wine
lastnight
keyboard
spilled
on
imy

iamaklutz

thisisntme 
tryingtobe
clever
likeeecummings
except
different

ifthiswasfauxeecummingsiwouldbetalkingaboutsexpretendingiwastalkingaboutakeyboard

keystrokes

and

pressingbuttonsand

what

…not.

andtherewouldbe

space

youneed

space

withsex.

Thisis
no*space*bariamanidiot

becauseof
wine
notdrank
spilled
wine
Notcryingoverithowever.

Friedwinekeyboard

sosad

youdiscover
you
need
a
space
bar
quicklywhentryingtowrite

Sonowineedtogooutandbuyanewmackeyboardbecauseihaveamacathomewhichiknowsomewillthinkisbadbutidontcareihadamacsincetwothousandthree

itriedpoppingthespacebarupandproddingtheguts
thepartthatmade

space

butstusaidthaticouldelectrocutemyselfifikeptdoingthat

soi
stopped

2 Comments »

I was supposed to be in Seattle by now, but there were problems with the plane that was supposed to take me there. Something about a fuel leak. They wanted to fix it before we left, and that seemed like a good idea to me. So it would be a bit later before I had my jet lag killer of Mexican food and a few margaritas.

After 45 minutes of there trying to fix the fuel leak they turned on the in entertainment system which was a bad sign. I had been upgraded to business class so at least I was comfortable.

I watched My Boys, a sitcom that one of my friends is in. The only time I get to watch it is when I am on a plane. I need to buy the DVDs. Then I watched The Other Boleyn Girl, which is so trashily terrible, I found it engaging. I must admit that I enjoyed the book in one of those “I must read this at home as fast as possible so no one sees me with it in public” kind of ways but the movie doesn’t even have that to commend it. If you didn’t understand what a big deal it was for Henry to break with Rome, you certainly wouldn’t gain any insight here. It’s pure soap opera costume bodice ripping drivel.

At least it was free.

We kept getting updates that they didn’t have any updates.

Four hours in, the Captain came back to talk to us. Never a good sign. They were going to take us off the plane as the folks in cattle class were really uncomfortable.

I could see my planned dinner at Mama’s Mexican Kitchen slipping away.

While we were waiting to de-plane, they told us the flight was cancelled and would now be leaving at 11am the next day.

Sigh.

A long day of travel without going anywhere. I found it amusing that I had to go through passport control without actually leaving the country.

I must say however, that British Airways was fantastic in how they handled everything. They let us know what was going on, kept us as comfortable as they could and were very professional.

So here I am waiting to board again. I’m on my third coffee trying to estimate when it would be not too unseemly to have a cheeky airport cocktail.

It must be 5PM somewhere. . .

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Thursday night I wasn’t in the mood to go straight home, so I roped Al into going for just one. We left the pub at nine. All very civilized. I remember having three glasses of red. Al however said that there were four. Given what transpired next, I am inclined to believe him.

Three or four- That’s a lot of vino, but I can usually handle that. Not saying it’s a good idea- just that I can handle it. I usually however pace myself – especially when drinking wine. I will drink water between the glasses. Spread it out over six-eight hours. I also usually have food in my stomach.

But not Thursday. I drank four (large) glasses of red- basically a bottle if not more on maybe 350-500 calories. In three hours.

I woke up at 6 in the morning in bed. Naked. Luckily it was my bed and Stuart was lying next to me. I flipped the events of the evening Rolodex in my head.

Left the pub. Okay. Laying here in bed. Okay.

Left the pub. Bed.

Pub. Bed.

I was missing everything in between. This has never happened to me before.

Stuart had put a large glass of water and ibuprophen on the dresser for me so I took a couple even though I felt okay and drank half the water.

Stuart stirred and peeked his head over the duvet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You were lashed.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after leaving the pub.”

“You came home at 9:30 singing the French national anthem.”

“I was singing The Marseillaise?”

“See. I didn’t even know it was called that.”

“But I don’t know the words to The Marseillaise.”

“Well, they’re in your head somewhere.”

“I think I’ve watched Casablanca a few too many times.”

