I'm proud to report that I can count the times I've drank way too much on one hand - less so to report that I used up another finger last weekend.
Friday night got off to an excellent start. Some friends and I caught a free Ozomatli
concert at the California Plaza downtown. Tens of free outdoor summer concerts happen any given week in Los Angeles, ostensibly to "promote community and celebrate summer." I think the greater metropolitan area is trying to apease its guilt about the outrageous cost of living and scarily viligant parking enforcement.
After Ozzomatli, we went to a bar in Culver City for a friend's birthday. Leaving around midnight and still a little tipsy, I said, "Is anyone interested in a little contest?. . . " Never say that if you're me. Especially if you're me and thought your late lunch would tide you over for the entire night. And under no circumstances should you (if you're me) end your night by chasing whatever drink you had with a Long Island Iced Tea (especially if they're served in pint glasses).
The contest: I challenged a friend to see who could get/give the most numbers of potential suitors. I made the challenge when I thought we were going to the dive bar around the corner from my house. Instead we ended up at the cheesy, Brentwood Todd (consultant, leased BMW, powder blue button down shirt - untucked, trendy jeans, loafers, lots of hair products) hangout down the street - my least favorite bar in the city (and thus the "potential suitors" is amended to "breathing persons"). Being a (slightly handicapped, given the considerable alcohol intake) neophyte at this game, it didn't occur to me that it one should get
numbers, rather than to give out one's number. So I didn't learn everything I needed to know in kindergarten.
Later, in my apartment, I thought the slight slip down the stairs, the revisiting of the Long Island Iced Tea, and the fact that I was essentially bedridden (save for two bathoom trips and one soup/dvd run downstairs) until 8am SUNDAY morning was penance enough for my poor choices. Nope. Not only did one of the guys I had given my number to call me twice Friday night (you know, to remind me of the jacuzzi party at their place - the one where "we have French doors." -- what?), but he called me NINE times throughout the course of the weekend. Nine times in less than 48 hours. Clearly, this is not a "Rules" man.
Okay, so the hangover and the persistant calling are my penance. Fair enough. Not so fast. At a barbeque on Monday one of my friends reminded me of a choice remark I made to the persistant caller. It wasn't so much tasteless or sleazy as it was totally obnoxious. I was no longer puzzled why someone wouldn't get the idea after the eighth
time I didn't pick up, but moreover wondered why he'd even call at all. And just for good measure, it became an even ten calls last night.
Seriously, I have learned my lesson.