99 Problems (or Excuse Me While I Kiss The Sky)

[[Saturday]]

It started with an invitation to a party. A murder mystery party, a dinner party for a friend's birthday. We replied to the invitation -- if hesitantly -- with a "yes." Joey, who chooses to assuage his social anxiety with copious amounts of booze, agreed only in the event that he could be somewhere near wasted. Our host agreed and held up to her end of the bargain by assigning us the parts of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix.

We left yesterday afternoon to get costumes -- a 60s mini-dress, disheveled wig and big glasses for me. Purple striped pants, an afro and a headband for Joey. We went to the Goodwill to get him an ostentatious shirt, and stumbled into a sheer women's size 1X button down shirt, the perfect icing on the Hendrix cake and -- at $3.99 -- the cheapest hysterical laughter I've had in ages. We went home and got dressed, watching videos of Janis and Jimi, picked up phrases to pepper our clues. My car was so close to empty that the fuel light was on, and we were running late (of course), so we decided to take Joey's car. True to his word, Mr. Hendrix had put on a serious pre-game of rum and coke, so I drove. And drove until suddenly the car stopped accelerating and I had to pull into an empty doctor's parking lot and the car battery was completely dead. Joey tried to jump it with his portable car-battery-jumping-device, but it was a no go. The battery was kaput.

So I called our hosts and said that the battery was dead and we probably wouldn't be making it, which would be for the best at this point, because Joey's buzz was seriously harsed, and he was mad at his car for being a piece of shit, and I was mad at him for being mad at something so unchangeable. But our hosts begged, "Please come, you have parts to read and clues to give, and we need you to be here. We can get you here, and we can get you home." At this point, Adam was already on the way to get us, so we told them he would drop us off at the party if they could get us home. And they agreed, and Adam showed up--an unmistakable smile curling up at the sight of pissed-off-Jimi-Hendrix and pissed-off-Janis-Joplin standing beside their broken-down car in the mid-July-deep-South-fucking-humid-heat. Seeing him made me realize just how funny it was. I started laughing again.

On the way there, Hendrix complained about the aforementioned buzz harshening, and we finally made it (Adam dropping us off with "I'm glad this happened to you guys, so that I could see you like this."). We walked inside, and sat down, and food was placed in front of us, and wine was poured. And, in the case of Mr. Hendrix, poured and poured. And beer brought. And more wine.

We reached the main course, and enthusiastically tucked into our food. Cheap polyester costumes had left us hot and sweaty. Mr. Hendrix put his head in his hands, and I requested water for him. Just as I was finishing my chicken, he stood up. "We have to go," he said, as we rushed out the door.

In case you haven't been following along: 1) Mr. Hendrix was very drunk. 2) We desperately had to leave. 3) We didn't have a car. 4) We needed the host of the party to take us home. 5) There was still at least one more act of the mystery that needed to be explicated. 6) Oh shit.

By this point, Joey was lying in our hosts' driveway, on his side, Afro slightly askew. After waiting for a few minutes to see if he would perhaps pull out of it, I walked back inside. "I think Mr. Hendrix needs to go home," I said. I felt awful, but he needed to not be there anymore. It was decided that our host's husband (Elvis) would change and drive us back. While Mr. Hendrix puked on the driveway outside, we took a group picture. The Host Formerly Known as Elvis (also known as Rich) spread a blanket over the backseat of the car, and we put Joey/Mr. Hendrix in the car and drove home, sharing Great Tales of Times We Blacked Out and/or Puked, as the occasion demanded.

Once home, we stood Mr. Hendrix up outside the car, and he proceeded to barf. This is the time to mention, once more, that it is mid-July in the Deep South. Everyone was wearing sandals. Everyone's shoes -- and thereby everyone's feet -- got puked on. It was one of those things where you know just how terrible something is going to be, and you have to just stand there and take it. As Rich went back to the car to get our stuff, I leaned Joey against the wall to open the door. As he stood there with his head against his arm, he mumbled, "This is all your fault. It's your fault for making me do this."

At this point, I had two distinct thoughts: 1) He is going to feel like a real ass when I tell him this in the morning. At that point, he will apologize. 2) I am soooo getting free brunch tomorrow.

