My Love/Hate Relationship with White Wine

I went out last night after work to catch up on office gossip and vent about how much I hate working with (translation: for) a bunch of fat fools. I had good intentions. I was only going to have a glass or two. Seriously. Anyway, fast forward 11 hours...

It's 5am. I'm just now going to bed. What had I been doing for the past 11 hours? Apparently a lot, including drinking all the white wine that was ever produced in the whole history of the world. Based on the clues I pieced together this morning, I gather my night went something like this...

I left the bar around 7 or 8, after 4 glasses of wine. Status = Drunk but functioning.

I got home and opened a ginormous bottle of white wine that I have had in my fridge for months (not like 1 or 2, we are talking more like 9 or 10). You know the bottle I'm talking about. That one that is reserved for parties only because it is FAR too much wine for one person to drink by themselves. Spoiler Alert! That bottle is, in fact, not too big for one person to drink. Of course, that is only if you don't care about your liver, personal safety or will to live.

Somewhere through that bottle I get the clever idea that I should build a fire. How do I know this? I woke up and my entire bed smelled like I'd been rolling in a bonfire. It's pretty safe to say that one should never attempt to build a fire when 1) you have no firewood or kindling of any kind and 2) you just drank the alcoholics equivalent of an all you can eat buffet. I, however, certianly wasn't going to let my lack of kindling or gross motor skills thwart my dreams of a raging fire. I think outside the box....box.....boxes....shoe boxes would make the perfect kindling! Who cares that I have nowhere to store my gorgeous new Louboutins now because I had an awesome fire last night (I think).

What'as the moral of this story? I don't know, but if there was one, I drank it.

XOXO,

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