AHHHHHHH....That's how I feel now that panel is over with. Never mind my money issues, work issues, gynecological issues, I am THE MASTER OF FINE ARTS, and if ever something deserved a week-long celebration, this is it.
Last night I met Mr. Baseball (he's not new, but the nickname is- it just occurred to me I never asked permission to use his real name before...try and guess who he is LOL) for dinner- in the city- which was BIG because he NEVER likes to leave Park Slope. But to the city we went; I even wore a dress. ME. In a DRESS. With HEELS!
He brought me to City Crab over by Union Square, which very suspiciously had a similar menu to Legal Seafood, and seeing as we were there celebrating my degree, he ordered us a bottle of red wine.
...wait. Have I ever explained my troubles with red wine? No? Long story short- it's a sure-fire cure to my insomnia. And he knows it.
But anyway he gets the bottle and we toast to me, THE MASTER OF FINE ARTS, and begin catching up cause it's been like 50 trillion years since I've seen him. It's not like a real date, more like two old friends who maybe kinda sorta hooked up before met for dinner. Like that.
I try my best to eat enough to counteract the effect of the wine, but, well, let's just say I didn't know what the hell I was doing. A full belly PLUS red wine equals zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. So of course he orders another bottle and I get the bright idea that maybe some sugar will wake me up. So I order a cobbler. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
The rest of the non date consisted of Mr. Baseball trying to engage me in a conversation that would keep my head from hitting the table and embarrassing us in front of the Anglos, and me trying really hard to decipher the sounds coming out of both his mouths. No easy task. And I felt bad, too, because he wanted to know about my stories and what I'd written and for the life of me I couldn't understand his question or formulate a comprehensive answer. Then he tried to help me figure out my next career moves, offering advice and whatnot, and I swear it was like all of a sudden he started speaking German. I was like huh?
He finally gave up, god bless him, and gulped the last of his wine so we could leave.
Somehow we made it to Park Slope- him all huffy at me because I wouldn't let him canoodle with me on the subway platform and me trying really hard not to pass out by texting L in California in order to stay awake- and instead of doing the smart thing and getting in a cab to go home, I pass out on his bed, "for just a couple of hours" before I'd call a cab myself.
This morning at 6AM I found myself still asleep on his bed, tangled up in my sweater, cell phone open in-hand, as if I'd tried to make a phone call and it didn't work out. Who did I try to call? Who called me? Was I responding to a text? Was I shutting off the alarm? Who the hell knows!
Remember this post, where I bragged that I always have my wits about me when I drink? I take it all back.
I forgot about me and red red wine.
*smooches...eagerly awaiting tonight's festivities-who's game?*
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I`d have thought
That with time
Thoughts of her
Would leave my head
I was wrong
And I find
Just one thing makes me forget
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