Sheila E Would Be Jealous Of My Glamorous Life

I woke up on my couch at 6:00 this morning.

My couch is 60″ end-to-end, I am 75″ head to toe.  Yet there I was, flat on my back, feet and lower legs dangling over the edge of the little guy.  Let that mental image settle in.

Oh, and I had my glasses on.  Apparently, I fell asleep reading TV.

Yes, my lower back, which had been hurting in recent days, felt great.  Not that I would recommend risking this treatment if your back is sore.

I stripped off my clothes and glasses and successfully attempted a few more winks.  Go ahead and just let your mental image flash forward to me sitting here typing in my white undershirt and batik printed boxer briefs.  Glasses restored to their perch.

Hot, right?

Let’s all just assume – for now – that I was pretty relaxed last night.

Now, let me dash that assumption to hell and back, but thanks for playing along.

The Silver Fox sent me a text yesterday inquiring about my interview earlier in the afternoon.  I told him it was fine, but I didn’t feel like texting all the gory details and suggested a quick drink at the Big Legrowlski while I did the debrief.

It all began that innocently.

Then it turned into one of those nights where nothing happened, but it ended up being a perfect evening.

Before we even got a block into our walk, his ex – Casey Alder – had texted him, suggesting a drink.  Hey, great minds think alike; great livers drink alike.  Chrisism.  So, we’re about half a beer ahead of him and both manage to sensibly decline his offer of a refill.  Then the conversation starts flowing as we all catch up.  It had been way too long since the three of us had hung out together.  I went to grab a refill to ensure the booze-to-word ratio was appropriately maintained.

It’s measured in ounces.  However, it’s not a static metric…you could say it’s fluid.

Sometimes I play drinking games by myself.  Even with other people around.

We had a really good conversation.  Three beers each, then Casey had to beat feet and it was just the Fox and I again.

That didn’t last long…Diezel had inquired as to the goings on of my evening and turned up to re-round out our little klatch.  Good timing on his part, since the Fox had began his responsible rumblings about getting home to dinner.  I had fixated on pizza.  Not even the fact that my budget strongly suggested a frozen pizza was in the offing could deter my taste buds.

Diet over.  As if the beer wasn’t a dead giveaway.

Somehow, I tricked the Fox into ordering a pizza.  To the bar.  Beer and Xtopher can be very persuasive.

Also:  permissive.

Also-also:  you know he wanted pizza.

So, there we are, eating pizza.  Drinking beer.  Being guys.  I’m not going to try and convince you that there weren’t more beers involved…after all, the ratio!  But, Diezel is a responsible drinker and resides in a geographically undesirable location relative to the Big Legrowlski, so he was driving whereas the Fox and I were walking.  I would guess that there were only two beers relevant to this chapter of the evening.

Sensing the pattern here?  Ok, there’s no pattern, it’s just another little drinking game that I amused myself with.  <—  That’s some terrible English.

Casey:  3 drinks

Diezel:  2 drinks

Solo nightcap?  That just had to be 1 drink.  The pattern must be maintained.

So, I went home and drank a bottle of wine.

Shush.  I wasn’t alone, Myrtle was with me.  Myrtle is always with me, either physically or I have the physical reminders of her.

Plus, it was over the next four hours.  I know this because I watched four episodes of Z Nation, *falling asleep* midway through the fifth.

Ooh, a fifth…see?  My one-drink nightcap could have been worse.  The blog is named atleastihaveafrigginglass…you had to assume there would be drinking.

Thank you Netflix.

Actually, I blame the Fox…he’s supposed to be the responsible one.

Sheila E Would Be Jealous Of My Glamorous Life

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