They're called whore-tini's for a fucking reason. Christ. When will I learn that I can't have two martinis and still be coherent? Evan just put four bottles of water and two Gatorades on my desk demanding that I drink all of them by the end of the day if I am to be in top form and beat this bloody hangover. Last night was yet another brutal reminder of why I shouldn't drink.
My roommate (yes, she is hot) dragged me to a benefit at Union Square ballroom. A friend who arrived before us sent us a text describing it as a high school dance in full swing. We told her we were stuck in traffic to which she quipped, "No worries, just hanging at the prom." We found this both amusing and discouraging. On the upside, it was an open bar. I made a beeline for it upon arrival. Now I just had to wait for the bartender to notice me. A monumental endeavor for anyone but one that I can typically conquer by simply placing my boobs on the bar, this time, however, I was dealing with the same sex making me less persuasive. Languishing for her attention and a drink, I opted to make conversation.
I asked the guy next to me if he was enjoying the prom. He said he had been watching me from the bleachers all night trying to work up the nerve to ask me to dance. "And it's just serendipity that I would start talking to you first?" I asked. We engaged in playful banter until I had all of our drinks- all four of them-as I was designated Isaac of Love Boat fame for the drink runs.
I don't know why. Maybe because I'm brown like Isaac. Or maybe it was because I decided to save money and go to my roommate's cheap hair salon where the Russian woman gave me a mullet like Pat Benatar had. Love is a battlefield, and hair styling- war when you're dealing with the number of short layers that had been cut into my mane. Rushed out the door before our evening soiree, I had attempted to straighten my hair but the humidity coupled with choppy locks just made me look like an aging rocker. Maybe it was that Afro that contributed to the Isaac status. I don't know. But based on my hangover today, I had no business being the person charged with getting the drinks. There was no one to keep tabs on my own consumption. Pretty soon, I was cutting a rug with a tall real estate broker/trust fund baby. He was hot but high maintenance. When I was texting my girlfriends, he started pouting, "I'm going home cause I'm bored and you're busy," he said. I'm bored, too, I decided and moved across the room. "You dumped me for the quarterback." It was the guy who I had met at the bar. His name was Rob. Rob and I resumed our rapport and when my other girlfriends showed up we moved on to another bar, then another. By the time I got home, I was three sheets to the wind and had given out all my business cards. This morning my boss who's out sick called and was initially concerned when she heard my voice. When I confessed I was hungover, she was proud. "When I get drunk I make out with guys and my friends have to remind me that I'm gay," she said. "I think I'm a closet heterosexual." I laughed as I finished inhaling my McGriddle sandwich and greasy hashbrown. Some food fell out of my mouth prompting another coworker to note how I resembled David Hasselhoff in a recent home video performance. What? I'm pretty.
