TMI Thursday: Blackout

There's that certain kind of drunk, one I don't experience often.

Thankfully.

Last Saturday was supposed to be fairly low key. I was content to stay indoors and piddle around the internet, watch a movie, maybe work a little furiously on my WIP. (Capitalized for Deb's benefit.)

Hubster had other ideas. His best friend, who owns a pet cemetary, incidentally, (I shit you not!) wanted to go out for drinks. He and his wife had their second child in June, and her mother was baby-sitting. I think it's probably the first time they've been out since the baby came. Who was I to turn down their double date offer? Afterall, I hadn't been properly smashed for awhile since Halloween. (Who am I kidding?)

So. We were dive-bar bound. There was good conversation and yes, there was karaoke. I performed a moving rendition of Jann Arden's Insensitive. (No, but really, I did sing it well. I swear.)

Then, my hubster's friend opted to order a round of drinks for his wife and me. The drink was called The Green Dragon. To the best of my understanding, it is basically a Long Island Iced Tea with Midori instead of the traditional splash of coke. Think: everyclearliquor known to man with a deceptively sweet melon taste.

After swearing that any sane human wouldn't drink more than one of these stout beverages in a single sitting, my hubster's best friend proceeded to order me rounds number two and three. I slayed a trio of Green Dragons.

Then, suddenly, it's Sunday afternoon. I am curled up in my bed. Hubs stands over me with a glass of water in his hand and orders me to drink it. "You haven't moved in hours," he informs me. I take a sip of the water. Then, I realize I am nude. I typically sleep in pajamas, even on nights when the hubster is lucky enough to get some ambertiddmurphy lovin'. Why the hell am I naked?!

I crawl out of bed, pull on some flannel pj pants and a comfty t-shirt, and make my way into the living room. An untouched six pack of Coors Lite sits on the end table. Wait a minute. We stopped at the store on the way home from the bar?! I don't remember that. Wait another minute. I don't remember leaving the bar, the ride home, getting into bed...

Uh-oh.

"Honey, what the hell happened to me last night?"
"You passed out in the car while I was in the gas station getting beer."
"Awesome. I feel like death."
"Also, you puked everywhere."
"At the bar?"
"No, in your car. I am so glad I drove your car last night. If it had been my car, we would be done. Over. Finished. Divorced."
"I puked in my car?! Mother-effer. Was it hard to clean up?"
"Let me know if it was hard to clean up after you finish cleaning it up."
Mother-effer.

A few hours later, after intermittently sipping ginger-ale and vomiting up ginger-ale, I forced myself to head outside and assess the damage. It was mainly the dashboard. And the floorboard. And the inside of the passenger window. And the passenger seat. And the center console.

I found the shirt I'd worn to the bar on the driveway next to the passenger door. Apparently, I'd peeled it off and stumbled into my house in just my bra.

"Would've been the hottest thing ever," hubs told me. "If your jeans hadn't been covered in vomit."

Oh, for the love of God. As I scrubbed at the vile mess I'd made, I thought about how this would make the perfect Thursday blog post. Sweet justification. Redemption.

Fabreze.

Visit LiLu's blog for more tragic tales.