This is Why I Go to Restaurants (My House -- San Francisco, CA)
My dears, notice the time of this post. And while I'd love to say I'm up this late on a Saturday night because I was groovin' it at some fab restaurant, I cannot. I am up this late because I am doing laundry.
Jon and I have been so damn busy lately that we've hardly had time to hang with our friends (yes, I have them). So we decided to have a bunch of them over for a little fondue party. We had it goin' on -- cheese fondue, chocolate fondue, all sorts of dipping madness, salad and wine. A lot of wine. Six bottles, nine people, one of whom was pregnant which, when you are doing wine math, makes a total of eight drinkers. Four drivers so they drank less, too.
Now, I like my house. It's my little haven. I like sharing it with people, especially people as cool as my friends. But I am also an only child and possesive about people messing with my stuff. I'll cut you, bitch!
Let's call one of my friends "M". M is one of my favorite people ever. But sometimes, she doesn't know when to quit on the wine front. Tonight was one of those times.
I started getting concerned when M looked all passed out like on our couch. Face down. You know where this is going, don't you? Yes, my friends, about a half hour later there was enough vomit to cover the state of New York on my living room couch. It appeared to be mostly 1. strawberrries and, 2. red wine. My couch is tan. Awesome. Thank Christ for slipcovers.
So I grabbed the Wine Away, grabbed the "Shout!" and got to scrubbin'. My years as a nanny were coming in handy. I am now anxiously awaiting the results of a power wash cycle on my washing machine. And I have an audition in about eight hours. Sweet. I'm so fucked.
"To eat is a necessity. To eat intelligently is an art."
-- La Rochefoucauld