I'm watching Friends as I write this, because, because my major achievement for this week has been getting cable. And all the stuff I said before about how awesome it was not to have a TV because I can read, and who needs it anyway and blah blah blah? LIES. TV is so fabulous. Really. My dying braincells are collectively orgasming as they go into shutdown. It's that episode where Joey and Ross get stuck on the roof, and Chandler can't sleep and Rachel is still dating Tag and Phoebe has that fire alarm thing. Not one of my favourites. I'm trying to recall what my most favourite one is, I think the one where Rachel and Ross do Baby Got Back for Emma. That was hilarious. Soon it will be 3 pm and I will switch channels and watch The Apprentice. I don't think I'm ever leaving my apartment again.
Especially after the weekend I've had. Friday, I went out with Pieces and it was supposed to be a quiet evening. (Sorry, I just got distracted by an ad on TV where I think I saw someone I went to college with, so, if you're reading this and you're from the same college, the ad with the womens health magazine? That's the same chick, right?) Anyway, so we consumed about two drinks each, and it had been so long since we had hung out like one-on-one, that naturally, all our deepest, darkest thoughts were brought out, including, um, demonstrating techniques of oral sex with the help of a willing, consensual beer bottle. Never mind. After about two hours of this, her friend calls and asks us all--Pieces, her boyfriend (who joined us later) and me--to an engagement party for his cousin. Being quite tired, I wasn't going to go, but he said he'd leave in like an hour and a half, and it was only ten, so I went too. The party was actually in quite a pretty place, by the sea and you could hear the ocean roaring and if you didn't breathe too deep, it was lovely. (And I'm not being all anon not telling you where we went, because I seriously don't remember. It was one of those party hall type places?) But they didn't have Old Monk amongst all the free booze, so I decided not to drink at all. Only, that wasn't so acceptable to Pieces and her friend, so I ordered a Bloody Mary (because vodka in cocktails is okay to mix with dark rum, but vodka straight up with like oj isn't. I don't know. It's my drinking logic.) Lalalalala, I'm drinking my Bloody Mary and it's really rather nice and then shots come out, and I refuse once and then twice and then Pieces reaches out and slaps me (and it HURT) and then I hit her back and then she slaps me again and I go, "Okay, okay, I'll drink, pleasedonthurtme." She's quite strong, that girl. And of course, after I had one shot, the next three just appeared and held a gun to my head, so I had to open my mouth and let them jump down my throat. They're rather aggressive creatures. And I don't know how I made it back home, much, much later, because I had parked my car elsewhere and Pieces's friend dropped me off to it and I got lost twice before I found myself on the road home. And then, oh, dreadful drunken conversation with the Nonboyfriend, which was all guh. And then just as I was falling asleep, I get this call from this dude who was at the party who I had once hooked up with, saying, "I'm downstairs, can I come up?" "Uh, no," I said, "I'm asleep." And then he kept calling till I put my phone off, and the next morning I have like five texts, all saying stuff like, "Just one hug" and "You and me, sweety." Oh dear. What alcohol will do to people.
This would have been amusing the next morning, if I didn't feel so sick. Seriously, it was like the mother of all hangovers. Not just dehydration like I normally feel after a bender, no, no, this was nausea and a headache that began pounding in my forehead and then moved to ringing in my ears. I would've just stayed home and slept it off, but I had made plans for Saturday--visiting the Strand book sale with the Nonboyfriend (which after last night's conversation, I didn't want to cancel) and X's birthday party at night (which she had been planning for a month)--so I got myself out of bed and into town for the book sale. Which by the way, was an excellent idea, I got Collected Stories by Carol Shields, who I think is one of my favourite short story writers ever, and Dream Catcher, Margaret Salinger's memoir of her father, which I've always coveted. And picked up Women Who Run With The Wolves for X.
By the time we battled traffic enough to get to X's, it was 10 something, and we were both exhausted. (I love how I'm saying 'we' like it's so established, when secretly I was all thrilled with the novelty of having a date for a birthday party. The thing is, I normally don't take guys I'm seeing to parties my friends are throwing. I don't know why, or perhaps I do, I don't want the guys to take me or my friends for granted, I don't want my friends to form a bond with someone who might be temporary, and also, I like going solo for these things, so I can chat and make conversation and not have to keep checking on someone else. But things with the Nonboyfriend seemed, I don't know, well, different. And everyone knows he's temporary. Nice, but temporary. So, when X's boyfriend bonded, I laughed and told him not to get too attached.)
The party was good fun, lots of nice alcohol (hey, hair of the dog, baby) and food, and we sat around and chatted till about two, when it was time for us to leave and my headache was revisting anyway.
And now, here it is, Sunday afternoon, and I have one cigarette left, and if I smoke it I'll have to go down and buy some more. Unless Shark Tooth has some. Ooh, yes he does. That's good to know, even if I don't smoke them. I just like the thought of smokes in the house.
And this has been a rather pointless post, the minutes of my weekend. But I need this sort of writing too, I suppose, that is of absolutely no interest to anyone except me.