Note to self

Note to self: Do not attempt an 8-year-old's birthday party with a hangover and/or complete lack of sleep.

On Saturday night, I joined a group of friends for a birthday celebration. 29 and holding. 36 and holding. Somewhere in between. We planned to meet at Kitty O'Shea's in Arlington Courthouse and go from there – dinner, drinks, maybe some dancing. We never left the bar.

Between the X Games on TV and Doc's high school yearbook, we had more than enough to keep ourselves entertained. The beer flowed freely, as did the shots. Raspberry kamikazes. Chocolate milk. Red-headed sluts. By 1:15, the birthday had been properly feted and I decided to head home.

Being the responsible city-dweller that I am, I rode the Metro to Arlington. I wanted to leave before the Metro stopped running and I'd have to flag down a metered cab for what would be a long, misdirected ride back into the city. I made my excuses, pulled myself together and tried to leave.

"You could crash at my place," offered a friend.

"No… Thanks. I really should go. I have to get up early."

"How early is early?" she asked, suspicious. "Are you talking 7 o'clock early or 10 o'clock early?"

"I can't. Really. I'm sorry… I have my nephew's birthday party."

"I could get up and drive you home in the morning."

"No, really. I can't."

It went on like this for several minutes as I gathered my bag, hugged friends, kissed cheeks and backed away from the table. Finally, they gave in and I escaped to the Metro, book in hand.

Sometime between the 11-minute wait for an Orange Line train (in the direction of New Carrollton) and the long, slow ride toward Capitol Hill, I decided to stop by my favorite bar for a drink, which lead to a second and chatting with a bartending friend as he closed. We went upstairs to talk to another bartending friend on this, her last night of work before moving to Colorado.

According to my cell phone and the date stamp attached to a late night text message, I was on my way home at 3:57. Once there, a little after 4, I set the alarm on the cell phone (because my clock radio no longer makes noise or keeps time) and crawled into bed. Unfortunately, I didn't hear it when it beeped three hours later because I was sleeping on it, which, oddly enough, happens rather frequently.

Somehow, though, I managed to get up on time. I showered and dressed, drove to my brother's house and dropped the roof on the Jeep. He staggered out a few minutes later, reeling in the morning light. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who stayed out too late.

On the drive to West Virginia, a route I've driven at least a hundred times, probably more, in the past seven years, I took several wrong turns, knowing that I was doing it and doing it anyway. I stopped, per our sister's request, at the Dollar Tree for helium balloons and grabbed a random sample, checking out the items behind the counter as I waited in line. Scissors, ribbon, pregnancy tests. Right. Because if I think I'm pregnant, I'm going to run to the Dollar Tree for the most reliable of pregnancy tests. I handed the balloons to my brother who wrestled with them in the open-air Jeep.

"All I can do at this point is close my eyes and pray for the best," he said as the balloons strained against their ribbons, beating him in the face. Fortunately, it was only about two miles to the hotel. (Our sister had rented the pool for the party.)

"Lodi!" screamed my niece as we walked in and "Wet hug!" as she jumped into my arms. "Are you getting into the pool with us?"

Dazed, I agreed and slipped into the pool. An hour and a half later, I managed to pull myself out, the room and my head reverberating with the shrieks of 14 little voices. My body ached from the strain of swimming with at least one, if not two or three kids on my back, my arms, my neck. I moved toward the food, pizza and cheese puffs, grapes and cupcakes, raspberry-flavored soda.

I thought I might die between the food, the clamoring and pin the tail on the donkey.

"Lodi, watch me!"

"Watch me, Lodi Lo!"

"Watch me!"

Four hours of watching the pool. Watching other people's children jump and splash and climb all over the adults who dared enter the waters. Four hours. That's about how much sleep I got. I chatted with my sister's friends as they came to retrieve their exhausted children. I knew the friends. I knew the kids. I knew I needed a nap.

My brother fell asleep in the car, the sun and wind in his face. When I pulled up in front of his apartment, he said he was going to bed. It was 6:30. I came home and tried not to go to bed. I turned on the computer and I had just walked into the kitchen to slice an apple, a baguette, a block of cheese when the lights cut. I sliced in the dark and carried my plate into the living room to read in the waning light.

I moved to the front steps. The light on the corner was out. Traffic stopped moving on Independence; I overheard someone say that police had blocked traffic. Exhausted. Sore. Curious. I walked around the neighborhood, past the police officers, the cruisers, a police line. I walked past Pepco employees puzzling over a diagram. I heard the word "transformer" and was sure that they weren't talking about the comic book, cartoon or toys from the '80s.

I returned to the steps and my book. I thought about bed. Instead, I waited for the lights. I finished my book. I checked my email and sent a note to self, in advance of the next birthday party.

Do not attempt an 8-year-old's birthday party with a hangover and/or complete lack of sleep.


Tag: Sleep Weekend Party Birthday