Deeee-looop!

My eyes opened involuntarily at the noise, saw nothing but piercing
white light and closed again.

Deeee-looop!

I rolled my head 90 degrees to the right and tried opening my eyes
again. My retinas were still realing from the light incident, so I
only saw an outline of what was definitely a foot. And it wasn't
human. I squinted; my head was foggy and I was sans glasses but that?
Was definately a claw. A gold claw. A gold claw tipped in red. Blood
red.

Deeee-looop! Deeee-looop!

I shot up from my prone position, ready to fight the aliens tooth and,
um, claw, take control of the mother ship and make a break for
freedom. Only, I was in my bathroom. And it was morning. And...

Deeee-looop! Deeee-looop!

That was the Instant Messenger noise.

The previous evening came flooding back. Party. Booze. Paul.

"Uhhhhhngh," I moaned as I shuffled out of the bathroom and into my
bedroom. My laptop was perched on the edge of my bed, bleating for my
attention. I climbed into the warm embrace of sheets and quilts,
balanced the computer on my knees, found my spare pair of glasses and
read the screen.

It was Paul, of course. Paul, my best friend, my closest confidant and
the most annoying brother I'd never had. Paul, the reason for my
hangover.

ThatsaPauling77: Harriet
ThatsaPauling77: Haaaaaarriet
ThatsaPauling77: Look, I know you're there. You're logged in and not
idle so stop pretending like you accidentally logged on when your
machine booted and pay attention to me.
ThatsaPauling77: Pay attention to me, pay attention to me, pay attention
ThatsaPauling77: TO ME!!!

After a moment's consideration, I typed back: Dear Paul, if you ever
force us to consume that much booze again, we will have you kilt.
Signed, Harriet's Major Organs. P.S. Stop making the "Deeee-looop"
noise. I can't figure out the mute button.

I sent it off and closed my laptop. Maybe he'd get the message.

The phone rang thirty seconds later. He never gets the message.

"Whaaaaa?" I whimpered.

"Oh, come on, you can't be that hung over," he said cheerfully.

"Yes I can," I said. "I woke up on a bathroom floor convinced I'd been
abducted by aliens. It was the bathtub that got me."

There was an extended pause. "The bathtub?

"It has claws, Paul," I explained. "Gilded claws. Gilded claws with an
extra coat of fire engine red where a toenail might be. So pretend
you wake up at 7 a.m. with a serious case of the spins and no
recollection of the past three hours. You don't know where you are. You
don't know how you got there. There's a piercing white light shining
down upon you. You roll your head over on the floor and you see..."

"Gilded claws with a manicure," Paul supplied.

"Gilded claws with a manicure," I repeated. "And you hear the
deeee-looop noise. What do you think?"

"You've watched too many X Files reruns," he said. "Now take two
aspirin and be a man. I'm coming over. I want to tell you about your
Christmas present."

"You're a month late, buddy," I said. "Going to bed now."

"No you're not," he said, but I hung up the phone and turned off the
ringer for  good measure. Let the bugger argue with voicemail.

I buried my head under a pillow and tried to sleep it off. Except
forty-five minutes later, the pillow was yanked off my head
unceremoniously and Paul proceeded to beat me with it, singing, "Wake
up, wake up, wake up, wake up!"

I have got to revoke his key privileges.

Eventually, I was persuaded to sit upright and wrap my hand around a
cup of coffee, because I am easily bribed.

"Now," Paul said as I took my first, blissful sip of Columbian roast.
"After listening to you go on and on and on last night about your lack
of action, it got me thinking, and I've decided I'm going to get you a
boyfriend."

"I don't need a boyfriend," I said.

Paul rolled his eyes. "Yes, you do."

"No, I don't," I said. "I might need a fling, but that's different."

"Okay, fine," he said putting up a hand. "But you're starting to push
thirty and it's kind of, well, sad that you don't have any prospects.
And yet, here I am, the most swinging guy in town with loads of
connections, but have I ever once tried to set you up?"

"You have got to stop with the Sex and the City reruns," I said. "It's
conduct unbecoming a straight guy."

He snapped his fingers and continued like I hadn’t said anything. "I
haven't. So I figure, hey, why not throw a fabulous party, invite all
of the awesome, eligible guys I know and just get you in circulation,
what do you say?"

"No," I said. I closed my eyes.

"There'll be an open bar," he wheedled.

My stomach lurched at the thought. "No."

"Good music."

"No."

"Lots of people you'd never meet otherwise because you work ungodly
hours and never hang out with me."

"No," I repeated.

He stood up and scowled. "Oh, c'mon, give me one reason why not."

I was ready for him. "Because, your formula for a guest list is to
take the number of men invited and invite double the number of women."

"Because we can't have that many dudes," Paul nodded, totally not following.

"And I'm not about to spend an evening mobbed by pretty women," I
said. "The last time that happened, your friend Carl said I'd be cute
if I lost thirty pounds. Jesus, Paul. Where do you even find these
girls? Do you just troll the eating disorder clinics."

He didn't take the bait. "It'll be awesome. We'll get you in some
skimpy clothing and some slutty heels, we'll get everyone liquored up,
and I guarantee you'll get at least ten phone numbers."

"I'm not doing this, Paul," I said as he got up and started rummaging
through my closet. "Paul, do you hear me? I'm not going to do it."