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It was my first night of freshman year. After my parents finished helping me unpack and hugged me goodbye, I had only one thing on my mind: to get drunk that night. What can I say? I happen to attend one of the schools that consistently makes the Princeton Review’s list of biggest party schools every year (OU, Oh YEAH!) and I had high expectations for my first night out and about. Also, unlike my fellow freshmen, I knew some older kids from high school and had a solid invite to house party. Score.

In honor of the occasion, I insisted that my new roommate and I start the night by taking shots of 140 proof absinthe I’d smuggled back from Europe. Needless to say, we were both pretty trashed before we’d even left the dorm. Not that that fact stopped us from downing the endless cans of Keystone Light that were handed to us throughout the night.

As we left the party, trashed beyond all measures, myself already having broken my shoes, neither of us was looking forward to the trek home. Luckily, one of my guy friends from high school offered to walk us back. He claimed he wanted to make sure we got home safely, but he didn’t do much to help as I fell flat on my back in the middle of the sidewalk.

But it wasn’t until we got back to the dorm that the real trouble started.

During the move, my dad methodically set up my new loft bed so that my roommate and I would have more room in our absolutely tiny dorm room. I thought it was a great idea at the time….until I realized the difficulty in climbing into bed after a few (or far more than a few) cocktails.

Flash forward to my roommate pushing my butt up the ladder as I grabbed the frame of my bed to pull my drunk ass up. I didn’t know at the time, but the frame wasn’t secured to the loft, just heavy and set on top of it with the mattress on it. I somehow managed to dislodge it and the entire loft came crashing down on us. Instead of freaking out/calling for help/doing anything at all, my roommate simply got into her own bed as I tried, by myself, to push my loft back to a point where I could sleep on it.

Eventually I gave up, pulled my blankets onto the ground and made a nest for myself. The next morning, after waking up and reliving the entire evening via my roommate’s hazy memory, we got a few boys from the hall to help us put the loft back together. (Great ice breaker!) Then I spent the next few weeks working tirelessly to master the art of getting into that loft while drunk. It took some time and a few more late night spills, but I finally got the hang of it sometime near Thanksgiving.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe 1) that this all happened on my first night of college, 2) that I survived my night of college, and 3) that my roommate and I actually became best friends. But it did, I did and we did. And for that, I. love. college.

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By now you’re almost half way through Winter Break. You’ve got the major holidays behind you- Christmas eve, Christmas day, New Year’s- and that means pretty much all scenarios involving getting drunk with your family have expired. How’d you do? Make it through with minimal blows to your self-respect, pride, and squeaky-clean image?

If you’re like me and live in a house of crazy, you hit the bottle. Hard. And so did your mother, father, nineteen year-old sister, great aunt, bizarre gay uncle, both grandparents, and that random cousin you think is hot (but he’s only like…a third cousin through a second marriage, so it’s okay).

I suppose this submission isn’t so much a “Morning After” as it is a “Week After,” because let me tell you, the occasions on which I embarrassed myself this holiday season were hardly contained to one evening. Sure I could pick one moment to elaborate on, like when my mother explained to her sisters that all the nice boys at school were so interested in me. Of course I had to open my mouth (full of wine-stained teeth) to correct her. The “nice boys” are only interested in one thing. And I just happen to do that one thing really, really well. Then, naturally, I thanked her for giving me so many popsicles as a kid because I sincerely believe that’s where I get my technique.

I could also tell you about how I referred to the lemon curd as “funky jizz” or told grandma she shouldn’t be having sex now that her hip is acting up. But those are mild slips of the drunk tongue.

I might enlighten you on how I cried as I held my baby nephew because, and I quote, “I just wanna baby! Men don’t want me, lesbians probably don’t want me. Should I adopt? No, no. They’ll say I’m a deadbeat mom in the making. And so I’ll end up forty and alone. Single. So single. And I can’t even have cats because I’m allergic! The cats don’t even love me! Ohmigod what am I going to do!?” But I won’t tell you about that because I was slurring and I might have spilled my wine onto the baby’s lap…and that just reflects poorly on me.

