Lederhosen, French Toast and Telemarketing
December 22, 1997
The dream was fuzzy; a tiny man dressed in tie-dyed lederhosen and wearing a ten-gallon hat was enthusiastically smacking me in the head with a meat tenderizer, all the while singing that Celine Dion song from Titanic. God, I hate that song. And that little cowboy-hippy-munchkin couldn't sing worth a crap.
Reality, when it came oozing into my consciousness, was not so fuzzy, and even more painful; a wicked hangover and a stranger's bed.
Shit.
At least no one was singing that damn song.
Now I've been known to imbibe a bit, sometimes more than is prudent, so the hangover was nothing new.A stranger's bed, however...I gingerly felt behind me for a body and after slowly - very slowly - rolling over to check that indeed I had no company, I let out the breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"Small favors..." I murmured, and winced at the gravely sound of my own voice.
Attempts to switch on my brain to access any memories of the night before proved painful; I had a momentary vision of my tonally challenged cowboy-hippy-munchkin friend switching to a jack-hammer, and a wry, fleeting thought that at least my imagination seemed none the worse for wear.
Leaving my memory to try to catch up with the rest of me, I took stock.
I was naked.
Bad sign.
I sat up - again, very slowly - and looked around. My clothes were folded neatly on a chair across the room. I recognized my own hand in the folding - I had this thing I did with my underwear ever since that incident at camp, with the squirrel and the...um, yeah, well, anyway - apparently I had undressed myself and had not been in any type of hurry.
Good sign.
And my powers of deduction seemed to be functioning at an acceptable, if not optimal, level.
Another good sign.
The room I was in was nice - very nice - and very large.Vertical blinds covered huge floor to ceiling windows and weak, gray dawn light leaked through them, dimly illuminating walls of rough-hewn pine logs, two oversized armchairs, a massive pine dresser and two pine bed stands; one on either side of the extremely comfortable queen-sized bed where I was perched.
No odor of spilled beer and pot, no bodies snoring on the floor, no cigarette butts or plastic cups...definitely not the kind of place I was used to waking up in with a hangover like this.
I didn't know what kind of sign that was, but the 300 count sheets sliding coolly against my bare skin and the deep, plush berber carpet that met my feet when I cautiously stood were quite pleasant; good sign or bad, it was sure a hell of a lot better than the tiny one-bedroom house that I was sharing with three other students on the Hill.
I glanced at a framed picture on the bed stand; an attractive couple in their mid-forties smiled back at me, jumpstarting my memory.
The Scotts.And Greta.And tequila.And ouzo. And martinis.I never drink martinis. No wonder I felt like crap warmed over. I smiled at the memory.
Greta was a former college roommate who, after graduating with the business degree her parents had so coveted, had finally followed her own dreams and moved to the mountains to become a ski instructor. I'd been tempted to join her, but had instead gone back for my masters, much to everyone's shock. I'd kept in touch with her, staying with her often, and she had invited me up this year to spend five days of my Christmas break with her.
The Scotts were clients of Greta's who booked her for private lessons whenever they were on the mountain, and I had met them yesterday when I ran into Greta in the lodge after stopping for a quick break.I'd joined them for lunch and we had immediately hit it off; so much so that I'd finished off the rest of my ski day with them, stayed through aprËs ski drinks and dinner, and finally, after we had nearly been thrown out of a restaurant for being too noisy, I'd gone back to their condo for what Ken had promised would be the best martini I had ever tasted.
I hadn't had the heart to tell him I hated martinis - hell, at that point, I probably didn't even remember I hated martinis.
More drinks, talking and laughter had ensued, and when Greta had headed home around ten, I had stayed; eventually taking Ken and Pam up on their offer of a bed and Pam's famous french toast for breakfast.
Which was why I was in a strange room nursing a truly spectacular hangover.
Relieved to remember I had done nothing last night worse than tell a few bad jokes, I shuffled into the room's private bath and poked through the medicine cabinet. I was thrilled to find an industrial sized bottle of ibuprofen hidden behind the shaving cream and band-aids; I took four, washing them down with water slurped greedily straight from the faucet and a prayer that they work quickly.
The shower, when I turned it on, seemed incredibly loud in my already pounding head, and I grimaced as the needles of water hit my skin. Ten minutes later, thought, I felt nearly human, and was humming ‘let it snow, let it snow, let it snow', thinking that french toast was starting to sound good, and toweling my hair dry as I stepped back into the bedroom.
"Excuse me."
My body stilled. The voice was low and pleasant, distinctly female...Nice.
I peered through white folds and saw dark hair, blue eyes, a small, compact body and full, sensuous lips.
Very nice.
But very young.
"Hi."I said, and threw the towel over my shoulder casually. I was aware of, but not particularly embarrassed by, my nakedness, and smiled a little at her obvious discomfort.
Something flickered in her eyes for a moment, a brief flash of heat, and my grin widened.
"Who.The FUCK. Are you?"
Haughty. Demanding. Bitchy. The full lips seemed suddenly more pouty than sensuous, and the voice not nearly as attractive.
"And why the FUCK are you in my room?"
Nope, not attractive at all.And too young anyway.Pity.
My room.I looked at her more closely and saw the resemblance; Ken's blue eyes and Pam's high cheekbones, fine features covered by youthful plumpness. This must be one of the kids Pam and Ken had spoken of - they had two; a boy and a girl, both in college somewhere back east.What had their names been?Kyle and...Kim?Yes, that was it. Kim. The brainiac that had started college at 17.
I pulled the towel from my shoulder and continued drying my hair, watching her try not to watch me.
"You must be Kimmie." I used the nickname on purpose; Pam had told me she hated it, and this girl's attitude was starting to piss me off a little.
Her eyes, looking everywhere but at my naked body a moment before, snapped up to mine, her face flushed with anger. She shoots, she scores! I thought, and tried not to grin.
"It's Kimberly," She answered tightly, "and you haven't answered my question.Who the fuck are you?"
I raised an eyebrow. Kimberly even. Not Kim.I believe she was a tad miffed at me.
"Now, now, Kimmie." I drawled. I don't know why, but I just had to push this kid's buttons. "Such language.What would your mother think?"
If she had been a cartoon character, steam would have shot out of her ears and her head would have exploded. As it was, her face turned a shade of pink I'd never seen, and she just barely stopped herself from stamping her foot in frustration.This time, I couldn't hide the smile.
With a noise that sounded very much like a harrumph, she stomped over to the chair that held my clothes, picked up the pile, and tossed it at me with a flourish.
"Get out!"
I was impressed with her flair, as was she. Until she noticed my bra dangling off her arm, the clasp caught in her heavy cable-knit sweater.
I couldn't help it. I laughed. Loudly.
She was mortified. Which, I am somewhat ashamed to say, made me laugh harder. Somewhat.She had been a complete hole to me, and I was glad to get a little back. I tempered my mirth, though, when I spotted a hint of tears welling in her blue eyes, and feeling a little guilty, decided I'd had enough fun.