Corner of Margarita between Booze and Sauced
I had a couple (okay, a few) margaritas after work with my awesome friend N tonight. We left the bar and parted ways, and about halfway home, a woman asked me where Lexington Avenue is. "That way," I said immediately, motioning to the left. "It's two blocks down. One, two." She bounced off happily.
Then I realized something: I never give the correct directions when I am sober.
Usually, I'm trudging up the steps from the train around 7 p.m. sober as a judge, in my usual routine, thinking things about work like, "Why, God, hast thou smote me so?" so when some 21-year-old blonde forces me out of my reverie by saying something abrupt like, "Excuse me. Where's Madison?" I say, "Uhhhhhhh. Uhhmmmmm," and then, puzzled, I stare at the intersection next to me, almost as if I've licked my index finger and have raised it straight upward to see which way the wind's a-blowin'.
One time, I said, "This is Madison." The young lady looked at me, and then she looked at the street, pointed to the telltale grassy median, and said, "This is Park." I muttered something about "long day" and "ask someone else," and then I tried to pretend the incident had never happened.
I should set up some sort of a directions booth in Midtown around 1 a.m. on a Saturday and charge for my stellar map services. Payment in booze, of course.
Then I realized something: I never give the correct directions when I am sober.
Usually, I'm trudging up the steps from the train around 7 p.m. sober as a judge, in my usual routine, thinking things about work like, "Why, God, hast thou smote me so?" so when some 21-year-old blonde forces me out of my reverie by saying something abrupt like, "Excuse me. Where's Madison?" I say, "Uhhhhhhh. Uhhmmmmm," and then, puzzled, I stare at the intersection next to me, almost as if I've licked my index finger and have raised it straight upward to see which way the wind's a-blowin'.
One time, I said, "This is Madison." The young lady looked at me, and then she looked at the street, pointed to the telltale grassy median, and said, "This is Park." I muttered something about "long day" and "ask someone else," and then I tried to pretend the incident had never happened.
I should set up some sort of a directions booth in Midtown around 1 a.m. on a Saturday and charge for my stellar map services. Payment in booze, of course.
Labels: booze, directions, manhattan, new york
posted by Jane at 8:01 PM
2 Comments:
That's funny you mention this, because turns out, I am really good at being high-larious when I'm drizzo... I don't know what it is, but put a little booze in me and everything that comes out of my mouth is super witty and smart-like.
Totally. When I'm three sheets to the wind, I think that my mind thinks that everything I say comes out in a supereducated-sounding British accent.
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