Pygmies, Sambo and one Hell of a Hangover

**This was several years ago and I have not been allowed out of the house since.**

At this point it’s becoming painfully obvious that I should never be allowed to leave the house unsupervised, and here’s why…

The other night I went to watch the Auburn vs. South Carolina game at the Bucket Shop. I went with Brad, Jenn Foster (J-FO) Chad, his wife LeeAnne and this other girl, Jennifer. We all had a great time and loved to see South Carolina embarrass themselves on the Plains… War Eagle!

After the game ended, the boys went home and the girls decided to go to another bar, Peachtree Tavern, and watch the Velcro Pygmies (an 80’s band) play. So we all hopped into Jennifer’s car and drove there, leaving mine and J-FO’s cars at the Bucket Shop. So we watched the band and had an awesome time. And there was drinking. Lot’s of drinking compliments of a bartender who apparently had a moral objection to mixing anything with the alcohol she was serving. So my 7&7 was just 7. And a very strong 7 at that.

By the end of the show J-FO and I were ready to leave, but LeeAnne happens to worship the Pygmies (and by worship I mean she has driven to see them play at a distance of 5 hours from where she lives on more than one occasion) and she and the other Jennifer wanted to stay a little longer. So J-FO and I “cab it” back to the parking lot where our cars are. She dropped me off at my car and continued home. As I turned to get into my car I suddenly realize, oh shit, my purse that holds my car keys, money and phone is still in Jennifer’s car at the Peachtree Tavern. I can’t get into my car; I have no phone and no money. Oh, and by the way, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. And of course by the time I realize this J-FO is long gone.

I walked into the Bucket Shop hoping that someone was still there closing down the bar and sure enough there was. Praise the Lord! So I asked to use the phone and called my loving boyfriend ( the man who promised to always take care of me and be there for me) to ask him to come and get me, but the butt-head didn’t answer his phone. So, I called again. And again. And then I called our house phone, and then again, and then his cell… and on and on for about 10 minutes. I was starting to realize that Brad was not going to answer the phone and since I am a child of the 21st century I haven’t memorized anyone else’s phone number thanks to the miracle of modern technology! So, now I am really screwed: don’t’ know anyone else I can call to come get me, don’t have any money for a cab and have no way to get into my car and drive home.

Enter hysteria.

The manager could tell there was something wrong with me, what with all the crying and gnashing of teeth that was going on. So he tried to help me out and was looking for someway to get me home. At that point one of the waitress’, a petite blond girl, said that her boyfriend was sitting in the bar waiting for her to get off work and that it would be at least another hour before she was finished and would I like for him to take me home in the mean time? Ok, there should have been a red flag here, but I weighed my options: ride home with strange man or sleep in the parking lot. So I agreed, sight unseen, to the boyfriend driving me home.

As I said before, this was a tiny, white, college-aged girl named Tiffany so I was imaging that her boyfriend was a college-aged, frat-guy-type, with cut off khaki’s and a polo. Harmless, right? When her boyfriend came over to introduce himself, he turned out to be a little different than what I was expecting. He was actually a 35 year old black man named Sambo. I am not even kidding. Meet Sambo:

I know what you’re thinking…“Tell me that you did not get in the car with Sambo!” Oh, but I did. Since I had already accepted the offer, I felt like it would be really RUDE to say, “Well, Sambo, I am sure you’re a very nice thug young man, but I just can’t possibly get the in the car with you.” Plus I was still a little drunk and so I hopped into his 1986 Cadillac and we headed to Vinings. The entire way there I am thinking to myself that this has got to be the dumbest thing I have ever done and my mother is going to kill me when I tell her about this. Instead of trying to make meaningless chit-chat I just curled up in the fetal position and sucked my thumb the whole way there.

Somehow we made it to my neighborhood without me being attacked or killed and we didn’t even have to make any stops for drug deals. PLUS TEN POINTS FOR SAMBO! When we arrived at the gate to my neighborhood, of course, I didn’t have the gate opener. So I had to get out of Sambo’s car, in the pouring down rain, and crawl under my front gate on my hands and knees and then walk about a quarter mile to my house. I wish I was making this up. I can’t even imagine what my neighbors must have thought.

It’s now 3:30 in the morning and I am soaking wet, bawling my eyes out and banging on my front door to no avail. My buzz was officially gone and this was no longer funny. Finally, after about 30 minutes of constant banging, Brad came to the door, still half asleep, and more than a little confused at what he saw. I looked like a drowned rat, eyes red from crying for the last 3 hours, knee’s all scraped up from having to shimmy UNDER the gate to our neighborhood and all he says is “Babe, what the hell happened? Are you ok?”

“Uhhh, NO. No, I am not ok. I am far from ok and I would like to request that a babysitter accompany me on all future outings.” He said he couldn't agree more.

1 comment:

  1. FYI: Unlike Article #7, in the Mother's Job Description Manual, "...is willing to clean up when my child throws up", which expired upon your entrance into college; Article #6 "...is available at any hour of the day or night to pick up child anywhere on the planet if needed" NEVER expires!!