I was hungover, again. I went to a comedy club with Natalie, Michelle, and sweet little Elf. We weren’t carded, and I ordered a Pete’s Wicked Strawberry Blonde. The waiter seemed particularly excited by the order. “Oh. We call that beer the ‘trophy wife’.
I guess because it tasted sweet and had a picture of a chick with come-hither eyes?
With each passing wife, the joke got funnier and funnier. By the end of the evening, I was practically a polygamist.
I looked at The Congressman’s calendar for a free lunch. There was a breast cancer awareness reception that had already started when I arrived. They were broadcasting a “live” mastectomy. I made it to the bathroom just in time.
I felt terrible. My tummy tuck underwear was making my stomach hurt worse, so I threw them away. I couldn’t go back to the office commando. It just wasn’t going to happen. So I left. Left my coat. Left without telling Archie. Just left.
I didn’t think I would make it home. I prayed, “Oh god, please. I can’t poop my pants. I’m wearing a skirt and no undies. If I sh*t on the Metro I’ll probably be arrested.”
Somehow, I made it into the building and onto the elevator floor. The elevator ride was all of twenty seconds, but I had to lie down. I used what remaining strength to get into the apartment.
When I woke up from my nap, I was famished. There wasn’t much in the kitchen except for sweet little Elf’s food in the fridge. It’s bad juju to steal food from an elf, so I kept looking until I found an old box of pasta.
I balanced my meal as I walked to the couch to watch Titanic on VHS. Before I could, I dropped the bowl. My pasta was all over the rug. It disseminated perfectly so that every last bite was touching communal shag funk.
I learned some important life lessons that day. 1: That having more than one ‘trophy wife’ will result in bad karma. 2: Stolen elf food magically cures a hangover. 3: Crashing free lunches may not always be the ‘breast’ idea.