In the horrors no more

It was one year ago this month that I made myself sick as a junk yard dog. We were preparing to leave for Lake George but had planned on visiting some out of town friends, who were back in town, before we went. We agreed to meet them for a little while just to catch up. So we headed down to our town's famed Portuguese restaurant, the Ria Mar, where everyone was waiting. On their dinner table was the cutest little pitcher of sangria. I really wanted a glass and since we had eaten dinner beforehand, decided to get a cute little pitcher for myself.

**Let me just pause here for a 12 step disclaimer. I am not a big drinker. I will not have drinking contests with you, have never played quarters and yes, you could drink me under the table. I have maybe 2 glasses of wine a year and an occasional sangria at Jose Tejas. That's it.**

After ordering sodas for the kids and the sangria for me at the bar, I brought the pitcher to the table, poured a glass and downed it. Gosh and golly, if that sangria was not the sweetest, yummiest nectar of the gods! So fruity! So cold! So delicious! I was miffed that the glasses were so small because I had to keep refilling them. I had one. And then two. And then three. I jokingly said to Kevin, "I should put a straw in the pitcher, it would be easier." I had all of those glasses and I was fine.

And then I wasn't.

One minute I was sitting upright enjoying a conversation with a friend and the next thing I knew I could not feel my face or recall the names of my offspring.

Oh.No.

Kevin could see that the sangria was sending me for a loop, and he began to wrap up our visit. I was barely able to walk out of the restaurant. I was determined to get out of there on my own two feet, because really? How embarrassing!

We returned home where my parents were waiting for us as they were to depart with us in the morning.

What did you do to yourself? They wanted to know. Slurring my speech, I filled them in on what happened thus far.

"The Portuguese sangria?" My dad asked. "That is filled with hard liquor. You have never drank hard liquor."

It was at that point that I began to feel sick. To say that I was feeling nauseous is an understatement of epic proportions. I will spare you the gory details, but let's just say that having your dad hold your hair back while you sell Buuuicks and drive the porcelain bus is beyond humiliating. Bless his heart, he was so kind and sympathetic. The truth is, if I had been 17 and pulled this stunt he probably would not have been so benevolent, which is why I waited until I was 39 to do it.

Some days later, when we were all settled in on our respective campsites, my parents came to ask if I would like some sangria of the non hard liqour kind, something more along the lines of the fruit punch with a kick that I was previously used to. My stomach lurched as memories of my distressing inebriation came flooding back.

"No." I replied firmly. "I am on the wagon." And I have been ever since. I laughingly said to my mom one day when we were in Florida, "Hey! I have been sober for six months."

Tomorrow we leave for Lake George. Tonight the hardest drink I will have is coffee with cream. I may even live it up and add a small teaspoon of sugar. I am all about hard core living.