Hammered
I honestly had no urge to post today (mostly because the weekend's activities left me so exhausted and serotonin-depleted that it's all I can do to keep myself from crawling under my desk and drifting off to sleep to the soft hum of my computer tower), but the office is so mindmeltingly boring today that it's this or spending more money buying random things I don't need on Craigslist.
Friday night I had dinner with Don at his favorite restaurant in the West Village. We had a cocktail at the bar, and split a bottle of wine over dinner. Then Don's friend, the owner of the restaurant, joined us for 2 rounds of dessert wine. Somehow by the time the words "35 year old congnac" were tossed around, I was no longer in control of the situation.
Don and I somehow made it back uptown to my place for shots of vodka (Vodka shots? Who the fuck are we? I'm mildy surprised we didn't follow that with a game of beer pong or possibly whip out a deck of cards and start a swell game of "Asshole") and headed over to Barrage for further cocktails. I left Don at roughly 2 am and stumbled back to my newly painted apartment.
This episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is brought to you by Smirnoff.
Dan (entering apartment alone): (ok, I was alone, so I wasn't really talking. This will be more of an inner monologue thing) Walking is fun. Legs is a funny word. Leeeggggs. Luh- Eggs. Hee. Keys. Keys go on the table by the door. (noticing a slight bolt-shaped bump in the wall next to door frame) Hey! (addressing bump in wall) You shouldn't be there.
Now, whether God, my roommate, or cruel, cruel fate left the hammer on the console table just inside the door, directly beneath the spot on the wall to which I was speaking, I will never know. But said hammer was literally 3 inches below my hand when I noticed the bolt under the surface of the drywall.
There wasn't even time to look for the hammer during which I could have thought "Maybe I should wait until I'm sober to attempt to pound things into a very visible spot on my nice new clean walls. Perhaps hammering in the middle of the night isn't a good idea when I've had, oh, 12 drinks." Oh no. It was roughly 4 seconds from the inception of the thought to the thunderous pounding at 2:15 a.m.
Dan (pounding wall, and realizing bolt will not move and must be up against a pipe or stud): I'm gonna make you go in dammit! (continues pounding, now missing bolt, but oh-so-satisfied that hammer seems to be going into wall) There!
The following was actually spoken aloud. I remember saying it. Vividly.
Dan: Oh look. I put a hole in the wall. (setting hammer back down on console table) I wonder what's on TV.
And so, Saturday morning: spackle.
Tune in next week when I smoke pot and attempt to hang my roman shades! Wackiness, I guarantee, will ensue.
Friday night I had dinner with Don at his favorite restaurant in the West Village. We had a cocktail at the bar, and split a bottle of wine over dinner. Then Don's friend, the owner of the restaurant, joined us for 2 rounds of dessert wine. Somehow by the time the words "35 year old congnac" were tossed around, I was no longer in control of the situation.
Don and I somehow made it back uptown to my place for shots of vodka (Vodka shots? Who the fuck are we? I'm mildy surprised we didn't follow that with a game of beer pong or possibly whip out a deck of cards and start a swell game of "Asshole") and headed over to Barrage for further cocktails. I left Don at roughly 2 am and stumbled back to my newly painted apartment.
This episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is brought to you by Smirnoff.
Dan (entering apartment alone): (ok, I was alone, so I wasn't really talking. This will be more of an inner monologue thing) Walking is fun. Legs is a funny word. Leeeggggs. Luh- Eggs. Hee. Keys. Keys go on the table by the door. (noticing a slight bolt-shaped bump in the wall next to door frame) Hey! (addressing bump in wall) You shouldn't be there.
Now, whether God, my roommate, or cruel, cruel fate left the hammer on the console table just inside the door, directly beneath the spot on the wall to which I was speaking, I will never know. But said hammer was literally 3 inches below my hand when I noticed the bolt under the surface of the drywall.
There wasn't even time to look for the hammer during which I could have thought "Maybe I should wait until I'm sober to attempt to pound things into a very visible spot on my nice new clean walls. Perhaps hammering in the middle of the night isn't a good idea when I've had, oh, 12 drinks." Oh no. It was roughly 4 seconds from the inception of the thought to the thunderous pounding at 2:15 a.m.
Dan (pounding wall, and realizing bolt will not move and must be up against a pipe or stud): I'm gonna make you go in dammit! (continues pounding, now missing bolt, but oh-so-satisfied that hammer seems to be going into wall) There!
The following was actually spoken aloud. I remember saying it. Vividly.
Dan: Oh look. I put a hole in the wall. (setting hammer back down on console table) I wonder what's on TV.
And so, Saturday morning: spackle.
Tune in next week when I smoke pot and attempt to hang my roman shades! Wackiness, I guarantee, will ensue.
posted by Dxx at 1:10 PM
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Ok, the fact that you have a hammer was more surprising.
:)
It's like drunk dialing, but, uh...totally different. Hee hee hee.
I've always felt an acute sense of discomfort with the word "spackle." I'm not sure why.
And send your downstairs neighbors a muffin basket.
By the way, remind me to someday show you the picture of when I hung my own bathroom cabinet.