Saltwater Sunday

I had a most delightful evening planned. Hawiian beef from the world's worst Chinese restaurant on Hanover St in Boston's North End, pineapple juice and Fresca (a delightful combination), and finally Brigham's Mocha Almond for desert. An episode or two of The Sopranos on OnDemand, followed by bed at a reasonable hour. Sunday morning I'd wake up refreshed and watch "Saltwater Sunday" on ESPN 2. Does it get any better?
All was going as planned. Dinner was about what I've come to expect from China House. I hit the sack about 11:30 and was sleeping like a baby until 2:00AM, at which time the phone rang. Now... for most people, when the phone rings it's bad news. When the phone rings at 2:00AM at my place it can only mean one thing; booty call.
I was right as to the purpose of the call. My friend Ann, whom I had been out with a few times, apparently had a few beers. I then found myself faced with a dilemna. Do I get out of bed and drive to Ann's place, or do I stay snug and warm in bed catching up on some very much needed sleep. For those of you who know me, the answer was obvious.
Out of bed, brushed my teeth, a bit of love potion, and finally some pants, off I went.
The particulars are unimportant. I left the house at 2:15AM and came back at 6:00AM. So much for "Saltwater Sunday"...

As I write this, I'm watching The Transporter. I like the French policeman.