I’m 65 years old. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I’ll cop to having been a bit sloshed a few times in my life, most of them in the distant past. As I get older though, the stuff has more of an effect on me, which is why it’s probably a good thing that I don’t imbibe all that often. Because I do like the taste of good Scotch, and fine Rye. Usually, when I have a nightcap, I’m at home, and I follow it shortly thereafter by making a beeline for bed, where I enjoy a good night’s sleep and wake up none the worse for wear. If I’m out somewhere, I try not to make too much of an [expletive] of myself, and if worst comes to worst, I trust to kind and discreet friends to look after me and see me home. So far so good. Mostly.
I’m glad they rounded her up, actually. For the sake of the kitties. Lord knows what she had planned for them (she said she was taking them to the SPCA). They’re OK and were taken to the local shelter.
If I’m ever arrested for public intoxication, I do hope there’s a good story that goes with it (“Drunk Woman With Suitcase Full of Unfinished Knitting . . . “), and not just because I’m puking into my shoe, or making a nuisance of myself by singing bawdy songs on a street corner.
