Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!

You know, when you're kinda drunk, and things aren't quite as they appear to you, in your slightly altered state? Like when I think I'm being really, really quiet, trying to avoid the one creak in our kitchen floor at 1:30 am because I've decided to try and remove stains from an old hoodie with my super-duper Ban It bar over the kitchen sink.

Turns out I sounded like a herd of elephants running from poachers, stepping on that damn creak one too many times, awakening my beloved who was peacefully slumbering in our room directly below the kitchen. 

I blame the boyfriend. We have a wine drinking routine that works very well. We share a bottle; we both get about two and a half glasses of wine, and are nicely marinated, not drunk. He broke the routine. Mayhem ensued. He decided he wanted beer instead of wine after we had opened a bottle and he had merely had a few sips.

Then, he went to bed, and left me unsupervised with a half-full bottle of wine. Tactical error. You know I'm gonna down that shit. Drunkenness ensued. I usually head to bed around 11 pm on Friday nights, 'cause by that time, I'm ready to pack it in, when I'm sober.

In my drunken haze, I decided to start watching an episode of Six Feet Under around 11:30 and discovered that this is not a show one should watch under the influence of any drug that lowers your inhibitions and opens wide the doors of perception. 

That was some deep shit yo, and my wine-laden brain was cracked open, like an oyster offering up its pearl. Except the show is about death, and dying, and what lies after death. In my inebriated state, all I could hear was Jack Nicholson yelling: "You can't handle the truth!"

I then started watching a second episode. I needed something to do while I polished off the vino. Then, around 1:30 am, I decided to go and see if this hoodie I was cleaning earlier was dry and noticed yet another stain. Why not try to get it out now! says I to myself. No time like the present! 

My senses were obviously askew, and I thought perhaps I would have a case for appearing on that Strange Addictions show. Woman addicted to removing stubborn stains from clothing in the wee hours of the morning. I was pulling some genuine Lady Macbeth action: "Out, damn'd spot! Out, I say!" except I hadn't convinced my boyfriend to shank anyone, you know?

The next day, my hangover was not merely as proportional to the amount of alcohol I consumed (thank God for small mercies). I pulled out a Nalgene bottle from the cupboard, a 32-ouncer, and filled it with water. I needed hydration, people. And it was one of those badass BPA-laced Nalgene bottles. I live on the edge, man. Can you handle it?

I realized the last time I used this bottle was about eight months ago, when I was seriously hurting after, you guessed it, too much wine consumption. So I baptized it the hangover Nalgene bottle. It's pink. How cool is that?