Last night was a rare night out for the hubs and I. Our kids were at a friend’s overnight and we were out on the town. Okay, not really, but we did use an Uber to go to a holiday party at the home of some friends from college. And shit got awkward. Real fast. You’ll have to forgive me if this post sounds disjointed–but Momma’s nursing a hangover and the brain-to-typing-fingers router may be broken.
We only knew a handful of people at the party, but that’s okay because we’re good socializers. Just ask our Uber drivers. The problem was that, since I knew I had a sober ride home, I decided to embrace this one night of freedom. And by embrace, I mean inhale a half-liter of wine and move on to the vodka and cranberry. Momma doesn’t get out much; and when she does, she tends to talk in the third person.
A couple of hours in, our host says, “So, I heard you wrote a book.” Commence opening can of worms. You see, I wrote a naughty romance under a pen name called, Working On It. And not only did I use a pen name, but the characters from the story share many traits with the handful of college friends at this party. The story is entirely fictional, but inspiration often comes from the familiar. Like accidentally making the villain-mommy in my second book a loose interpretation of my grandmother. It happens.
In all my drunken glory, I decided to tell them. And, oh yes, did I tell them. In front of the other guests. Who were not really “friends” of the hosts, but the parents of their children’s private school friends. Things like, “Oh, and my Virgin Slayer character totally reminds me of you because…” And, “Do you want to be a character in my next book? I can make sure you’re in a band and have a huge…” And let’s not forget, “So, I could kill you, but after you screw your best friend’s girlfriend. Sound good?”
Just wait, it gets worse.
My husband, who is so proud of me for publishing a book, and who is also drinking a lot, starts bragging on my urban dictionary research. I took it as a personal challenge to put some of these fun words in my novel. He decides to throw out my favorite new use of unique vocabulary, like twatwaffle, dickweed, and Adolf Titler. Oh my. Someone asked me what a twatwaffle was. “It’s…well, let’s just say it’s a literal visual.” Room fell silent. But the funny part is they were all imagining the visual.
Okay, okay, that’s what drunk brain told me. Reality? I’m guessing not. I’m not really sure what happened. All I know for sure is that I woke up naked in my bed with a case of anxiety mixed with a pounding headache. That usually means I did or said something I shouldn’t have the night before. Sometimes, I get diarrhea of the mouth when I drink. And, sometimes, I teach a room full of strangers about twatwaffles. Successful night out? I think yes. (Obviously, I have problems. I should write about them).