So it was a weekend of parties and fun - went dancing on Friday night, MJ's birthday party on Saturday, and a baseball game followed by bbq'd salmon steaks and ice cream (with maple syrup - yum!) at Jane's on Sunday.

Despite all that good stuff, though, I find myself depressed and down. I got angry with a friend and I let him know about it. I find that I'm not as good at keeping my feelings to myself lately ... I would try harder, but I feel so darn justified. And it's not like I'm yelling at him and calling him names, just expressing how I feel. Problem is, it doesn't necessarily make me feel better.

You didn't ask, but I'll tell you about it anyway: I take drinking and driving rather seriously. Perhaps because I didn't really learn to enjoy drinking till rather late in the game, so I don't have the background of being young and dumb and overindulgent without having thought of how I'm going to get home. I'm always aware of how I'm getting home when I'm out drinking, and how my friends are getting home as well. I've always thought of driving under the influence as one of the stupidest things a person can do. There is simply no excuse for it. None. The amount of easily-avoided harm that can result is staggering. Perhaps those sappy movies about how MADD or SADD started should be required viewing in Driver's Ed.

So anyway, I went to the party on Saturday with some friends with the understanding that I would be the designated driver.

They had alcohol in hand as soon as we walked in the door. And every time I turned around, they had a new drink in their hands. I was stuck with pear juice and Hansen's Rasberry soda. And cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. We were at this party from 9 till about 2? 2:30? I had to go wake up the friend who had driven from where he'd passed out on the couch to tell him it was time to go. We got to the door, and I held out my hand and asked for the keys. Mind you, I had not been drinking at all, nor was I tired (can we say 'sugar rush'?). He insisted that he was fine. I told him he could drive himself home from my place, but he needed to give me the keys so that I could get as far as my apartment. He insisted again that he was fine.

Now, like I said, I'm late to this drinking thing. Maybe he was fine. Maybe anyone who drinks 10 beers in the course of an evening and then sleeps for an hour is ok to drive. I don't know. All I know is that when I have even one beer and then wait 3-4 hours after, I'm tired, which is just about as dangerous on the road as drunk. Perhaps I should have argued till I got my way. That would have shown real conviction. But I'm a wuss, and I just cursed and stalked to the car, getting in the back seat and barking out directions to get us back to my place.

What does this mean? It means that there's an arguement that I don't know how to finish between me and one of my best friends. It also means that I don't get to go drinking with friends anymore, since I can't trust them to not drink and drive, so I get to be the designated driver for the rest of my life. Yeehaw.

Still, it was a mostly good weekend. And this weekend? Dallas!!