So I settled him in the bathroom, and Rich and I washed off our feet. "Well, you have to admit, Joey's the only one who never broke character," I quipped, and Rich laughed and left us to our own devices. I put Joey to bed, and took a bath while reading a book and eating cookie dough. After getting out of the bath, I went to check one more time on the boy. Or, should I call him, Mr. Hendrix. Because, of course, he was flat on his fucking back.

The next day, it was revealed to us that Mr. Hendrix was the killer. Unfortunately for the fictitious murder mystery police, he had fled the scene long before that revelation occurred.

[[Sunday]]

So, we woke up this morning when Joey's alarm from Friday went off at 5:30 AM. "What happened last night?" Joey asked, and I started laughing.

For the next 15 minutes, I regaled him, and he was appropriately mortified, especially about his comment that it was my fault that he was that drunk. (I was totally getting free brunch). We went back to sleep and woke up to meet Rob for brunch. Joey discovered the puke in his sandals ("Oh God, there's puke on my sandals." "Surprise, you puked on your sandals, my sandals and Rich's sandals. Oh, and all of our feet. "Ohhh Godddd.")

The plan was for us to take my car into town. After brunch, we would go take out the old battery, buy a new one, and put it back into the car. Joey would go home, and I would go to the lab to prep for a tutoring session I was doing at 4. We were dressed and ready to leave. I could not find my keys. "When was the last time you had them?" he asked.

"Um...last night, before we got in your car......Oh God, they're still in your car."

In case you haven't been following along: 1) Joey's car is dead and parked 5 miles away from our apartment. 2) We are fucked.

So we called Rob and told him that he would have to pick us up. So he drove 20 minutes in the opposite direction of the restaurant, picked us up and drove us there in time to make our reservations. Brunch was lovely. (And so totally free, if you were me.) We drove back to our apartment, stopping to get my keys (which were totally in Joey's car) on the way.

Once home, we got in my car, thankfully made it to the nearest gas station, and filled up. We drove back to Joey's car, noticing--this is important later--that we were across the street from an auto parts store. We took my socket wrench set (purchased by me two years ago, when I also had to change my battery) with us.

So I set about changing the battery. If you were wondering why it was my job, there are two reasons: 1) I have had a string of shit-box cars in my lifetime and have acquired both the tools and the repair experience to fix most common problems. Including changing batteries. 2) I have a LOT more patience than the boy.

Rather quickly, though, we ran into problems. The hole in the socket that we needed wouldn't accommodate the bolt that the nut was attached too. If I were more artistic and if it wasn't 11 PM, I would maybe draw a picture to illustrate the problem. But instead, I'll just tell you that we needed either an adjustable wrench or a new socket. So, Joey ran across the street and got an adjustable wrench. It worked to undo one of the nuts, but the other was stuck too hard. So we both drove across the street in my car to inspect the sockets. We realized that we were probably using a slightly wrong size, because the size we were using was so uncommon, the store didn't carry it. We also realized that the nuts were probably metric, because Joey's car is a Hyundai. So, I ran back across the street to see if a metric size fit. Oh, and then back across the street, because we'd taken the socket wrench set to the store and I'd left it there. (While calling the people I was tutoring for and informing them that I would not be making it). And then back across the street to try the sockets for real this time.

So, I realized that the 10 mm socket fit, and I was super-excited, because there was an extra-long 10 mm socket and we purchased it, and the battery was changed in 5 minutes. And I may or may not have yelled "SUCK IT, HYUNDAI!" while pointed to my sweaty crotch. (In case you haven't been following along, it was 3:30 PM in mid-July in the Deep South. I was wearing shorts and a tank top. This is important later.)

I got in my car and drove to work, stopping along the way for a celebratory coffee. While feeding my cells, I realized that the amount of time I'd put into battery changing had yielded a pretty impressive tank-top-outlined sunburn.

And when I got into my car to go to dinner, it was completely dead. And when Rob came to jump it, it wouldn't charge. So, my car needs a new battery. And is parked in a parking lot it's not supposed to be in come 8 AM tomorrow. And all the car-battery-selling stores are closed.

And that was our weekend.

[[except]]

As Joey drove me home, after I'd arranged transportation for the morning, we stopped by the grocery store to get some things we'd need tomorrow. And as I stood picking out berries and Joey looked for suitable bananas, "Sweet Caroline" came on. After we sang the "Bah bah bahhhh" part of the chorus, while pointing and looking at each other over produce dividers, we sang, "Good times never seemed so good..."

And I yelled the "So good! So good! So good!" part. And it was.