“I tried to make you go to bed but you refused. I tricked you by saying you would be more comfortable in your dressing gown.”

Something was coming back. “You undressed me?”

“Yes. And you weren’t very accommodating. You kept rolling around. Then you screamed, ‘Stop hitting me!’ Then you giggled.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m sure our neighbours thought so. Do you remember talking to your mum?”

“I talked to my mom?”

“Yeah, something happened with you sister. She had to have a second surgery. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’d called and left a message and you called back.”

“I called back?”

“At 12:30. You were sitting up talking really loudly and woke me up and I had to send you out of the room. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

I can’t believe I can’t remember either. It’s rather scary. I did some quick research on the topic this morning and I found a really great article by Aaron White, PhD. Basically alcohol messes with your brain hitting the record button.

Alcohol primarily disrupts the ability to form new long-term memories; it causes less disruption of recall of previously established long-term memories or of the ability to keep new information active in short-term memory for a few seconds or more. At low doses, the impairments produced by alcohol are often subtle, though they are detectable in controlled conditions. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. Large quantities of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce a blackout, an interval of time for which the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events, or even entire events. En bloc blackouts are stretches of time for which the person has no memory whatsoever. Fragmentary blackouts are episodes for which the drinker’s memory is spotty, with “islands” of memory providing some insight into what transpired, and for which more recall is usually possible if the drinker is cued by others. Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than previously assumed and should be viewed as a potential consequence of acute intoxication regardless of age or whether one is clinically dependent upon alcohol.

There is one benefit of me not eating enough and going to bed without dinner. I was a pound and half lighter Thursday morning than I was on Wednesday. Maybe there is something with the whole starvation thing. (of course I am kidding. And anyone that knows me knows that would not be possible for me to ever do)

I told Al that I had a black-out.

He was surprised. “You must have been drunk!”

That made me feel mildly better that while my record button had been taped over, at least I was functional. . . to someone who had had four pints.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. Great. I’m hungry because I haven’ had breakfast, but other than that fine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Are you kidding? That’s great. They should take your blood and study it. Do tests on you to find the secret to no more hangovers.”

While I don’t generally get hangovers, I really don’t fancy another memory gap.

Although, it would be rather fabulous, if deep inside me, are the words to The Marseillaise.

1 Comment »

Stuart came home from being on the lash with Richard.

“We almost got in a fight with. . . I don’t want to say this, but. . . with lesbian skateboarders.”

“What? How?”

“And then they started making fun of me for being straight.”

“That doesn’t make sense. How did you almost get in a fight with some skateboarders?”

“LESBIAN skateboarders.”

“Lesbian skateboarders.”

“Richard was taking photographs of them. And they were all aaggghhhh. And then I was trying to keep the peace.”

“But why did they say anything about your being straight? Did you say anything about their being lesbians?”

“There might have said something said. Yes.”

“Oh God.”

“I just said, look, my friend really likes the way that you’re skating and he doesn’t have any pictures of Lesbian skateboarders.”

“Oh God.”

“I was trying to be nice!”

* Reference to the classic Seinfield episode “The Outing.”

3 Comments »

5:30 PM
Pub with Al. I had been good not drinking all week other than the Monday marathon. Wasn’t in the mood to hang out with the work masses, as at the moment there are a few I could happily roast on a spit. Al felt the same way.

Round one. Guinness.

6:19 PM
Round two. Switch to Deuchars (which is a lovely ale)

7:30 PM
This is where we said we were going to stop. Cut to:
Round three and four (and I can’t remember but there may have been a five.)

10:30 PM
Hungry, we call to try and get a table at Bodean’s in Soho. No go so we call the one in Clapham but they’re closed for renovation. We decide on a curry. We also have a pint of cobra with our meal.

11:47 PM
Time to go home. I get on a train to Balham.

12:45 AM
I wake up in East Croydon. Fucken’ hell.

12:50 AM
Get on a train going to Clapham Junction.

1:08 AM

Arrive in Clapham Junction but there are no more trains to Balham. Consider getting a bus but not sure which bus to take.

Decide to walk home.

