I’m so embarrassed.
My friend, Anna, bought us tickets to the Bob Dylan concert at Foxwoods casino Friday night. It was supposed to be Ladies Night II. If you remember, I was thwarted Ladies Night I by Junior when he coated me with his dinner and Pink eye while Charles was off at battle.
Ladies Night II was not supposed to involve puke.
Yet there I was, a mere 20 minutes into the concert, hunched over in the bathroom, making an origami cup out of the those lovely toilet seat liners for my…upset stomach (I may have been intoxicated but I wasn’t going to hug someone else’s toilet, even though it was about 50 times cleaner than my own and yes, I can fold paper into cups).
See, this is what happens when party girls go mother.
Looking back, I made several crucial mistakes. First, my pre-game was off. I should have eaten more than Fig Newtons for dinner. I should not have drunk whiskey and beer, nor should I have slugged down a cup of cheap, warm vodka before the concert and chased it with a Corona. At the time I was so grateful to bartender Troy for doubling our shots but whilst retching into my origami cup I kept recollecting the shot.
Again and again and again.
Second, my game itself was off. Why? Because I have no game.
As much as I loved the comfort of my personal bathroom stall (if you haven’t been to the MGM Grand at Foxwoods, their bathrooms are fabulous), I worried about how I would get from the stall to my bathtub, which is all I wanted.
So I started drunk dialing. I called Anna, who wanted to know where the hell I had disappeared to. She offered to come to the bathroom to assist me but I had no idea where I was (the bathrooms are designed like conch shells around a circle; well, in my drunken state that’s what it seemed like anyway).
I called Charles. While listening to me puke he offered to call the casino’s ER people. But the thought of being removed from the bathroom via stretcher was way too embarrassing. I told him I’d crawl out to the concierge and get a cab.
Which I was able to do a mere 30 minutes later. I have to commend the concierge people. I don’t know if it was because I stunk or because I was carrying a natty clump of toilet paper liners, but that’s the fastest I’ve ever gotten a cab.
My driver was squat and Polish. His English was terrible so, in my drunken brilliance, I though it’d be easier for him to understand me if I made my English terrible.
“Too much drink. Drive slow. Get sick.”
He rolled down the windows on my side of the cab and floored it.
Every few minutes I’d get a wave of nausea and say, “Stop. Get sick.”
He’d slam on the brakes and pull over and we’d sit there.
“Sorry. No get sick.”
He’d floor it again and we’d make it another few miles and then, “Stop. Get sick. Sorry.”
Again, he’d slam on the brakes and pull over and we’d sit there.
“Sorry. No get sick.”
When we finally got to my house after that miserable cocktease of a ride I tossed him the money and slithered away into the night. It was 11:30 p.m. I’d been out of the house for exactly four hours.
On the bright side, I won $40 on the nickel slots. Just enough to pay for the cab ride home.