Charming, but single

A journal in dates and drinks

Putting together the pieces ...

Saturday morning I woke up at 7 a.m. I don't know why, but as I sat up I felt dizzy and nauseous. My head was pounding. I rubbed my eyes and got makeup all over them. I had quite possibly one of the worst hangovers in my life. I had gone out celebrating for a friend's birthday and we had ended up at a cool little martini-type bar with a fun band. As I stumbled to the kitchen for some water and advil, I noticed a Hansel-and-Gretel-like trail of going out shoes and a purse leading to the bedroom. I figured that I had dropped my shoes before going to bed. When I got to the kitchen, horror of horrors, I found my bra and outfit from the night strewn all over the damn place. I'm not one to keep my undergarments with the fruits and veggies, so I tried to piece the night before's events together in my pounding head while I chugged four glasses of water. I gave up trying to solve the mystery of the bra buffet and went back to bed. Much to my chagrin, my alarm went off at 8:30 a.m. I moaned and covered my head. I hit the snooze. Ten minutes later when I sounded again, I realized that there had to be a reason for me to set the alarm in an intoxicated state. After all, it was Saturday morning. And then I remembered that I was going to a wedding for a girl (four years younger than I am!) that I knew from college and work. I was riding with a married couple I'm friends with. The wedding was more than an hour and a half away and I had to leave for married couple's on-the-other-side of the world home at 10 a.m. in order to meet them in time to leave for the wedding. We needed to leave their house by 10:30 a.m. I wanted to die. I covered my head with my pillow, forgot about the case of the in-the-kitchen bra and decided to sleep until 9 a.m. At 9:45 a.m., my cell phone rang. It was the wifely half of married couple, checking in to make sure I was getting ready, since she'd witnessed the mayhem that was the night before. I was still in bed and quite content to stay put. I'd already purchased a wedding gift and I was RSVPed and married couple had altered their plans so that I could go with them, so I had to go, no matter what kind of pain I was in. I stumbled to the shower, and as I was washing my disgusting hair, I began to piece the night's events together in my head. I had two generous glasses of wine at a friend's house before we went to the bar. I then had Cosmos at the bar. (Judging from a later assessment of funds found in my going out purse, I had at least four, if not more. Judging from the smell of my going out shirt, I probably wore most of the last one.) I danced and danced and drank. I apparently pined after a cute boy. My friends offered to Wingwoman him over to me, but I babbled about how I couldn't stand rejection or something. He left with a cute blonde. Bastard. Then the phone calling and text messaging started. A later scan of outgoing calls and incoming text messages revealed that I had called pretty much everyone in my damn phone. I had several calls back and forth with B. Apparently I had convinced him to come have a drink and when he got there my friends wanted to leave so he said he'd bring me home. But, my keys, glasses and spare shoes (because sometimes you need a more comfy extra pair) were in my friend's car, and the next thing I know, I am standing outside of the bar and B is holding a pair of espadrilles and my glasses. We get in his car and he's taking me home when he realizes that he left a $10 drink untouched on the table. (This made me feel bad. I owe him one.) But back to the shower and the wedding and Saturday morning. I scrubbed off makeup and smoke, wrapped up in a towel and then went on a mad dash around the house to find an appropriate outfit. It was almost 10 a.m. and my hair was wet, I was having a rough time finding clean undergarments (and still confused as to why my bra was in the kitchen) and I had no makeup on. I was very much behind schedule. My cute planned wedding outfit was scratched because it needed to be ironed. (A damn shame too, because that pink skirt was very cute and summer wedding appropriate.) I dug through my closet and found the one thing that didn't need to be ironed. It didn't exactly scream "wedding wear," but it beat going in my towel. That's right, to a Saturday afternoon summer wedding, I wore black widelegged trousers and a maroon (kind of boho) shirt with a round neckline and gold sequins and beads. Quite possibly the least wedding thing I owned. I told myself that I wouldn't be the only woman there in black pants (I was) and that the shirt was a nice 100 percent silk thing I bought for a fancy night out. I dried my hair, had no time to straighten it, threw on the outfit and some black sandals and went to grab my makeup bag (because I had a long car ride ahead of me and figured I'd put my makeup on then) when I realized that I had no makeup bag. I paused and thought back to the night before. My makeup bag was in my big purse, which I left at my friend's house for some odd reason. I was 25 minutes behind schedule with poofy, unstraightened hair, the hangover from hell and no makeup of which to speak. I wanted to get back in bed. Instead, I tore through the bathroom looking for the basket of makeup rejects I keep. I grabbed some Clinique samples I never use and a jar of some sort of whipped foundation that I had hated and a mini tube of mascara I never used and a shade of blush that was too neutral for my skin. It is 10:30 a.m. at this point. I jumped into my car and sped away. I yelled as I realized that I was almost out of gas. I stopped again, filled up the car and then tore out of the gas station. I made up some time by driving much much much too fast on the way to married couple's house, but I still got there after 11 a.m. I rolled out of the car and began apologizing. Married couple smiled and joked that they were not surprised that I was late, given the number of martinis I had the night before and my general habit of being late when at all possible. As we left their house they asked for a recap of what happened the night before after they left the bar. I filled them in on dancing and the guy I admired from afar leaving with a blonde and B bringing me home and helping me inside because I was stumbling around. And then I stopped. If B had brought me inside to make sure I got in safely and I had found my clothes strewn about ... Dear God. Tell me I didn't ... The wedding was nice and the reception was nice and my outfit wasn't summery, but it ended up not being all that bad. But I am haunted by finding my pants on the floor and my bra on the kitchen table and my shirt flung across the room on Saturday night. Did I undress after B left? Did I undress while he was there? Why is my bra in the kitchen? So, um, I guess my question is -- do I call and ask?

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Charming, but single is 25 26 27(!), lives in the Southern part of the U.S.A. and likes both her drinks and her boys tall. E-mail (listed below) her and she may respond. You can also IM her in AIM/AOL. (If she ever remembers to sign on.)
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Former taglines of this blog: "A Journal in Dates and Drinks" and "A Dateless Journal of Drinking."

Those Particulars
Some Backstory
Memories of the Way We Were
Updates and Towel Snapping
One Year Wrap-Up
Just As She Is
An Open Letter to Myself
After 26 years, she HAS learned something
An Open Letter to the Men Who Message Me Through Match
Sharing a smoke

Associated Content Interview with Charming
The Hindu: Blog Sisters are here

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