This morning, the evil alarm clock almost made me cry.
I would have made it to work on time if I hadn’t gotten motion sickness from the train.
Admittedly, I wouldn’t have gotten motion sickness from the train if I hadn’t been so bad . . . .
The lovely Kate and I went out last evening and we had as lovely, giddy, and thoughtful a time as we ever do. We started at the Uncommon Ground Café. While waiting for the Brad Peterson Variety Show to start [note, his site's down right now, I think he's updating it] we each had a manhattan. Then we each had another. After some goat cheese and artichoke dip, it was Kate’s idea that we should switch to extra-sour lemon drop martinis, and we had a few of those each.
In the interim, I did see part of Brad’s set. I hadn’t seen him in years, and was pleasantly surprised to find his voice as intriguing as ever. After the second round of extra-sour lemon drop martinis, the set was over. I did chat with Brad for a bit, and I’m sure I’ll catch up with him further later.
Anyway, against all sane thoughts, after we closed the café, Kate and I decided that we might have one more. So, we went to Katerina’s where we had a few really tasty godiva chocolate martinis each.
I do not know what time I made it home. I know I made a phone call [one of my clearer memories from the evening, sitting outside the bar on a stoop] while Katerina was mixing up the first round. That would be a good point of reference had I been using my phone instead of Kate’s and been able to lookup the time.
Even if I do not know the time, I am painfully aware of the condition I was in. I told the taxi driver not to take the turns so quickly. He laughed at that. I know that the steps to my fourth-floor apartment swayed. I also know that throughout my disrobing and technicolor yawn issues, I managed make no more of a mess than I would on any other Thursday evening.
Today, amazingly, I plowed through the whole day at work, keeping my record of never calling in sick or leaving sick because of a hangover.
But . . . . this evening’s plans have been altered. I shan’t make it to shows at the Chicago Underground Film Festival. I shall lounge, take a bubble bath, read, troll the ‘net, drink a small medicinal glass of red wine, and maybe, later, post again.