Don't drink and dress

Yes! In your face, Cosmos! Now I have another great title for a post-- and a post to go with it-- or at least a question.

And that question is... Did I go out on Saturday wearing a left shoe and a right shoe from DIFFERENT PAIRS OF UNMATCHING SHOES? I'll give you three guesses.

You guess "no"? Wrong!

You guess "31"? Wrong!

You guess "anal beads... no wait, leotard!... wait no, Haiti..."

Wrong again. The answer, nitwit, is yes. But perhaps a little background is in order.

Friday afternoon I got home from work after my parents had already eaten dinner-- but my dad still had the food on the stove, and cooked up pasta just for me (they're both on the Atkins diet right now). Scallops, onions, red peppers, peapods, mushrooms and a disturbingly creamy sauce: phenomenal. So my dad made me dinner and sat with me at the dining room table and he had a glass of wine while I had a steaming plateful of food. and a glass of wine.

And then we both had another, and talked about various and sundry things until my mom got back. She told me that there was a lot to be done around the house, and that tonight was going to be a good night to stay in. I nodded and poured myself a nice vodka on the rocks.

A little later, a couple later, I was going out to buy some cigarettes, because I felt like it, and decided to call my brother who was down in the city. And right when I was talking to him, I happened to be crossing Harlem right next to 290, so it was the work of a moment to spin the wheel when he told me "sure, come ahead down," and I was on my way.

We went to one bar then another. Then one more, and then over to the cousin's apartment, where we listened to the loudest parts of the Fellowship of the Ring on his new, large sound system, and sucked down a tasty Tanqueray and Tonic. By the time I got home, it was 5:30 in the AM.

I woke up five hours later, maybe six, and I wasn't hungover. This was always a bad sign for my roommates and me in college. We'd ask each other, "you hungover?" as we stumbled out of our rooms and onto the couches in the living room to watch consecutive movies and eat greasy delivered food of one species or another... "Yeah, I'm really hungover-- it was a pretty tame night," you might say. But more typically, a cheerful "Nope! It was crazy last night, man!" Yes, I'm saying what you think I'm saying. I was still buzzed when I woke up Saturday morning.

So we all know how to handle that situation, don't we? I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Pour yourself a tall..." and ends "orange juice." Mmm-hmm, tasty. Oh yeah, and in the middle is "strong vodka and."

But I put too much ice in at first, so some of the vodka splashed out onto a piece of paper on the counter. Which, I shook off, blotted, and recognized as my to-do list for the day, prepared thoughtfully by my mother.

"Clean the back hall," the note said to me, insinuating that there might be dead mice hidden behind the galoshes. "And then clear out underneath the back porch."

"There's so much crap under there," I protested, but the note would have nothing of it. "It's just an old Christmas tree, recycling bins, kindling, and those two giant tarps that smell like old people," it said.

So I set to, shuffling items here and there, and drinking my screwdriver and having a fine time.

"Ah ah ah," the note scolded as I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. "Clean the laundry room, put down all the storm windows, and put away the grill and all the lawn chairs."

"Fine," I said, "I'll get the storm windows, and the grill and the furniture." And I did. "But I'm not going to clean the laundry room," I muttered under my breath, but the note didn't say anything. I think it was probably taking a nap, like all authority figures do in the afternoon.

Unfortunately, the Notre Dame game went to triple overtime before they lost (surprise, surprise), and I had time for one less nap and two more beers than I had planned.

So I guess it's not surprising that when I changed after dinner, I ended up putting on shoes that didn't match. And didn't notice when one shoe clicked and the other shoe landed softly the rest of the night.

Then on Sunday, I don't know why, but I farted pretty much the whole way to church. I think if I had had a skatboard and a lighter, I could have saved my legs a lot of effort. But I probably would have burned my pants.

And now, for the award of the weekend: Best response to the question, "Hey idiot, why were you just making out with that chubby girl over there? Are you in love?"

"I was getting pretty hungry, and I mistook her for a pork sparerib."