The prompt I chose this week:
4.) Tell us about a time you got intoxicated. What happened?
Ruining My Mom Cred
I've been drunk only once. Never one to accomplish feats in the normal way (like getting drunk in my misspent youth), I was 35 years old when I experienced all the glory and wonders of intoxication.
In a court of law, with my right hand on a stack of Bibles, I'd plead that it was a matter of self-defense.
I worked for the worst.boss.ever. She was as bitchy as she was incompetent. Every day at work was an exercise in frustration. She is the reason voodoo dolls were invented.
She insisted that everyone in our office (seven or eight folks in all) attend our Christmas party at the local Holiday Inn.
Lucky me, I had to sit across from her during the entire meal and got to watch as she flirted mercilessly with my male co-workers. She knocked back drink after drink, her voice growing huskier, yet her laughter went up an octave. Her silky blouse with the plunging neckline forced me to view much more of her anatomy than I ever cared to see.
As she fawned and giggled like a tipsy slut (which I believe was her usual M.O.), I felt that "liquid courage" was my only way of making it through the evening.
I am not a big drinker. One margarita and I'm ready to call it a night. But that night, I drank like I had a hollow leg. I think I mixed types of alcohol. The more I drank, the the less horrible the boss seemed (although I still thought she was a bitchy slut). Somehow I managed to survive the dinner and drinking without speaking my mind and telling her what I really thought of her.
After several hours of fa-la-la-la-laing, I made the one-mile drive to home. It was immediately obvious to me that my beverage strategy had not been my best idea.
Yes, I drove home. God forgive me.
This is probably a good time to tell you that I came home to my teenage daughters, who had already gone to bed, thank God. Thinking that I had avoided their prying eyes and disappointment (and they didn't get to see my drunken ass), I got undressed and got ready for bed, too.
An hour later, the bed started spinning, even though it remained firmly planted on the carpeted floor. As my dizziness increased, my stomach troubles started and my head throbbed as if Animal from the Muppets was performing an extended drum solo.
I was in a world of hurt. Fortunately, it was not a long trip to the bathroom, where I repeatedly worshipped at the porcelain throne. Since it was early Sunday morning, it seemed appropriate for me to utter prayers and words of confession as I was so sorry for my indiscretions. As the entirety of my stomach contents swirled down the drain, even the roots of my hair ached in sympathy, and I was sure that little nails were being driven into my eyeballs - from inside my brain.
The cold tile floor felt wonderful against my fevered cheek.
I discovered that it is impossible to puke in a quiet, ladylike manner.
The interrogation and severe admonitions began not long after dawn.
"Mom! You drank and drove! A fine example you are!"
Yeah, Mom, you expect us to behave better than you do."
"I'm glad you're sick - you deserve to suffer!"
"You're lucky you didn't get a DUI!"
I had no explanations that would make my behavior acceptable; there was nothing that could absolve me of my guilt. The girls were right. I'm sure they thought I was a big liar when I moaned, "I promise - I'll never do it again."
Twenty years have passed since that night (and I still remember the agony I felt).
And I've kept that promise.
And my daughters? They did not learn from their errant mother's example.
Guess some lessons have to be learned the hard way.
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