A little too fabulous, but very very lucky.

I woke up this morning with no idea how I had gotten to the Producer's living room. I found my purse at the foot of the couch and touched my phone to see the time: 6:30 AM. My dress and bra were in a heap on the floor. I was really confused. A part of me wondered why I was on the couch and not in his bed, although I quickly answered that question; my mouth tasted awful and I vaguely remembered being sick. I dug deeper into my purse to find the toothbrush I always carry and padded to the bathroom wearing an oversized t-shirt and my panties.

I brushed my teeth, spat, then brushed again. I still felt disgusting so I got in the shower, wondering a little if it was okay to take a shower without invitation from my host. I figured he'd rather have me in his house if I were clean though, so in I went. Under the water I brushed my teeth again a couple of times. My hair still smells like his volumizing shampoo. I dried myself off with the same big, stripey towel that I used the first time I stayed there. The morning sun through the skylight, the smells, the hangover...it all brought me back there for a minute. It was nice.

I found some boxer shorts and dug my cropped dance top out of my bag then gingerly poked my head through the bedroom doorway. I saw a vaguely cylindrical pile of blanket with a mountain of pillows at one end. It was cute and kind of funny. I giggled, forgetting for a moment that I had no idea what the situation was like. Was he going to get angry at me? What did I do to wind up here? What awful things did I say last night? What did I do? I was dreadfully embarassed to be in this situation to begin with. I nervously crawled up next to him on the bed and laid on my tummy, resting my right cheek on my hands to face him. The pile of pillows stirred and his head emerged from the mountain, bleary eyed and looking as dazed as I felt. "Hey, are you okay?" he half-mumbled sleepily.

"How did I get here?" It was an earnest question. I hope it came out earnestly, but maybe it was permeated with the relief I felt when I saw that he was not angry, just concerned.

-----

See, I started out my day at dance class. The Producer and I had had plans to visit the Brooklyn Bridge, but he had (surprise!) cancelled, claiming illness. Whether or not that's true I don't know, because he didn't seem very sick at all when I saw him.

So instead I went to dance class. Then I skipped off to the wrap party for work. At the request of the director (who didn't actually come), we scheduled the party for 4:30 on a Sunday, and received almost unanimous complaints from the entire crew. It was talked up as if it were going to be a lame company picnic of sorts. The only thing everyone seemed to be interested in was the bowling, since we rented out Bowlmor Lanes in its entirety.

Only about forty people actually came, but those forty that did wound up being a lot of fun! The bartenders were really good too; they made me a slough of delicious cocktails with varying degrees of fruit salad on top. They made fantastic mojitos for my boss and the best rocks margarita I've ever tasted for my friend Strawberry from Locations. Payroll got her top shelf whiskey and beer was served one icy-bucket-of-bottles after another. Almost nobody bowled well. But the eighties music was rocking! And we took pictures in the tiny little photo booth! And bowled another terrible frame or twelve! My cute retro red dress with the white polka dots gleamed under the blacklights and I occasionally knocked a pin or two down, dancing giddily from lane to lane to chat up the crew. I paced myself well, drinking water between frou frou cocktails so as not to embarass myself in front of current and potential employers. I socialized with people from set and talked to two different fellows who work in camera about what I need to do if I want to try that (focus).

Then Strawberry said the magic words: After Party.

I danced down 10th street from University Place to West Street, chatting and singing, "How could I....forget you girl....'cause there is always something there to remind me!" I linked arms with our little production intern and my friend Trapeze. I giggled and skipped along with the crowd to Strawberry's house, where we all took to the roof to relax and check out the scenic Hoboken skyline. I was still a little buzzed from my last baybreeze, but was doing okay. I even successfully carried some furniture up the stairs. Then someone put a bottle of wine in my hand.

That's where it starts to get fuzzy. I was there for four hours, and I remember enough to know it was a pretty fun party in the dark on the rooftop. I remember Payroll and The Wardrobe Girl leaving...I almost left with them. I know I was playing a flirting game that got out of hand. I also know that I never black out from drinking. I never once have. I don't know what happened, but the next really concrete thing I remember is waking up. At the Producer's house. Of all the fucking people in New York.

I found some text messages in my phone. Five were to PDF. One to the Grecian. One to Cousin J. One to the Producer, who apparently was the only one to respond to my SOS. He apparently scooped me up off the street, deposited me on his couch, let me get sick in his bathroom, gave me pajamas, and then went to bed. At 12:30 on a Sunday night.

My best friend didn't respond. My cousin didn't respond. And then this guy--and I'm constantly in doubt that he even likes me at all--he answered despite it being 12:30 on a Sunday night. He took amazing care of me despite having a crazy rough workday ahead of him. He won't respond to my pestery text messages, but apparently he'll babysit me when I'm in drunken hysterics. He was amazingly gracious and cool about it in the morning too, and got me out the door for work with a little kiss.

Maybe there's hope for us to be friends yet?