While annoyed at myself am slightly amused at watching the packs of drunken girls wearing the exact same outfit stumble down the street. There is an interesting energy on Northcote Road and I feel safe which in retrospect is incredibly dangerous.

1:47 AM
I’m home.

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The last many Mondays, a few of us have ended up at the pub for ‘just one’ that has turned into too many.

Ross is off to America to take a job in the NYC office, so last night was the last Just One Club.

.

Or, to be more accurate. . . the last night of The Just One with Ross there.

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Week one of my marathon training. Walked home Monday- 4.4 miles. Was supposed to do it again last night but let’s just say that didn’t happen and was a lazy thing this morning even though I woke up at 6. It was just much nicer to stay snuggled to Stuart and listen to him snore.Can’t walk tonight or at lunch so need to be good the rest of the week.And the week after.And the week after. . . 

1 Comment »

Because Scott asked for photos, I give you photos. Click here for Saturday night silliness.

Is rather pathetic. . . I only lasted about an hour and a half in my high heels. The transvestites you can see in the picture behind me lasted in their Manolo’s until three. They also had better legs than me. But that can’t be helped. Most men that are willing to put on a dress look better in it than the average woman will.

3 Comments »

Tonight I am going to my first Fancy Dress party. When I first heard the phrase ‘fancy dress’ I assumed that it was a euphemism for black tie. But no, ‘fancy dress’ means costume party. The odd thing is Brits don’t do Halloween really but they love fancy dress parties.

Tonight it is for a work mate’s Thirtieth Birthday and the theme is to come dressed as what you wanted to be when you were little.

I’ve had a bit of a hard time. At first I thought of Princess Leia but that look wouldn’t be particularly attractive on me. Laura Ingles Wilder and Inspector Cloussou gave me a similar problem. I thought about Marilyn Monroe not out of any particular wish to be her, but because I wanted to be an actress and it would be a fun chance to vamp it up. That choice however would have required my dropping 70 quid between the dress and the wig.

I’ve settled on a sexy librarian, which only requires me to buy some fishnets. Wearing my hair up in a chignon, my 1950’s cats eye glasses, brown silk (tight) shirt, black skirt, wicked high heels that put up to around 5’6’’ (taking ballet flats with me for walking to the tube and to switch out when the inevitable pain becomes too much) and will be carrying a copy of The New York Public Library Desk Reference.

Since Stuart has decided that he is drinking, “Ad hoc. Don’t look at me like that. I can drink if I want to.” I may decide to allow myself a few cocktails. I was bad in New York. My defence is it came after I got a text from Stuart that told me that he was lashed.

For Buettners 40h Matt and I are going to arrange for him to receive a coffin at work. That should fuck him up for a while.

It couldn’t have come at the worst time. I was waiting for my friends at a very sexy New Yorky steak house and I was gagging for a glass of red. I used his transgression as a get out of jail free card for some vino.

He wasn’t happy that I could tell he was drinking from a text.

3 Comments »

Stuart and I are now on the wagon. As in the not drinking wagon.  So here I am.

Not drinking.

Not having one.

No sir-ree Bob.

(What is it about quitting drinking that makes you want to drink?)

Is good though because I’ve gained two stone since I’ve moved here and I’m sure it is entirely due to beer. And vin rouge. And me being a lazy cow.

I’ve gone a month here and there not drinking, but overall I have been rather bad since I’ve moved here. Drink at least two times a week (sometimes more like four) sometimes it would be just one or two pints. (What am I saying. It was never just one) and sometimes it would be five. Times that by four times a week and that is a lot of guinness.

I don’t know if I’ve known Stuart to go an entire week off the sauce, but he tells me that I am wrong and that he has. I am choosing to believe him.

Told Al what we were doing. “It sucks because I’m going to NYC next week.”

“He won’t know.”

“That’s wrong.”

“True. And if you don’t drink when you are away from each other and he does, then you have the moral high ground.”

“Exactly.”

So, keep a good thought for Stu and I on day one on the Train to Soberville.

This is not an April Fool’s Day joke.

I wish it was, cause I really could use a drink.

4 Comments »