How about when I tried to make out with the aforementioned hot not-through-blood cousin? Yeah, you’re not getting that one out of me.

Needless to say, 2011 is welcoming me with AA meetings, family counseling, and a bevy of apology notes. Hope you fared at least a little better. Happy New Year!

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I was one of the good kids in high school. I didn’t drink. I didn’t do drugs. And my close friends were the same way. During my senior year, my best friend’s parents went out of town and left her in charge of the house. Naturally, she decided to have a party. In our minds, that meant inviting some boys over and hanging out. Not your typical “my parents are out of town” rager, to say the least.

So at 8pm that night, I told my parents I was sleeping at her house and headed over. When I got there, the other 6 or so people had already arrived, including our friend Jordan who was home from his freshman year of college for the weekend. And with him, a “cool new thing” he tried the weekend before.

“Dude, you just mix Robitussin and orange juice and it’s the coolest thing ever. And it’s not like drugs so it’s legal and you won’t get in trouble. But it’s really fun. I did it and was just, like, so happy for, like, 4 hours. Then it goes out of your system.”

He made it sound so fun, so easy, so consequence-free. Plus, being that I’d be heading off to college myself the following year, I thought I should try it. Explore my horizons a bit. So Jordan mixed the concoction for 4 of us (the other 2 were lame…or as I later found out, the smart ones) and we drank up.

At first, everything was fun. Especially riding down the stairs on my butt. So fun, in fact, that I did it over and over and over again for 3 hours. I also enjoyed spinning in circles, touching the walls, and staring at the carpet. Before I knew it, 6 hours had passed. Turns out, that whole “only lasts 4 hours” thing only pertained to Jordan, a boy who had a good 50 pounds on me.

I was still feeling light, free, like was inside a video game, when 2 a.m. rolled around. I threw myself onto the ground for a little “resty time” when I heard what sounded like a sprinkler going off. I shot up and followed the sound to the kitchen. That’s where I found the my friend Mark, covered in his own puke. Confused and slow to register anything due to the obscene amounts of cold meds in my system, I looked around the kitchen. There was throw up on the walls, on the floor and on the ceiling. Turns out, Mark was also enjoying a little circle spin when his body decided otherwise. He kept spinning and the puke kept spewing.

I started laughing uncontrollably.

“OH MY GOD!” My sober friend screamed. “MY PARENTS ARE GOING TO KILL ME.”

I couldn’t help it; I continued laughing.

The next thing I remember, my friend was on her way to Walmart for supplies “to mop the ceiling” and I was on the floor of the bathroom, eyes completely dilated, having completely missed the toilet as I attempted to pee. Getting a little nervous (“am I gonna be like this forever?!?”), I got a blanket and attempted to sleep off whatever was going on in my body. Unfortunately, as soon as I closed my eyes, I began having nightmares that a gospel singer (yes, a gospel singer) was trying to kill me.

I guess I eventually passed out because the next thing I remember was light pouring in the living room windows. I ran to the bathroom to check my eyes and make sure I wasn’t totally messed up anymore. Thankfully, the nightmare was over, the puke was cleaned from the kitchen and all was back to normal.

That is until I came down with a nasty cold the following day and my mom brought me a bottle of Robitussin to help with the symptoms….

Never. again.

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I am currently studying abroad in an unspecified location in the world. We’ll just say… not in the U.S. (really narrowing it down there). My host university always organizes events at bars and such for students, but my roommates and I usually just pass on them because they just wind up being these huge all-American fests. But the other night we actually decided to go because this particular bar, in the red-light district, was serving unlimited free wine and beer between 9 p.m. and 10 p.m. and, honestly, who could pass that up?

