Freaky Tuesday

Nothing strikes the fear of G-d in me more than discovering it’s a windy day upon starting my morning commute in an easy breezy skirt. Tuesday morning was one such day, and as I was already running late, didn’t have time to run back home and change into less dangerous attire. With one hand pressed against my skirt to prevent any early morning peep shows, I bravely set out on my long 40-minute walk to work.

Five minutes later, a sudden gust of wind seemed to come to life beneath me for the sole purpose of lifting my skirt for all the men in suits walking toward me to see. And to make matters worse, I was wearing my most egregious pair of granny panties. I hadn’t done laundry in weeks, so I had no choice but to grab my old yellowed pair of panties, the cloth holding on to the waist band for dear life, the ones that could just possibly save my life if I were ever unfortunate enough to be hurtling toward the earth at a great speed, as they would surely fan out like a parachute, floating me safely to the ground.

I slammed my skirt down, making sure to grab it firmly by the sides so no sudden back wind could rush up and expose my booty. I silently congratulated myself on my quick reaction time, then froze as I caught a glance of myself in a store window: My poor choice of t-shirt selection that morning had resulted in a case of visible nipples. Instinctively, I reached up to cover my nips, which of course led to my skirt giving way. The wind lifted my skirt so high it grazed my chin, and the guys walking toward me hooted and hollered and gave thanks to the wind gods for blessing them that day ... until they saw the state of my panties. They quickly averted their eyes and put a little more gas in their step to get past me and my genormous panties that no doubt are still causing them to wake up at night in a cold sweat.

I was having similar glandular problems, as the 90-degree heat that day was causing me to sweat profusely. Salty sweat trickled into my eyes, rendering me virtually blind as I walked with one hand over my chest and one hand on my skirt. To make matters worse, the previous day I had gone into Macy's to buy a light foundation for my face. As I was making my purchase, the girl behind the counter alerted me to the fact that putting bronzing cream on my face was creating a shadow over my lip, causing me to look like I needed to set up shop next to the World’s Smallest Pony booth in the Albermarle Virginia County fair. To hide the faux 'stache, that morning I had put cover-up over my lip, which was dripping down my face and onto my nipple-exposing t-shirt.

By the time I finally got to my office, one look in the mirror had me almost turning back around. I had foundation and pit stains on my shirt, and the sweat from my walk had seeped through my skirt, exposing my granny panties. Luckily, I was the first one in; I grabbed the heating unit I keep under my desk that I run all throughout the summer and pumped it up to 11. For some reason unbeknownst to me, people in offices like to pretend they’re in the Arctic in July and August, so that when you finally step out into the sweltering summer heat after a long day of shivering and ice fishing, you develop pneumonia and die.

Luckily the heater saved the day. I was able to dry myself completely before anyone came in, so that the only embarrassments I had to deal with that day were the stains on my shirt and looking like a sideshow freak. To avoid being seen and exposing myself to any more innocent civilians, I stayed in for lunch and hailed a cab to take me home. About 5 minutes into the ride, the cabbie, a Russkie, suddenly turned around to face me and shouted, “Aunt Olga! I can't believe it's you! I thought you were still in Virginia!”

It's the Great Pumpkin, Boston

It started out as a bright, beautiful sun-shiney day. My friends and I headed out to breakfast at Moogie's, a local eatery, in shorts and t-shirts, as it was an unusually hot day in late September.

I had just enough time to scarf down a muffin with my friends before I had to drive down to the Cape for the weekend. I was just about to head out the door, when there was an unearthly crash of thunder, followed by a torrential downpour. I looked down at my little white t-shirt.

"Oh crap."

Much laughter ensued. All of it coming from my so-called friends.

"This isn't funny, guys! My car is parked three blocks away and I need to go now! What the hell am I going to do?"

"Why don't you see if they have a trash bag?" my friend Mel suggested.

"Great idea."

I walked back to the cashier and, after much smirking, the cashier went in back and returned carrying a humongous bright orange jack-o-lantern trash bag.

"It's all we have."

I returned to the table, carrying the trash bag like it actually had a load of trash in it.

"What the …"

"I know. It's all they have. Or say they say!" I turned to look at the cashier, who was still smirking at me.

"So what are you going to do?"

"What can I do? It's either this bag or being the only contestant in a wet t-shirt contest."

I ripped a hole in the bag, slipped it over my head gingerly--apparently forgetting I was putting on five feet of orange plastic and not, in fact, an expensive Christian Dior gown--and marched to the door.

