Sleep Well

It is amazing what nine hours of sleep can do.

I spent the weekend with a headache that started Thursday night with two vodka-tonic troughs from Fox and Hounds. And for that I have no one to blame but myself.

I used to be fine with three. This was not the case on Thursday. I only had two.

I am getting old.

(I'm really not obsessed with the age thing. Really. It is just interesting to note the ways life... changes... as the years pass).

About halfway into the second drink Mr. Artistic Director from nearby theater comes in, following a preview of soon to open show. For some reason it struck me as a good idea to go and say hello.

Don't ever, ever, ever let me do that again.

Fortunately I got turned around during the walk from my table to the bar and ended up talking the ear off of Sound Designer of soon to open show rather than to Mr. Artistic Director, to whom I gave a perfectly respectable hello.

By the time I got home through the weird apocalyptic weather of Thursday late night, I had a headache. It stayed for two days. Friggin' Fox and Hounds. I think the vodka they serve would be better suited to strip paint.

This weekend it stripped away at my neurological sensors.

After many sober hours and an hour long afternoon nap I met friends out for Thai food to "celebrate" a fellow NCSA alums return to New York.

Still had a headache. Attempted to combat it by making my basil-tofu really spicy with extra hot sauce from the spice caddy. Thought maybe I'd sweat out the pain.

Didn't work.

Went to Tunni's where fellow alum said goodbye to colleagues from the Big Shakespeare Theater where she's been working. JS tried to get me to drink vodka, saying the only way to get rid of the headache would be to face my fears and get back on the horse and eat the hair of the dog and all other sorts of metaphors. Tried.

Didn't work.

Saw several people in seersucker. Took the seersucker poll. Sweet gay director said that what he thought what was worse than seersucker were men in capri pants.

I said "My brother wears capri pants!"

I mean, not really capri, but like, cropped pants, and I think they're fine...

Saturday night went with HP to see an intriguing and complex play, still nursing said headache. Afterwards I convinced her to go to an overpriced sort of pseudo french bistro instead of Fox and Hounds because I was worried that even stepping foot into the place would do me harm. Plus HP was bummed about not making it up to New York this weekend so I thought a pseudo-French bistro would feel very New York.

At midnight we were shuffled inside in that annoying seventeenth street sweep that happens every evening and I broke down and ordered pomme frites. Which were good by the way. Very good.

So I had my wine and she had her gin and we had fresh hot pomme frites and suddenly someone turns up the music and the place becomes this blaring loud club. It was the most bizarre thing. Some sort of Middle Eastern Techno music at full volume and a dance floor that wasn't really a dance floor filled with euro-trash-y men, maybe one or two women. Who knew?

HP and I settled our tab and escaped.

Headed home, drank a lot of water, took two aleve, and nine hours later woke up with painfree temples and a steadfast vow never, ever to drink two F&H vodka tonics on an empty stomach again. Ever.