We did our usual pregame before the bar and all 4 out of my 4 roommates wound up getting wasted. Literally, couldn’t stand up, needed-to-borrow-the-flip-flops-I-conveniently-had-in-my-purse wasted. Mind you, it was only around 8 p.m. We hadn’t even left the house and I was already fully concerned about my roommates’ well-being, mainly because bouncers in this particular city are extremely strict with blatantly belligerent people trying to enter into their clubs (I wonder why…).

But I was worrying for nothing. Somehow all of us managed to get let in and the real (free) drinking quickly began. After we all scurried over to the bar to grab some drinks I wound up chatting it up with an adorable American guy for a really long time while all my roommates disappeared into another adjacent room. I wasn’t too worried though; it was a pretty small place. Only when I finally made my way over there, let’s say around 9:30 p.m., 2 out of the 4 girls were missing.

The 2 girls I actually found (we’ll call them Christine and Ally) were pretty much too drunk to notice/care that the other 2 girls (Kaitlin and Jane) had vanished and were nowhere to be found. Soon after, Christine started making out with some short, relatively unattractive man (something extremely uncharacteristic of her) and Ally was on the dance floor with some guy.

I tried to awkwardly interfere and bother them a couple times about our lost roommates, but they just kind of told me to not worry about it. So, I went to find a quiet spot in the bar to call Jane, one of the MIAs. After I talked to her, I found out she decided to just up and leave for home without telling any of us. I kind of thought she sounded a bit strange because she wasn’t responding to most of my questions, but I (wrongly) assumed I just woke her. Ally then frantically grabbed me and told me we needed to leave because she just got a call from a nearby police station that said they were with our other lost roommate, Kaitlin.

I somehow pried Christine away from her man and the two of us wound up waiting up against this pillar in the bar while Ally quickly ran to the bathroom. I then noticed Christine’s eyes were kind of closing and she appeared to be taking a bit of a nap. The security guards were apparently not big fans of this kind of behavior because they kindly escorted her out of the bar. I obviously followed closely behind.

Once Ally met us outside, we took a cab to the police station, where we were told that the cops had already taken Kaitlin home.

So we grabbed a cab back to our apartment. Everything was going just fine until I felt a few wet drops hit me on both my neck and chest. At first, I assumed it was just rain or something (even though the windows weren’t open. I was full of all sorts of interesting assumptions that night). But then I saw Ally put her hand on Christine’s back as she opened the window.

Between that and the rancid smell, what was really going on was becoming all too clear.

The cab driver was surprisingly pretty cool at first and didn’t seem to mind that there was literally puke all over his backseat. Ally and Christine were also covered in quite a decent amount of it as well. Having just been splattered, I guess I lucked out. But as he finally realized what was going on, the cabbie mumbled something about a “cleaning fee for our troubles” and hiked the meter up to EIGHTY DOLLARS.

We all got out and were making our way down the street towards our apartment when Christine decided to just take her puke-covered dress off in public. She walked into our apartment complex in nothing but a bra and some lacy underwear. Fine, I guess; it was late and no one was awake to see the show. Only when we got to our floor, the elevator doors opened up to who else but two (fairly young, attractive) cops.

“What are you covered in?” They asked, eyes darting back and forth from my nearly-naked roommate to my covered in red-wine puke roommate.

I casually pushed Ally and Christine towards the direction of our apartment (while managing to get my hand covered in puke from Ally’s back) to try to keep us all out of any more trouble. I did my best to ignore my disgust and sweet talk the officers by saying something like, “Oh, you know. We’re fine! Long night. Uh… I’ll take care of them. Thanks for everything! Have a goodnight!”

We finally got into our apartment. There was glass shattered all over the floor leading to my bathroom and very few lights on (we later discovered this was Jane’s drunken doing). I took a peak into my bathroom and found Jane hovering over the toilet bowl while Kaitlin was safely tucked away in bed, courtesy of the fine police.

It was 11:15 p.m.

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“Chug! Chug! Chug!” was all I heard as I funneled my Natty Light. I was standing on a table (don’t judge) at the dirtiest best frat house on campus, my head tilted back, guzzling down that cheap beer like it was going out of style. (Editor’s Note: Was Natty Light ever in style?) When I was done, I jumped off the table, did a little curtsy and high fived a couple boys, before grabbing my roommate by the arm and dragging her toward the bathroom.