"Remember to be back by midnight before the spell wears off!"

I banged the door closed to more sounds of my friends rolling on the floor with laughter. Outside, a complete storm was raging. To make matters worse, the wind was so strong, it was blowing up the trash bag so that I actually looked like the Great Pumpkin Linus has been looking for all his life.

I turned the corner and started walking down Commonwealth Avenue, a major Boston street, to the various sounds of car honks and screams of, "Look at that idiot!"

I was not more than five steps away from my car, which I had parked on a side street, when I heard a squealing of tires followed by a sickening crunch. I turned around to see the result of what could only have been a car, momentarily stupefied by the sight of a human pumpkin walking around in the light of day, crashing into the car ahead of him who was pulling out onto the street.

I hurriedly jumped in my car before I landed on the ten o'clock news.

The following Monday, I got an unexpected call from Mel at work.

"What's up?"

"So one of my co-workers came up to me today. She was like, 'My boyfriend saw the strangest thing this weekend …' "

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes. Apparently her boyfriend got in to a fender bender because of you. I'm not going to say anything to her, but if I were you, I'd destroy all evidence and never speak of this again."

When I got home, I ran to my car and grabbed from my glove compartment the monstrous neon orange bag that now seemed to be smiling evilly at me, not unlike the small bestial-looking stone that that archeologist finds in the beginning of The Exorcist, I was now starting to notice. I quickly ran to the nearest trash bin, not realizing that my shoelace had come undone. I tripped, releasing the trash bag into the windy night. And in the distance, a loud scream followed by the distinct sound of tires squealing in the night ...

Baby I (don't) Like It Raw

For my manager's birthday, on her request, our small department of four headed to Rawbert's, a cleverly named vegan raw food restaurant due to the owner's being named Robert, or "Rawbert," as the cafe's website says his equally-as-clever friends call him.

Upon stepping through the door, I crossed myself, said a little prayer, and figured at least I'd have something to cook the veggies with if I spontaneously burst into flames, having only hours earlier scarfed down an egg sandwich with about four slices of bacon and two sausage patties.

We were quickly greeted by a young orange waitress. If it hadn't been for everyone's height, I would've sworn we'd inadvertently stumbled upon Oompa Loompa land. All the waiters had bright orange faces, no doubt as a result from downing too many carrot juice shots. Say what you will about my rum swilling, at least I don't get mistaken for the Harvest Moon when I go out at night. A pirate, maybe, but I think we can all agree that getting mistaken for a drunken pirate is way cooler than getting mistaken for the moon, even a great big orangey one that happens once every four years during the fall equinox.


Upon receiving our menus, one thing that stood out was how every entree was wrapped in quotes. Diners had the option of choosing between such scrumptious delights as Guac and "Chips," Quesadillas with Jack "Cheese," Squash "Ravioli," and Spaghetti and "Meetballs." I appreciated how "meetballs" was written not only in quotes but incorrectly as well. Just in case an errant carnivore such as myself should happen to wander in and miss the quotes, the misspelling of meat would quickly confirm that what you were about to eat would taste terrible and nothing like an actual meatball and would, in all probability, cause you much digestive distress after eating such a monstrous aberration to the sanctity of cooked cow. Worse yet, every entree was accompanied by Buddhist-like deep thoughts, such as "How do I Awaken?" and "How am I Sensational?" I was tempted to write, "By eating slaughtered cows" in the margins.

I ordered the mocha "frappe" with cashew milk, which was a little concerning, as I hadn't known that cashews had teats. But it was the least intimidating item on the menu as far as I could tell--I mean, how badly could a bunch of orange vegans screw up a coffee drink?

Pretty badly, as it turned out. At first I thought I'd been served the runs in a cup. It was a gruesome brown color, the likes of which I hope to never see again. Froth bubbled up to the top, like some sort of witch's brew that might just turn me into a frog, or worse, a raw-food vegan. I held my nose and took a sip. Cashews, as it turns out, pump out really shitty milk.

Seeing as it was my manager's birthday, however, I had to be a good sport and down the foul concoction. I was nervous and uncomfortable, though, and to break the tension, I started babbling about the one comfort and light of my life, that which I can depend on even in my darkest of days to make me happy again ... yes, I started talking about bacon. I talked about the different varieties, how I needed it every day and how when I went to bed, I dreamed about it at night and counted the hours until I would see it again in the morning, how I yearned to smother it in chocolate ... I was talking about it so passionately it became borderline kinky. The lone vegan sitting to the right of us who was reading a book called--I kid you not--Green for Life, kept looking at me like I was talking about killing all the puppies and rainbows in the world.

