Bring it , 2012!

This year started out so well.  It really did!  But it didn’t take long for things to take a sharp left turn and spiral quickly toward the gutter. As usual.

I rang in 2012 as the Designated Driver on the way home from watching my beloved Auburn Tigers kick some butt in the Chick-Fil-A Bowl on New Year’s Eve.  That’s right: other people actually entrusted me with the responsibility of getting everyone home safely.  And by "other people", I mean my brother. Who, by the way, was so completely shitfaced that he accused a woman wearing blue flashing novelty glasses of trying to pull him over for "walking under the influence" and then handed his phone to a homeless person and asked him to take a picture of us posing with a stadium trash can.  Haven’t seen the picture yet, but I’ll be sure to share it once I do.  I’m sure it’s quite tasteful.

So how did I go from responsible driver on Jan 1 to recipient of a tetanus shot, two bouts of different antibiotics for unrelated injuries, five stitches, and being the idiot whose friends have to steal her car keys from her purse and then force her into their car Patty Hearst-style to prevent her from driving drunk by Jan 30?  It defies explanation, although the Margarita Machine that Jeff gave me for Christmas is a contributing factor.

In my defense, the car keys situation was an isolated incident - I’m normally very cautious about getting behind the wheel.  I should have realized that it’s none too smart to spend a few hours in a bar immediately after attending the funeral for a high school friend, five days after the anniversary of my Mother’s death and six months after I lost my Dad.  Combine that with a group of high school friends sending drink after drink my way (vodka with a splash of cranberry, anyone?), and it’s the perfect recipe for bad decisions.  And I’ll never live down the fact that FRT was the responsible party in this situation (well, Mrs. FRT, actually).  When FRT tells you you’re too drunk...you’re way past the point of no return.   I should have known better.

The stitches, tetanus shot & antibiotics, however, are all on me (compliments of the aforementioned Margarita Machine).  I make no excuses.

At this rate, 2012 is going to be EPIC!

UPDATE (You're welcome):

Over-served and solo

Jeff’s working nights this week, which means I’m spending my evenings sitting in my favorite chair watching “Alaska State Troopers” and “Locked up Abroad” on NatGeo, not worrying about all the housework I should be doing and drinking Gallo White Zinfandel.  Because Beringer stopped honoring my $5 rebates after the 49^th one I mailed them. Guess 50 is the limit. Bastards.

It’s hardly a surprise that I often find myself slightly “over-served” on nights Jeff is working.  And screw you with your “does she really sit home by herself at night and drink alone?” judgments.  I can name at least 30 things I do on a regular basis that are more judgment-worthy than a little solo sipping in the evening.

Jeff’s no idiot.  He can tell within 30 seconds of arriving home at 8 a.m. just how liquored up I got the night before.  Like this morning, for example.  Trash?  Not taken to the curb for weekly pickup.  Laundry room?  Double doors wide-ass open to the whole world (the laundry is in the garage and has separate doors that open to the outside).  Two of his least favorite things to find when he gets home.  If I had left the garden hose blocking his parking spot, I would have had a hat trick!

This morning I was in the kitchen when he pulled in the driveway.  I saw him get out of his car, look to the left at the trash can and then look to the right at the laundry doors.  Then I saw his shoulders drop and what appeared to be a giant exhale.  He actually had the nerve to walk in the door and say “Did you do laundry this morning?”  Whatever. 

We both know I forgot to lock the laundry room last night.  What’s the big frigging deal?  No one lives behind us and it’s not like anyone is going to walk around the back of our house, see that the laundry room is open and then decide to steal his tighty whities and our industrial-sized box of OxyClean.  Billy Mays really knew his shit!

I don’t know why he thinks it’s such an issue.  I guess it’s because we keep the beer fridge in there, and if anyone discovered our stockpile we could take a substantial hit. Right in the liquor locker, if you will.  But since no one knows about the super-secret beer fridge location, our stockpile remains perfectly safe even if I forget to lock the doors.

Oh, shit.  Never mind.