Friday, October 07, 2005

Pull Up a Chair, I'll Tell You a Story

I'm only gonna tell this one once. No "Friday Flashback" for this story, so you'd better pay attention the first time - just 'cause it's so DAMN embarrassing. It would be more embarrassing, except it happened about... uh... how old are you, Em? Oh, yeah... about 24 years ago.

I was pregnant with no.3 (yes, Em). I'm very very good when I'm pregnant. No drinking, no drugs (not even the legal kind). I'd been good for 9 months and more - at least two more. Hubby and I decide to go out with friends. Normally, if Hubby and I go out we can tell which one of us is getting the alcohol buzz first and the other one backs off so they can drive. Any more, I barely drink unless I'm in one place and not going anywhere else, so I'm usually the driver. However, at this time I was really ready to be drinking. I had been off the booze for so long I'd forgotten how it would effect me if a.) I didn't eat b.) was in a very good mood and c.) it was going down like water. Uh huh. Not a good thing in hindsight, but we don't usually pay attention to that at the time, do we Sizzle?

We were in this little town near where we live at a local dive hot spot having fun, playing pool, laughing, you know, the usual. Next thing I know I'm opening my eyes - blindly looking around what I realize is my bedroom, and thinking "How in the hell did I get HERE?"

I turn over and there is Hubby with a beautific smile on his face. Just smiling. Not saying a word. Now, if you know my husband, you know that is not a typical thing for him to do. He knows something. This is clear. I don't know what, but it's gonna be good.

My head hurts. Why does my head hurt? Duh, you're thinking... but, wait! There's more! It's hurting on the outside! WTF? What is this lump on my head? Okay, I can't wait. Hubby better spill... The story goes like this (his version).

We were leaving the bar in the little town with the ultra alert local sheriff who likes to follow people from bars and give them sobriety tests. We really don't want him to see us leaving the bar... we want to hurry and leave. Only Susan (we'll call her that for the purposes of our story) didn't want to hurry. So, Hubby gives her a little boost into the drivers' seat of the pickup. Then tells her to "move over". Wasn't gonna happen. What's a guy to do? Give the little wifey a push - just a nudge, really - then watch her sliiiiiide off the seat head-first into the passenger side floorboards. Does he help her up? No. He leaves her there. For fifteen miles. Head-down. Feet up. Nice.

Home. Hubby goes in the house to talk to the ultra-conservative married couple college student babysitters. He tells them his wife didn't come home. Oh, yes. We're making impressions right and left! (Come to think of it, I don't think they ever did come back.) They leave, and he finally comes out to the garage, to the pickup, to help get her in the house. That was how she got the bump on her head, huh?

Oh, maybe not. See, he had a little trouble getting her into the house and up the steps and into bed. She's a big woman, not some little thing he can just throw over his shoulder. No, he grabs her by the back of her shirt collar and the back of her belt and more-or-less guides her down the hallways and up the stairs and through the house. Did I mention swaying back and forth between the walls, possibly banging into one or two on the way? Yep. Where's the camera when you need it?

Finally, she's in bed. Whew! ...... Oh, NO! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! She's got her contacts in! This, my lovelies was during the time known as "PRE-SOFT-CONTACT" lenses. Hubby, not knowing what to do, but knowing you don't leave them in your eyes overnight without serious repercussions, proceeds to thump wifey on the back of the head to the tune of "TAKE YOUR EYES OUT, DAMNIT!" Having no idea how he (or she) did it, the fact that she woke up blind the next morning was a testiment to success.

To this day, I can not remember any of this. If I didn't love him and trust him so much, I'd think he made it up to blackmail and humiliate me for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I fear it must all be true.

Now, kids? Aren't ya proud of your ma? Oh, Sizzle, you had to get me started on this one...