One mistake after another
Sam and I spent Saturday night drinking and dancing and eating lots of hot, miniature donuts with a few of our friends at The New Children’s Museum. Because where else do you go to get your drunk on but a place aimed at entertaining the ankle-biting set? We’d attended a fund-raiser for the museum and while we were little more than bystanders to the actual money-making part of the event, I put in some serious time shadow dancing in the Dolphin Room. Word. At some point after some random woman and I collaborated on our own back-lit version of Shakti, it was curtains for me. I may have actually been dragged off the dance floor with a cane but I can’t be certain. All I know is that one minute I was The Supreme Being and the next I was drunk-dialing my BFF from the passenger seat of the car.
Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling so human on Sunday morning. Sam made me a giant cup of coffee, settled me into the bench on the back patio with my sunglasses, a pillow, a blanket and my latest issue of The New Yorker and then set off with Ruby for a day of football viewing. Were it not for my incredible pulsating headache and withering liver, I might have considered it a perfect day.
Eventually, I had to leave my spot in the shade and head out into the world to procure a birthday present for a party that afternoon. Let me just say that hangover + Target = torture technique most certainly prohibited by the Geneva Conventions. I was in such pain that I stopped to pick up some THC on the way home:
Did I mention my withering liver?
That’s right. Left to my own devices, my body is no longer my temple but rather a repository for poison. Had Sam been around, this catastrophe would have been avoided. But like I said, he wasn’t around so the fact that I eschewed enlightenment and caved to my inner college co-ed is completely his fault. And that obscenely large drink? It’s a chocolate shake.
I think it’s a very good thing that our governor has signed a bill requiring all fast food restaurants to post the caloric content of menu items for the consumer to see. Had I known that this milkshake only had 1,140 calories, I would have opted for a beer instead. The total calorie count on this toxic meal was 2,090 which, as my husband pointed out later while trying to make me feel better about my choice, was roughly equivalent to the number of calories I drank the night before.
Who’s team is he on, again?
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