As filling as my cup of fake coffee was, a fellow meat-loving coworker and I hightailed it out of lunch and hit up the Wendy's across the street, where we relished its ingenious new invention: the Baconator. As we exited the fast food chain--or, as I call it, church--I could've sworn I saw that lone vegan--eating his alfalfa sprouts and "nausage" patty--staring out the window at us enviously, salivating ever so slightly.

Some Like It Hot

Some people like it hot, and I happen to be one of those some people. So much so that I decided to enter a hot pepper eating contest during my second year at college. To prepare, I bought jars of habanero peppers and ate as many as I could without passing out. My best friend and roommate Mel was constantly awoken to loud moaning and feet pacing back and forth across our dorm suite at odd hours of the night.

“Amy, is that you?” Mel asked, peeking her head out of her room. “Why are you holding a gallon of milk and a box of Saltines?”

Rather than concoct an elaborate story to explain away my midnight madness, I decided to confess my aspirations of becoming Boston’s first hot pepper eating champion. Now, I didn’t have any career plans and must have changed my major at least a dozen times, in fact, on the first day of classes, I drove to campus only to turn right back around when I couldn’t find a parking space, but the idea of becoming a hot pepper eating champion put a fire under my ass like I’d never experience again.

“And what is the grand prize for winning this thing? Money? Jewels? Brad Pitt?”

“A bottle of tequila.”

“Patron?”

“Cuervo Gold.”

“Oh, Amy.”

Of course, Mel had been with me the night of the appropriately named “tequila night” that occurred during our first week at Brandeis. Although we were mere freshmen, we boldly got behind the bar of our first frat house party and served upperclassmen drinks all night—for every one shot for them, we drank three. It seemed like a good ratio at the time, but then again, math was never my thing. During her first night on duty, our skittish RA was in a state of panic as she tried to take care of an entire hall of freshmen rolling on the floor in agony and puking in buckets. Worst of all, she was down a resident. They found me later that night in the infirmary, still holding a shot glass. I had registered a .1415 on the breathalyzer—and that was after I had stopped drinking for three hours. I wasn't able to eat so much as a margarita Jelly Belly without getting nauseous after that night.

Suffice to say, I was not in this thing for the bottle of tequila. I was in it for the glory. I couldn’t just eat the hot peppers in anonymous merriment; I had to be the best.

On the day of the contest, I was feeling confident. I walked into the taqueria with Mel and took a look around at my competition. My stomach dropped. It was me, a fat Jewish kid, and about 20 Hispanic men. I was in trouble.

“Do they have any parting gifts for the losers?” Mel whispered.

“Hey! I am in it to win it. Don’t be bringing me down.”

I took my seat next to the pasty white Jewish guy. In front of us was a plate and a giant glass of milk.

The Jewish kid perked up. “Hey! Washing down the peppers with milk will make this thing a lot easier!”

One down, 20 Hispanic men to go. “Uh … this is my first hot pepper eating contest, but I’m pretty sure you take a drink when you give up upon realizing the fire in your mouth is causing permanent damage.”

The kid looked at me with the fear of Moses in his eyes. Good. This wasn’t our Bubbe’s hot pepper eating contest.

Our first pepper was the rather tame jalapeno. I swallowed it easily and looked over to my Jewish friend. His eyes were bulging; he clutched his throat with one hand and took in huge gulps of milk with the other. I quickly covered my mouth, pretending to be in pain from the jalapeno to cover my smirk.

The peppers got increasingly hotter. We went through Scottish Bonnets, Hungarian Hots, Taiwanese Tongue Numbers (OK that last one I made up, but come on, how cool a name is that?) all the way until we reached the grand daddy of them all: the deadly habanero.
At this point, the contestants had dwindled down to seven, but I was no longer feeling confident. My head was pounding, the peppers were becoming blurry, and I could no longer feel my tongue or left pinkie. I ate one habanero, and then another, then another. Everyone kept pace with me. Finally, on my seventh habanero, I had to admit that I was beat.

“Hunh!” I grunted, lunging for my glass of milk. It toppled over.

