About a year ago, I was invited by my boss and friend, Leigh, to attend a black tie gala with her and two other friends. The event: Oscar night! Naturally, I was going to go. Free booze, movies, gourmet food, a night in the city, and I get to play dress-up and pretend I’m classy for a few hours? Right on.
And that’s where I ran into trouble. All of the above led me down a spiral I like to call my Black Tie Black Out.
Honestly, things were going really well from the start. Champagne at Leigh’s house and gallivanting around in our dresses and heals. Champagne again before we head out with our chauffeur. Champagne right when we get in the door and head down the red carpet. A bit of cheese here. A grape or two there.
And then I discovered what you see in this picture above. That is a mini bottle of champagne with an accompanying nozzle so that one can drink straight from the bottle without getting all the fizz up your nose. You know how annoying that is. This shit was class-city.
So naturally, between mini cups of lobster bisque and some cheese, I was pounding these bad boys and realizing that we can’t even see the video projection of the actual Oscars on the screens. Being shit faced didn’t help with my inability to see the picture. Also in attendance was one of the Bachelors. I stared at him for a while because without my glasses on (and two sheets to the wind) I can’t see past my nose. I’m sure I looked like a maniac – cross eyed, holding a bottle of booze and sneering in that way you do when you’re trying to make out a magic eye picture. I also spied a frazzled woman, drunker than I, spread eagle at a table and staring at a wall. I took her picture but chose against sharing it – you know, don’t need to spread around stranger’s crotches on the interwebs. Life’s hard enough on people. Instead, here’s picture of a young man forced to dress in gold spandex:
Also in attendance was the real life characters from The Fighter, who were pretty much exactly as they were portrayed in the movie. Hilarious. Boisterous. And screaming profanities while wearing fancy dresses and drinking Budweiser.
Then came time to go home. At which point I started to feel a little whacky. Not drunk, but…whacky. I wasn’t sure if the combination of bubbles and lobster were doing me in, but whatever it was, my mind wasn’t right. I was roofied. By champagne.
We get back to Leigh’s house and I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of ‘I think I’m tripping’ and I quite literally stumble back to my house up the street, though I’m not really sure how I made it. I don’t remember much after that but here’s a breakdown:
-I looked at my dog and decided against taking her outside to pee because I didn’t trust myself not to fall down the stairs.
-Fall asleep on the floor.
-Dog pees on said floor. Hate me.
-I wake up in the middle of the night to get some water, take a fist-full of vitamin c pills. Go to actual bed.
-I realize I am not wearing pants.
-I wake up again but can’t see anything.
-I realize I’m wearing a hoodie and it is on backwards. Hood is pulled over my face.
-I hate myself.
-Random bruising on my knees and my hand hurts.
-Find hairs that are not mine on my jacket from night before.
-Am convinced I killed a hooker on my way home.
-Go to work.
-Go home and start a fire in the fireplace.
-Find hair-like fibers in said fireplace.
-Confident I killed a hooker the previous night.
I’m pretty sure that I didn’t drink all that much that night…though everyone else who went managed to wake up feeling fresh as a daisy while I spent the day as a corpse dressed as a 20-something woman wearing her favorite perfume: shame & sweat. I would like to add that no one really knew of my condition until the following day, which means I didn’t dance on a table or barf on Boston’s finest that night and totally embarrass myself and my boss.
I just embarrassed myself in the privacy of my own home. And my dog. And maybe murdered someone in cold blood. And lived to share it with all of you. How lovely. My mom will be so proud.
BONUS: Most excellent photobomb courtesy of Laura & Kate:
*This has been an edition of Adventure in Art: True Stories of a Culture Whorior