|Please note, unfortunately this is NOT my thigh|
Here’s another handy use for a seatbelt. You can use it to keep your drunken husband from falling on you when you ferry him home from YOUR Christmas party.
Did I mention that it was a Christmas Party I was invited to? That he was my plus one? Oh, and did I also mention that I missed out on indulging on what were probably the best Pina Coladas on the face of the freaking planet? The same Pina Coladas that were concocted by a designated Cocktail maker man brought in for the night to make us anything in the cocktail world that our hearts desired? No? Well, did I mention then, that this was a themed Hawaiian party? Which are always fantastic and a great conversation starter, especially when you're pissed. Not so much when you are dead set sober and standing around in inappropriately see through grass skirt.
The thing is though; the party was an hour away from where we live, we had to drop the kids to our in-laws to be babysat and I am not married to Donald Trump, ergo, a $300 taxi fare was not feasible, therefore one of us had to be designated driver. Often the Dessy driver is decided halfway through a night where we catch each other’s eye across a crowded venue, notice we are both holding Vodkas and mouth “Who the fuck is driving?” Responsible parents, oh yes we are.
But last night we literally drew straws. Wait, not literally, no, we had a Rock Off. And my scissors got smashed by his giant rock; hence I was in the driver’s seat.
I still remember my very first boss regaling me stories about the “good ole days” when she would finish work early on a Friday, go to lunch with the staff and start drinking. She swears she would wake up each and every Saturday morning and sure enough, her car would be sitting outside her house with not one memory as to how it got there. Apparently drink driving was no big deal but surely there were alcohol related car accidents back then?
Fast forward twenty years and I am too scared to even have one drink and then drive, let alone get shitfaced. Funnily enough, I’ve gotten to thirty five years of age without seeing the inside of a Divvy van; I do not intend to change that anytime soon.
We have my brothers birthday party this coming Saturday. Again, one of us will need to be the designated driver but at least the babysitter is coming to us. This time though, when we rock off, I’m using dynamite. After all, dynamite trumps all.