Delicious Disaster

Ever had one of those days where one single event triggers a chain reaction that only leads you down Disaster Road? Yeah? Fabulous.

Three years ago I used to have an assistant position at a consulting firm I loathed (the position, not the firm). My boss was a fat fuck with a BMW complex (men who solely drive BMW's to overcompensate for their lack of good looks and bedroom skills) who found it amusing to demand I make him Cuban coffee every morning and go on Red Bull runs in the afternoons as well. Yes, the life of an assistant is filled with back-breaking excitement.

On that fateful day, my mother rang me up around noon and told me she'd made rice and beans with fried pork on the side for lunch. Needless to say, I was home within fifteen minutes.

At that time I was living at home with my parents and their house is a two floored place filled with seven dogs, five cats and a thousand roaches that I just know are hiding underground, waiting to attack when least expected.

I had a one hour lunch break and my boss was a stickler for punctuality so I grabbed my plate of food and a cup of water, taking the steps upstairs two a time. I ate in my room while surfing through MySpace and I could hear my mom yelling after me to be careful with the plate since I have the tendency to drop everything I touch.

After devouring the food in ten minutes flat, I started downloading music and lost track of the time. When I finally looked at the clock I had exactly 17 minutes to get back to the office so I grabbed the empty plate and cup and made a run for it down the stairs. This is where it all went down hill (literally).

I was wearing stilettos that day and unfortunately one heel got caught on my pant fold as I attempted to make that first step down the stairs. As you can imagine, the rest unfolded dramatically fast.

I didn't care about my bleeding face or the throbbing pain in my left shin that immediately had me limping across the living room to the kitchen where my mom stood with her mouth open. The crucial and immediate matter was that I hadn't broken the china.

I took three Advil and hauled ass back to work with my busted face and limp, arriving only five minutes late to the office.

That afternoon before it was time to go home, my boss called me in and asked why I had been late from lunch. I pointed at my face and explained the situation, horrified at his lack of sympathy. As I spoke and retold my lunch time horror story he simply nodded in silence, unfazed by my tribulations and possible need of a face transplant. When I was done, he complained I'd been late once before "five months ago" and suspended me for a week without pay.

Fuck face.

I went home that night determined to ice my wounds and drown in vodka when Olivia called me 'round ten.

And 45 minutes later...

We hit up a bar in South Beach where we had a few drinks. Olivia seemed upset about something and finally confessed she had been seeing this guy who told her he was a club owner but instead ended up being a bartender.

Me: What's wrong with bartenders? Free drinks!

Olivia: Nothing's wrong with bartenders. It's just the principle. Why would he lie about something like that?

Me: Because he could tell you don't like broke guys and wanted to impress you?

Olivia: That's not true.

Me: ........................

Olivia: Alright. Nothing wrong with a little money. I'm a broke ass. I don't need another broke ass. Two broke asses together don't work.

Me: Bartenders make good money. Forget about all that.

But she didn't forget. And after two more shots she decided it was time for a confrontation. I tried my best to persuade her otherwise, but she dragged me down to Automatic Slims and marched straight to the bar when she spotted him.

She kept repeating that he was a scumbag to everyone at the bar and I don't think I've ever seen her that drunk, her left eye all squinty as she slurred her hatred toward poor Bar Boy. With a martini in hand, she stood there as if she was Hitler in the middle of some important speech, repeatedly roaring the phrase "I Foogled you, you liar!" at the top of her lungs.

After wading through a pool of confusion I realized she meant she had Googled him, discovering he was no club owner and instead a provider of delicious alcoholic beverages. Two minutes worth of her tantrum was all I could withstand so I grabbed her by the shirt and pulled her away as she repeated the same thing over and over at the very embarrassed Bar Boy.

After that I convinced her to go to a nightclub down the street called Cameo for some unwinding and stress release in the form of booty shaking. Olivia was determined to forget about Bar Boy so she kept buying shot after shot for us and after a while I didn't know where I was or what I was dancing to.

Somewhere around one in the morning my friend Penelope joined us, taking it upon herself to give Olivia water shots. I vaguely remember walking around the huge nightclub and bumping into a tall guy. He grabbed my hand and asked me my name. I think it took me a full minute before I responded, "Annah."

Boy: Hi Annah. What happened to your face?

Me: I was in a bar brawl last night.

Boy: So you're a fighter, eh?

Me: Yes. I fight walls.

He gave me a strange look but grabbed my hand anyway and led me to a table, where he drank vodka and I sipped water as I tried to sober up to no avail. One hour later I was on my way to attempt my very first (and last) one night stand with Paolo, wine connoisseur and really cute Brazilian with sparkly gray eyes.

I don't remember much except Penelope taking Paolo's wallet and telling him she'd give it back after he returned me to her the following morning (What the heck am I a UPS package?). The rest is a little fuzzy but I'm assured I didn't say or do anything stupid. I dozed off in his car (a BMW, ironically) and woke up to a partially dressed Paolo sleeping beside me the next morning.

On a positive note, Paolo lived in a beautiful apartment fit for a man, no rumpled underwear on the floor or dirty dishes anywhere. On a negative note, I didn't remember much of my walk on the wild side. The multiple Trojan wrappers told me we'd been responsible adults but the rest is a bit of a mystery.

I quietly grabbed my shoes and tip-toed out the door, leaving a sleeping Paolo behind. Olivia and Penelope picked me up half an hour later as I sat on a sidewalk bench, looking like a beat up prostitute in my dress and fucked up face.

I was so happy to see Olivia pull up to me I almost broke a leg as I sprinted forward to her car.

Olivia (from the driver seat): Two dollars.

Me (on the sidewalk): Does that include brunch?

Olivia: Yes it does. And a couple of mimosas too, hooker.

Update: I've had some proof requested of the beat up face and this was the only picture I was able to dig up. I zoomed as much as humanly possible but you can't really see my face that well. Good job, Lancome foundation.