Speaking of: Exhibit A

So the last blog I said that the stories in my life are ridiculous. Well. Yes.

Exhibit A: I went out on Sunday, thinking it was Saturday, on account of my lazy Saturday (see, I tried to be good; even got shit for it) and day off Monday. I realized an hour after the Metro closed at 12, that the Metro, in fact, closed at 12 because it was, in fact, Sunday and not Saturday. (Evidently, I didn't learn anything from that, as yesterday I tweeted that it was Sunday.)

Right, so, Saturday Sunday, I went out in Dupont with some friends who were down from Pittsburgh. Hi Guys. They decided at about 1am, against my warning that the bar would be closed when they got there (and it was), to go to VA to meet up with someone else who'd come from a wedding. VA being further away from my humble abode - and it being late and I had to take a cab home and all - I decided to stay where I was.

This being the same bar that I blame for my stolen paintings, I apparently had made friends with the bartenders. Who knew? (Not me.) So, I'm a fun drunk? (Well, that's good at least.) So I stayed. The bartender had xBox set up "for [his] friends". He invited me to play, even though I have never played an xBox before. (I know, welcome to the 21st Century.) We played Tiger Woods Golf as he kindly made sure my glass was never more than half empty. And how is it that taste aversions to all kinds of beverages have developed for me over the years, but never vodka tonics? Or Jager. Both of which were happily consumed. Not that I particularly remember it all. But they were. Deliciously.

Drinks consumed, xBox played, game over; I was only 2 points under him (go me!), then memory fades. Yes, that's fucking right, my memory fades when I drink. And, Sidebar: Thank you all for your concern in reply to my Time Traveling post. But I am not an alcoholic because my memory hiccups when I drink. Some people slur. Some drunk dial. Some are unbalanced. Some fall. Some cry. Some text. Some pee the bed. I do none of these things; I simply forget. Completely (seemingly) coherent, just forgetful.(Okay, well, usually seemingly coherent, auto-pilot, whatever you want to call it, but when alcohol is freely flowing, that's just an unfair advantage: Like a tiger vs. a kitten.)

Oh my, so many tangents today. Back to the story: Self-refilling drinks. xBox. Memory fade.

(Mom, earmuffs!)

I wake up the next day thinking "Ahh, my bed is comfortable". I open my eyes and my beige walls are suddenly peach. Well, that's not right. I search my brain for some snippet of information as to how I ended up on a plaid couch under 2 comforters. Slowly, I sit up on the couch, feeling less than good and remembering that I may have lost a touch of dignity the night before (not the slutty kind, I'm not like that. thankyouverymuch. I threw up in his kitchen sink. Much better, right?!) and I needed a good teeth brushing (and not for that either. Geez, you guys. I'm a lady. It was just the sink.).

So I try to gather my thoughts and I remember that I was with someone. Somewhere. I look around the room. No photos. Boxes of Jager stuff; that's odd. But no information to help me know exactly whose couch I woke up on at noon on Labor Day. So, I get up, go pee. Still, nothing. I sit back down on a chair and notice some mail to my left. I pick it up. A name! Ah-ha! I realize I'm at the bartender's apartment. I'll give that a minute to sink in...


I take a moment to tweet: *this* is where I woke up? really?? really?? ...damn. I get up to look outside; trying to figure out exactly where I am. Trees and an oddly familiar feeling. Oh! I remember he told me where he lived. Ah-ha! so now I have a name and location. So sleuth. But I can't go outside looking like I got dragged behind a slightly slutty pick-up truck, so I grab some touch-up make-up I have tucked in my (obviously) going-out purse. I wipe off the dark eyeshadow. I touch up my face a bit and dab the sleep away with some powder.

Still, no one is up. No noises. (I think he was waiting for me to leave. Who knows? I would.) I poke around the kitchen looking for a gumband - my hair is atrocious. I find one in a drawer along with some more Jager paraphernalia. I put my hair up, I gather my things (dignity aside) and head outside. I sit on a curb under a tree.

Yes, that's right, I'm in a short dress that's sexy, yet tasteful, I've got my little clutch purse and 5 inch cork heels (kinda like this) sitting on the curb beside me. A bus passes - I turn my head to the side. I text around a minute; assess the situation. This is not a cab friendly street and it's Labor Day and Monday. The chance of me getting a cab without walking my sorry ass 8 embarrassing blocks is more than unlikely. I call my friend. He laughs at me as I say "I'm in ***** Park and I need not to be". 40 minutes, 3 more buses and turned heads and a couple of This is my life?'s later, I'm in his car. (Thank you. Thank you. A million thank yous!)

I facebook message said bartender later that day. (Knowing his full name from his mail; though I wonder if he wonders how I know his last name.) I apologize for my general ridiculousness and thank him for the use of his couch then signed, hungover and slightly embarrassed. He messaged back no problem or something like that. Good guy. (And to be fair we had met a few times prior so he wasn't a complete stranger.) So you know what that means, right? I can go back to that bar now. As a friend put it "that bar will either ruin you, or make you a legend". Next time, I'll be sure to have some cab fare.