When you don't wake up alone...

What to do when you don't wake up alone after a night of hearty social frivolity:

First: whatever you do, don't panic. Remain calm. Panicking will only exacerbate the situation.

Second: assess the situation, how bad is it? Where did you wake up? (My place, this is an excellent start). What are you wearing? (Last night's outfit. That's points off for wearing yesterday's clothes, but points added on for being clothed, so it's a wash). Now, what exactly did you wake up next to? I look over. This is really not good. My mother would be ashamed of me. I've been brought up better than this.

Third: review the previous night's event thoroughly. This can be a trying process:

During the day, I hiked Manoa Falls. Good clean muddy fun. Upon returning, I sat out on the lanai, sipped a glass of wine, and listened to my favorite live guitarist play classic rock covers. Self-important and a little bohemian, but still super fun. And then it was time to meet up with Travis, soI headed over to Duke's Waikiki on the Beach and am greeted by the first of the "cousins." Actually, it is just one cousin at this point, her friend, and a random dude pretending to be Travis's cousin. Like I said, Travis is kinda a big deal; of course, you'd want to pretend to be his cousin too.

We exchange pleasantries and decide to go over to the mall, which apparently, against all intuition, is a spot where the locals drink. This is news to me, but I happily climb in the cab and make the trip. Note: the cab shall be important later.

Travis has our names on the list of some club, which, forgive me Travis, is super-trendy in a "Blade" bloodbath techno rave kind of way, and the strobe lights and the smell of dry ice make me a little woozy. It's not that I'm not super-impressed; it's just that I'm not super-hip, I mean, surely you've ascertained this from the way I dress, so I am a little relieved when we make our way over to Mai Tais to meet up with the other cousins.

Imagine a mall like many other malls, although this one is more open-air on top because it's Hawaii, and on the top floor, crammed into a square teeming with tanned arms and legs and tattoos is an impressive looking bar called Mai Tais resplendant with scantily dressed lady bartenders. Good start. Now imagine if you can, it is always happy hour (except from 7-8pm), so the drinks flow freely and the drink specials really are special, and – kiss of death – their specialty, other than being one of the few bars to serve pitchers of beer, is their froofy island drinks. They're so good even the locals are drinking the signature mai tais, mojitos, lava flows, martinis etc. Herein lies the problem with girly froofy drinks. They are vipers in disguise because they lull you in a fall sense of security by hiding away the alcoholic taste, so when you decide to sample one of each kind of drink (island special, margarita, martini, champagne-based concoction, and shot), you do so without the warning bells going off in your head that you are heading for one heck of a bender.

No matter. Travis orders me a passion fruit mojito, which is just as fruity as it sounds. I start talking to the cousin and then Travis is introducing everyone around us as cousins. Everyone. He is related to everyone and helpfully explains how he is related to each, although, it's impossible to hear because apparently the hottest local group, Koauka is on stage. (Think ska, punk, reggae on rolled into one delicious fun sound). Each local cousin is ridiculously nice and gregarious and more hilarious than the last.

Suddenly, I am taking a ladies' shot with the cousins. Suddenly, I am ordering another Island Kiss (champagne with blue Curacao and something else, coconut or pineapple something), suddenly I'm insisting that Travis drink a Lychee martini (I don't even know what lychee is, I thought it was a monkey or a moss that grows on the northern face of trees), suddenly I am singing along to Koauka making up the words, and then, I realize with a start, that I am thinking that late night karaoke would be a totally awesome idea right now.

Now it's time to panic.

I stop and excuse myself to the ladies' room. I know my limits. When I start to think that late night karaoke would be a totally awesome idea, I know that it is time to go home. This isn't my first rodeo. I cut my teeth in Boston's famed Hong Kong. I know what late-night karaoke looks and sounds like. You are either crazy or not entirely sober if you think it's a good idea. I ain't crazy, so I must not be entirely sober. This is confirmed as I sit there in the stall listening to two other Mai Tai bargoers discussing Brittney Spear's comeback and I find myself in agreement with them. I too feel loads of sympathy for the little Pop Tart and admire her tenacity for clawing her way--good god. I've got to get out of here. Run screaming if necessary, pull a fire alarm, but I am approaching the point of no return. Any minute, I could be up on the Mai Tai bar, dancing like a wounded walrus and making myself into a youtube legend.

I bid a hasty good night to Travis, who insists I take a cab (course I am, I'm a good half hour from home and there are at least 3 karaoke bars en route, I can't be trusted on foot, obviously), I thank him for his even-present chivalric concern, ask him to say good night to the cousins and then bolt for the nearest taxi cab stand.

This is where it all goes down, even though I left Mai Tai's alone, I will not wake up alone because of events that transpired in this yellow speeding death trap.

It starts off innocently enough. The cabbie asks if I've had a good night, I respond politely in the affirmative and ask him how his night has been. We talk about the weather in Waikiki. President Obama (local grown native boy, what else?), plans for the upcoming superbowl and pro-bowl, and then WHAM, we're talking about his plans when he gets off work and guess what, his plans include bbq ribs. This is more than any less than sober glutton can bear. So I scramble, start talking about what I'm going to eat, but knowing in my heart of hearts that all I have in the room is fruit, flippin' fruit, and suddenly I'm pleading with all my soul for him to pull over at the Burger King. Keep the meter running, whatever, this is a matter of life and death!

And this dear friends, is how I woke up the following afternoon next to a half-eaten, plain classic chicken sandwich. It wasn't even entirely unwrapped, still peeking out from within its lovely waxy tissue shroud. Yes, there it was, half-devoured on the pillow next to me on a bed of crumbs and sesame seeds. I am so embarrassed that I left half a sandwich. Seriously, who can't finish one lousy chicken sandwich from BK? I hardly deserve to call myself "glutton." "Lightweight" would be more fitting.

And then I see an empty fry-pod on the floor, a triangular apple pie box, and an empty soft drink cup. Ooooohhhh, a value meal. Saucy minx!

So remember, when you wake up after a night of hearty social frivolity and you find yourself not quite alone. Do not panic. Remember: assess the situation. Review the night's events. And for godsakes, get rid of the evidence.