So since Mesina is in Kent, and Maha in Egypt, and several of you are on the east coast, I'll just make no mention of the fact that the day is more than halfway over, and move right along to the hazards of unexpected mid-week drink-overs.
Let me first say that inasmuch as I had 12 minutes to get dressed, clean my house, and ponder dinner for me, a non-practicing omni-allergic, one vegan, a strict vegetarian, a loose vegetarian, and a non-allergic, non-restricted goer-with-the-flow, I won the Olympic Gold Medal for overthinking. Of course I was immediately displeased with my vodka, and needed to make sure everyone's alcoholic palates were pleased, only I couldn't go anywhere because there was no time. Once everyone was here I began apologizing for the dust on the bookshelves, the pan soaking in the sink, the fact that my bangs had a class A misdemeanor crimp, and reminded them all that I just hate having people over. The more the worst. Next I ordered everyone into Debe's car so that we would all have eaten prior to imbibing, as this particular assortment of people is prone to forgetting to eat more than one lentil or square of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in 24+ hours. Does the fun ever start?
I'm not much of a drinker. I don't have to be. I'm as loud and absurd and willing to put a thong on over my jeans in San Francisco sober as I am drunk. So I did the drinking fake-out, wherein I nursed one and slyly picked up errant straw wrappers and crumbs. Then suddenly, likely due to my WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, WHY ARE YOU CLEANING WHEN WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BE HAVING FUN issue, also known as OCD, the night took a WWF turn, and I guess I wasn't quite stone cold sober because I morphed into a Hulk Hogan-Croc Hunter hybrid, it was really pretty. I even bit an ottoman. But I definitely took hits as well, and was not surprised to wake up to bruises up and down my arms. Honestly, that was the least of my worries.
I never get hangovers, and I always wake up between 6-6:30am no matter what, but today I fell back asleep, which is the worst experience in the world. Suddenly Quinn showed up, and I kept telling him he was in Idaho, to which he replied that he was in fact standing right there, in that way that people who are sober and/or not in a coma/stupor and/or not amused speak. Apparently they never slept, and drove all night to get back. This took me three hours to comprehend. I knew the antidote to this haze was Starbucks, and just as I reached for my keys, which reside safely in my purse (I do not lose things), this happened:
Friends don't let friends use lotion drunk, OKAY? I can't even bear to post the inside of my purse. Let's just say that apparently 911 does not consider this an emergency, and that getting punched in the throat is better.
I was instructed to go away as a team of experts in my apocalyptic mess-related meltdowns swooped in to fix my purse, so I decided to blog about the perils of spontaneity and the OCD mind. As soon as I sat down, this happened. No, it's not lotion:
This was slightly less funny than a heart attack. I know because I had one.
It gets better...or worse, depending on whether you love me or hate me or are me. Reilly took advantage of my horror and Debe being here to cajole me into letting her make cookies. "Debe wants to know..." I was so impressed with my slimy lake-of-lotion purse, and hair, and everything else, that I said yes. Path of least resistance. I've only opted for that a couple times in my life. It really seemed like a good idea. They were laughing, Quinn was telling me about their trip, coffee for the win, and I was catching up online. Suddenly Debe says "Can we use your mixer?" I mean, to someone with OCD you may as well ask to bring an elephant in the house. "Okay." Upon hearing the thud of hoisting said mixer onto the counter, I detected groans of "Ummmmm..." and "Don't tell her!" Debe asked "What the hell happened to your mixer? It's totally covered in food and stuck-on shit and it has a chip in it." Knowing I don't cook, let alone bake, save thrice a year, it is obvious over-use is not the mixer's problem. I looked at them, and they said in unison, "Oh." You see, I loaned my mixer to someone I cared for very much, whose kitchen would kill a health inspector on the spot, back in December of 2008. I didn't want to, not even a little bit, as my belongings, as well as ALL belongings have a 96% chance of being lost, broken, peed on, or stolen, as I learned late in the relationship. But I wasn't sure how to say no, and this person knew that. It resided in her haz-mat nightmare kitchen for almost five months, enduring unknown brutalities, indulging her delusions of being God's gift to all things culinary (cough, cough) and when I finally got it back, I briefly checked to make sure the pieces were there and that there were no rodents stuck to it, and put it in my cupboard. It emerged today, in the light of day, and a) Debe instantly knew that I have never exaggerated about this, and b) My mixer literally said "Ahhhhh" when they bathed it. It even cried a little. Then I remembered all the things of mine that were destroyed in two seconds, the gift-giving tradition of "Thank you (SHATTER!)" and how people can be so detached and irresponsible, and a little vignette played in my mind and I felt like I had lice within 10 seconds.
The next time I turned around, I was greeted by this soothing landscape:
(The shit strewn about the counter is the contents of my purse, drying. Oooh, I can't wait for Anonymous to point out the pill bottles, as a public service announcement of course. Don't forget, if someone else happens to break my bone(s) and I require surgery, that is my fault, my seeking drama, and worst of all, when I used to know the Queen to whom all these drones answer, there was no worse offense in all the world than to get sick, hurt, or die, because it requires her to strain her self-absorbed brain to emulate empathy. (!!!) Can you imagine how selfish of me? So anyway, it's Vicodin, suck it.
Some random ghetto on my counter:
My mixer. All patched up and proud of itself for surviving, though it still has flashbacks:
I am pretty sure this is the most dishes I have ever had in my sink at once. I get panicky because it's hard to wash your hands without the water running down the cookie sheets and everywhere. (Some people wash their hands, and there's even this thing where people have hand soap in their bathrooms so guests don't have to carry their own, secretly, for five years, in order not to offend you. Just sayin. Could be why certain kids are sick every week...)
Perhaps the hazards of drinking don't look the same in my life as they do in yours, but it doesn't mean you won't find me with my head in my hands, asking why. It is particularly painful to write this because the mess is right at my back, it may as well be carrying scythe. It seems even Moxie procrastinates sometimes. But, if someone asked to come over right now, I'd say yes and bust this out, including a shower, in nine minutes.
I don't know why this is the longest post in the world. I must have caught The Verbosity from Debe. Thanks Jerk. I hope you have fun at NW Kids Club while I clean.
Okay, so 14 minutes:
Don't you covet my new purse? Comfy:
I need a drink.