I'm drunk. I don't mean tipsy or buzzed or even squirrely, I am drunk.
I'm not much of a drinker. Some of my upcoming stories may imply otherwise, but really, any drinking was a phase, and not even a particularly long one. Every now and then I'll have a drink or two, and that's usually enough to get me almost drunk. Today, I drank the whole six pack, plus, in a move that I'm deeply regretting, a couple of those tiny bottles of liqueur that I was given for Christmas. The huzz is home and the kid was asleep when I started, so I figured it would be cool. Kid ended up waking up, but that's okay too, because I always knew we had a TV for a reason.
She's watching Hello Kitty. I caught a clip where some cat said, ""We do it in the upright position! Not on our backs!" What's her beef with missionary? Also, the child and I just had a debate on threatening vs. non-threatening toys. She showed up with one of her creepy babies. It only has hair along the part lines, and huge bald spots if you take out her braids. She also sings To Grandmother's House We Go. The absolute last thing I need is to wake up half hungover, the creepy doll's whiny voice in my ear and bald spot nuzzled against my cheek. That's the stuff nightmares are made of.
"No. Choose a non-threatening toy." The sound is drippy and somewhat slurred. She returns with another, only slightly less creepy baby. This one has a heartbeat. "Honey, a non-threatening toy. Please!"
After two more attempts, and much insistence that her babies are not going to chew my face off in my sleep, she finally settled on a couple Flynn and Rapunzel and Yogi Bear. More toys than I like in my bed (that number is zero) but none of them talk or sing or blink their eyes, so it's an acceptable trade. Now she's all tucked in and I hope the movies keep her awake long enough to want to sleep in. We're trying to get her into her own bed, so I'm pretty sure letting her stay in ours is a bad move, but I don't so much care at the moment.
All in all it's been a awesome night. I'm still fuzzy, but the room has stopped spinning. I had egg rolls and fried rice and decent sex and spectacular company. I got some things out that I really needed to get out. I'm fairly certain I said some things that will fill me with shame and regret tomorrow (likely including this post) but now that they're out, perhaps I can begin to process them. Which would be fantastic. I really hold things in way too much. Also, I promised to tell the story of the first time I attempted to give a blowjob, but I'm about to pass out, and frankly, I couldn't give that story the justice it deserves right now anyway.
Right now, I think I need to do this more often. We'll see how I feel about that tomorrow. Probably not so much. Right now, I know I have the most amazingly fantastic awesome sauce covered friends in the world--and tomorrow that won't change. Oh, and better posting when I'm sober.
Showing posts with label drunken bits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drunken bits. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
How Unfortunate
I arrived two hours early. I hadn't meant to arrive early at all, but something was going on inside me. Something with an uncomfortable vulnerability to it. I eschewed those feelings the best I could, but that sick suspense in my stomach continued to grow. I ordered another drink.
Martinis. I was on my third by the time he arrived. He was early by twenty minutes and it wasn't until then that I realized how desperate and pathetic my own two hours made me seem. I took another gulp of liquor, realizing exactly how drunk I was.
A line from a book--which one, I couldn't remember at the moment--flashed before me. The martians have landed. I liked the way it sounded in my mind, so I mumbled it aloud before another large swig.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh." It suddenly sounded much less clever. "Nothing. Just mumbling to myself."
He gave me a weird look and a small shrug and we returned to our drinks. My every sense registered the discomfort of the silence. My ears rang with it. My eyes shifted about in the thick fog of it. It felt like being touched by every nightmare I'd ever had. Even the too boozy smell and the taste, like my tongue on a battery. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I waited for him to speak, but he didn't. I suddenly felt ill. Really ill.
I rocked in my seat, willing myself not to vomit. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don'tdon'tdon't THROW UP.
Despite doubling my liquor intake, my condition had improved by the time the rest of our party had arrived. I haphazardly grabbed his arm as I stumbled down from my stool, but all in all, I felt pretty good as we headed to our next destination.
I should have been sitting shotgun. I always sat shotgun, and I'm not sure why I didn't that day. Instead, I sat bitch. The music was loud and the company louder, and without warning, all the warm and fuzzy happiness was chased away by a sick and dizzy feeling. Nothing in the world was right. I covered my eyes with my hands, but it wouldn't stop the thoughts that I couldn't quite catch. It was the wrong part to cover anyway.
In the single worst moment of 21.5 years, six martinis errupted from my mouth. Part of me died that day. I don't know that it was ever reborn. I sort of hope it wasn't.
Prize if you know the book reference!
Martinis. I was on my third by the time he arrived. He was early by twenty minutes and it wasn't until then that I realized how desperate and pathetic my own two hours made me seem. I took another gulp of liquor, realizing exactly how drunk I was.
A line from a book--which one, I couldn't remember at the moment--flashed before me. The martians have landed. I liked the way it sounded in my mind, so I mumbled it aloud before another large swig.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh." It suddenly sounded much less clever. "Nothing. Just mumbling to myself."
