The Power of Ethanol

Last night That Stud Muffin I Married and I went see our final opera of the Lyric Opera season, Gluck's Orpheo ed Euridice.

Before the opera, I had a Vermouth Cassis and two glasses of pinot grigio. During Act I, David Daniel's non-stop counter-tenor warbling inspired me with little more than the desire to close my eyes and maybe take a little schnooooooze. So during Act II (which was better than Act I) I decided that I must have gotten a wee bit smashed at dinner, since falling asleep at the opera is not one of those things I tend to do. (In fact, I tend to not fall asleep in public. Ever. Which makes plane rides to and from Europe almost as interesting as the way my totally sleep-deprived and jet-lagged self acts upon arrival.)

And anyway, of course I don't fall asleep at the opera! I am a voice-studying, regularly-opera-going Intellectual.

But then! The opera being short (only one and a half hours with no intermission) we ended up back at the Hotel Intercontinental to hear Mark Burnell sing and play. AndI had two of the hotel's fabulush Manhattansh.

With the dazzling clarity produced by half of my first Manhattan, I realized that I hadn't been drunk at Orfeo; I had just been kind of bored.

After my second Manhattan (and honestly, those things are nearly as big as the toilet you'd be upchucking into if, unlike me, you didn't have a hollow leg) I regaled my tablemates with some of my favorite all-time anecdotes and opinions, during which time, I also demonstrated that I am a fucking pottymouth.

And then I went home, where I don't remember seeing the babysitter or getting out of my clothes or washing my face or brushing my teeth, so! Obviously that was when I got drunk.
And not before the opera at all.

Wow, I'm glad I straightened that out.