Remember how I mentioned that I’d lost some time last week? Like, a few days of it? This was due to how I spend my 4th of July. Yes, I realize I’m a bit late telling you about it but I think you’ll understand once I’ve explained myself.
Point #1—There was alcohol.
I don’t just mean the usual bottles set out—although the friends who hosted this party do keep a deliciously well-stocked bar. No, I mean my new mommy brought a whole vat of pineapple mimosas (apparently found on pinterest, god love her) which enabled me to chug champagne all damned day. Which, you know, of course I did. Except when I switched to the watermelon sangria, or occasionally whatever that was with the vodka and strawberries.
It is important to note that at no point was I drunk. This was a point of some interest to those around me, for some reason. What part of “bred for drinking” do people not understand? Plus, there was a ton of food, much of it carb-based, available to sop up the excess alcohol as I went. But truthfully? I can’t blame the amazing cheese potatoes (good lord, these people put chips on top!) for my two-fisted sobriety, since I barely touched the stuff: the alcohol was mostly burned off dealing patiently with the kids.
Point #2—People brought children.
I’m told there weren’t actually as many of them as I remember—fewer than a dozen, really—but it seemed like I confiscated a lot of Nerf weapons pointed at me by jackleg snipers (they seemed to prefer the inadequate cover of the leather sectional by the bar, when clearly the coat rack by the stairs was the superior position) and I lost count of the number of times I gently schooled a child against alcohol abuse when a spindly arm flailed too close to my cup.
You can see how points one and two are tied, though; at one point I was forced to pound a fresh drink without coming up for air, all to keep from screaming, “How can you not know how to finish spelling quack? YOU started this conversation! You are the one that brought up this word!”
Point #3—I did not hookah.
This has nothing to do with anything, but it smelled really yummy and I really wanted to smoke but I knew I’d feel like shit the next day because I don’t smoke anymore and I’m really proud of myself for making good decisions.
Point #4—Wednesday and Thursday, somehow?
Look, I’m not real clear on what came next. I know that the day after the 4th (which felt for all the world like the shittiest of Mondays) I couldn’t focus on anything and wanted to nap a lot. I didn’t even want food, which was weird because Husband offered to make some delicious things. The day after that wasn’t any better, so I did some more napping and kept up on the water, adding some veggies to my attempts. Basically, I spent the next three days in a fog, insisting to friends that I would catch up with them “later in the week” and becoming churlish when they’d make arguments like “we’re already at ‘late in the week’” and “today is Thursday, there’s no more ‘closer to Friday’ this week”. Finally, I confronted Husband with my mortal failing.
ME: I’m wondering if I caught something at the party.
HIM: You mean that place with all the children and the people who work in hospitals?
ME: It’s just that I’m so tired, and I ache all over…
HIM: Those would be symptoms.
ME: And I had a headache earlier. Not a migraine, an actual headache. My head hurt, but only a leetle bit. Like Tylenol could’ve fixed it, but it just went away after a while.
ME: But I’m sore…
HIM: Right. Honey, you’re fighting something.
ME: But I switched cups when I felt like too many people had touched mine!
HIM: And you did a great job of sterilizing everything around you with all that alcohol, but—
ME: Right? Wasn’t it smart of me to drink only alcohol? I didn’t even eat the food, just drank!
 Look, I don’t even have time to delve into that right now. My real mom sucks and I’ve claimed the nice lady who makes delicious drinks and serves me rummy fruities as my upgrade. I have been assured that this is a legal move, so if you’re objecting it’s only that you’re jealous because you didn’t think of it first.
 She’d gotten as far as q-u-a-c…. and it was either drink hard or give a nine-year-old shaken baby syndrome.