A Sunday By Any Other Name...
Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: Janis Joplin
So it started off like any other Sunday?except that it was bike week and I had spent most of Saturday at the beer festival downtown as I am never one to miss a chance to drink good beer?especially outside on a gorgeous spring day?looking at motorcycles. (Have I mentioned that I have the man gene?)

Needless to say, I awoke Sunday with the ?bonus buzz? as those in Minnesota would call it?AKA still drunk and with the incredibly pressing need to keep the buzz alive or risk the inevitable hang over of epic proportions. I stumbled out to the kitchen and to my dismay I found that, much like Mother Hubbard?s, my liquor cupboard was bare. Not totally naked, but sure as hell not sporting the hangover/Sunday drink needs. When you are standing in front of your booze larder thinking ?Hmmm?Cabernet, Yukon Jack, Cinnamon Schnapps, Laphroaig 10-Year single malt Scotch or Champagne?, it is a sad, sad Sunday indeed. It?s 8am. I?m drunk. I need a ?Bloodie?. The stores don?t start selling liquor for another 2 hours. Not to mention that I would feel guilty showing up buzzed at the market for an early Sunday morning booze run?if I could even wait that long-and I'm not even Catholic.

It becomes an even sadder testament to your Sunday when you end up wrestling open a bottle of champs as it was the least of the available evils. Don?t get me wrong, I am all about the champs, but it was just not what I needed for relief right then but beggars can?t be choosers and all that. Even I draw the line at calling up a neighbor to ask if I can dash over and borrow a cup or two of vodka. Although neighbors you can do that with are truly a gift from God...but I digress.

But then I run into the first mucket in my fru-fru: I can?t get the fricking cork to come out of the fricking bottle. For reals. Seriously. I am twisting and yanking on the cork, alternately moaning or muttering f-bombers at an alarming rate, to no avail. Even some vigorous shaking to help the ?pop? along doesn't do the trick. So in a desperate rush to maintain my bonus buzz before I start skidding down the slippery slope back towards sobriety and a land of hurt, I used the wine opener on it much to the dismay of my right eye which caught the full thrust of the eventual un corking.

I know you are sitting there shaking your head thinking that I am a total idiot and you may be right. At the time, it just seemed like a good idea?even a logical one. (How many times have you looked back on some sorry event and thought that--exactly!) The cork won?t come out of the bottle so try the corkscrew on it. It sounded very rational to me at the time.Of course, this stellar plan did not take into consideration that in my drunken frustration, I have now shaken the bottle harder than crack whore Barbie ever shook one of her little bastard toddlers.

I know I was amazed when the whole thing flew right off (cork and bottle opener together) and bounced off of my face with the same velocity as a piece of blue ice from an airplane bathroom dropping from the stratosphere. You get the idea. It hurt like fuck all with a serious top sting.

Once again, I faced a brave new day with a truly remarkable shiner. It wasn?t the first time and it won?t be the last I?m sure?Lifestyles of the accident prone?or liquor prone?take your pick.