Limit Two Per Customer

I have no memory of the roughly eleven hours between 8 pm yesterday and 7 am today.

Yesterday I was stone cold sober for much of the day. And well rested; I enjoyed a brief afternoon nap in the recliner while reading a novel by Cormac McCarthy. It wasn’t the book that put me to sleep. I woke up showered dressed and drove to pick up the Happy Wife from work. We had earlier agreed to go to a local restaurant to watch an oyster shucking contest. We sat at a small table on backless bar stools because all the stools around the bar were taken. The shucking was well underway by the time we arrived, about six.

Unimpressed with the wine list — the best red was possibly better than Yellow Tail Merlot, a wine I wouldn’t even cook with — I asked our server to suggest a mixed drink. She pointed to the The Alaska Tea. Lots of people like this one she said. The ingredient list was long and followed by a rule: Limit two per customer per night. I laughed. We ordered two, one each for me and the Happy Wife. Boy they were good. Not cloyingly sweet. Neither the Happy Wife nor I like cloyingly sweet.

Happy Wife went to select a half dozen oysters from the ice-filled trough near the back of the bar and I ordered an appetizer of Gulf shrimp. We ate and talked about the day as we worked our way to the bottom of our Alaska Teas. I mentioned to you they were good. She walked over to the shucker contest to get a closer look at the implement they’d been given to open the oyster shells. She thought she might like to enter the contest later in the week. Meanwhile, I checked my phone and felt the Tea go to work. Without saying a word an ill-mannered buffoon reached over our table and helped himself to a napkin from the pile our server had left us, used it to wipe some goo from his face, then urged on by his equally buffoonish table mates returned the napkin to the pile on our table. I indicated my disgust by pushing the pile in their general direction onto the floor and shot them all a look that encoded what an asshole. Happy wife picked up on the tension when she returned to our table and shot them all a glare or two of her own.

What the hell, we were having fun anyway. I ordered another Tea and Happy Wife opted for a Pinot Gris. Halfway through my second Tea I recall saying what’s in these things? I never did finish it. Happy Wife paid and we left. We picked our way through considerable snow and ice in the parking lot, Happy Wife in heels and me in slippery-soled loafers. On the drive home we talked about the shuckers and the possibility of entering the contest later in the week and other stuff I don’t specifically recall but I do recall there was other stuff. I’m certain of that.

At home Happy Wife made the dogs their dinners. I remember that. And I remember standing with my face inches from the TV wanting to jump into the screen and throttle Bill Maher who was being interviewed by Pierce Morgan. The comedian was opining about something outside his scope of practice. And I thought (I remember thinking this) I know I’m not supposed to take anything you say seriously because you’re a comedian and like your fellow TV comedian Jon Stewart said guys like you and him shouldn’t be taken seriously because Hey, we’re really just comedians after all.

And then that’s it. Don’t remember eating the Chile Verde atop the potato flatbread topped with a fried egg that Happy Wife prepared for me. Don’t remember the dessert strawberries she hand fed me on the couch. Don’t remember watching more TV. Don’t remember what time I went to bed – don’t even remember going to bed. Next thing I do remember was waking up in bed this morning next to the Happy Wife.

You were kind of tipsy last night she said.

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