Monday, May 21, 2007

the beetlejuice theory

Friday night - or I should say - early Saturday morning, a poorly chosen combination of Tequila Rose and Michelob Ultra left me with a queasy stomach and a raging head ache.

I dropped Rachel off at her house and practiced my "I'm-NOT-going-to-throw-up" breathing all the way home. Three Tylenol and a bottle of water later, I curled up under the covers and prayed for a quick trip to sleepydom.

"I'm not drinking tonight," I declared when I answered the phone at noon, still laying in bed.

"Oh," Rachel answered. "You're not? Not at all?"

A few days before, she'd suddenly "remembered" to tell me about a dinner she was throwing Saturday night. No specifics, no need to bring anything, just be there. Those were my instructions.

I arrived with a tired body after a long workout to work out the grogginess that was clinging to my system and a bottle of Vitamin Water.

"Are you dehydrated?" asked my friend Nicole.

"Yeah," I answered. "Don't think I'll be drinking tonight." I use that term with the same superstitious belief as Beetlejuice. Say it three times and it will be true. That was #2.

"What-the-hell ever," cried Nicole. "This is your birthday party, man."

I stared up at Rachel. Five months after I'd contracted a wicked flu on my birthday, shutting down any possibility for partying whatsoever, my friends had gathered up an array of food, a cake, guests and a few bottles of wine for some mock wine tasting and general birthday party fun.

We only got through two mini-bottles of wine before I hit the gin.

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