I. Drunk. Dialed. I was feeling lonely and making cocktails. Dinner at a favorite restaurant, then off to a new bar in town. By the time I got home, out came the Blackberry and I made a few calls – calls I don’t remember, to ex’s, and of course, the unrequited loves. God. The next day I felt horrible, ashamed, but I don’t know what for. I don’t think I was too crazy, just buzzed. I now have a voicemail on my phone from the girl in San Francisco that was always the one, and I’m afraid to listen. So I went to Greek Tragedy, searched drunk-dialing and read the wisdom of one who has been there and loved it. How do you get there, Stephanie Klein?

With a lot of ABBA, my friend. I’ve done worse than drunk dial. I’ve drunk IM’d, drunk emailed, and obviously (given that it’s a category on this blog) I’ve blogged drunk. The hideousness that is the phrase ‘In Vino Veritas’ can quickly become ‘In Vino HeIsAnAss,’ and we can find ourselves spewing all the things we’ve said only to close friends, in confidence. Unless it gets you fired, or breaks up someone else’s marriage, it’s not the worst thing.

As for your particular situation, the truth is, if someone likes you, they’re going to like you, whether or not you leave some drunk baby sing song message on her voicemail… three times. And if she doesn’t like you, she’s not about to start just because you whine for her to call you back already. But this, I suspect, you know–hence the morning mortification. Oh, I’ve done the whine and pine, and it makes me CRINGE. Here’s an example of some genuinely hideous drunk emailing on my part (from many years ago), and I promise you, I read this, even NOW, and am so embarrassed for myself.

If I were a drunk dialer I’d call you.  If I had your
number, I’d reach you.  And I’d tell you to meet me at
a diner for fries and a kiss.  But I don’t, so I’ll
drunk email you, cause who does that these days?  And
I’ll be witty and fabulous, even if I spell it all
wrong, cause I have red hair, and that can pass for
fab anywhere, even via pen or ink, or type.  Matt, I’m
going to bed now, listening to you, a stranger with
green eyes who covers his head when he’s nervous, who
smiles too wide. You’re adorable, and I’m saying
everything I shouldn’t, but I really don’t care, cause
tonight, I’m sleeping with you… except without you,
cause you don’t know me from eve, and you’re some type
of Adam, except you’re Matthew… the guy I want to
really know, but who, for now, I’ll just sleep with…
via cd-rom.  See, us geeks got it down.  I keep
checking to see if you’re online, but I’m
disappointed, and I’m not good at that, so don’t get
used to it.  Your absurdly forward friend,
Stephanie

My god, yes that one!

But at the end of the day, no matter what’s been said, you can play a little ABBA GOLD, and shrug it off to "youth & truth." Is it embarrasing? Hell, yes. But it’s honest, too. And there’s something to be said for that, so don’t be too hard on yourself. Just play "Fernando" really loud, and belt out the lyrics when you hit the "There was something in the air that night" stanza.

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A YEAR AGO: Imperfect
5 YEARS AGO: Home