“Hunh!” I looked at Mel in pure panic. She immediately ran over to me and whisked me out the door, like some kind of hot pepper EMT who had been helping people out of hot pepper eating contest situations all her life. We ran over to the nearest corner store and I made a beeline for the dairy aisle. After the cashier rang up the quart of milk, I grabbed it out of her hands, ripped the sucker open, and started chugging. The cashier put up her hands and started slowly backing away.

“I wath juth in a peppah eathin contheth,” I explained. She widened her eyes in horror.

Mel just shrugged her shoulders and aided me back home before the locals could grab their pitchforks and run me out of town.

I have never experienced such pain as I did that night. I paced around the suite until the next morning, going through an entire box of Saltines and two gallons of milk in the process. My mouth was still numb the next day, so I was unable to participate in class; instead I had to hand in an embarrassing note to all my professors explaining my situation.

“I am unable to answer questions in class today because of … does this say a, um, hot pepper eating contest?” My astronomy professor actually had to adjust her glasses.

I nodded my head in response.

She, in turn, shook her head in wonder. “Do you mind if I keep this note, dear? I’d like to use this in my upcoming salary negotiations.”

Give me the Loop, Give me the Loop!

This Memorial Day weekend I flew down to Virginia to see my family. Because of my experience on the flight down, I can come to no other conclusion than I must have done something terrible to upset the airplane g-ds, something so horrendous as to leave me sentenced to a lifetime of crazy plane stories. As if my continuing to get on planes weren't crazy enough.

I had a connecting flight in NY that would have put me in Virginia at around 9:30 p.m. Thursday night. The time between flights was so tight that I was a little nervous I wouldn't make the connection. My nerves were temporarily calmed when we touched down in NY with an hour to spare, but I quickly became anxious again when half an hour passed and we were still lolling about on the runway. By the time we finally exited the plane, I had 20 minutes to get to my next flight.

Of course, the gate I needed to get to was on the opposite end of the airport and it was so big that one could possibly have taken a flight to the other end. I ran so fast I defied the laws of physics; sparks flew from my rubber flip-flops as I checked the boards to see if my flight had left without me (as they so often do). The first board I whizzed past read: Departure time 10 p.m. Even though my flight was supposed to leave at 8, I did not slow down my gait, thinking it a clever ruse by US Airways to lull me into a false sense of security, thereby keeping me off the flight and saving themselves the cost of free soda and pretzels. (This actually does make sense when you're in a panic.) The second board I whizzed past read: Departure time 11 p.m. The third read 11:20 p.m. It was like US Airways thought that by pushing back our departure time in 20 minute increments, nobody would notice that we wouldn't make it to Virginia until the following day.

We screamed, we cried--some of the angrier ones got vouchers--but in the end, we ate our stale Cinnabuns and read our crappy celebrity magazines (thank you, Lindsay Lohan for making up for Britney's upsetting lack of antics), and waited. There was nothing more we could do.

By the time we boarded at 11:30, we were the only flight left.

"Woohoo! Let's hope we're first in line for take off!" a guy in front joked. The plane started to move and we slowly, ever so slowly, did an entire loop around the aiport.

"Uh, folks, this is Captain Smith from the cockpit. Uh ... traffic control asked us to loop around the airport. We're not really sure why, but we're now first in line for take-off and should be departing shortly."

As if I weren't nervous enough that our flight was delayed due to plane maintenance, now I had the added stress of worrying about why we needed to do a lap around the runway (a last check to see if any parts would fall off?) and why on earth the pilots would admit that they had no idea why we would do such a thing. Lie to us! Tell us we have too much fuel and needed to burn some off! Tell us our pilot lost a contact and wanted to circle around to look for it! But for the love of all that's good and light, do not tell us you have no friggin' clue why our plane had to do an entire lap around a deserted airport. Freaks us the fuck out.

Lucky for me, though, the kid next to me threw up on himself just moments before take-off.
The proximity to the noxious fumes knocked me out for the duration of the flight.

When I came to, we had mercifully landed. It was 12:30 a.m. Since our plane was a small prop plane, we had to wait outside on the runway for them to bring us our carry-ons that had been stored below deck. Of course, mine was the last one off the belt. As I grabbed my bag and made a mad dash for freedom, I heard the pilots and flight attendant scream, "Have a good night!" behind me. They actually had the nerve to be upset with me for not kissing and hugging them goodbye and trying to make it to my family before Memorial Day had actually passed.

I turned around just long enough to scream back, "Good morning!" and vowed never again to travel on US Airways ... starting right after I've used that free voucher.

