Well, dear reader(s), I survived the bender. I had considered spending a calm Sunday night in the presence of drunk friends, but alas, that never works out. Not when, before I even step inside the Alaskan for the farewell party, I am offered a drink at the 'Vous. Not when the night is quiet but the company is good and the bell is ringing. Not when the liquor is a flowin' and the friends are merry. No, my friends, one must join in the festivities and let her liver take one for the team.
I ended the night speaking German with Mr. M and then nearly giving myself a concussion trying to enter the cab shared by the roommates and assorted others. Once we arrived back home, Mr. H passed out on the couch while Miss J and I watched part of a television show on DVD and tried to squelch out the creeping inevitability of hangovers with bad-for-you foods.
I awoke the next morning with no hangover, shockingly. Snooze button abuse, however, did have me waking up at the time I was meant to be at work (a story we've all heard before) and showing up late due to the necessity of a shower.
Monday proved to be, gloriously, a day of good fortune. Sure we were on phones calling people for 8 hours. Sure I wished I had been out in the sunshine. I did get to have some lunch and, when I left, I did get to go straight home to curl up with a trashy magazine in my bed which has two blankets now and is aided in its warming properties by the hand-me-down space heater which I prayed would not set fire to the clothing strewn about the room. I did make a nice wide berth for the heater, but goodness knows there might be some flammable polyester lurking somewhere in that mess.
Tonight tends to be girls' night, but I think I might... Clean my room. That's right, I thought about my daily schedule and determined the following:
If I spend an hour getting ready and 13 at work, that gives me 10 hours left in the day. If I plan to sleep 8 of that (which is really just not going to happen) I have two free hours. In those two free hours I could catch up on my reading (Siddhartha and Dr. Zhivago are waiting) or I could try to sort through the piles of clothing and shoes and try to make my room even mildly livable. I mean, somewhere under those piles is a loveseat. Somewhere in that room I have the elusive other patent leather mary-jane wedge... Somewhere in that room a small child could be missing, and who am I to deny this potential small child a tearful reunion with the tormented parents?
For reference - there has never been a case of me stowing away small children. Ever. Once my youngest sister did try to hide in my laundry bag to go to college with me, but thankfully she is a little heavier and bonier than my clothing and she didn't end up in the trunk.