That being my 5th (or 6th? 7th?) beer of the night, it had gone straight through me and there was no way I was going to wait in that bathroom line all by myself.

The line was long but I didn’t mind. It gave me plenty of time to soak up all the “you go girl”s and “you’ve got mad chugging skills, woman”s that came my way. I smiled, blushed and crossed my legs to keep my broken seal from dripping down my legs.

When it was finally my turn, my roomie and I rushed in so I could relive my bladder and dissect my arch enemy’s truly hideous outfit choice for the night (the girl was wearing a skirt so short I could see if she was ovulating….. needless to say, there was plenty to talk about). We were so caught up in our conversation (and perhaps taking a few funny bathroom pics) that we ignored the angry knocks on the door (as well as the angry, “what are you doing in there, pooping?”) and took our own sweet time.

Finally, we were done. I stood up,  buttoned up my shorts and flushed the toilet (with my shoe, of course). I was in the middle of washing my hands when my friend started screaming. I looked down and realized that the toilet was overflowing. All over the floor. And it wasn’t stopping.

“OMG! I ONLY PEED! I ONLY PEED!” I screamed as dirty toilet water seeped into my flats.
“OK, pause. Is there a plunger? Let’s find a plunger.” There was no plunger…but there were more violent knocks on the door….and a lot of water seeping towards it.

“What do we do!? Everyone is going to think I pooped!”
“Dude, we need to get out of here. My shoes are going to be ruined,” my roommate screamed as she jumped up on the sink counter.
“YOUR SHOES? What about my dignity? I can’t go out there. OMG. OMFG.”

I considered climbing out the window for a moment but then realized that I’d have to step on the overflowing toilet to get out. That wasn’t going to happen and, my shoes officially water-logged, I had no option but to open the door.

So I did.

Before the crowd of people now surrounding the door could say anything, I grabbed my roomie’s arm and ran (more like slopped) towards the door. We made it there in record time, but not before hearing “Hey! Funnel girl flooded the toilet!”

I didn’t stop running until I was home.

That’s the last time I flush at a frat house.

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To most, summer means reuniting with hometown friends, hosting backyard barbecues with beer pong, and traveling around the world with the college budget out of sight. But for me, this past summer meant going home to jobs, internships and the tiny closet I haven’t used since high school. The three months of being at home again would be the longest period of time I would be living under my parents’ roof (and rules, again) since coming to college, which meant three months without going out, partying and/or anything else of college student fun.

It also meant three months without sex. I’m not a nympho, but I do have a functioning vagina. So it was a loooonnng summer.

I had finally cut things off with my on-again-off-again boyfriend just before leaving my college town for the summer. We had our reasons for not trying to work it out anymore, but after a season away from our relationship – or any relationship, for that matter – trying to make it work was beginning to look a bit more attractive than usual…

After three months of family bonding and resumé building, I moved back to school for the extensive period of icebreakers and information sessions known as RA Training. At my school, the RAs share an apartment with a handful of their residents – mostly because there are no one-person apartments solely for the RA. – so this year, I found out I was to live with six of my residents.

A week after meeting my brand new roommates and moving in, I had a moment of physical and mental weakness: I called my ex-boyfriend. He immediately came over. And stayed the night.

The next morning, I was trying to get him out of the apartment without any of my new roommates seeing him – I didn’t want to give off that impression to them as their Resident Advisor, especially only after meeting them a few days ago. I opened my bedroom door and saw the hallways empty, all other doors closed. Coast was clear!

I had him walk in front of me towards the front door, and as we tiptoed and whispered and tried to be as quiet as possible, my ex-boyfriend suddenly said, “Hello, how are you?” to someone standing in the kitchen.

