I'm back. Man, that was a seriously lost thirty hours. Tuesday night I went to a show at the Roxy for Renee Olstead with a big group of folks. It was a stellar performance; she's very talented and ubercute.

So why the lost day, you ask? Dirty Olive Martini(s), that's why. On an empty stomach. I learned: No matter how big they are, the vodka-soaked olives in your martini do not count as "food." I think I only actually ingested a total of two martinis, since the second one I ordered ended up on the floor about halfway through, and the third one (which I ordered after we migrated to the Rainbow Room next door) was left behind when I decided to start hanging out in the bathroom there. Not that I was sick. But I could have been sick at any moment. Best to just wait it out. (Drunk Type A Logic)

The rest of the night is pretty much a mystery to me. But I do remember my thumb being caught in the door jamb as the swinging door to the bathroom shut on it. It's all blue now. Here's hoping the nail stays on! I also remember the girls took very good care of me, and were the ones who helped me reach someone totally sober, who could fix the whole mess. A few moments later, I was mercifully rescued from further antics by Adam, who swooped down like an eagle to retreive me...an eagle in an SLK 230. With seat warmers. I love those. Like I said, he's the Cadillac of Men. Or maybe I should say he is the SLK of men, but it doesn't have the same ring to it.

Needless to say that, without a change of clothes, a car, or any proper grooming products (thankfully I had a toothbrush available), I did not go in to work the next day. So, if you wondered what happened to me, wonder no more! All I can tell ya is that I won't be having another Martini of Doom anytime soon. Dirty or otherwise.