It’s always brilliant to begin a Sunday examining the contents of your stomach, and musing to yourself that repurposed yellow acid/fluid on white porcelain looks rather like an egg with a broken yolk.

And there’s nothing like being in the twilight months of your twenty-sixth year, kneeling before a toilet and scrambling to shove the jeans you ripped off last night – which are still sitting on the bathroom floor – under your knees to protect them from the hard, cold, unforgiving linoleum as you bow down to the Porcelain God and await the moment your mouth will open and some veneration will come out.

Saturday night was The Trifecta, celebrating the birth of both Jessica and Aletha, and grieving the departure of Jen, the honkiest of slut warriors, as she heads off to THE FUTURE in New Zealand. About sixty people showed up at the bar, and as it was a departure from the normally lax Memorial Day weekend, the owner thanked us heartily a few times during the course of the night.

We paid up on our promise to drink his bar into a damn profitable night. Having been a while since I went out and got well and truly shitfaced, my tolerance wasn’t as high, so two car bombs and an indeterminate number of ciders were all it took to twist my stomach. See, when we began The Summer of Excessive Drinking and Inappropriate Behavior last year, we did it with great gusto and an amazing lack of concern about the effect it would have on our bellies and bank accounts. Indeed, we progressed into autumn and even winter with a similar enthusiasm, but it was spring that did us in: Our livers needed a nap, and our ATM cards – in my case, bent into a jagged parabola courtesy of being shoved in my pocket and sat on during countless drunk outings – begged for a respite from swiping. Our levels of drunky and funky decreased. (As did our updates on the site; Lauren and I are planning a little meeting of the minds with each other to figure out more entry ideas so we can get that booming again, with more than just boring blow-by-blow accounts of what we drank and where we went. We want it to be a tribute to drinking in general, not just a monument to our beer guts -- although that will have its place, too.)

This Memorial Day was our celebration of The Summer Of Excessive Drinking And Inappropriate Behavior, Part Deux. I hope we can set the pace again. Certainly we acted inappropriately enough – not only did I need a little nuzzling time with my favorite bathroom fixture on Saturday night before I could pass out, but I spent a good portion of the morning cuddling it as well.

So I grabbed a purple Tupperware receptacle, once intended for keeping lettuce crisp and suddenly reduced to little more than a prettier, rounder emesis basin. I shuffled down to the car, but my stomach started churning almost immediately.

I’m sure the drive-thru worker at McDonald’s is endlessly amused by the cavalcade of boozehounds who parade through the lane buying whatever greasy goodness can settle their stomachs. On this morning, they got me with slept-on, amazingly unkempt hair, hairy – nay, furry – legs, and a giant bowl in my lap, into which I stared morosely as Lauren calmly ordered my food and placed the bag at my feet.

“Unnngh,” I said.

I made it home, but not without chanting, “Almost there. Breathe. Almost there.” And the second we made it through the front door, I tossed my Big Mac and my receptacle onto the couch and bolted for the bathroom. “I’ll be right out,” I burbled.

Luckily, the Big Mac – after I’d thoughtfully tidied up my stomach to make room for its arrival – cured my woes, so all I needed to do was lie on the couch immobile for a few hours, and all was well. During that time I gabbed with my sister, who reminded me that we have a shared history of this.

“Remember that time I had the worst hangover, and I couldn’t stop puking, but K. and I had to drive home?” Julie laughed. “They had to give me a receptacle because there was no way I was going to make it. And of course I was throwing up the whole way. So when I went through the drive-thru, my receptacle actually still had puke in it.”

Game, set, match.

The night was fun, though. I got the hiccups – apparently a grand family tradition of some kind, as I’ve been drunk-dialed twice now by my sister’s friends, begging me through boisterous slurring for a hiccup remedy for Julie. I excused myself to the bathroom to try and hold my breath, and there I encountered a girl who looked kind of familiar, but I ignored that and just tried to regulate my damn diaphragm. She tried to counsel me and help me get a pattern going, but nothing was working.

“Talk to me,” she then said. “Just start talking – say anything – and you’ll forget to hiccup.”

Fair enough. I started babbling and eventually wound up asking if she’d “done anything,” which is a charming way of telling someone they look familiar to you. She laughed and looked at me like I was insane as I explained that I work in reality TV and she looked awfully like someone I’d seen before, and had she ever auditioned for something, perhaps, or…

“Wait. Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked. “Yep,” I hiccupped. “What’s his name?” she asked. “Kevin,” I replied.