“…I’m fine.” An older man. A father. A very conservative father of one of my roommates. While we were trying to sneak out of the apartment, his daughter was getting ready to spend the day with him – he had just arrived to pick her up.

Obviously, I did not use this golden opportunity to introduce myself as the RA, or mention the fact that this guy was my ex and a one-time occurrence resulting from an uneventful summer at home. Although, I probably should have, because when we came back from breakfast, I found my roommate in tears and her father incredibly upset. For some reason, he had assumed that my ex stayed over with his daughter, who had moved away from home for the first time yet was already running wild the first week (good thing he had no idea about Welcome Week’s traditions!).

So not only did I have to explain to my residents that the boy in question was indeed there for me (and that I broke my own rules 6 days into the school year), but I also had to sit down with some girl’s father and explain to him that I, his daughter’s resident advisor, was responsible for the awkward walk of shame that morning.

That will definitely be the last time this year that I bring a boy back to my apartment!

…if anything, we’ll just stay at his place in the future.

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So one time I hooked up with a freshman. And I liked it. But I knew (or thought) it would be a one time thing.  Kind of like drinking a Venti before rush-hour was a one-time thing. Or shamelessly Googling pictures of Zac Efron. Or drinking margaritas on a Monday morning.

Yeah. Oops, I did it again.

Only this time he’s a sophomore…
And I’m about 4 months past graduation.

You’d think I would have figured these things out by now (that I’m probably too old to be prancing around the local college dive bar scoping out the sophomore scene), but I was too ignorant and curious.

He was just so sweet when I saw him.  He danced with me to my favorite Rihanna songs, bought me a Bud Light, held my hand while we stood up against the bar and made out.  His lips were just so soft and luscious.  Besides, I have been living at home for the past three months and hadn’t “gone all out” in way too long.  Like Fabolous would always say, this was my time.

Somehow, I lost him after bar close.  I was so deeply saddened, I took it upon myself to get in a taxi with some of his guy friends and go with them to their house in hopes of finding my freshman (now sophomore) there. He wasn’t. So I shamelessly texted him to find out where on earth he was. (So much for playing hard to get.) My sophomore texted me his address and before you could say ‘bad decision’ I was in a taxi (the passenger seat, mind you) cruising to the safety of my knight in shining (under)armor.

When I arrived at his house, I called him and he didn’t answer.  I had to pee. For some reason, I thought it was a good idea to take a tinkle in his bushes on the side of his house. When in college Rome, right? Anyways, once I’d finished my business (and took some extra time to drip dry) I called him again.  He said he was at another girl’s house and wouldn’t be back for an hour. I pouted, possibly started tearing up. He said just kidding and let me in. I laughed and slapped his chest. Oh em gee, he was so cute and playful!

When I was inside, he showed me his puppy. I melted into a puddle and we started madly making out in his living room. His game was just so good!  I had no recollection of any of his roommates getting ready to turn in upstairs, his whining dog, or the naked girl posters on the wall.

“Where’s your bed?” I asked him as we started to fall onto the futon.
“It’s right here, sweetheart.” He pointed to the futon.

Apparently he was one roommate too many and having him live there had violated some fire code, therefore he couldn’t “have a bedroom legally.”  Meaning, we’d be doin’ our thing in the communal living room. Awesome.

Not that I let that bother me. On the contrary, I was excited about the thrill of it all.

We made out and fooled around for a large chunk of time.  I’m serious, the last time I looked at the clock it was 6:30 AM and I could see a pile of Busch Light on the coffee table in a small sliver of sunlight. After ignoring the phone calls from my friend (who was still at the other guys’ house, locked in a guy’s bedroom and without keys…that’s another story) and going to the bathroom (in only a sweatshirt and skins), I fell asleep, spooning with my sweaty sophomore lover.

I woke up three hours later.  I had ten missed calls from my wingwoman who was an hour late for work and super pissed because I was the one who had her keys all along.  (I bought her a Starbucks later and she instantly forgave me after hearing about my night). But she was the least of my problems, because it wasn’t until waking up in the broad daylight (with a mind not altered by copious amounts of alcohol) that I realized the college nightmare I was in.

