Drinking and thinking do not mix…
Poor ‘red Indian’, me, as they say here. In America, we say ‘Native Americans’ but somehow this does not quite sum up the total inability I have to process alcohol. And I don’t mean process it into sugar. I mean to stay somewhat in my species when I drink. Doubt I could even do the Dita Von Teese martini-glass dance without getting silica burns from the sides of the thing… (And anyway, has anyone seen pictures of the Burlesque artist Immodesty Blaize? WOW. What a heifer! But sexy!)
There are things you learn at Christmas drinks do’s that you don’t learn anywhere else – how to get your pasties (that’s nipple tassels to you) to twirl outwards or inwards. ‘I can’t figure out how to get one to go one way and the other to go the other way,’ said my friend who seemed quite at home with the whole notion of nipple adornment. You also learn that some people are pretty darned happy with themselves and that they have their lives all mapped out already (‘By the time I’m fifty, my children and I will work for charity one week out of the month.’) WELL BULLY FOR YOU! I am GLAD you have a nice road map for your life.
So I am drinking and trying very hard not to be too silly, bitchy or nasty or weepie or appreciative – and failing dismally. When I drink, the bad girl really comes out – the one who thinks everyone needs to hear her opinion. (This is why I am a member of the UN, obviously.) Why can’t we all just be friends? Because I won’t allow it, that’s why! And if there’s someone who needs telling off at YOUR next party, well, wheel me in. I’m good at that. (And also good at feeling really bad about it the next morning…) Hic!