Why I can't ever be left alone

Sometimes when BK is OOT* I like to indulge in a little vino. Sometimes I like to indulge when he's sitting right there, too, but that's neither here nor there. CAN WE PLEASE GET BACK ON TOPIC?

Ok.

So last night I was polishing off a bottle of Rioja (I open it WENDESDAY, I'm not a DRNK). Imagine me, if you will, in sweatpants and my Oxford, Mississippi sweatshirt, sitting in the cushy chair with the iBook in my lap, glass of wine precariously waving around as I tell the television quite sternly that Committed is Not At All Funny and NBC needs to check itself before it wrecks itself.

Then Buster barks v. v. v. fiercely, in a desperate attempt to protect me from the psychopath, knife-wielding squirrel which I'm sure was scampering across the front lawn. And I, in my tipsy state, completely freak the fuck out as if my five-year-old son had just jumped out of the closet and shrieked SURPRISE! at me, and I sloshed half the contents of my glass onto the open iBook.

I don't think I've ever moved as fast I did at that moment. I gently placed the iBook on the ottoman and sprinted to the kitchen for a dishtowel. I ran back to the iBook and started to dab at it lovingly, and mid-dab I realized I was APOLOGIZING to the computer, a kind of frantic "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry" mantra.

Oh, and also, I might have gone online after that incident and searched the Northern Virginia match.com and Nerve listings for STEVE.

* That's Out-of-Town for those of you lucky enough to never have had to spend hours attempting to book a block of hotel rooms for OOT wedding guests.