Sunday, April 27, 2008

Why I Should Never Be Allowed To Text Message

You would think I would have learned by now. Always double-check who you are addressing the text message too before clicking the send button. It isn’t like I haven’t made this mistake before. Who can forget the time that I texted my 15-year old sister “come out and get drunk with me” when I meant to send it to Meaghan McEntee? Or the time I sent Michelle the text “I miss you in a dirty way.” Well I intended it to go to Michelle, but I accidentally sent it to the name below her in my phone…Mom.

This weekend, Jeff was in Vegas for is friend Ted’s bachelor party. Ted is the closest thing that Jeff has to a “baller” friend. Last time that group went to Las Vegas for a bachelor party, Jeff came back with ridiculous stories of drugs, $1000 hands of blackjack, and all types of wanton women. Not unreasonably, Friday I drunkenly texted Jeff, “accidentally kill a hooker yet?” You can make the argument that the reference was dated (a terrible 90s movie Very Bad Things) and not that funny (true), but I figured that I would get back some outrageous story in response. And I very well would have, if I had sent it to the right person.

When texting on my phone, it is usually fastest to type in a person’s initials. This almost invariably pulls up the correct name. But I do have one person in my phone that shares the same initials with Jeff…Jose, a very nice, very sweet guy who briefly worked at the same company as me. I haven’t communicated with him at all in the eight months since he was fired for some combination of being too nice and not speaking enough English. Believe it or not, he did not respond to my text. I really hope that a) he doesn’t have my phone number so he has no idea who sent the message, or b) he has since changed his number and it has been recycled for somebody else to use. I find it hilarious to think that someone out there could have just received that message at random.

By the way, I eventually did send the message to Jeff, and this was his response:

“Nope, but I did hook up with a girl in the Gold Coast (a very, very crappy casino) parking lot. She was classy.”

So are you buddy. So are you.

Why Not to Mix Alcohol and Cold Medicine After Spending Ten Hours in the Sun

Last Friday was the reason that people actually make the mistake of living in Boston. After approximately a decade of winter, the sun had come out and we had our first 70-degree day. In Texas, one is spoiled with these days in January. The people up here justify living in the Northeast by claiming that you appreciate summer that much more because of the horrid winters. This is true. But I would still much rather take it for granted.

This awesome weather happened to coincide with the last day of school before a weeklong spring break, so I was most definitely ready to celebrate. So after work, Julia, C.J., and Tes met me in Harvard Square for some patio drinks. The problem, as usual, is that all of my friends up here DRINK. If I were drinking to relax, I might sip on a beer over the course of an hour. It is a little harder to do that, though, when the two girls you are sitting next to are downing gin and tonics and straight whiskeys at a pace that would make Bukowski blush. You begin to feel that your manhood is being questioned.

After a few drinks, we change bars and go meet my roommates down the street. It is at this point that my memory begins to get fuzzy. One problem is it is only 5 o’clock. The other problem is that I am not realizing that I am impaired. Around 7:00, Tes leaves to go home. Not long after, C.J. stumbles away. At this point, Julia and I realize that we have been drinking for hours and neither of us ate lunch that day, so we decide to leave and grab a bite to eat at the Indian place across the street.

Thing start off well enough. We go in, request a table for two, and are seated by the window over looking a park in Harvard Square. We have a quiet, pleasant conversation before placing our order and choosing a bottle of wine. Or at least that is how I remember it. When our waiter comes back a few minutes later, he has a different interpretation. He says the restaurant will not be able to serve us because it is clear that we have had enough already and that we made a huge commotion when we entered the restaurant. I am now indignant, insisting that we are fine. We protest loudly for a few minutes and every table in our section is now watching the interaction. In my head, I am silently cursing Julia because I am positive that it must have been her that was too loud at the restaurant. I certainly knew that I wasn’t drunk.

It is a little embarrassing to be cut off before 8:00 PM at an upscale Indian restaurant, so I continue to protest. After a few minutes, the waiter proposes a compromise. We must assure him that neither of us is driving (we’re not) and he will serve us each a glass of wine. If it goes well, and we behave, he will give us each a second glass on the house. Satisfied and feeling victorious, I lean back in chair and wait for my wine to arrive. I relish the first sip, feeling like I truly earned this drink. I’m pretty sure I would have enjoyed the second sip too, if I hadn’t knocked my glass over spilling wine all over the table and myself. A few minutes later, I knocked my glass over a second time, spilling the remainder of my wine.

Needless to say, I didn't get my free glass of wine.