chicagojo

Quite simply there�s nothing to report today. Sorry. But since I�ve gone back on my word to be a daily diarist, I can write about what I did this weekend instead.

On Friday night Holger and I met those new people in the rump-shakin� club at the base of our building. I gave Brian and Lorinda (not their real names, but what I heard their names to be while somewhere around drink number nine) my contact info and they were true to their word about contacting me to hang out the next day. We met up at this bar one el stop away to see this super-fun cover band.

Allow me to set up the booze situation for you: I�m a little person. I can remember only once that I drank as much as I did on Friday night, and the only thing I recall of that night is pink froth. Apparently that�s what up-chucked Capecods look like. I had never drank that much before, and I didn�t intend to do it again. But somehow I was able to channel the spirit of an alcoholic on Friday night and didn�t have the nine drinks really affect me.

I made a drunken call to my friend NH, ended up talking with JL instead, and then slept until about 11 o�clock before making a happy b-day call to Dad. All was good, but I said to myself, �Self. Tonight is a Diet Coke night. There will be no beer involved.�

Well, there�s nothing like lying to yourself. I went into the club with the best intentions, but I was in the company of apparent alcohol veterans. This resulted in peer-pressure induced beers, three shared fishbowls of mixed stuff, and a phone call at 2:36 to my parents� cell phone to wish Maa a happy b-day.

[On a side note: Dad tells me that I called them old bastards in my message. But with my past history of drinking, I know that I would have been a lot more creative than �old bastards�. I�m waiting for unedited evidence of my supposed mishap!!]

Apparently I wanted to share the happiness I was feeling while celebrating her birthday with my distant festivities. However, she doesn�t see it this way... She�s concerned that her daughter is turning into a boozehound. No fear Maa. I�ve been this way for a while. [grin]

I made it home safely (public transportation ROCKS!), deposited my clothes in the �You are drunk -- Place clothes here� pile, and then went to sleep.

I stupidly agreed to play football with the new friends (and who says drinking has no affect on your decision-making abilities!?), and 11 o�clock came way too early. I put on some dingy clothes and pressed the elevator�s down button.

It didn�t light up.

I pressed harder this time. [Yes, it did make me feel like I was more in command of calling up the elevator by pressing the little button with more force...]

It again didn�t light up.

I growled like an angry, angry bear, realizing that I was going to have to take the stairs. I also understood, it being Easter Sunday, that there was very little hope that the elevators would be fixed in a timely fashion. After all, Jesus was too busy pushing boulders around to come fix my elevator.

I started down the spiral stairs, only to recognize that I was still drunk from the night before. Thirteen looooong and twisty flights later, I�m sitting on the curb, waiting for Brian and Lorinda to pick me up, looking like death warmed over.

I look so bad that if the homeless people weren�t too busy recovering from their night of drinking, they would have tried to give *me* spare change.

I luckily made it though a couple hours of sweating the alcohol out of my system, arrived back home, and walked the thirteen flights of stairs to my apartment. And as I�m stripping down to take a shower before a much-needed nap, I turn the water faucet to reveal...

The. Water. Is. Not. Working.

Ahhhhhh! Some aspects of living in an old building are great, but sometimes it�s just damn inconvenient. I�ll save that rant for another entry. �