He asked me to tell him a story. And it ended up turning into a great blog post. So here it is:
Last year around this time, a bunch of the blogger boys went to The Web, where I proceeded to get extremely drunk. This was a big surprise, as I was supposed to be going for “just the one” with the boys. Normally this isn’t such a big deal, except that I had promised K. that I would have dinner prepared for him by the time he got home from his long tech rehearsal.
As the drinks went down and the minutes ticked by, I kept saying “I’ve got to go home and get the baked ziti started or K. will kill me.” Undeterred, more drinks and more minutes occurred. Fast forward to a very nausea-inducing cab ride and me fumbling my way into my apartment, about thirty minutes before K. was due to walk in the door.
Everything I needed to prepare dinner was in the kitchen, and it would only take about five minutes to throw everything together and shove it in the oven. But as I was still seeing double (or quadruple or more), I opted instead to take off all of my clothes, lie on the bathroom tiles and wait for the spinning to stop. Naturally I lost track of time and when I heard K.'s keys jingling in the hallway, I panicked.
Despite being completely wasted, I managed to leap up from the bathroom floor, run down the hallway and throw the deadlock and chain on the door before K. could get the door open. Locked out of the apartment, K. started knocking on the door and calling out to me while I frantically searched for my pajama bottoms, thinking for some random reason that if I was wearing them it would look like I’d been home for a while rather than out devastating my liver.
“Um, let me in please.”
“Um, just a second, just a second, just a second.”
“What the hell are you doing in there?”
Not finding my pajamas, is what the hell I’m doing in here. “Um, I’m just, um, trying to, um…”
“Open this door NOW.”
Fuck. I couldn’t find my pajamas. And I didn’t have dinner ready. Defeated, I went back to the front door and sat down on the floor.
“I can’t let you in because I’m really really really drunk and I don’t have dinner ready and you’re going to be angry with me and I swear I thought I was only going to have one drink and I didn’t mean to get drunk and please don’t be mad and you can’t come in yet you just can’t.”
“It’s okay, just open the door please. I’d like to come home from work now.”
“Oh alright fine, I’ll unlock the door.” I suddenly devised a new plan. “But you have to count to twenty before you open it, okay?”
“Um. Okay.”
I removed the chain and flipped open the deadlock. Then, almost as quickly as I made it from tile to door, I made a run for it. I heard K. open the front door and drop his backpack in the dining room.
“Okay, what the hell was…Honey? Where are you?”
“I’m not in here.”
“In where?”
“In here. Go away you can’t see me like this I’m really really really really sorry I didn’t mean to be this fucking drunk oh my god I’m really sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“Not here!”
Suddenly (well not so suddenly, as I really wasn’t doing a good job of hiding), the door to my bedroom closet opened and K. found me sitting in my dirty laundry basket. Naked. And sobbing.
“I promised you I’d cook you baked ziti tonight because you were having a really long tech rehearsal and I wanted to do it but I went for drinks and one turned into seven I think it could have been more and then I got home and freaked out because I didn’t make the baked ziti and I almost fell asleep on the bathroom floor and now you’re home and there’s no baked ziti and I feel really really really really really baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad about it.”
Fortunately for me, K. found all of this extremely amusing. Some comic light at the end of his long and frustrating tech rehearsal tunnel.
“It’s okay. Really. But why are you sitting in your closet? Naked?”
“Because when I got home I was really really really really drunk and the cold tile felt better you know how the cold tile is you always like to spread eagle on it when you get drunk and it makes you feel better so I thought I’d try it and you’re right it does feel good and then I heard your key in the door and fuck I couldn’t find my sleepy time pants and I thought oh my god I’m drunk and naked and there’s no ziti and I’m a REALLY BAD BOYFRIEND.”
“You’re not a bad boyfriend. Much.” But he was laughing when he said it.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
“I know, it’s okay. I guess I’ll go find something for dinner.”
“Okay. I’ll just keep looking for my pants. I’ll let you know if I find them.”
And then he shut the closet door, leaving me alone and naked in a laundry basket.
Posted by mak at February 8, 2005 11:43 AMGuffaw! That story just made my day.
Posted by: Hugo at February 8, 2005 1:21 PMThis is why I:
A. Don't drink
B. Don't date. I just have sex with strangers.
When my Ex dumped me I decided to try getting drunk to see what would happen. He had to sit and listen to me sob in the car, "Oh, it didn't work! Look, I'm still unhappy!"
Posted by: homer at February 8, 2005 1:37 PMThat story is priceless!
Just two things: Did he come back and let you out of the closet? And did he get naked with you?
Posted by: Jeff at February 8, 2005 1:50 PMThat's funny, I use the same story when I'm trying to cover for Jude as he sneaks out via the fire escape.
Posted by: Brian at February 8, 2005 2:28 PMThere's a moral in that story somewhere, but, I'll be damned if I can find it! (Maybe it's missing in action, along with your sleepy time pants!)
Posted by: Hanuman at February 8, 2005 2:35 PMFirst off, I'm HORRIFIED that you actually went out and got THAT drunk! It's SO unlike you to do such a thing with "the boys". ;)
Secondly, I'm trying to get th mental image out of my head, you spead eagled on the bathroom floor. hee hee
Posted by: mark at February 8, 2005 5:19 PMThis story made me giggle out loud at my desk. And while I probably look a little weird to my coworkers... so worth it. Hee! Thanks!
Posted by: nicole at February 8, 2005 6:55 PMYou know...that sounds a lot like what happened that first night I crashed at your place in December.
Posted by: Patrick at February 8, 2005 7:33 PMOh, to be a tile floor in MAK's bathroom. *sigh*
Posted by: Karen at February 8, 2005 8:19 PMWhat I wanted to asked him to do was reinact the entire story as a musical with interpretive dance.
Maybe that's asking too much? I think it would work.. (at least for my own personal enjoyment).
Posted by: jase at February 8, 2005 11:31 PMI remember that night. U so sroppy.
Posted by: bob at February 9, 2005 10:15 AMSo how about going to the Web this Friday for a repeat?
Posted by: Crash at February 9, 2005 10:45 AMaw. you're even cuter when you're drunk.
Posted by: the SHOWER Room at February 9, 2005 12:40 PMsounds like pretty normal (and familiar) behavior to me.
Posted by: riye at February 12, 2005 6:20 PMthat story stills put in me stitches every time i hear it.
Posted by: tribecatexan at February 14, 2005 12:16 AM