I wake up at 6:30am to leave Nick's and return to Ballard, in keeping with my dogsitting duties. I arrive downtown around 7:00am and have 15 minutes until the number 15 bus to Ballard comes. Still being slightly inebriated from the Road House drinking game the night prior, and working on like 6 hours of drunken slumber, I decide to get a bagel from an SBC by the bus stop, thinking bread may sop up some of the over-full, over-strong vodka crans I had been consuming. Of course I was like seven hours too late on that one, but it seemed like a good idea. Since my plan was to go back to sleep immediately after feeding the dogs, I did not want a caffeinated beverage.
I walk in, and the over-friendly, over-alert staff greet me immediately, asking, "What can I get started for you?" This should be a simple question to answer.
"Oh nothing, I just need a bagel, thanks," would have been appropriate.
"How about a bottle of water?" could have helped explain my mussed hair and glazed expression, not to mention give me a jumpstart on the road to recovery.
"Chamomile tea, please?" is another reasonable option.
Basically, anything besides the zombified "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh..." that escaped my lips would have been sufficient, but I guess we can't all be Rhodes Scholars. Or, functional.
The barista gave me a look of sickened pity and offered, "It's pretty early, huh?" To which I think I replied something like, "Totally." Then, defying all logic, I order a tall soy chai latte. That is definitely caffeinated. I pick out my bagel, and when the girl at the register asks if it's for there or to go, I say for there. Whaaa? I have a bus coming soon. But, apparently, sitting is an important element of not coating myself in sesame seeds, and that is a higher priority than little things like busses to catch. As I sit and wait for a beverage I have no business consuming and a bagel I am sure to regret, I decide that I should text Nick, who I just left sleeping at his house, and tell him how braindead I am. I concentrate really hard on this text message. They call out a bagel that is a different variety than the one I order, and nobody claims it, so I wonder if it's supposed to be for me and approach the counter. The same barista sees my confusion, gives me the same look as before, and tells me that my bagel is coming. When it's done he motions to me and as I collect it, he looks at me like I just won the Special Olympics. Ugh. I sit back down with my sundries, and ignore their consumption to continue concentrating on on the text message. It's almost done when I see the bus go by outside. I promptly close the phone to check the time, thus deleting the message. Genius.
Now I have half an hour until the next bus that goes to where I need to go, and 15 minutes until a bus that gets me within striking distance. I hate waiting for busses (which is how the whole SBC plan came about), so I opt to take the earlier bus and walk from Leary Way to 73rd, which Mapquest says is 1.45 miles. Over the course of the bus ride, I feel the change from still-a-little-tipsy to oh-Lord-I-wish-I-was-dead. This change should never happen when a person is awake. The air is losing its early-morning dimness and brightening into a beautiful day; my lack of sunglasses and worsening headache don't appreciate this development. The second bus passes me when I have about eight blocks to go, and am nowhere near a stop. I don't make an attempt to catch it.
I stumble into the door over an hour and a half after I left Nick's apartment in Eastlake. The dogs go insane, having been alone for about 12 hours. I open the back door to let the dogs into the yard, which triggers the most heinous noise known to man. I shut off the alarm, get out their food, fill their dishes, and sit down. The caffeine kicks in. I realize I'm not going to go back to bed.
I read more Tucker Max stories (a recent obsession, I finished them all last night, and am debating whether to buy the book), then get in the shower to prepare for brunch with Nick and Kate. We trek to the International District and digest a delicious-yet-greasy dim sum, which is immediately followed by a lunch with my mom and Dylan, where I have a salad and a bloody mary. So for Easter, I ate, basically.
The Me-Dylan-Mom combo is known for morally reprehensible humor, and true to form, the following conversation takes place.
Mom: "Tara (my pregnant aunt) is having a boy, but she won't tell me the name."
Me: "Did she pick out a back-up name, in case it's retarded?"
Mom (laughing): "No I don't think so, I'll have to mention that to her."
Me: "It's a good idea. You don't want to waste a good name on a baby you won't love very much."(We erupt into laughter, to the point of tears streaming down our faces.)Dylan (regaining composure): "You know, karma could come back and bite you in the ass, and you might have a retarded baby."
Me: "Yeah, that's true. I mean, I'll have to love it and all; I'll just die a little bit inside."
We also discussed the nuances of where and how you can catch genital herpes versus oral herpes, and if there's a way to tell which sores are which. This was theoretical, of course.
I feel bad for the old lady sitting next to us.