Living the American dream.

So, I went home to the US for 3.5 days to be an active participant in the celebration of my friend C’s wedding. Remember when I fretted over being a bridesmaid? Well, I assisted in planning a shower for her! And then attended! As a surprise!

I wish I had a camera the moment she saw me. She was all ‘No way!’ and I was all ‘Way!’ And then Rufus showed up and, after a few drinks, we hopped in a phone booth.

The shower was lovely and safari themed. Enough animal print lingerie was given as gifts to make this theme totally worth it. And the bachelorette that night was alcohol themed. We embraced that, too.

The whole time, though, I kept thinking how I felt like I was in my early 20s again (a.k.a. Irresponsible 20s). I was without husband and child, and I spent an afternoon sipping something called Huckleberry Lemonade which is just a different name for “drinking vodka at noon”.

Irresponsibility tasted quite nice.

And the irresponsibility wasn’t only contained to that day – my mother took me shopping the day before where she picked out multiple outfits for me and insisted I try them on. And then insisted on buying them for me. And then insisted on taking me to lunch, even though I offered to pay. And, I swear, at one point I walked around their house with no pants on. Honestly. I think the last time I did that I was 12 and I definitely didn’t have any cellulite on my thighs. (Sorry, guys.)

So, what happens when I go to America without an Irish companion, forcing me to make rational, adult decisions? I end up a drunk and pants-less owner of pajama jeans (irony, Alanis?), living in my parent’s TV room.

I'm pretty sure that's the very definition of the American dream.

Pictures will come (if this girl every sends them to me. Ahem.) and I plan on giving a detailed review of pajama jeans, but, for those of you who just can't wait - if they are wrong, I don't want to be right.

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Liz in Dublin