Welcome to Sober October, everybody!

There is now in existence a picture of me eating rainbow-colored, penis-shaped lollipops with my childhood babysitter.

All things considered, Barbie's bachelorette party was pretty tame. We got too drunk too early, and she and I spent half of dinner in the bathroom - her puking, me verging on crying because, to put it bluntly and quickly, marriage is hard. Barbie had two pieces of genius advice: "You don't have to stay," and, "It feels good in the butt."

Then we sobered up a little and made our way to an Irish pub where a live band was playing. We flirted with the drummer, noted how old the crowd in the Gaslamp seemed, and Barbie's sister (the aforementioned babysitter) and I busted out the penis pops.

Then Irish called, as he'd promised he would - a reverse-drunk-dial because, by this point, he totally owes me. And somehow I convinced him to come down and meet up with us, which he did, just as Barbie and I were working to convince these Naval officers to buy us a round of Irish Car Bombs. (I'm sorry, are all the Irish things getting confusing? Between the pub and the person and the drinks?) I was, at this point, simply maintaining a nice buzz, but probably seemed a lot drunker than I felt, because I couldn't exactly walk straight.

"I'm here to babysit," Irish explained to the officers.

We walked back to our hotel shortly after the Car Bombs (thinking about it, I may have been the only girl to successfully down mine), and Irish followed, as it was on the way to his car. "No boys allowed upstairs," Barbie's sister cautioned as we walked through the glass doors of the Westin. So Irish and I sat down on some marble steps in the lobby. I felt a little dizzy, so I put my head in my hands, and he demanded to know what was wrong, unwilling to accept that it was just, you know, the alcohol.

"Fine, I'll go first," he said. And then he told me the truth - that he'd been an unwanted child of his Irish parents, who had beaten him until he was four and got adopted by his aunt and uncle; that the women he calls his "sisters" are really girls his aunt used to nanny for; that the house he now lives in is the one he grew up in... etc, etc, etc. And that nobody outside of his family knows this version of the story, because he's afraid of how they'd react. "But since you're replacing [fiancée] - or, not replacing, but taking her place - as the one person I can tell everything to..."

The look I gave him after I'd heard the real story must've been heartbreaking, because he's still talking about it now, four days later. "Why'd you lie to me?" was all I said. And he went on again about the unknown reactions, and his image as a tough guy, and the general embarrassment the whole thing could cause. I told him I didn't think it would be that bad, but then, I am a girl who has no secrets. "So now you go," he said.

He told me the next day that I'd said Lui thinks our marriage isn't working - which isn't entirely true; it's more like he worries about it. He told me I'd almost started crying and that he'd quickly changed the subject. I don't remember, don't know how much I believe. And like Monica says - and I paraphrase - even when you're crying, you should keep telling people you don't ever cry.

More of the story was related to me the next morning as well: "You kissed me on the cheek last night," Irish said over breakfast. (Bad as that sounds, it had been prearranged that he come to pick me up downtown while Lui was at the Chargers game, and we'd stopped at a Denny's on the way home.)

"Yeah, I do that sometimes... Is that ok? Because if it wasn't, I'm sorry, and I won't do it again." He back-peddled for a while, saying of course it was no big deal, even relating an anecdote where a middle-aged customer had kissed him on the cheek once because he'd helped her pick out what she was going to have for dinner that night. (But then... why announce it to me like that?)

I'd remembered this cheek-kissing business - I'd also remembered that after he'd walked me up to my room and we were standing in the hallway, we hugged like four times. What I genuinely hadn't remembered was why.

"It was after I'd told you that everything was going to be all right - at least on your end - and that if you ever needed anything, you can call me, day or night, while I'm at work, whatever, and I'll drop everything to be there for you."

Well in that case... Of course I fucking kissed him.

[Don't worry, kids. It's officially Sober October - for me, Irish, and Monica, at least - which means we're not in danger of anything like this happening again for about another month.]