happy hour

I’m going to Z Tejas, downtown, tonight for happy hour.  I was invited by a new friend, who phoned earlier to say, "I need a drink, bad because my friend is the one who found Clifford Antone’s body.  Poor girl."  I love this shit.  Not the bit about someone dying, just having a new friend call me and want to vent.  "Oh, and I need your advice on the cowboy," she added.  The Cowboy, I will get more info on him tonight, is her suitor of the month. 

I’m having a frozen margarita.  "But I’m worried about you," she said, "because one of their margaritas will do you in.  You won’t be able to drive."  Should I take a cab?  This is all new to me, having to worry how I’ll get home.  I have never in all my life had to worry about this.  I didn’t drink at all when I was growing up, aside from the incident at fourteen in my own house, and once I was in college, in a city, driving wasn’t an issue.  If I get pregnant it won’t be an issue, but for now, there’s sushi to be had and margaritas to be sampled.  I imagine my car will remain in a parking lot tonight as I cab it home.  She lives in South Austin; I’m in the northern part, so a carpool with a designated driver won’t work.  I hate having to be responsible.  Especially when happy hour turns into happy hours.