Let’s take it back to last Thursday.
It all started out innocently enough. A $3 bottle of wine (not even a screw-off cap, we’re talking corking quality stuff here) and a free “Along Came Polly” rental from Blockbuster. [It was one of those walk into the video store kind of deals, where our mission is to pick out a film such as “Eurotrip” to be viewed under the influence of the case of beer chilling in the trunk of the car – only, low and behold, we see a big, yellow sign guaranteeing that if the wacky Jennifer Aniston and Ben Stiller romantic comedy was not on the shelves then we would be granted a coupon to come back and rent it for free. The Boyfriend and I never pass up “free,” alas a couple days later Polly came home with us. Of course, Polly took her sweet time getting back to Blockbuster, sticking us with late rental charges. That bitch.]
About 20 minutes into the movie we run out of wine and I insist we walk to market down the street and buy more. The vote is unanimous. About $6.50 (with tax) in white wine consumption later, I’m walking the dog and calling everyone in my cell phone. Turns out my friend is en route to a bar to hear some guy in our office building who goes by the name “Coon” drum in his band. Following a final glass of wine and a broken beer bottle (my fault, I knocked it over), The Boyfriend and I are headed out around 11 p.m. on a, gasp, work night.
While out, we proceed to drink several Guinness-consistency type beers -- because they are only $3 a pint. Next thing I know, The Boyfriend is super drunk, showing signs of temporary amnesia by referring to everyone as ‘that guy’ and ready to head-up a mosh pit with the crowd of maybe 10 people. I, myself, am marinating in all the beer I've dumped down the front of me. Again, the vote is unanimous and we decide we need to leave.
We hop on the first bus we see, which made The Boyfriend very upset at some hoodlum children who were stealing stuff from an older gentleman sleeping in his wheelchair.. at least I think that he was slurring "That ain’t right! Those kids ain’t supposed to be doing that!" I was more preoccupied wondering what three, gangsta-clad 12-year olds would be doing out at 1 a.m.
We take the bus all the way to The Boyfriend’s place -- only we are not staying at his place. Both our cars are by my apartment, so I suggest we run (because I am drunk and therefore that makes perfect sense) back to my place (about 1.5 miles). It's late and I am freezing, etc. The Boyfriend, only because he is drunk, agrees. We run -- mainly with me jogging backward facing The Boyfriend shouting, "come on Boyfriend! you can do it! run, Boyfriend, run!" -- until we run right into a burrito place. The Boyfriend announces he is too drunk to order and throws a $20 at me. I suggest we split a burrito, since they are the size of a newborn, and The Boyfriend agrees but is perplexed how two people might eat one burrito at the same time. I am way ahead of him, and request the five-pound late night “snack” be cut in half for us. Now, watching The Boyfriend try and eat the burrito is interesting... he is using a spoon for some reason and his hands, but still meats, cheeses and sour cream are flying all over the place. Post drunk-eating, and after convincing The Boyfriend that he can, in fact, stand up and walk, we leave the burrito place, which is three blocks from my apartment. The Boyfriend hails a cab. I tell him that we don't need a cab and he, yet again, is confused. Eventually he waives the cab driver off and dramatically stumbles down the street bitching and moaning as if I have just suggested he walk to St. Louis. [Hey, at least I didn’t request we run again.] Oh, I forgot to add that while we were leaving the burrito place, like the classy drunk I am, I dump the entire basket of tortilla chips right into my purse. I then eat most of the tortilla chips on the short walk home, thinking the whole time that this is perfectly acceptable behavior, and a brilliant idea, nonetheless. By the time we get home it is late and The Boyfriend sets the alarm for 7 p.m. and flops down on the bed and is out. I manage to walk the dog again, put my shoes away, and change into my pajamas -- yet somehow I skip the hygiene portion of the routine -- the face washing/teeth-brushing.
Six in the morning I wake up very confused and then remember that I have a job to go to. That is the worst feeling in the world. The Boyfriend tells me he is still drunk and I believe him. He calls in sick, I get ready for work.
By 6 p.m. that night I am on a school bus of strangers with a turkey sandwich, enormous peanut butter cookie and a can of Bud Light. Okay, I am with one friend who asked me to see Rufus Wainwright with her a couple of weeks ago. Day of the show, her boss says he won some tickets that included seats (we had lawn tickets), transportation, dinner and beer. Yeah, so I am on a school bus, in traffic, with easy listening adult contemporary ‘hits’ blasting in my ear and as it turns out, no seats to the show. We spent the evening on the lawn far, far away from Rufus fighting off mosquitoes and watching preteens make out.
At 8 a.m. the next morning I wake up in bed with my Siberian Husky and a pile of puke – hers, not mine.
I have no quarters for laundry in my building’s basement and only two hours until I have to pick The Boyfriend up to head out to the suburbs so I can buy a car. The dog and I hit the streets and get kicked out of the first Laundromat, where I am yelled at in, I think, Spanish. Apparently change machines are for customers only.
Whatever. I eventually convince the woman at the Quik Pantry to give me change for my $1.29 drink in ALL quarters. I paid with a $10.
Fast forward, and I am in a town so small it has one main road, where I meet Ed. He gives me $1600 for my car and I give him lots more for one of his cars. We shake hands and I am out of there and off to a graduation party, where I will spend the next four hours chasing The Boyfriend’s nieces and nephews around a bar… and hear things like, “She’s hot, but she’s got a kid… I’d still ‘do’ her, though.”
Next stop, a newlywed couple’s first backyard barbeque. We show up at 8 p.m. and drag the bbq out another four hours. Once all the beer is gone, we head to a bar. Sure enough, burritos are eaten around 1 a.m.
Sunday, I’m awake and at the store before noon getting ingredients to make side dishes for a second barbeque – this one a Father’s Day theme.
And that’s pretty much how it all went down.