PART ONE: Did you say "fired" or "fried?"-You may lose your job but don't lose your dignity (or your cookies)

 It began as a day that, in the future, we would never want to talk about again.

A day that we would choose never to remember...

And then evolved into a day where the choice to remember was, thanks to an irresponsible amount of alcohol, taken from us...

I was curled on the couch in Sydney's living room, sipping coffee and enjoying my morning when Douglas suddenly appeared, crouching beside me. "Sydney just got fired on her Zoom call," he whispered, "She's crying in the office. Are you up for a little day-drinking?" Douglas had to leave for work and God had set his little chess-piece on the board...I was in the right place at the right time. I worried, though, that I was not the right person for this particular job...when it comes to drinking...I am definitely a rookie.

But I was game if Sydney was.

The news had not come as a complete shock to Sydney. Her HR responsibilities had shifted over the last year, focusing a lot on letting people go. This dreaded duty was dictated by a binder from which Sydney was not supposed to deviate regardless of reaction. Tears. Shock. Grief. Worry. Anger. Rage. Doesn't matter. Stick to the script. Sydney had a lot of trouble with that practice and her heart was definitely not in her job. 

So an hour was spent, feeling our feelings and then it was time...you can get bitter, better, or inebriated (We'll get better tomorrow).

Which is how Amy Mosiman came to be sitting, sea-side, in a bar, at 10 o'clock in the morning on a week-day. 

Sydney perused the menu and attempted to make a semi-responsible beverage selection. Given the circumstances and Douglas's whispered voice ringing in my ears, I realized that this was it:  Now or never. "No!" I said, interrupting her quiet order and pointing to the menu, "We want THIS." Sydney's red-rimmed eyes got wide and the server surreptitiously glanced at her watch, slightly shocked. 

Within minutes, our $82 pretty punch bowl of alcohol arrived. I took a shaky breath and then manned the ladle. 

Two young men arrived at the table next to ours and attempted to engage us in conversation. We, obviously, were in no mood...instead, intent on the task-at-hand. Three glasses in, I realized we were in desperate need of carbs. I ordered a montage of appetizers. 

Sydney wandered off briefly and our table neighbors tried again. I discovered that the one young man's dog, a beautiful German Shepherd, had died yesterday and his childhood friend flew in this morning to support him. 

Sigh.

Perspective.

I summarized our own situation and my new friends were immediately sympathetic and outraged on Sydney's behalf.

Our conversation halted upon Sydney's return.

We had just about hit the bottom. Not rock bottom. The bottom of the punch bowl. I sighed. I did it. I glanced around the restaurant, wondering where the equivalent of the Prize Patrol would emerge with my "Mom of the Year" award.

Suddenly, our neighbors were back asking if we would join them for a shot. This was a terrible idea
but...the man's dog had died. I'd seen fifty pictures of his beloved companion. Handed him a napkin as he fought back tears. Offered to pray for him. 

We were doing a shot. 

I embarrassed myself by asking for Patron. These guys had requested the tequila equivalent of a sommelier to present samples at our table. Oh no. 

Before I knew it, I was holding up a $40 shot and toasting a German Shepherd. We all tossed one back and gave our heartfelt farewells. We waved good-bye to our new friends as they left.

Alone again, I flagged for our bill. Our server came over and smilingly told us that it had been paid for us. I was horrified. This was nuts...the $40 shots were bad enough...but Sydney and I were in for over $200. Grief is costly, y'all.

"Where do you want to go now?" Sydney asked as we walked (She walked...I concentrated really hard on standing upright) outside, into the blinding sunlight. I held up a hand to shield my eyes. "Home!" I shouted in my head, wincing. "Oh, I don't know," I said, "Where do you feel like going?" Sydney paused, thinking. "I suppose we should go home..."

Narrator: Even though that was clearly the correct choice, the two women would, in fact, NOT be going home.