Monday, May 17, 2010

And Then I Woke Up With a Huge Bruise on My Ass

I wore heels too high to a wedding this weekend, on a huge lawn that dipped and rose with tufts of grass & groundhogs. The groom made his entrance on a beach cruiser to the funk of "Another One Bites the Dust" and we stood, cheered. In the hollow of my throat I felt something bubbling, happy, giddy really. I cried.

Later I drank 2 glasses of wine quickly, something hibiscus with a straw, Zoey at her grandma's for the night. I sat next to two women at dinner, strangers, and within 15 minutes we were talking about our periods. (Though I know it was in some sort of perfectly rational context, I can't really remember why.) Later still I swapped my heels for Havaianas and played pool, drank 2 ciders, danced, had a margarita, peed a lot, ordered a Red Bull & vodka, stumbled, laughed. At some point I said something stupid to a man named George and I distinctly remember him pretending to part my hair, saying that he was looking to see if I had blonde roots. For the rest of the night I would whisper in his ear when I saw him: the speed of light is 186,000 miles per second, intelligence is not a unitary entity with specific, identifiable properties... does the inertia of a body depend upon its energy-content? On that last one I am pretty sure I spit in his ear by mistake.

A dramatic representation of my weekend.

We left our car there and walked, no--Bryan had to carry me to the hotel. At some point there was a wide expanse of a parking lot and I jumped onto his back for a piggy back ride, only I forgot what to do with my hands so when he grabbed my legs I fell backwards, down, fast flat on the cement hard thwack--and I laughed. We snuck into the hot tub closed for the night, slipped off the bubble-wrap and stripped down to soak. Our friend had no place to stay, so we grabbed a plastic lounger from the pool and brought it to our room for him to sleep on. On the way he hit up the vending machines. I passed out to the sounds of somebody scarfing Cheetos, the smell of wet towels and chlorine.

Sometimes I wonder if I would be a better writer if I were a better drinker. In my twenties I used to wake up on the weekends with notes scribbled on cocktail napkins--not phone numbers but snatches of conversation, ideas. Can I borrow a pen? I asked bartenders all over the city, only more often than not I'd say est-ce que je peux emprunter un stylo? because when I am really drunk I speak french and am as annoying as fuck.

Sadly or fortunately, I do not much like to drink. Am not a drinker. Don't like the way it makes me feel before, during, but mostly after. These days I carry a ballpoint in my purse to record deductions in my check register. But this weekend it was Parents Gone Wild, and while I did not show my boobies to any cameras I probably would have had I thought about it.

This video has absolutely nothing to do with this post except that it makes me laugh as if I've just fallen into some bushes on the side of a road in Santa Cruz. Again.

It's Monday, people. Cheers to sobering thoughts and french spoken badly.



Kwana said...

Ha! Thanks so much for this post. So needed on Monday. I often think I'd be a better write if I drink more and better. Stupid migraines. Ah well. Sounds like fun.

Richie Designs said...

I'm not a good drinker either!

Ciara Obscura said...

Damn, you're entertaining.
Also... that cat video creeped me the fuck out... until somewhere around 1:07 and then I started giggling uncontrollably.

The Lil Bee said...

But when you come to New York you'll be a good drinker, right? RIGHT?!?!

When I was in my 20s, I'd regularly get into conversations with people and hire them to come work at my company. Only, I had no hiring authority. I wasn't even middle management.

Anonymous said...

Who needs to drink, when your posts are so intoxicating?! I get the same benefits, only without soiling myself in public.

Well, mostly.

If only you understood the far-and-wide influence of your brilliant writing. For as long as you are inclined to Blog, I will continue to read.

Asheville, NC

p.s. Kwana: Watch-out for artificial sweeteners and monosodium glutamate (MSG)!

Erin said...

Ha! Funny, S. It's been awhile since I've had a night like that, but it sounds like fun.

Simply Mel said...

Parents Gone Wild is a series we need to pick up again!

sherri said...

I love that dramatic representation of your weekend picture. I, sadly, am a very good drinker and would probably be a much better writer (not to mention a few other things) if I wasn't quite so adept.

Cathi said...

That sounds like one of my many parents gone wild weekends...haha....Sadly, or maybe not - I am not much of a drinker either....but at times it does make for great stories to laugh and cringe about later..!! :)

Acanthus and Acorn said...

Funny, and the cat!!!

sweetbittertart said...

You couldn't be a better writer. Lubricated or no.

I will drink for the both of us. Drinking makes me acutely aware of all the things I could have accomplished had I not become an accomplished drinker. Which is both happy and sad. Okay mostly sad. Nevertheless, I'm approaching my blog post for 'h' which means I'm currently working at an average pace of 1 blog post per calendar quarter (try not to get dizzy).

You are delightful and amazingly talented and I think it's important for you to occasionally venture into These Waters and just let yourself be. They (These Waters and their aftermath) can be joyful and you've certainly made them so. Hope you feel better soon! :)

Still Life With Coffee said...

That was hilarious. I love that you speak french when you drink.

Author said...

OMG it is so obvious they are all high and they blew the smoke on the poor cat! In other news - I like your story of parents gone wild. Glad you did!
xo A B