Oh, No You Didn’t

It was, after all, Thursday night. Your favorite cocktail night. A birthday celebration and Texas margaritas at the hip new taqueria. Giggles, gossip, and crush confessions fed your undernourished mood while fish tacos fed your overnourished belly.

You went home. The buzz fit you like a favorite sweater, the most comfortable you’ve been in days. So you kept it alive with a glass of white wine. Relaxed on the porch. Answered the thirtysomething e-mails that came in after you left the office. (Damn, that Mary makes you laugh out loud every time.) Another glass of wine as you returned calls. You remember gliding toward the boudoir, thinking you looked like Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8, when you probably looked more like Liz after a weekend bender. And then it gets fuzzy. But you got some sleep for once.

The alarm clock welcomes you back to Soberville. You’re running late (of course; one should always run late on Mondays and Fridays, darling), so you dash to the shower, the makeup mirror, the closet, the baubles drawer, Starbucks — all in 37 minutes.

After that second sip of latte, the brain clouds open up and last night’s dreamscapes float through your brain. Or did you actually …?

Panic sets in. You grab the cell phone. Check the dialed numbers. Oh, sh*t. View the call info. Cringe when you see that this call you can’t recall lasted 43 minutes. F-bombs fill the car as you bruise the heel of your hand on the steering wheel. Did you Mel Gibson yourself last night?

And you’re afraid to check your e-mail sent folder, just in case you …

Must. Stop. At. Two. Margaritas.

You know that contraption habitual DUIers get, the one you must blow into before the steering wheel unlocks to make sure you’re sober enough to drive? You need one for your cell phone. One more round of tipsy telephoning and you’ll have to move to Toledo.

UPDATE: My beloved French to the rescue.

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