Her eyes widened. “What’s his last name?” she demanded. I told her.

“OH MY GOD!” she screamed. “[Kevin’s sister’s name]’s brother?” My eyes lit up. “OH MY GOD I MET YOU,” I yelled. “Over Easter weekend! You’re her college roommate!”

We screamed and hugged. We were both hammered, obviously. But it was kind of a funny small-world incident, especially when you consider that she lives all the way across town. I didn’t feel bad for not remembering her name immediately because she hadn’t remembered mine, either, but had been hit with the same vaguely familiar sense when she saw my face. She insisted on buying me a cider, which when I’m loaded is about as tough a thing to accomplish as asking me to drink a Diet Coke and eat some potato chips. We spent the rest of the night, up to last call, laughing and talking… oh, about something, I’m sure. I have no idea. I think I gave her my number. Kevin appreciated the story; I wonder if I’ll ever hear from her.

So that was my weekend: Work, iMac lust, and alcohol. Not too shabby.

The air conditioning in our building shuts off on weekends and holidays, meaning that attempting to come into work on Memorial Day involved a lot of sweating and breathing thick, hot air.

So when Lauren came to meet me for coffee, and announced plans to go see The Day After Tomorrow with some friends of ours, I bailed on work – seriously, it was so sticky and stuffy up here that I felt like I could cut the air with a knife and serve it on crackers with cheese – and went to see the film.

It was, as expected, a bad disaster movie. Compared with 24 and its bioterrorism and nuclear bomb plots, or even Independence Day and its aliens, there’s just something inherently undramatic about a weather crisis. This was aptly punctuated by my friend Carrie, who only half-jokingly refers to the flick as, Run! It’s The Weather!

Some spoilers ahead, but really, there’s no spoiling a movie like this, where it’s pretty clear from the get-go that the Happily Ever Afters will outweigh the eulogies.

The movie’s a completely enjoyable bad disaster flick. I snickered my way through a lot of it, especially when the dog skirts death and the cancer patient gets trotted out for sympathy, and the estranged couple finds romance anew, and finally – and this one hits everyone close to home, I think – a pack of rabid wolves hunt the kids who are rummaging for medicine in a giant ship that has sailed through the flooded streets of Manhattan.

Roland Emmerich bandied about every cliché you could imagine, though sadly stopped short of having a character stare gravely off-camera during a slow push into a close-up, only to murmur, “God help us all.” There are, however, plenty of extreme close-ups of Dennis Quaid looking upset or aggrieved or confused, or confused about being aggrieved and upset about being confused. Rather than inspiring tension and empathy, though, it inspired comparisons between the size of his schnozz and the size of the polar ice caps. Truly, the most heroic moment of the film is the moment you see Dennis's nose in all its glory hogging the screen, and you realize just how big an obstacle was in the way of Dennis Quaid being hot, and how well he’s managed to overcome it. And you're tempted to cheer, but you can't, because people will think you're clapping for the film, and you don't want to be one of those people, because you hate those people, especially in a movie like this.

The thing that actively bugs me about the movie is the title. What the hell does that even mean? In life, I know what it means, but within the context of the movie, it has no significance whatsoever. The weather front lasts a week. No one predicts it’ll hit as fast as it did – no one says, “The day after tomorrow, all hell will break loose,” or “It’ll all be over the day after tomorrow,” or some schmaltzy thing like that. Now, I’m not advocating putting a line that unforgivably cheesy into the film, but rather saying that the given name of the movie makes absolutely no sense. It might be some sort of quasi-profound statement about civilization taking its first steps in the new Ice Age, but this movie doesn’t deal in profundities, no matter what modifiers you add to dilute them.

So we’re left with a stupid, nonsensical name for a stupid, nonsensical movie. Maybe that’s the only connection there needs to be.

One final thought: I’m proud as hell of my sister.

No, sorry, one real final thought: Someone by the user name of “greektamara” wrote me a note saying she was the mother of one of the girls on our show last season, and wondering if we’d met at the party. Her user name leads to an error page, so on the offchance that you’re still reading, greektamara: We did actually meet that night – shook hands briefly, and in my case, almost certainly drunkenly -- and your daughter was my favorite. She should be so proud.

Someone got here by searching for: GETTING BANGED IN AMSTERDAM Reading: Songbook, by Nick Hornsby Watching: The Day After Tomorrow, obviously, and also The Bourne Identity last night while I read. As such, I didn’t really follow it too much.