Saturday morning, I woke up in a tub of cold water. Little did I realize that later that evening, a man wearing mariachi pants would be standing in my kitchen.
Wait, I guess I should rewind a little.
Friday evening started with a good amount of wine tasting at Noble Rot. Their “wine samplers,” for lack of a better term, were not terribly expensive, although the entrees and hors d'oeuvres were a bit pricey. By the time several others showed up, the wine's potency had snuck up on me. Our gang decided to go mobile and jaunt down to Aalto Lounge. There, with my brain on auto-pilot, I made the fatal mistake of order a vodka tonic. Or two. The evening itself, while out and about, was quite fun. I think BC managed to convince a girl there to visit our table for a bit — leaving her table of friends and boyfriend in the process.
The Fun-o-Meter(TM) took a radical downswing upon returning home. I tried to buffer the churning belly with a couple of rainbow-sprinkle cupcakes and some large glasses of water, which sounded like an excellent idea at the time. Upon reaching bed, the buffers proved not to have their desired effect. This, dear reader, is why one should prepare a plastic-bag lined paper-bag next to the bed when retiring after such evenings. A wire-mesh trash bin is, as they say, about as useless as a screen door on a submarine in an ocean of rainbow-sprinkled brine.
After the purge, the evening was generally quite peaceful and restful. I unexpectedly awoke at 7:30am, though, with a less than pleasant pounding in my head and no ability to slip back into sleep. The seasoned reader of this journal would realize that I really enjoy taking a scalding hot bath on such mornings. The bath was drawn and I hopped in. It was quite enjoyable.
I then woke up and glanced at the clock, not even realizing that I went to sleep. It was almost 9. The bathwater had cooled to the point such that the water within a millimeter-or-so of my skin was body temperature, like a wet suit, but the whole rest of the tub was ice cold, like the ocean. This was not initially uncomfortable–only when attempting to move.
So that was my evening/morning on Friday/Saturday. Half way through the day, the ill effects had receded.
And now you know why I had nothing to drink but plain, alcohol-free lemonade from a 1L beer stein at Kim's party. The mariachi pants will have to wait for the next post, when I have pictures and video posted.