Two margaritas are my limit.

From that wonderful day oh-so-long-ago that I discovered the bliss that IS frozen margaritas, two margaritas have been my limit.

I’ve experimented with this. I know, for example, that bumming someone else’s two-fer during 2-1 Happy Hour, when added to mine, is beyond my limit. I also know that a fish-bowl margarita is far, far beyond my limit.

I meet with my best friend at least once a month, and we partake of the margaritas.  It’s become a lovely ritual.  Last night, we revisited our ritual.

I, with my steak half and he, with his chicken half, of a steak-and-chicken-fajita-combo sat merrily with our margaritas as we discussed my writing and the changes it has brought about, our shared interest in the stock market and how our stocks were faring, updates on our pets, and so forth.

It was about half into the second margarita that I felt a bit woozy.  Another quarter and I was sick.  I excused myself to the restroom and took care of business, returning shortly and feeling both sober and well.  We finished our meal leisurely and started home, with his driving and my enjoying the scenery.  Woozily.

It was the first time I rode in his car; usually we take separate vehicles but mine’s currently in the shop. It might very well be the last time I ride in his car.

Deck the halls with bits o’ chicken, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

I warned him but he couldn’t get over in time. I decorated his dashboard, windshield, I shed my soaked shirt and draped a garbage bag over me for the rest of the ride  home.

Damn, the boy’s prepared.

I made it home safely; he made it home safely.

But today, sober and strangely energetic, I find myself wondering: what changed? Was it the Energems I popped most of the day to stay awake? Was it something I ate earlier? Has my 40 year old body decided that 2015 is the year that I move from two to one margarita? Perhaps it’s part of a bigger, overall change.

At any rate, I rediscovered why I quit drinking heavily in my 20’s.

It’s interesting, though. Having the stomach flu over Christmas is what kick-started my writing. I was sick. Sick for days. And, in the midst of, well, burning the candle at both ends, so to speak, a single word came to mind, and I laughed, laughed, laughed.

And I had the start of the book.  And the opening scene is sickness. And it’s good. And for me to think something I’ve written is good is, well, perfect pearls are less rare.

Almost at 6k words, it’s moving. Slowly, in bits and pieces, but it’s moving.

And life is good.

Although, the bff and I may be going out for Chinese next month.