Yeah, yeah, I am the Master of My Fate and the Captain of My Soul and all that, but there were By God Extenuating Circumstances in this case. Specifically, the heat. It was really hot yesterday, okay? Too hot to eat, for most of the day, so I didn’t. That was my first mistake.
My second mistake can be summed up in this image:
See, each summer the Handsome Husband and his friends and band mates (Handsome Husband is in a band) get together for a day of music and convivial fellowship. The annual event is called Nutstock, and it even got written up in the Washington Post a few years back. The Post ran a picture of the Handsome Husband dancing around with a box on his head while behind him his band mates cavorted, one in a hoodie and one in a fez. It was epic.
Unfortunately, this year no fez was in evidence. Even more unfortunately, we stopped at the Burke Lake Giant on our way over to the party, and I insisted on the Kenwood. Kenwood is my favorite supermarket wine, and the Giant has had it half-price since the spring. It is for this reason that I have absolutely no problem blaming my neighborhood grocery store for the fact that I’m turning into such a sot. But I digress.
Anyway, it was a great party. I think. Hoot and Mini-Me played Frisbee. I talked with friends and ate some delicious Middle Eastern couscous salad with olives and fresh tomatoes that tasted a lot better going down than it did coming back up again (kids, we call that “foreshadowing”) and complained about the heat to anyone who would listen. I also helped myself to a generous pour of the Kenwood, and then another. And another. Then, just to mix things up a bit, I tried some red. It was delicious! And the whole time, I was thinking “Wow, it really is strange that I’ve been drinking all this wine but I don’t feel even a little bit –”
I was, I am reliably informed, the life and soul of the party. I wouldn’t know. I do know that Hoot and Mini-Me were sufficiently … I don’t know. Amused? Alarmed? Interested? — anyway, however they were feeling, they were feeling enough of it to text both of my sisters with video of me Holding Court at Nutstock. Don’t get too excited — the video has been destroyed, unless Mini-Me has already uploaded it to one of her secret social media sites (you thought I didn’t know? Foolish girl) and shared the link with all of her fellow rising eighth-graders at Our Lady of the Perpetually Empty Wallet, in which case there’s not much I can do besides cringe and maybe talk my way into Witness Protection.
I would also mention in passing that circulating drunken footage of an individual who holds photos of you eating birthday cake with underpants on your head, or of you dancing around the living room wearing nothing but a pair of Spiderman briefs and a Santa hat, displays both a disappointing absence of forethought and a lack of comprehension of the extent to which Karma is one mischievous and unpredictable bitch. Not a threat; merely an observation. Moving along…
At some point, the Handsome Husband poured me into the back of the car and took me and the kids home. The kids asked repeatedly if I was drunk — I do remember that part. I think I said no. Handsome Husband tucked me into bed and returned to the party.
An hour later, the Middle Eastern salad made its grand reappearance. It turns out that tomatoes and large amounts of Kenwood are a bad combination.
Then, to add injury to insult, I slipped in the bathroom and whacked my sacrum on the linen closet doorknob, flipped my leg ever-so-gracefully into the air, and caught my big toe on the bottom edge of the sink. The resulting gore made the bathroom floor resemble the site of a vampire banquet, after all the vampires have gotten tired of eating and gone home.
“What’s with all the blood?” the Handsome Husband inquired several hours later.
“Grmph,” I replied.
Also, my ass now looks like I’ve been caned. (NB: I have not been caned.)
So what have we learned from all this?
- God, and the Giant chain of supermarkets, want me to drink.
- Tomatoes are very acidic.
- I have a lovely husband (even if he can’t stop laughing at me today) and kind friends. My kids are kind of brats, though.
- The only thing worse than having a big nasty bruise is having a big nasty bruise you can’t show off and complain about. (Dropping trou at work to show off my non-caned yet sorely battered ass-cheek would surely be frowned upon.)
The temperature is expected to soar again today, and I have some clean-up ahead of me, as soon as I can move again. For dinner tonight, though, I think I’ll stick with ginger ale.