Drunk yet Distant

The theme for this week has been “distance.” Not spatial distance, but the type of distance maiden Aunt Carleen advocated if one is a career woman. Some call it isolation. (Some suggest it’s not a great thing. I think I’ve listened to “Everything Had Changed” (finger-snapping genius) about 200 times this week.) Still, I prefer distance. I think words help me achieve distance. Not only words like “No hugs” and “Stop TOUCHING me,” but the words I get to choose to share what is always TOO much information.

This is why I feel safe standing behind a wall of words and telling you what went down at Catherine the Red’s adorable bungalow last night. There were five us there: me, Catherine, A person who shall remain nameless, Another person who shall remain nameless, and Someone who requested she remain nameless. So Catherine, me, A, Another, and Someone.

Of course I brought the Breathalyzer, and it occurred to me I’d never got the Breathalyzer over .05. The legal limit for driving in MO is .08. “Sheesh,” I thought, “legally, I’ve never even been drunk.” And I vowed that would change.

At 0.05: When the conversation turned to Another’s soon to be ex, Another said the refrain running through her head had been “Die, Die F*cker, Die.” So from then on every time she complained about her ex we all screamed in unison, “Die, Die, F*cker, Die,” except for when she complained, “It’s like he just doesn’t listen,” and I said, “I’m sorry, did you say something?” and then I pounded on the table because you know, that joke just never gets old to me. And I am not ashamed.

At 0.08: Someone was sharing all of her secrets. Someone has a remarkable number of secrets. The least juicy of her secrets is the [sexual secret redacted on second thought]. “Feh,” I said, “That is nothing. What about [big secret whisper]?” Someone replied, “Go ahead, you can tell them about that,” and I refused. I refused to spill a secret even though I was legally drunk. Of course, Someone did, and that’s cool, but I was the drunk pit of secrets. And I am not ashamed.

At 0.10: Someone told me that you can suck Nitrous oxide, it’s called doing “whippets” and it involves one of those rubber punching balls and a nipple coupler. I remember everything she told me. I kissed her on the lips. And I am not ashamed.

At 0.11: We made plans to all go have a spa day on Catherine’s birthday, and to punctuate the conversation about hair coloring I stood up, unzipped my pants to prove my carpet and drapes coordinate. A criticized my carpet for being too flat, not fluffy, and I said hey, jeans hair. So even though A tried to shame me, I am not ashamed.

I then scooted on my butt down the basement steps where we admired Catherine’s basement decor and I kissed Catherine, A, and Another, and I believe I also Schwarzeneggered Another’s breast. I am just a little ashamed about that. She was cool about it, though.

At 0.10: I discovered everyone else has sex toys I don’t have. I called Gary to complain about this, but lost track and instead said, “Hey baby,” because that’s what A calls her husband and it sounds profoundly cool. He suggested I take my time coming home. I reminded him I had the handy Breathalyzer and while I had been very drunk I was on the way back down —

Gary: “AAAAAAAHH! Aaaaaa! Woooooo! ahhhhhAAAAHHHHHHAHAHAHAAAHHHHH! Yes!”
Ellen: “Baby. You okay?”
Gary: (Garbled screaming.)
Ellen: “I cannot understand what you are saying.”
Gary: “Cards! Cards won!”

Ironically, I had been watching the ball game and didn’t even notice how they were doing. So I’m ashamed of that.

Then an awful thing happened: A checked the Breathalyzer and found she was at 2.2. Yet still, she was not blacking out, vomiting, comatose, or doing anything unusual except trying to convince Catherine’s new dog to come live with her. I recalled the Breathalyzer book said something about calibrating it. EVERY SIX MONTHS IT SEEMS. So, the Breathalyzer was reading way too high, so now it turns out I may not have been drunk at all.