How great of a start to a story is that; “One time, I got so drunk I lost my teeth...”
To make her feel better, I told her I’ve been that drunk before. Not drunk enough to lose my teeth – but that’s only cause they are still attached to my mouth - but just drunk enough that Husband has had to fill in the blank bits. Drunk enough that there are sections of town in NYC that I had to avoid in case there was a poster of me up on the streetlights asking, “Have you seen this woman?” with a picture of me puking in a garbage can.
Yeah, Mom, this is not going to be a post you can be proud of.
The "Once, when I was drunk in NYC..." stories aren’t as humiliating because I was just of legal drinking age and didn’t know better. I thought bar hopping from one end of town to the other was a cool idea. That when we got to bar number seven and sat down and the German tourists bought me a beer and asked me to explain why O.J. driving slowly in his white bronco was on most of the TV’s and not the World Cup, I thought I was speaking coherently. So inexperienced that when my friends ditched and left me with the German tourists, I thought I could match them drink for drink regardless of their larger size and many years of practice. And, when I finally realized that I was out of my drinking league and their faces were swimming, I thought a bus from the Lower East Side to the Upper East Side was a better choice than a cab. I was young. I was stupid. I threw up in garbage cans from 86th to 92nd.
But I was young. I bounced back. No, the story I told my friend was not one of youth and ignorance and stupidity. The stories I told her were of pure vanity and blind rage.
Let me set the scene: it’s my friend’s husband’s fiftieth birthday. She’s gone all out; fancy cocktails and hors-d'oeuvres by the pool. I was wearing this pretty top I’d bought to get married in before I knew we were getting married in a drive-thru. When I’d bought the top, I’d weighed several years of marriage less and now the top was too tight and only looked good if I just stood and tried not to breathe deep. So I stood by the pool and sipped wine and refused the hors-d'oeuvres, thinking I’d wait for the meal and not bust my zipper.
But the hors-doevers WERE the meal, something I should have remembered from my friend’s planning sessions. Apparently that crucial information went out of my head with that first glass of white wine. Which is why I ended up standing and drinking and trying not to look like a sausage in my too-tight top the whole night.
It was not one of my best decisions. Neither was pinning my high school drama teacher up against the wall, berating him for not attending my most recent theatre production. Or when Husband pulled me off said drama teacher only to catch me having the same conversation with him again and again. Just awesome when you can show how grown up you’ve become to someone you respect. And to add to this humiliation, my Father-in-law was visiting and got to witness most of this drama.
At least three bottles of wine and no food later, I passed out in my friend’s all white Good Room where Husband found me having just dropped Father-in-law at home. I lay across the ottoman in a not so ladylike way while the entire family was sitting IN THEIR PJ'S BECAUSE THE PARTY WAS OVER AND EVERYONE HAD GONE HOME!!!
And then, to add a cherry to the top of this rather revolting display, I, refused to leave until Husband played ‘The Bus Song.’ Refused to leave like I melted like a toddler when he tried to pick me up and generally made things worse. Then, when Husband finally played ‘The Bus Song,’ I picked myself up off the ottoman and gracefully marched myself to the door of the foyer and promptly passed out. He had to pull over twice on the way home for me to be sick. Good times, right? Humiliating, right? Would never do that again… right? Wrong.
A year later: same people, different house, different party. My friend had set up an open wine bar in the courtyard next to her kitchen. I was wearing very high heels and the cobblestones were treacherous so I planted myself next to the bar and chatted with the very cute college bartenders that my friend had hired. As I type this, I honestly can’t remember if they were cute. I can’t remember what they looked like at all. I just remember the heels and the cobblestones and the fact that Husband took my wine glass away from me when I went to the bathroom so I drank twice as much when I got back just because he told me no.
The next thing I remember is waking up in our guest room naked - but for the pearls around my neck - and still drunk.
Apparently what I’d done is drink my mad into oblivion, get poured into Husband’s fancy car holding a very glamorous plastic grocery bag which I proceeded to use several times on the ten minute ride home. Then, while Husband was panic cleaning his car, I took myself in for a shower, in my pearls because I couldn’t get them off, and then put myself on time-out in the guest room.
I’ll pause here for applause.
I realize that none of this shows me in a good light but when does drinking your fears/emotions away ever end in a good way? The only thing I have going for me is that my life lessons are entertaining. Well, at least to me they are. And that is only after allowing the humiliation to fade and the funny to come through.
As I said to my friend, I haven’t ever lost my teeth but that’s only because they are still attached to my mouth. Give me time and I’m sure to lose them and my dignity one drunken night when my logic takes a vacation.
I can only hope that no one is recording the debacle as it all goes down.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me