10 Reasons Why

10 Signs This Morning That I Shouldn’t Have Gotten into the Absinthe Last Night

One from the archives…


  Background details: Yes, absinthe. Not the original version that made Nicole Kidman and all her little friends have visions and then sing about it in that one movie, but the modern version without the supposed hallucinatory properties. A certain resident of Denton, TX, felt compelled to introduce this substance into our otherwise chaste social gathering, resulting in questionable activity and conversations devoid of merit or logic. I submit to the court the following evidence…

1.My uvula is swollen.

After many years of field research and careful analysis, I have discovered that the hangy thing in my mouth only achieves an engorged state when two activities take place at the same time in an evil convergence: One, I have consumed something other than beer, my usual choice for a recreational beverage, and Two (as a result of One), I have been compelled to vocalize endlessly on subject matters that no one cares about. This means that I was improperly-lit and bellowing at some point in the evening. Probably several points. I’m so proud of myself right now I could spit.

Minimally-related side note: Isn’t “uvula” one of the most annoying words in the known universe? Seriously, I don’t want something with that designation residing in my mouth. It just doesn’t feel right.

2. There’s a small bruise on my right shoulder.

A very specific, perfectly-circular bruise, as if someone didn’t care for my behavior during a game of billiards and viciously stabbed me with a cue stick just to stop the madness. (Was it something I said? Probably.) But we don’t have a pool table, or at least we didn’t when the first guest rang the doorbell, so I’m going to assume that something else happened.

Maybe I got shot at some point during the evening? Entirely possible. We live in a very excitable neighborhood, with drive-bys and such, and folks around here have a tendency to celebrate significant milestones, like the receipt of food stamps or the clock striking midnight, with rounds of gunfire. It’s not unheard of to be felled by whizzing, anonymous bullets during the simple act of reaching for the remote control.

3. The toilet paper dispenser in the guest bathroom has been refreshed incorrectly.

There is only one proper way to load this thing, people. One way. This would never have been allowed to happen if I hadn’t been distracted by distilled spirits and/or that one guest who doesn’t bring anything but eats everything.

4. There is a fine layer of sea salt coating the top of the refrigerator.

Really? Was there a wedding in the kitchen and we didn’t have any rice?

5. The chairs on the patio have been arranged in an odd manner.

Okay, then. What do we suppose happened out here? Based on the configuration layout, I can only think of two things: an impromptu meeting of the Society for the Preservation of Avocado-Colored Appliances, or a ritual sacrifice. Both of these things alarm me equally.

6. The cat might have been shaved.

Still working out the details on this one. It’s difficult to make a full assessment when said cat refuses to come out from under the bed, alternately popping sedatives and speaking in hushed tones to his lawyer on his cellphone. I’ll keep you posted.

7. There’s a “Sonny & Cher” CD in the stereo.

Pray that there were survivors.

8. The pantry door is locked.

Prior to last night, we didn’t have a lock on that door. I can’t even begin to imagine what this means.

9. New people appear to be dwelling in my house.

I can hear them now, muttering in the guest room, and probably making further plans for world domination. The voices sound like the invitees who won the crowd over last night with the stuffed mushrooms and the bacon-wrapped jalapenos. Granted, those items were extraordinary and I had multiple orgasms throughout the night, but the bestowal of new living quarters as a reward seems a bit excessive.

Initially, I just thought they were in there sleeping things off before hitting the road, which is fine, and an option that I highly recommend. However, I just discovered that there are additional names on the mailbox, and the china pattern in the hutch is not one that I would personally choose. It seems that we’ll be having a difficult conversation here in a bit.

10. Some of my furniture is missing.

Granted, I vaguely recall a boastful round of dialogue wherein I might have uttered something along the lines of “I can TOO sing all the songs from the original cast recording of ‘Cabaret’, betcha five bucks I can!”, and then things may have gotten a little out of control, with increasing wagers and heightened delirium. But it was all in good fun, and no bartering exchanges should have actually taken place. Friends don’t take advantage of their friends who are disadvantaged.

So, to whom it may concern, please bring my couches back. Thank you.



P.S. Is anyone missing a sequined jockstrap? Text me.


Originally published in “The Sound and the Fury” on 03/13/11. Some changes made. Those of you with a keen eye will note that the opening photo is one that just appeared in a post a few days ago, a snap otherwise known as “Past Imperfect – #2”. Mea culpa. Sometimes my muses are mute and I’m forced to double-dip when it comes to the artistic ambiance here at Bonnywood.


26 replies »

    • Not your comfort zone, eh? Well, you’ll be happy to know that, here at the Bonnywood Manor Resort and Artists’ Enclave, we have special accommodations for those who don’t wish to be subjected to flung undergarments, so go ahead and book your reservation online…


  1. I was reading this post, nodding along and wondering why I never get invited to parties like that, when I came to #7. I had to sit down. (Okay, I was already sitting, but now it involved putting my head down over my knees and breathing into a paper bag.)

    A Sonny Bono infestation? Quick! There isn’t a moment to lose. You’ll have to fumigate. (And not just a spray can either—we’re talking tenting the house with one of those potential-tragic-lost-all-worldly-possessions-in-unexplained-house-explosion-tents.) No seriously. A Sonny infestation can lie dormant for years and be hell to get rid of. Just ask Cher.

    My heart goes out to you. Even a bejeweled jockstrap is no consolation (although…a potential explosion might be a way to get rid of your new housemates, no questions asked).

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m so glad that you fully understand my daily predicaments here at Bonnywood Manor. We do our best to accommodate all the guests, but there are times when things simply pinball out of control and we have no choice but to tent and fumigate. Luckily, during my college years, when I couldn’t make a firm commitment to an actual degree path, I took a number of courses that happened to apply to my current situation. One of said courses, believe it or not, and you probably shouldn’t, was actually entitled “The Fundamentals of Sonny Bono Exorcism”. (It was a liberal arts college, natch.) So I think I’ll be able to get through this with minimal emotional scarring…

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Yes, I did notice the repeat photograph, but looking closer I realized the “woman” looked familiar. And then I studied it super closely and realized… how cow! It’s BRIAN!

    Side note: Where’d you get those shoes, girlfriend? They’re to die for!

    Liked by 2 people

    • It feels SO good to finally have the secret of my cross-dressing out in the open. My heart is singing with release.

      But I’m not releasing the details of where I got those shoes. I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement. These things happen when you make a wrong turn in Montmartre…

      Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you for your appreciation of the escalation. Everything at Bonnywood seems to progress in an exponential manner, despite my efforts to tamp down on the absurdist trajectories, so it’s nice to know that other people feel my pain.

      As for the absinthe and your fish, we probably shouldn’t discuss that any further. I already have too many restraining orders filed against me… 😉

      Liked by 1 person

  3. That’s me and my insignificant other, in the bedroom. We’ll be out as soon as the swelling goes down enough to get our heads through the door. It can’t be my jockstrap. Being Scottish, mine is Royal Stewart plaid. 😉

    Liked by 1 person

    • Ah, that explains the pungent aroma of plaid that lingered in our domicile for days afterwards. I mistakenly assumed that my Partner was cheating on me with a bagpipe player, so I probably owe him an apology. We’ll see how this plays out…


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