After rubbing crusties out of my eyes (carefully so as not to smear my makeup), I sat up and attempted to identify my clothing strewn all over the floor. At the same moment, my sophomore promptly flatulated on my thigh before nearly pushing me off the futon in his sleep. If that wasn’t bad enough, within my hazy vision I spotted laptops, empty Smirnoff bottles, racy Hooters posters, and a very dirty beer pong table.  Oh and, OMG, was that another girl’s thong?! I squeezed my eyes shut and threw myself under the covers as one of his roommates got up for class, then shot up from the futon (why does my body hurt so much?!), nudged the Sophomore and made him drive me home.

I do not regret my romp.  I had fun, and I am strong enough to say I’ve gotten over the minor age gap in our relationship. But, I do regret the three days after…

I was so sore, I had to re-apply Icy Hot all over my hips, thighs, and shoulders every couple hours.  I couldn’t sit on the toilet, go up the stairs, or properly maneuver myself into bed to nurse my wounds. I had bruises in mysterious places, scrapes on my hands (I’m assuming that was from my 2AM pee sesh in the alley) and two large hickeys on my neck.  To top it off, after staying up into the wee hours of the night, I inherited a mean cold due to lack of proper sleep.

It was ridiculous. I never knew dry humping could be so lethal. I’m too old for this sh*t.

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After a lot of internal debate and a few pro-con lists (and one venn diagram), I made the decision not to rush. So the night before rush began, I went out with a friend, tried on my first pair of beer goggles, and went home with David. He lived in a dorm all the way across campus so I made the safe/lazy decision to just spend the night in his ultra-luxurious extra-long dorm bed. In my head I assumed we would wake up and talk about everything under the sun including pop culture happenings, crazy campus construction news, the location of my bra, and breakfast ideas.

But it didn’t go as planned. He woke me up bright and early, said he had “stuff” to do, and kicked me out before I could even get dressed. So I left the dorm and began the long walk back to my dorm. Except I forgot about rush.

As I walked back to my dorm (which is surrounded by all the other freshman dorms) I encountered every single girl I’ve met at school so far. And I’m not even kidding.

Picture this: I’m wearing a typical walk of shame outfit and they’re all decked out wearing bright pink rush shirts. A sea of bright pink shirts asking me “is that you?” and “are you that girl in my Spanish class?” One of the older girls, upon seeing me in a black dress and boots, even handed me a mint and tried to corral me into line thinking I was in her rush group.

“No no,” I had to explain. “I’m on my way…home.”

So great. I’ve been at college for a month and now I’ll be forever remembered as that walk of shame going home during rush.

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I fell in love with Danny my freshman year of college when he dressed up as a sexy pterodactyl on Halloween. We lived on the same floor freshman year and I always went out of my way to run into him in the hallway. Like I would walk around outside his room claiming that I dropped my contact on the carpet somewhere in that exact area. Despite my complete awkwardness, we became really good friends and we spent the next two years heavily flirting with each other. But one of us was always involved with someone or getting over someone or hitting shamelessly on freshman girls (him!) and it never happened.

Until last Friday.

We were sitting on his couch eating college nachos (you know what I’m talking about…when you come home drunk and melt cheese on any and all crackers, pretzels, chips, cookies) and I got a sudden surge of confidence. I don’t know whether it was his cheesy breath or the fact that I drank tequila for the first time since freshman year, but I leaned in for the kiss. He leaned int too and before anyone could say “kisses con queso” (because who would say that?) we were in the throes of a passionate makeout sesh on the couch. At one point we came up for air and admitted to each other that we had both liked each other forever. Obvi this love confession swept me off my feet and I led him into the bedroom. It was fireworks, rom-com movies, and all that jazz.

Then I woke up. Doomsday.

