Inherently tidy.

Last night brought me a bit of adventure. By ‘adventure’ I mean, I was on my own. The Mister is out of town for the weekend on a bachelor beach excursion. Apparently, his friends don’t have regular “Who’s gonna bring the shovel to bury the dead stripper?” bachelor parties. They pack up their surfboards, rent a beach house in April, and plan for rain by loading up with Xbox, poker chips and playing cards.
The Mister and I are buddies. He is my husband, my heart, my lover, my best friend and we have the best time together. This weekend I’m on my own, and last night I think I started out with a bang.
Of course, this also could indicate I shot my wad too early and am destined to watch DVD’s and cooking shows on PBS for the rest of my weekend. Fine by me, I’m not entirely sure how I’m up and writing at 10am on this rainy Saturday and not laying dead in a back alley somewhere. (Actually, I can attribute my safety to a great friend who walked me home. Thanks, J!)
There are a group of guys that grew up with The Mister who live down the street. After a few emails yesterday, we were invited to come over as there was a birthday shindig a-brewin’.
Since The Mister was gone, I decided to busy myself in the kitchen by making devilled eggs and hummus. I wanted to make stuff, and we had eggs and garbanzo beans. I work with what I’ve got. The sky was crazy ominous, so I called to see if I could tromp over a little early since I was on foot.
And then began my descent to a place I haven’t seen in awhile. Although I remember starting with beer, it’s all a bit vague, really. I partook of everything set in front of me and I hope, hope, hope I didn’t make an ass of myself.
There’s the optimist in me that calls herself “quirky”, but there’s also a realist who remembers telling somebody about my obsession with miniature wiener dogs, how I want -not one, but- two, so I can name them Super Elvis and Maximum Francis.

*Sidenote: There was a great story being told about the day before. The day before being 4/20, a few people had gathered for festivities and another birthday. A girl I will refer to as “MD” was carrying a cake and navigating through a door when a huge blue flame rolled up from her chest. MD’s shirt had caught fire and Mrs. Doubtfire was re-enacted. (Hence why she’s being called MD.) Apparently, pot has a calming effect, because she saw the flame, set the cake down, and then ran to the kitchen patting her chest as if, well, as if it were on fire. It burned a huge hole in the front of her shirt and blackened her bra. She was terribly concerned that everybody had seen her boobs, but she's been reassured that her boobs were covered by the blaze. MD is fine, but may be a little traumatized; we’ll see the next time she lights candles.*

It was a great time, one of those times where the mood is buoyant and palpable.
After a greenish blue rum drink was given to me and refilled, stuff was passed around; I realized it was time to get my ass home where I could shamefully hug my toilet.
Alone. In the dark. As it should be.
A friend walked me home, and that’s where my ‘descent’ became a ‘freefall’. I don’t remember much after checking the mailbox. However, I’ve been able to piece a bit together.
I hung up my coat, took the hummus and egg dishes to the sink, made a PBJ sandwich, hugged the toilet for awhile, washed my face, brushed my teeth, dusted the bedroom, made another PBJ, folded my clothes and went to bed.
It seems I arrived home and was the neatest drunk ever.