I Got Wasted at My Husband’s Ex’s….

Another Jane Pratt Thing/April 2025

To begin, let me be clear that I have never liked attending functions at my husband’s ex-wife’s and avoid it  as much as possible. That day, we went because it was so hot my husband’s two adult daughters didn't want to make the 40-minute trip from their mother’s to our house. Something about their dogs. We agreed to go to them. 

It’s important to note the ex’s lack of appreciation for air conditioning and that I always suffer a certain amount of nerves when in her presence. 

So, I was baseline hot and nervous, not at my best. 

But it all started innocently enough, even happily.

We arrived late in the afternoon that hot summer day. The step-son-in-law immediately mixed and served a lethal batch of cold margaritas of which I partook enthusiastically. The heavy buzz deadened every nerve and brain cell almost at first sip. I relaxed into a daze and joined the conversation. Sweat beaded my upper lip, coaxing me to drink more. 

They were very, very strong drinks. 

I had two. So what? So what if I had two? 

But like the old story with martinis: one’s not enough, two’s too many, three’s not enough, the second only weakened any future resolve.

Two of these particular margaritas were more than enough.

After that second drink I sat in a hump, probably singing or drooling at the ex’s dining room table. 

My husband was outside, nowhere near enough to save me from my sloppy, foolish choices. 

The step-son-in-law, damn him, held up the blender pitcher, wiggled it, eyebrows up. I did not need words, understanding his meaning. 

“Let’s split it,” he said. 

He handed me my final glass and I gulped it down, sealing my fate. 

I had eaten almost nothing, because why eat when you can drink sugary, boozy death-bombs and feel great about everything, or care about absolutely nothing?

When it was time to leave the ex, the step-daughters, and the step-son-in-law showed us out. 

I held onto the ex’s  arm, repeating a word that still causes my face to burn these many years later.

 “Seriously,” I slurred.

“Seriously, I respect you so, so much, seriously,” I repeated. “I’m serious. I know, seriously, all you guys have been through, and seriously, I get it,” I said. 

The ex, of course not a drinker, turned her face toward mine, studying my flailing, babbling countenance with a bemused expression. 

The crowning glory of my blathering came at the very end when I stopped my endless seriouslys and offered, “Isn’t it weird we’ve had sex with the same person?”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

My husband, either out of ear shot or totally in denial, did not react.

In this parting moment I told the step-daughters, for the first time, how much I loved both of them, the thing I felt the worst about when it was all over, since I did and do REALLY love them and felt ashamed that for this, my fledgling pronouncement, I was utterly shitfaced. 

But the evening had only just begun. 

Oh, I forgot to share that our five-year-old son was in tow, maybe he was four, and as far as I know has no recollection of this event, although it could come out in therapy decades from now. 

We got in our car and  pulled away from the ex’s house, commencing the 40-minute ride home. To this day, when I tell this story (which I do, often, I think with the notion that if I keep telling it someday it won’t be painful, NOT!), my husband adds to the narrative that at this point all the stages of classic drunkenness/alcoholism fanned out before him like a bad hand of poker. 

At first I was riding high, reveling in society, then I was driveling in husband love. 

Somewhere along the highway I switched into the anger/rage/resentment stage, blaming him for his divorce. I said things that he now remembers but I don’t and don’t want to be told and he’s too nice to remind me. Thank the Lord. 

By the time the car pulled into our driveway I was more nauseous than I have ever been and hopefully ever will be again. I could not stand, slithering into our backyard, much to the horror of my husband and son.  Our  little boy must of said something along the lines of, “Daddy, what’s wrong with Mommy?”

Here’s the point where I need to tell you that I do not have a drinking problem, but I did at that point enjoy drinking more than my husband and all of his people. Here’s my usual excuse/explanation: I’m a child of the free-wheeling eighties. I grew up standing around kegs, pounding beers like it was a job or the Olympics or something. There were no coffee shops back then, no internet. College wasn’t too hard to gain admittance. Life was just a lot more chill. We barely wore seatbelts for God’s sake. Anyhow, I spent my whole young adult life until this very moment at age 48 equating fun, like big fun, with drinking. I could hold my alcohol and could drink a fair share without being sick. I had not been sick from drinking in twenty years or more and I had never ever ever ever, despite many truly rip-roaring hangovers, ever vomited the next day.

So, you know where this is going. 

 There I was collapsed in my backyard. It was like bed spins times five million. I could not move. My husband begged me to come in, warning me about the mosquitoes and all the rest but I snapped at him and accused him of not caring so he gave up and went inside to take over our parental duties. The retching had begun and continued long after he left. I laid there in the grass, unable to lift my ten-ton head well after the hurling halted.   My Blessed Mother statue in the corner of the yard stared at my limp form from her corner perch with what I can only imagine was pity, although I really prayed desperately to St. Monica, the patron saint of alcoholics.

And here’s the part where I say that when I imagine myself, say, aged  21,  and someone might have said to me,  “Do you want to see a video of yourself at 48?” and showed me a tape of that moment, me sprawled in the grass, puking up my guts, I’d have been horrified, to put it mildly. I’d have been even more upset by the sight of my sad sorry self finally intent on abandoning the mosquitoes and pools of vomit, crawling across our patio on all fours and up our back steps into the house, and falling onto the den couch.

 I laid there for some time until I knew I could stand then made my way upstairs. I stripped down (I remember wearing a cute skirt with avocados on it, one I never could bring myself to wear again) and put myself in my night clothes and climbed into bed beside my husband, the tears and apologies flowing. He was not happy with me, but refrained from berating me as I surely would him if the situation was reversed. 

But wait, there’s more.  The next day we had a flight to head down to South Carolina for a family beach house near the Outer Banks. Before that, we were supposed to attend 7:30 AM Mass with my parents. 

I rolled out of bed that morning feeling terrible physically but more so, believe it or not, mentally. The shame was so great I still feel it today, seven years later. I was sick again before calling my mother. She wasn’t one to mince words and usually told me exactly what I didn’t want to hear. But this time she melted into compassion, revealing that something similar happened to her once. She blamed having to go to the ex’s at all and made me promise I would never ever go there ever again. I loved her so much in that moment. 

In another call, my sister who had cancer for eighteen years and was not far from the end of her life and who had travelled many times under physical duress prescribed pretzels and coke. I followed her instructions and felt ten times better. The rest of the morning leading up to our flight I prepared slowly, standing up for short periods of time then laying back down on the bed, packing one thing at a time, finally finishing right before our departure. 

We arrived at the beach house that evening where my other sister went into full blame-the-step-son-in-law mode. I didn’t think she was totally wrong. Didn’t he see how drunk I was when he offered that last drink? 

“A gentleman does not mix drinks that strong and does not offer more to someone already drunk,” she said. 

Still, I knew I was the one who picked up that glass. 

Blame is fun, but really just a distraction. 

The best part came weeks later. The step-daughters were at our house for another party. I apologized to them for my drunken love testament. They said they didn’t even know I was that drunk (not possible, but appreciated) and downplayed the severity of my actions. 

“I just feel so, so bad, that the first time I told you I loved you was when I was totally hammered. Because I do love you, so so much,” I said. 

“Maggie, we LOVE you, never worry about that,” the elder sister said. 

With that the whole dreadful memory ended on a positive note, and for me the extended booze swilling of my youth came to an end, and I entered a new, more sober (or maybe just less drunk) but still fun phase of mid-life.