Time to Get Chill

I recently watched an episode of The Real Housewives of New York, in which Kelly, some sort of cracked out socialite, schedules an appointment with someone and arrives 30 minutes late. In another, she arrives more than an hour late to her own party. Her own party! If anything, I'm around simply so no one walks off with a bottle of wine.

I've never understood people who are consistently late, as I go into a state of panic if I'm so much as one minute late to any type of event, be it a work meeting or my eleven-year-old nephew's birthday party. A couple of weekends ago, I had a flight to Virginia scheduled to depart at 7. I left work at 4, a good three hours before my departure, just so I wouldn't stress over the time.

Of course, the 4:00 bus turned into the 4:30 bus. I stepped on, and instead of seeing an ocean of empty seats, like I typically do being one of the first stops on the line, I saw no less than 10 old people with a various assortment of walking aids all scattered about in the back of bus, just to piss me off, I had no doubt.

I still had an hour and a half to get to the airport, though, so I tried to relax. The bus rolled to a stop at the next stop and the next ... and the next. And all the people getting on looked like they'd been AARP eligible for 20 years. I was confused. Where were they all going? Had I inadvertently stumbled onto the Wide World of Sports Bingo Tour bus?

I was getting nervous--and annoyed. My leg starting bouncing up and down at a faster rate than the bus was moving, and I was starting to sweat. If any of my fellow passengers hadn't needed bottle-thick eyeglasses, they might've thought I was on my way to the methadone clinic--a popular stop on my line.

To make matters worse, when one old person would get on, another would have to get off at the very next stop, a process that seemed to take a year to complete, due to all the walkers and canes in the way of the door. A sweet-looking old lady--she might've been 90--looked at me and remarked, "Wow, this bus is really full!" I was in no mood for chit chat, especially with a retired Capitain Obvious. I looked at her like she had just told me she wanted to take me out with her cane and returned to staring out the window, sighing, and tapping my foot violently. I felt like a complete jackass.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that I'm trying to make a flight and I'm really nervous I'm not going to make it."

"Oh, well what time is your flight?"

"Seven."

I looked down at my cell phone. It was 5 o'clock.

"Well," she said, patting my arm, "I'm sure you'll be okay."

Great. I thought. Grandma thinks I'm Looney Toons. But I had enough to worry about. When the bus finally rolled into the T station, where I would then have to jump on the train and then wait for a shuttle to take me to the airport, it was 5:30. I ran to an open cab.

"How much is it to the airport?" I screamed.

"Thirty bucks."

"I have a 20."

"Get in," the cabbie said. And we were off.

"Can you get me to the airport in half an hour?" I asked in a panic.

The cabbie took a look at the gridlock we were facing.

"I'll do my best. I know a shortcut!"

He slammed his foot on the accelerator and swerved violently to the right, riding the shoulder at 90 miles an hour before turning onto a residential street. I felt like I was in a scene right out of The Fast and the Furious, except for the fact I wasn't drag racing ... and I was in a smelly cab with a guy who looked like Rob Schneider on a bad day and not a Ferrari F355 next to a really hot Paul Walker ... okay, so it was nothing like the movie, but I felt like a bad ass just the same.

"Are you okay?!" the cabbie screamed to me behind his shoulder.

"Yes! Yes!" I screamed back as we came dangerously close to taking out a squirrel. "Do what you need to do!"

Ten minutes later, we came to a stop outside the United terminal.

The cabbie handed me a fistful of business cards, which I gladly took. This guy was so good I could probably call him to take me to DC and he'll make it in an hour, for fifty bucks.

Of course, due to United's evil and confusing ways, although my boarding pass said my flight was with United, it was operated by US Air, my arch nemesis, so I needed to get to the US Air terminal. Which was all the way on the other side of the building. Damn it! I yelled as I broke into a run that would've put Forrest to shame. What seemed like days later, I was finally sitting at my gate, still huffing and puffing from my one-woman race through the airport. I looked down at my cell phone. It was 6 o'clock.

Seeing as I had so much time to kill, I took out my laptop and started Googling rehab centers for people with serious time management problems.

Swinger

A little while ago, I was heading out to Virginia and had an early flight out in the morning, but figured I could indulge in one drink at the party next door before going to sleep. Six drinks later, I was in danger of going to sleep on my neighbor's floor. I'd somehow gotten involved in a political conversation, yet was so far gone I had forgotten what political even meant.

"So what is your opinion on the war in Iraq?" Chris, my cute neighbor asked me.

