and you may ask yourself...who turned on a hose in the kitchen?

I had a lovely dinner on Thursday night with some of my dearest friends from the firm where I used to work. We had lots of tapas, and lots of wine, and I was grateful I only had to go a few blocks to my next destination. Cute Tony and I met up after dinner; he had been sick for several days, so I hadn't seen him since before New Year's. We went to see my very talented neighbor Troy play in a Fleetwood Mac cover show, which sounded painful, but was actually quite entertaining. Being that he had been sick, Cute Tony was being very responsible and refused to kiss me on the mouth. Being that he is Cute, I protested, and reasoned that if he had a cocktail, it would be like antiseptic, and I would be in the clear. The bottle of wine at dinner (ok, maybe I drank a bottle by myself), and three or four vodka sodas later, we made it home. When I woke up the next morning, I made an earnest effort to get to work, thinking a glass of water and maybe some McDonald's breakfast would cure what I was convinced was a nasty hangover. I tried the McDonald's closest to my house first, which I'm pretty sure is the slowest, most fucked up McDonald's on the planet. Of course the drive through lane is winding all around the building, so I suck it up and drag myself out of the car and inside. I am positive at this point that in mere moments I will have hash browns and this will cure how terrible I feel. The woman behind the counter announces, "If ya'll are trying to pay with a card, we can't do nothin' for you." Does she not understand that I have needs? I get sort of panicky. What am I going to do? I have to get to work, there is no way I'm going to make it though the day without some sort of grease on my stomach. Lightbulb...there is another McDonald's about a mile away. I drive there, and it is in the drive through lane, which seems to be taking an eternity despite the fact that I'm the only one in it, that I realize there is no possible way I am (a) going to be able to keep my wits about me to drive to work, and (b) even sit at my desk for 8 hours. I call my secretary from said drive through. I call my mom. I barely make it the 1.5 miles back home and on the couch, shoes and work clothes still on. I cannot move. I remain there for about...um...the next four days or so. Clearly, not a hangover. And alcohol does not work as an antibacterial.

On day four of the flu, I'm taking what I hope will be my final day off from work. It's around 9:00 am, I'm on the couch, watching Capote, enjoying that it's quiet and I'm not quite as nauseous as I have been. All of a sudden, it sounds like someone is hosing down my kitchen. I get up, and literally, there is a giant spray of water erupting from under the kitchen sink, spraying everywhere, quickly flooding the floor. I have no choice but to dive in, searching for the valve that does not exist under the sink, finally finding a way to turn the water off in the water heater closet. I'm soaking wet and standing in at least an inch of water. Over the next few hours, the handyman came, the plumping got fixed, I managed to clean up the water and make it back onto the couch. Not the most pleasant way to spend a morning!