“Craig, can you come downstairs and open the door,” I co-conspiratorially whispered into the phone.
Except, I don’t remember doing this, he told me about our conversation the next day.
I was whispering, as I as stood beside the rose bushes just outside our front door and slightly to the left, slight enough so that Craig’s sleeping parents would not hear me.
We live in the upstairs section of their house, and upon returning home from dinner with girlfriends I could not find my keys and needed to be let in.
“Where are you? I can’t see you.” Craig replied
“What do you mean? I’m outside.”
“I’m looking out the window and I can’t see you anywhere.’
“Look can you just come downstairs and open the door.”
“Downstairs? There is no downstairs. Where are you?”
And that is where the penny dropped. How it managed to drip through the foggy recesses of two bottles of wine and a couple of bourbons, I don’t know, but clarity popped its head out.
Shit. I looked back down the street, where my friends had just left in the cab. Nope. Gone.
They would call me the next day, in total hysterics about what I had done. One for the books that I would never live down.
“Oh shit Craig, I’m at the wrong house.”
We were house sitting for his sister and of course that last bloody bourbon made me forget that and ride the cab all the way to our other regular home.
I did what any single woman would do at 12:30am after drinking copious amounts of alcohol, I picked up my purse and made my way to spend the night beside my man. Except that journey involved me walking for 30 minutes along the streets of what seemed like a deserted town.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Funny, how my alertness snapped back into place like a leaf during a cold freeze, although the wobbly boots were around a little.
I kept thinking the whole time of those Unexplained Mystery shows when the friends say, “We last saw her getting out of the cab. we made sure she got to the front door, we don’t know what could have happened to her.”
Not the kind of thoughts you want to be having. I phoned Craig continuously to check in, my eyes darting to survey the area around me ready to shout out “Call 911′ My foggy brain not only forgetting where I was staying but also the Australian emergency number.
Of course with two sleeping babies with him, he couldn’t come rescue me.
Why not get a cab?
It’s almost impossible to get one when you’re standing outside the busy pub they frequently parole, let alone flag or call one down. Besides, I couldn’t even remember where I was meant to be staying how could I remember the cab’s phone number.
And I tend to still have Superman Syndrome. I used to often walk home alone at night in London, after my evening shifts serving the alcohol that made people forget where they live.
It wasn’t long before I was once again on the phone asking Craig to let me in.
So relieved was I when this time he opened the door that my mind blacked out and I can’t remember what happened from this point on.
But, Crag recorded a very revealing video to show me.
Let’s just say bourbons are now off my drinking list.
Have you ever done anything crazy like this after drinking too much?