It was a blissfully uneventful weekend. I took one step closer on the path to becoming a complete hermit. Sitting alone in my living room, doing absolutely nothing, is easily in the top 5 of my all-time favorite things. Does that make me some sort of freak? There's a fine line between "zen" and "autistic." Not sure if I've crossed it.

P went out on Saturday, and apparently had fun. He came home around 2 in the morning, after having enjoyed a few alcoholic beverages in the course of the evening. He asked that I write about it in my blog, so here goes:

Apparently, my 33-year-old husband *couldn't remember his address* when the taxi driver asked where he was going after leaving a "house party" in Williamsburg (as in, where the hipsters live in Brooklyn, not the Colonial re-enactment town where some dude dresses up like the village blacksmith, complete with leather breeches, as tourists look on; in NYC, we call that "Chelsea"). Anyway, taxi drivers can be rather cheeky, asking questions that are really none of their business, such as "where do you want me to take you?"

So, being too drunk to take a taxi, my 33-year-old husband had to take the subway. (Again - I'm recounting this tale at his request.) He got off the 6 train at 28th Street, thinking he'd gone too far. We live on 92nd Street, but this fact had, unfortunately, slipped his mind, along with the answer to the question "Is 92 greater than or less than 28?" Apparently, P then got into a deep, philosophical conversation with the station attendant about how to get home. Tapping the ruby slippers, alas, wasn't working.

"Get back on the train," said the fairy godstationattendant. "And take the train to the 86th Street Station. Then - and here's the tricky part - GET OFF."

See? The power was with you all along, only you didn't know that 86 comes AFTER 28.

Miraculously, P made it home in one piece, with all belongings in tow. I can't even manage to get home with even half of my belongings when stone-cold sober.

I don't think I've ever seen P so drunk, as he normally doesn't drink that much. It was very cute, in the way that a dog wearing one of those cones around its head is really cute. Cute, but you feel a twinge of guilt for thinking it's cute.

Here is an excerpt from our 2 a.m. converstion:

P: Help me take off my shoes.
(with some difficulty, I remove doc martin boots.)

A few minutes later:

P: Help me take off my shoes.

Me: Already did. See? (holding up a foot) No shoes.

P: Oh. Right. I mean ... help me take off my - thingy - take off my HMS Pinafore.

Me: Honey - you're not wearing a Gilbert & Sullivan light opera ...

P: Glub. (the sound of falling asleep while drinking a glass of water)


See, kids? Alcohol can cause you to mistake your socks for the score to an under-appreciated masterwork of musical theater.

Now THAT's the label they should put on cans of beer ...