Drinks Well with Others….
As you may know by now, this can be a pretty self-deprecating column. I really haven’t held back on reporting about any of the ridiculous fixes I’ve been in or the idiotic adventures Bonnie and I have accidentally or willingly experienced.
I’ve kept a cone of silence on the following twin stories for several months now for fear that what’s left of our reputations would be shot, even after appearing ridiculously in these pages for the last 23—count ‘em, 23—years.
But truth be told, the ugly truth must be told. When you think of this column, and you will, be kind.
The tales involve the same pair of guys who have been a bad influence but wonderful friends to us for over two decades of good times. And to be fair, in our long, speckled history together, this is the first incident to produce actual bodily harm.
Several months ago, we spent a long happy evening bar hopping, and as is wont to happen, every time Bonnie or I turned our heads a fresh Mojito or glass of Scotch would magically appear. I confess, we knowingly drank them. And laughed, traveled from Parrot to Pond, then wound up at Confucius, where I think hot Sake was involved.
While Ubering back to the boys’ house, Bonnie “sleepily” leaned against the backseat door. Upon arrival, chivalry had not died, and one of the guys ran around to open the door. And Bonnie fell out, taking down her boyfriend and landing heavily on her own hand under her own butt. They wallowed on the ground just long enough for neighbors to drive by and embarrass everyone involved.
Surgery for Bonnie’s torn hand ligament was required. Swearing off Johnny Walker with Sake chaser, recommended. Tossing it off to being a klutz, without publicizing the details, the better part of valor.
Oddly, it was only a short time later I got my turn in the limelight. Only it was more like the lime garnish. It was during those sad, dark days last April as I prepared for the memorial service for dear Steve Elkins. I was clearly a mess, so to cheer me up, my very same pals escorted me to the Blue Moon, while Bonnie ran sound for a show at CAMP Rehoboth. And if you’ve ever had one Cosmo at the Moon, you know you’d best not have two. Perhaps it was three.
Wisely noting I needed food, the boys hustled me to the Pond, where we waited for my carryout chicken wings. Apparently, in the interim, this old, married lesbian gave unsolicited marital advice to a whole bachelorette party of fresh-faced young women. It was reported that I got applause. Perhaps for going away.
Then my friends called George the Taxi, who ferried me home.
Since Bonnie had our keys, I unsteadily walked to our hidden key stash, bent for retrieval, toppled over and began rolling downhill toward my neighbors’ house. Righting myself onto all fours, I crawled back to the key crevice thinking “thank God nobody can see me.”
George could. Not only was he watching to make sure I got into the house, he was reporting everything on an open phone line to the boys at the Pond. “She’s getting the key, oh my, she’s down, she’s rolling, she’s on her hands and knees, she’s back up, she’s down again.…”
All this, on speakerphone, live at the Pond.
For the record, I got into the house, suffered only grass stains, and woke up without a hangover. No one had the balls to tell me about George’s broadcast or my playing Dear Abby to the bachelorettes for a week.
But I’ll tell you this, the two episodes left us shaken, not stirred.
Because no matter how many photos I’ve taken posing with or swilling Cosmos, or how many jokes there are in my show about Bloody Marys or Grey Goose, I’m not really a heavy drinker (well, I’m heavy, but the drinks aren’t). In fact, I haven’t had a real hangover since 1972.
And while Bonnie loves her New Orleans T-shirt that says Drinks Well with Others, it’s not an indicator of anything dire. Sure, we love happy and yappy hours, and enjoy a cocktail when out on the town, but not so much that it’s the talk of the town. The only rehab we’re eligible for is addiction to Louie’s toasted Grinders.
So, yes, we admit to being absolutely horrified by our recent outrageous behavior. And yet, given the number of birthdays amassed between us, we are also quite proud that we see no good reason to act our age.
Bottoms up. And that’s the whole truth and nothing but.▼
Fay Jacobs is an author of five published memoirs. Her newest is Fried & Convicted: Rehoboth Beach Uncorked. As a humorist, she’s touring with her show Aging Gracelessly: 50 Shades of Fay. More Fay Jacobs.