I got snookered. Because I’m pretty much a light weight when it comes to alcohol, the two martinis that flipped me, was all it took. Oh yeah, then there was the wine, too. After working outside all day and then practicing my June Cleaver house cleaning duties, I sat upstairs toiling on my new novel. Figured, why not, everything was done until dinner when Christine would be home. I worked through a troubling character scene, and as the first martini took hold, the dialogue rushed onto the pages. As if the characters were sitting around me and telling me what to say, I wrote. Soon, the chapter was done. So was my glass. Downstairs I wobbled, really, I did. I could sense my day being non-sober. The other foggy feeling emanates from my forebrain where I become the characters in my book. The feeling is always pleasing to me – that getting lost in imagination and watching things come to life as words and sentences are penned. But this numbing was different. I walked past my lovely wife, who was having a cocktail herself, with a virtual party of friends over Zoom, and I mixed another martini. Back to the writing, and humor paraded onto the pages as I giggled my way through the keyboard. Another chapter complete. Another empty glass. Back downstairs to make dinner. The potatoes went into the oven, and the salad fixings into the bowl. I wanted wine. We uncorked a Faust cab, and when everything was ready, sat and enjoyed our wine with dinner. Have you ever sat looking and talking at someone realizing the tide is going out in your brain? The bulb dimming? The factory of thought, stopped? I needed Norma Rae to come flashing by and pulling on the rip cord to wake me, but all I felt was more wobble. The cab was extraordinary, and the baked potatoes, rich with butter, so I can remember all of that, well. Christine did the dishes while I dialed my brother on Facetime. My niece, Natalie, answered and the conversational mush took off with laughter, and I’m sure Natalie looking at me in the phone thinking, “WTF!” I was slumped in the chair, holding my chin up with one hand, dressed in my thirty-year old ratty green writing sweater, and we yammered on. TV was next, which meant I had to go upstairs, get my PJ’s on, and brush my teeth. Okay, I did it. Back downstairs, and the stairs seem to grow longer. I turned into the Media Room, sat, and Christine had some water for me, and an episode of “Inspector Morse” cued up. I drank the water, she didn’t want the episode, so I got up to get more water. I never made it back. I detoured upstairs and climbed into bed. I slept really, really well. Coffee in hand, here I sit, feeling quite good, and emotionally high because I got back to novel writing. I suspect, though, when I open the pages today, someone’s going to sound snookered.