He gave me a weird look and a small shrug and we returned to our drinks. My every sense registered the discomfort of the silence. My ears rang with it. My eyes shifted about in the thick fog of it. It felt like being touched by every nightmare I'd ever had. Even the too boozy smell and the taste, like my tongue on a battery. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. I waited for him to speak, but he didn't. I suddenly felt ill. Really ill.
I rocked in my seat, willing myself not to vomit. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don'tdon'tdon't THROW UP.
Despite doubling my liquor intake, my condition had improved by the time the rest of our party had arrived. I haphazardly grabbed his arm as I stumbled down from my stool, but all in all, I felt pretty good as we headed to our next destination.
I should have been sitting shotgun. I always sat shotgun, and I'm not sure why I didn't that day. Instead, I sat bitch. The music was loud and the company louder, and without warning, all the warm and fuzzy happiness was chased away by a sick and dizzy feeling. Nothing in the world was right. I covered my eyes with my hands, but it wouldn't stop the thoughts that I couldn't quite catch. It was the wrong part to cover anyway.
In the single worst moment of 21.5 years, six martinis errupted from my mouth. Part of me died that day. I don't know that it was ever reborn. I sort of hope it wasn't.
Prize if you know the book reference!
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I'm tired.
Alright. I'm dead exhausted and possibly sick, and at least the exhaustion is entirely my fault. My other New Years resolution is to get better at my husband's video game than he is, so that's what I did last night. Until almost 7AM. On the bright side, my daughter also made the decision to stay up all night, so at least I got to sleep in. Yeah, I know that's a horribly irresponsible thing to allow, but you know what? Who cares? It was fun. Except not, because it meant I got to sleep from 6:45 to 8, then from 10 to noon and that's just plain kicking my ass. But, I did promise fifteen minutes at least once a day, so lets see what I can come up with.
I used to work in a restaurant. Working for tips throws your whole sense of money off. It's no longer a matter of "can I afford it?" or more importantly, "is that worth it?" Instead, everything becomes a matter of how many customers you need to make it back. That's it. It was the easiest money I ever made. Sure, my in-field office job was more fun and came with benefits and advancement opportunities, but restaurant work? What else could I do that brought home $200 in nearly tax free cash from one six hour shift? Leaving an 18 hour a week job for less money from a 40 hour a week job was really tough, no matter how good of a decision it was. And really, I just ended up knocked up later that year, anyway.
The other thing about working in a restaurant is that it literally drives you to drink. I had four friends at work. Really, we all mostly got along--or at least I did, as I wasn't sleeping with anyone there--but there were four people I was really friends with. We'd work. Then we'd drink. Then we'd go to breakfast. Even if one of us didn't work, we still made it to that cheap little dive bar almost every night. After breakfast, I'd end up feeling around in my pocket, wondering why I only had $50. Didn't I leave work with $200? How many guests would I have to serve to make that back? This was truly the low point of my irresponsibility.
There's not really a whole lot to this. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of stories, and they'll all have their day, but today is definitely not it. I all can think right now is, "I don't know how I did that!" I went almost every day for a year and a half on the amount of sleep I had today. Give or take, of course, but still--I just can't figure out how I did it. Today is just about killing me. Hell, I got more sleep when I had a newborn. So here I sit in dumbstruck awe of the person I was at 22.
Yeah, this is kind of a cop out post, but I promise things should slow down now and I'll have plenty more time for fun stories and self deprecation. In fact, I have about four super embarrassing ideas in queue right now. Yay! Yay, and goodnight!
I used to work in a restaurant. Working for tips throws your whole sense of money off. It's no longer a matter of "can I afford it?" or more importantly, "is that worth it?" Instead, everything becomes a matter of how many customers you need to make it back. That's it. It was the easiest money I ever made. Sure, my in-field office job was more fun and came with benefits and advancement opportunities, but restaurant work? What else could I do that brought home $200 in nearly tax free cash from one six hour shift? Leaving an 18 hour a week job for less money from a 40 hour a week job was really tough, no matter how good of a decision it was. And really, I just ended up knocked up later that year, anyway.
The other thing about working in a restaurant is that it literally drives you to drink. I had four friends at work. Really, we all mostly got along--or at least I did, as I wasn't sleeping with anyone there--but there were four people I was really friends with. We'd work. Then we'd drink. Then we'd go to breakfast. Even if one of us didn't work, we still made it to that cheap little dive bar almost every night. After breakfast, I'd end up feeling around in my pocket, wondering why I only had $50. Didn't I leave work with $200? How many guests would I have to serve to make that back? This was truly the low point of my irresponsibility.
There's not really a whole lot to this. Don't get me wrong, there are tons of stories, and they'll all have their day, but today is definitely not it. I all can think right now is, "I don't know how I did that!" I went almost every day for a year and a half on the amount of sleep I had today. Give or take, of course, but still--I just can't figure out how I did it. Today is just about killing me. Hell, I got more sleep when I had a newborn. So here I sit in dumbstruck awe of the person I was at 22.
Yeah, this is kind of a cop out post, but I promise things should slow down now and I'll have plenty more time for fun stories and self deprecation. In fact, I have about four super embarrassing ideas in queue right now. Yay! Yay, and goodnight!
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