February 28, 2005

My Big Fat Supreme Humiliation

I experienced a few "firsts" in my life, Saturday night. The kind of "firsts" that do not bear repeating ever, ever again. Ever.

Calvin and I met some friends at the local watering hole. We sat at the outside bar with our backs to the fire, watching the Suns game (yee-uh!) on the TV in the corner. The evening was going swimmingly, we were laughing and joking and having a good time, the weather was beautiful (gotta love Arizona in February), and we were in good company.

So of course, such good times could not last. Herein lies documentation of my Supreme Humiliation. Perhaps it will serve as warning so that this doesn't happen to anyone else. I hope. It won't be happening to me again, that's certain.

We got there at about quarter to eight. Calvin claimed a beer and I ordered a Cape Cod (cranberry, vodka, and lime). Our friend showed up, Calvin ordered a round of shots, I tossed one down. I started feeling a bit tight and recalled that I hadn't had anything to eat. So I ordered a salad, which was simple and tasted so frickin' good that I realized how hungry I must be if a bunch of lettuce and ranch can be right up there with my best eating experience ever. Okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but still. It tasted damn good.

More hanging out. A couple of trips to the ladies room, and a couple of encounters with this one lady who kept telling me how beautiful I am and that I look like Helen Hunt. And then she told me she was "a bit psychic" (uh, okay Daphne). She told me I was going to injure my foot or get burned or something. She said a bunch of other weird stuff that, well, I don't remember now. If she could have actually foretold what was going to happen, I would have footed the bill for her to set up shop and tell people's fortunes.

I got a refill on my Cape Cod, and we had another round of shots. So. It's now around 10:30, and I've had food, two drinks, and two shots in the course of two-and-a-half hours. So what happened next is completely inexplicable, in my mind.

I got up to go the ladies room, and things spun in such a way that I noted to myself that I'd switch to water for the rest of the night. With every step I took, the spinning worsened, and I vaguely recall thinking, "Uh, oh. I know this feeling." I made it into a stall and managed to lock it behind me just in time (First/Last Number One).

At first, I was pretty proud of myself for keeping the... uh... proceedings fairly quiet. But then I hit empty. And rapidly became less... delicate... about things. Things get a little blurry after that. A bunch of ladies knocked on the stall door at intervals, asking if I was okay. I sat on the bathroom floor (jaysus) and kind of hung out, hoping to feel less spinny so I could pretend to be normal, go back out, sit down, and pretend to be fine, perfectly fine. Um, no.

There came a knock on the stall door, and a kind lady offering damp paper towels under the door. I sat back and propped myself (only so I thought, apparently) against the wall. I wanted to close my eyes, but one time was all it took to violently remind me why it ISN'T A GOOD IDEA to close your eyes when you have the whirlies.

Another knock at the stall door, and another lady offering help. By this time I'd been asked several times who I was with, and I gave a description of Calvin. So meanwhile, back at the bar, Calvin was getting approached by multiple people, telling him of my... condition. Much to his supreme embarrassment. The entire bar now knew of my predicament. The place isn't that big. And apparently the informants had loud voices.

Another knock at the stall door, and I was surprised (vaguely) to hear a man's voice. "Ma'am, open the door. Ma'am, I need you to unlock the door. Ma'am, Calvin's here..." Then Calvin, "Laura, unlock the door!" I grumbled a grouchy, "Alright, already!" and unlocked the door.

The position I thought I was in wasn't the position I actually was in (First/Last Number Two). Calvin said I had one arm lying across the toilet seat, with my head resting on it. One leg was hooked around the base of the toilet, and one leg was bent backwards and splayed out behind me. I also mistakenly thought that my Offerings to the Porcelain Gods were directed pretty much where they needed to go. But no, apparently I made such a mess of that stall that Calvin tipped extra well to make up for the needed clean-up. Fascinatingly enough, I didn't get any mess on me. Perfectly clean. Weird.

Calvin was praying that I wouldn't throw up on the way out - because by now everyone was apparently watching us. He had to keep a firm hold of my shirt so that I didn't weeble, wobble, or fall down. I don't remember this. I don't remember getting into the truck. I don't remember having to stop three times on the five minute drive home so I could yack out the truck window (I *do* remember Calvin yelling, "Don't you dare throw up in the truck!"). I don't remember Calvin getting me into the house (he had to TOUCH THE ICK to open the door - gaaaaahhhhh), undressed, and into bed. Really, I don't remember much beyond accepting the damp paper towels in the ladies room stall (First/Last Number Three). A lot of the details here are being filled in with information that Calvin gave me the next morning. And that NEVER. EVER. happens to me. I'm not a "What did I do last night and who do I apologize to?" kind of drinker.

I had a completely controllable amount of alcohol over a two-and-a-half hour period of time. There is no reason why I should have been that wasted. But I was. Really? I think someone slipped something into my drink. There was that one hovering "Lonely Desperate Guy" lurking around for most of the evening. Regardless of the source or reason for my Supreme Humiliation, I have sworn off of the hard stuff for good.

There you have it. I have documented my shame for the scrutiny of the world. Believe me, though, nobody has to lecture me about the downfalls of the evil, evil alcohol.

Calvin says we can never go back there again.

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