The Jury Has Reached a Verdict: It Was All Craig's Fault

A mystery cocktail, a $1,000 Zelle attempt, and the legal case against leaving me unsupervised on Fremont Street.

There are two universal truths in this world.

First, coffee should always come iced.

Second, when something goes horribly wrong, it is probably Craig’s fault.

Please do not argue with me about this. I know some of you are already clutching your little imaginary pearls, preparing to defend that man because he seems so wonderful. And yes, fine, I get it. Craig is sweet. Craig is charming. Craig pays for everything. Craig is very attractive. Craig loves me for reasons that remain a mystery to science, religion, and possibly the FBI. And yes, while he is out here being Prince Charming with a credit card, I am over here calling him annoying, blaming him for every minor inconvenience, and generally acting like he personally created all the chaos in my life.

Which, to be clear, he did.

This time especially.

Let me take you back to Saturday night on Fremont Street after the George Birge concert, when everything was still mostly normal. George had just finished singing, Craig had survived being in the same zip code as one of his celebrity crushes, and we were making our way through the crowd to find Bestie and the Little Zen Master. It was late. It was loud. There were people everywhere. Fremont was doing what Fremont does best, which is making you question both your life choices and whether you accidentally wandered into a fever dream sponsored by neon lights and poor decisions.

At some point during all of this, I got thirsty. Not dramatically thirsty. Not “I need a cocktail” thirsty. Just regular human thirsty. I wanted something to drink. Water would have been lovely. A cute little hydration station would have been ideal. Maybe something with electrolytes because I am almost forty now and apparently my body requires maintenance like a used Prius. But this was Fremont Street, Readers. Fremont does not believe in wellness. Fremont does not care about your hydration journey. Fremont looked at me and said, “Best I can offer you is alcohol served in a plastic cup and a possible regret.”

Meanwhile, Craig and Jenny needed to find a bathroom. And by Jenny and Craig, I mostly mean Craig, because that man cannot go ninety minutes without needing a bathroom break. I do not know how he survived before Google Maps. There should be a special filter just for him that says, “Find nearby bathrooms before Craig starts pacing like a pregnant woman about to explode.”

So off they went on their little bathroom adventure, leaving me alone and unsupervised on Fremont Street.

This was mistake number one.

And because Craig left me unattended, this is where we begin building the legal case against him.

I wandered over to one of those outdoor bars because, again, I was thirsty. A woman in front of me ordered this cute little drink that looked fruity and innocent. It had juice. It had cherries. It looked fun. It looked refreshing. It looked like something you sip while making smart choices.

Obviously, I wanted it.

Now, did I ask what the drink was called? No. Did I ask what kind of alcohol was in it? Also no. Did I ask whether it was one of those drinks that tastes like fruit punch but contains enough liquor to make your ancestors feel something? Of course not. Why would I gather information before making a decision? That sounds like something a responsible person would do, and I was on vacation.

The bartender asked what I wanted, and I simply pointed to the girl’s drink and said, “I’ll have what she had.” That was it. That was the entire transaction. No questions. No research. No concern for my future self. Just vibes, cherries, and the confidence of a woman who had clearly learned nothing from any previous chapter of her life.

The drink arrived, and Readers, I hate to admit this because it only encourages bad behavior, but it was delicious. Absolutely delicious. One thousand out of ten. I still have no idea what it was, but I do know that whoever created it knew exactly how to disguise danger as fruit juice. It tasted like happiness. It tasted like summer. It tasted like the opening scene of a Dateline episode where everyone later says, “She seemed fine at first.”

Then I spotted Bestie up ahead with the Little Zen Master, who had officially shut down for the evening. It was nearly 11:00 PM, which meant Azzy had clocked out, left his body, and entered toddler sleep mode. Bestie was ready to get us to the Uber pickup and back to the Tower, because unlike the rest of us, Bestie still had enough brain cells functioning to recognize that the night needed to end.

And this is where the second problem appeared.

I had just paid twenty dollars for this mystery drink.

Twenty. Dollars.

Was I going to throw it away? Absolutely not. I am not made of money. I am made of coffee, sarcasm, unresolved grief, and questionable decisions, but not money. So, naturally, I did the only financially responsible thing a woman could do in that situation.

I drank it.

Fast.

Very fast.

Like my ancestors were yelling, “Finish it, Sarah, we paid for that.”

And that, Readers, is where the evening stopped being a clear memory and became a collection of blurry courtroom exhibits.

I remember getting back to the Tower. I remember taking off my shoes and announcing, either out loud or spiritually, that my pinky toe was healed. Apparently mystery cocktails have medical properties. Someone alert the orthopedic community.

I remember trying to talk to Kryssi. About what? No idea. Was it important? Probably not. Did I believe it was important at the time? Absolutely. Drunk Sarah is very passionate and has the emotional urgency of someone delivering a presidential address from the inside of a hotel suite.

I remember chasing Craig around the hotel suite. Why was I chasing him? Again, no idea. Maybe he had my phone. Maybe he was being annoying. Maybe his existence offended me. All valid possibilities. What I do remember is Bestie yelling at me repeatedly and informing me that if I woke up either child, he was return me to Fremont Street to become someone else's problem.

Then Craig took my phone. At the time, I’m sure I considered this a personal attack. A betrayal. A violation of my rights. A tragic moment in which the man who claims to love me tried to silence my greatness.

The next morning, I discovered he had taken my phone because I had apparently attempted to Zelle Kryssi $1000.

Yes, Readers.

One thousand dollars.

Not ten. Not twenty. Not even a dramatic fifty.

One thousand American dollars.

For what? We may never know. Was I paying her for emotional damages? Was I trying to sponsor her entire existence? Did I think I was Oprah? Was I simply overcome with friendship and bad math? These are questions for historians.

Thankfully, my bank saw the transaction and immediately stepped in like, “Absolutely not. This woman is under the influence of something fruity.” They slapped a fraud alert on my account, which I discovered the next morning while trying to piece together the events of the evening like a detective in a robe with dry mouth and moral confusion.

So thank you, bank. Truly. You were the only adult in the room.

Oh and I also remember there was a hot tub involved at some point because of course there was. We were at the Tower. The hot tub is basically part of my religion now. I remember getting in and yelling at Craig because the water was too hot, which was obviously his fault too.

So what did we learn from all of this?

First, maybe ask literally one question before ordering an alcoholic drink just because it looks pretty.

Second, if a cocktail tastes exactly like fruit juice, it’s probably setting a trap.

And finally, if you’re dating me, under absolutely no circumstances should you wander off and leave me unattended on Fremont Street. I require adult supervision at all times.

Craig failed to provide that supervision.

Therefore, ALL of this was his fault.