I'm Not As Thunk As You Drink I Am

(March 26, 2001)

Excluding Saturday night, I don't remember the last time I actually hurled because I drank too much, or indeed at all.

Excluding Saturday night, I don't even remember the last time I drank too much, or indeed at all.

On Saturday night, by the time I remembered that there's some kind of rule about avoiding mixing, say, margaritas with something like, say, Corona, it was too late. Much, much too late. Tragically late, in a hold-my-hair and get-the-Lysol kind of way.

"I remember," offered Hub not-at-all helpfully, "the last time you drank too much. You finished a whole bottle of wine by yourself and then yelled at the TV, which was showing "Braveheart," and you kept insisting 'there's no such thing as Mel Gibson.'"

"Can you," I muttered miserably, "prove to me conclusively that there is?"

It's not like Saturday was a big deal or anything. No "landmark" day (like my 21st birthday bash which my college roommate says I enjoyed) or even any mildly special day (like my 30th birthday which, I clearly recall, I did not enjoy). No, all that happened was, Hub and I finally got a car that runs, and, like we used to do with some regularity in the past, actually left our zip code for some whimsical, no-pressure reason. We went to a little dive in Portland, ME to see The Roadies and The Buckners.

That's it. Non-special dive, non-special bands, non-special fun. Yet it went like this: beer, then margarita, margarita, then taco salad, margarita, beer. Everything came with limes.

Damn limes.

"On the way home," Hub reminds me even less helpfully than before, "you damned all the limes and then passed out."

Well, damn the limes. Damn ALL the limes.