Drinking Games.....

Yesterday was BabyDaddy’s 30th birthday. He is lucky I let him live to see it. Before you get worried, we’ve already made up. He performed the required groveling and “I’m not worthy of your love” apologies, and I saw fit to let him keep his manly parts. (For a time, I considered confiscating them.)

In accordance with the birthday milestone, his work buddies decided to have a little “get-together” in his honor this past Saturday evening. When I hear the word “get-together”, I think of a nice night hanging out with friends, enjoying a few beers or glasses of wine. In the minds of BD’s buddies, this term designates a, drink-til-you-puke-up-the-stale-nachos kind of event. Obviously, with this extreme difference of opinions, the night to follow was one that can be placed in the “times I’d rather forget” category, along with such other notables as “the night I got food-poisoning”, and “the day I got my wisdom teeth cut out”. Thankfully, my old-school bff Jessica made the trip up, and was there to keep me from beating BabyDaddy about the head with a wine bottle, (hey, it was the first thing I picked up). I’m still fuming a bit. Let me summarize:

The night actually started off on a good note. BabyDaddy, Jess, and I dropped the Muffin off at the Granny/Papaw residence and started on our way. When we arrived, there were a few people milling about – one couple even brought their 16 month old. They had food and were making some mixed drinks. The guys played a little Rock Band, and the girls chatted. I’m sitting on the couch having a conversation with a couple of friends, when a guy comes through shouting “Drinking games in the basement!”. I roll my eyes, and thought that the last time I heard anyone propose a drinking game, it was my sophomore year in college. Suffice it to say I didn’t think much would happen. Jess and I tooled around some more upstairs, and then made our way to the basement. Upon first entering the room, I saw some hussy alarmingly near my husband. (Picture with me: nasty, over-processed, split-end-heaven hair. Tanned-to-leather skin. Batting, mascara-clumped eyelashes. And an “It’s okay that I’m acting like a white-trash ho because I’m sloshed” attitude.) Oh yes. I watch in slow motion as she sidles up to MY MAN, says a few words with a flirty grin, grabs his cup, and starts guzzling. To his credit, he just gives her the drink, and tries to walk further into the room – of course she follows. At this point, I can feel the blood vessels in my eyeballs. I march over to BabyDaddy and Captain Hooker, and inject myself between them. I can see the whites of BD’s eyes, and I can almost hear him think, “Holy freaking crap.…” I say, “Oh! Excuse me – am I INTERRUPTING SOMETHING??!!” Leatherface takes one look at me, radiating pure, unabashed madness, and slinks away. Guess her trailer-trash animal instincts kicked in. Lucky girl. At this point, BabyDaddy has been carted over to the ping-pong table to play some drinking game that involved flipping cups, chugging alcohol, and other adolescent behaviors. About three rounds in, when BabyDaddy starts to wobble, I figure out that they are chugging not beer, as I thought, but Jim Beam and Crown Royal. Picturing my husband’s liver screaming for mercy, I stomp over to him, grab him by the arm, and march his butt to the truck. He proceeds to hang his head out of the open window, and barf his guts up all the way home. (and all the way down our new Trailblazer). We make a quick stop at the Granny/Papaw house to pick up the kiddo, and then head for home. Once there, I can’t get him out of the truck. As I yank and pull on his shirtsleeve, trying not to touch the puke, I hear him mutter something like, “just leave me out here…” and I think, “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night!” So I do. (Unfortunately, his parents called me 15 minutes later asking if he was in the house okay, and when I told them no, they felt sorry for him and drove to my house in the middle of the night to drag his butt inside.) Needless to say, Sunday was spent begging my mercy and cleaning up vomit. Great way to spend a weekend. I told him he better have enjoyed himself, because he is never doing it again!