"Well, that's intereshting you athsk," I slurred, "whath an Iraq?"

Everyone laughed, and I laughed along, thinking Iraq must be an incredibly funny dude.

Chris pulled me aside and whispered, "Let's take a walk."

So we walked to the park across the street, or rather, Chris walked while I stumbled. He tried to grab me by the hand to help me along but something was in his way.

"What are you holding, there?"

"A drink!" I replied, holding my rum and coke up for emphasis—I unfortunately made my point all over his shirt.

"Here, let me take that," Chris said.

I jerked away violently, "No! Get your own, lush bag." I was smoothly transitioning from the stupid to belligerent phase.

"Hey, do you want me to push you?" Chris asked, pointing to a swing.

"Okay!"

But instead of sitting on the "big girl" swing, I took a dive into one of the baby swings. I somehow managed to fit both my muscular runner's legs into the baby-sized leg holes of the swing, but it was not comfortable. I tried to slither back out, but my legs were trapped.

"Help! I'm stuck!"

Chris leaped to my rescue, "What the hell did you do that for?"

"It looked like fun!" I screamed as Chris grabbed me under my arms and pulled with all his strength. It could've been pretty hot if I hadn't been so damn drunk.

Miraculously, he was able to get me out of the baby swing of torture. He set me gently on the ground and went in for a kiss. I kneed him in the groin.

"Fuck! That hurt!" he yelped.

I responded by repeatedly punching him in the stomach.

"Hey, hey!" he yelled, grabbing my hands and forcefully pinning them behind my back, "What are you doing?"

"I'm boxing!"

"But I don't want to box."

"Oh." There was no arguing with that logic.

Chris released my hands and I immediately grabbed my cell phone from my pocket.

"Want to see something funny?" I asked, waving my cell phone at him.

"Funnier than you getting stuck in the baby swing?"

I ignored him, tossing my cell phone into the dark, "Look! Time's flying!"

"But that's a cell phone—and Amy, you chucked that pretty far. It could be hiding in a bush somewhere!"

"You think my cell phone's spying on me?"

Chris didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Thankfully, I took the guesswork out of it for him. I crumpled to the ground, landing hard on his sandaled feet.

The next morning I woke up to the harsh cry of my alarm clock. My head was pounding, yet somehow I had to make it to the airport for a three-hour flight in the next hour. I pulled my hair up in a bun, slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door, bumping into a neighbor on my way out.

"Hey! I smell rum! Where's the party at?"

I headed back inside, sprayed myself with some perfume, and proceeded on my way.

Later that day, after I had successfully arrived in Virginia without being mistaken for a bar, I got a call from my friend, Mel.

"Hey, so rough night last night, huh?"

"Yeah, I don't remember much, though. I drank way too much. I am never..."

"Don't say you're never going to drink again, because you always say that when you have a hangover and you never mean it."

"Well I'm never going to drink so much I don't remember the night before, how about that?" I asked.

"So do you want me to fill you in on the highlights?"

"What do you mean?"

"I talked to Chris today—that poor boy was beaten, verbally abused, had a drink spilled on him, a sprained ankle, and, like an angel, carried you back to our place and then searched for your damn cell phone in the park for an hour until he found it. What the hell did you do to that boy?"

"I lost my cell phone?"

"Amy!"

"OK, OK, I suppose I have to thank him somehow. Hey, I just noticed today that my legs look like an elephant took a nap on them. They're all black and blue and kind of purply even—do you have any idea what that's all about?"

Mel gave a lame ass attempt at stifling a giggle.

"Apparently you jumped in the baby swing last night."

"Oh…Ow! No wonder! Well at least I was so drunk I didn't feel the pain."

Silence. "Amy, if you hadn't been drunk, you wouldn't have tried to jump in the baby swing."

There was no arguing with that logic.

After I got off the phone with Mel, I got the sudden fear that I had blown it with Chris. I knew I had to see whether Hallmark sold any so-sorry-I-kneed-you-in-the-groin-the-other-night cards and give a gift to right the many wrongs I did him the night before. I dialed Mel again.

"So what color shirt was Chris wearing last night? I was thinking about replacing it—what do you think?"

I could almost hear the wheels in Mel's head spinning wildly.

"I think if Chris is going to be spending time with you, your money would be better spent on getting him shin guards, a poncho, and a straight jacket."

"Straight jacket?"

"Anyone who'd want to spend time with you after a night like that has got to be crazy."