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Monday, December 13, 2004
That was the Friday-night mantra. Kind-of an affirmation to keep the vomit(s) away at Michelle’s work Christmas dinner.

We met up with the Glory Holes for pre-event drinks at TGI Friday’s (actually, it was one drink each . . . a 22-ounce Happy Hour draft). Having chosen our alcohol/path, we went to the dinner armed with the knowledge that we would be okay.

To make the strategy a sure-fire success, I steered myself away from fried hors d’ouvres, having only one crab cake. (I did have six un-Kosher bacon-wrapped shrimp and a few meatballs.) Dinner and dessert were innocuous enough, and I washed it all down with about (*calculating*) 56 ounces of beer.

As a bonus, I drank water in between the beers, so I was feeling down-right chipper Sunday morning. Chipper enough, in fact, to not be too concerned about losing all my money at poker.

Actually, that part really bothered me. Particularly the painful way in which I lost it. To my father-in-law.