My always irregular period arrived at the worst possible moment…on his white sheets. I began hyperventilating – like seriously hyperventilating – and trying to think of how to get out of his bed and clean it up without waking him up. But clearly my panic attack/heavy breathing/sobbing in the corner woke him. He rolled over and found the stain where I was supposed to be.

The look on his face was one I’ll never forgot. Pure disgust. I tried to laugh it off (“I guess I’m not pregnant?”), he tried to laugh it off. But it was pretty obvious he was more than a little grossed out. I volunteered to wash the sheets or buy him new ones (“OMG, I’ll get you a new mattress!”), but he didn’t look interested in either option. After a few minutes of awkward silence, I got dressed, and headed out.

I don’t remember any Drew Barrymore movies ending like this.

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I’ve come to learn two fundamental truths this week: the happy hour does not exist, and breaking and entering is easier than it looks. I’m serious.

If I had known that a quick drink with a friend after work was going to lead to free steaks with married men, a rooftop bar with what may or may not have been a British boy band on holiday, and a late night snack session alone in my friend’s boss’s apartment, I would have worn a better outfit to work that day.  Because that’s my biggest regret of the night… obvi.

But as I was saying before, there is no singular hour that is happy, at least not in my world. Personally, I want each hour to be happier than the next. And I accomplished that, to the max, with my friend Monica this past (epic) Wednesday night. One beer turned into three different bars, multiple drafts, and a gaggle of new male friends with money to spend. So, despite the wedding bands and balding heads, when they offered to take us out to dinner, who were we to say no?

The Bald Brigade took us to a restaurant in the Meatpacking District of New York that can only be described as a steak-turned-whore house. It was like a bachelor pad designed by a metrosexual with a taste for busty women and black satin. But seven courses (and seven gin and tonics) later, we were having a grand old time discussing how many times a week we can eat Chipotle without falling into coma. The verdict: 7 times… but only if you got the burrito bowl with no cheese or condiments, which basically sucks all the fatty joy out of it anyway.

Once that pressing issue was settled, it was off to the rooftop bar at the swanky Ganesvoort Hotel where we replaced our gentlemanly dinner guests with a group of British men who all sported the Justin Bieber hair do and were more than happy to make sure our glasses were never empty. It was around the time I was entering “Leo Your Fiancé” into my phonebook when I realized that …. wait a tick, I live in New Jersey, and it’s now three a.m. and there are no trains going home. And it’s a weeknight. One minute I’m sitting in the VIP section of a luxury hotel with the world on a string, the next I’m homeless and without a change of clothes for work in the morning. How cruel life can be sometimes.

While Monica found it prudent to seek shelter in the arms of a Backstreet Boy, I still had no place to go. That’s when Monica remembered her boss was out of town for the week. PERFECT. She sent me off to a Manhattan address, with only the knowledge that I could find a key to the apartment underneath the mailbox. Next thing I know, I’m entering into a stranger’s apartment and making myself right at home.

I proceeded to: take a shower, making sure to remember to shave my legs; get myself dressed for bed, finding a sassy little nightie in this woman’s top drawer; and eat a late-night snack of cashews and Rocky Road ice-cream. My last fleeting thought before I finally passed out was, I better make sure to position myself correctly in this lady’s memory-foam mattress, otherwise the jig is up! Because surely the empty jar of cashews and dirty ice-cream spoon in the sink wouldn’t be enough of a clue.

I woke up in the morning not 100% sure where I was… or why I had thought it OK to wear another woman’s clothes to bed. Or to even sleep in her bed in the first place. But I made sure to return the nightgown to its rightful place, make the bed, and return the key to it’s hiding spot underneath the mailbox.

As I walked around H&M searching for an acceptable outfit to wear to work that morning (I chose a see-through t-shirt dress, sans panties, and sneakers—I must have still been drunk), I pieced together my night. After giggling to myself in the dressing room (both at my reflection at at the previous night’s shenanigans), I realized that I’d actually learned a third lesson:

If you ever happen to become a boss of any kind, don’t – under ANY circumstances – let the location of your hide-away key slip to your employees. Just don’t.