing Time" by my all-time favorite guilty pleasure band: Semisonic. People sang everything from Sinatra to Weezer to Dusty Springfield; that place has a hell of a playlist.

The last song they played was "Footloose" and everyone in the place was dancing up a storm. Some guy smacked me on the ass, which was totally cool since I had been the one who started the whole ass-smacking thing with him (yes, a complete stranger) several hours prior.

I had this great intention to "take it easy" and "get home early" and all that crap, but I ended up passed out on Laurie's bed at three in the morning, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Then I spent some time downing ibuprofen and toast before I was fit to drive home. I am writing this at five a.m., and I think I might still be a little drunk.

But I've learned something tonight. Even when I look like a mushroom and smell like beer, I'm fucking charming and people buy me drinks. Now there's a lesson to teach the kids.

(Oh god, I am going to regret all of this in the morning.)