Happy Hour

My team threw me a lovely going-away happy hour on Wednesday. It was at this great Irish pub downtown, and it had food and free drinks and everything. Lesson to the kids:  Suffer through something long enough, and eventually someone will give you a party.  ha! 

It was a great time.  I think I made the mistake of sharing with my co-workers that I took tap-dancing lessons for twelve years.  I didn't get drunk enough to show them, though -THANK GOD!

In fact, that was my problem. I was actually scared of getting drunk. Not so much because I was worried I'd make an ass of myself - I do that often enough sober that it doesn't hold any fear for me - but rather that I would either a) vomit or b) wake up with a headache the size of Montana.  I'm afraid of the pain these days.  The vomit fear is left over from my recent bout of food poisoning/stomach flu (we still don't know which it was) and the headache fear was drilled into my head the day I did make the mistake of drinking too much only to be awakened at 6:30 a.m. by a crying baby.

There's something about knowing you have to get up before seven every day of your life. It changes you somehow.  All of the sudden, going to bed at ten on a Saturday night seems like a really good idea.  Meeting someone on Sunday morning at eight has become akin to meeting someone on a Sunday afternoon at three. It's not like I'll have to get up for it. Actually, at three I might be napping.

Sometimes I dream about when the little angel will start to like sleeping in. I'm not sure when this will happen, but I'm pretty sure it will be lovely, and the start of my evening social life resuming.  I dream of her getting up, making her own breakfast, and not waking me up until nine.  I dream of her wanting to stay up late, then sleeping all morning long.  I will feed her Jolt Cola and Sugar Pops around eight on Friday night, wind her up till midnight, then...bliss.  This is evil thinking.  I know it.  But dang, girl, sleep in!  Mama needs to drink.