Friday, July 8, 2011
The Unfortunate Tequila Story
It's 88 degrees and I'm at an outdoor party. So, why am I the ONLY one sweating like it's 88 degrees at an outdoor party?! -- from my Twitter feed, July 4
There's something you should know before reading any further: my wife WANTED me to write this post. When I came home from work on Wednesday -- 48 hours after the above referenced Fourth of July party -- Mrs. Bootleg seemed genuinely surprised that I hadn't pounced on such obvious blog fodder. She gave her blessing as we sat down to dinner. After our son left the table, I told her the entire story.
Yes, it took two full days before I could bring Mrs. Bootleg up to speed on the events of a party that we both attended with Jalen. I suppose I could've tried to talk to her on Tuesday, but neither one of us seemed to be in a communicative mood. And, Monday night was obviously out because...wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I sent this next tweet out around 4:30 PM on Monday, July 4:
Only now does it occur to me that four beers (8.8% ABV) consumed outdoors in less than an hour on a near 90 degree day was a bad choice.
Our hosts for the afternoon and evening are very dear friends of my family. And, while Stately Bootleg Manor sits in a nice -- albeit nondescript -- neighborhood, their home is in a NICE neighborhood. I doubt I have to explain the difference. You could fit at least three Stately Bootleg Manors onto their property. For the second straight year, this couple -- whose daughter attended the same preschool/kindergarten as my son -- invited us over drinks, food and fireworks. From their driveway, the whole explosive show could be clearly seen from the nearby high school.
But, with several hours to go until the start of the show, I'd assumed my usual unpaid positions whenever Mrs. Bootleg and I attend a kid-friendly party: primary parent and head referee. Here are a few pictures of my kid turning a harmless inflatable "jumpy" into an octagon.
Mrs. Bootleg, meanwhile, was in her own familiar party-with-children location: inside, comfortably socializing with all the adults.
As the scorching hot sun began its descent, I received a bit of Twitter wisdom from a silver-maned sage:
You're already screwed. Just drink more.
In the hour leading up to the 9:00 PM fireworks show, I finished off two more beers. Minutes before show time, as I reached into the cooler for some pyrotechnics accompaniment, I realized I hadn't seen my wife in...well, awhile. With the first few fireworks lighting up the night sky, Mrs. Bootleg finally reappeared. She shuffled out to the driveway and sat down directly in front of me.
She appeared to be sitting more limp and diagonal than usual.
After the fireworks ended, the nine or ten remaining kids bee-lined towards the backyard and took turns whacking a piñata. I mention this for two reasons: (1) Jalen, for the first time in his short little life, struck the candy-spilling death blow and asked, "Are you gonna put this in your blog?" (Yes, he asks that a lot.) And (2)...Mrs. Bootleg -- in a not-so-secluded nook behind the backyard barbecue grill was artlessly heaving into a bucket. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she selected the least conspicuous canister our hosts owned.
For the next hour, a small trickle of children peered over at my wife then turned to me and innocently asked, "Does Jalen's mommy have a stomach ache?" and "Do you think she has food poisoning?" and "Did she ever throw up in the car? I did once." This was interspersed with a few adults glancing her way followed by a few funereal condolences.
At 10:30 PM, we made our first attempt towards our car. Mrs. Bootleg took my arm as -- figuratively and literally -- we slipped out the back door. We took all of three steps when my wife muttered, "Spinning. Spinning. Spinning." She dropped to her knees and...yes, again. In the same bucket. I finally got her to the car and went back for Jalen.
By the time I got him into the car it was almost 10:45 PM. And, then the evening got really weird.
I closed the back passenger's side door and turn to walk around the back of the car over to the driver's side. I take one step and run right into a woman who wasn't at the party. She's barefoot and wearing the absolute tiniest two-piece bikini I've ever seen. The vacant look in her eyes seems awfully familiar.
Her: "Baby, you think you could gimme a ride?"
Me: "Uh, y'know...I got my wife and kid in the car and...y'know."
Her: "That's OK, baby. I respect family. Much love. Much respect. I'll be alright."
With that, she staggered past me and into the night.
At this point, the only thing missing was my deadpan stare straight into the camera.
The next day, Mrs. Bootleg explained that she had been brought down by our host's homemade margaritas. We didn't say much else to each other that day. I was irked for a myriad of reasons. By Wednesday, my wife was back at work, asking for some lightly-read blog love and sitting shocked at our dining room table as she learned for the first time about "Spinning. Spinning. Spinning" and my brush with almost-public nudity.
We had tacos for dinner on Wednesday. I also had a beer.
Mrs. Bootleg had water.