So would you ever believe that I had nothing to drink last night? Probably not. Okay, so it’s not entirely a true statement, but for all practical purposes, one sip doesn’t much count… even for a lightweight like myself.

I am sure this comes as a huge shocker.

Of course, the blogfamily has some mixed reactions: No doubt that my blogfather will be pleased to hear this tidbit, while blogbrother will be slightly disappointed. Then there’s the blog sugardaddy, who will likely just laugh, both at his new moniker and that little mistake yesterday, when I said that Costa Ricans drink tequila.

Nope. Last night, somehow the Lad dragged me into helping his buddy out with a *ahem* deejay gig at a silly party. “It will be a blast,” they promised, and if this includes blasting one’s eardrums out, well, perhaps they weren’t entirely wrong. Basically, I did absolutely nothing of value, but I did get to observe a few things about so-called *proper* folk when they get all liquored up. Nothing like watching civilized types wrinkle their nose up when Lad’s buddy fired up the smoke machine, which has got to be the most pitiful invention ever known to the entertainment industry. Two hours later, these same respectable types, all two hundred or so of them, were doing the Macarena…and stumbling all over each other. Of course, free drinks at the bar sounded alright, until what I ordered tasted like NyQuil on Xanax.

Last night, I learned something about myself…I’m getting old at heart. At twenty-nine, I never thought that loud bass tones would make me run out of the room. Sheesh, I thought that the booming vibrations would screw up the heartbeat…it actually physically hurt to be in that ballroom.

Next year, things will likely be calmer. A nice dinner out, perhaps a margarita or two. Conversation. Smiles. Sounds calming, doesn’t it?