Foot-in-Mouth Disease

I spent the weekend in Austin, attending a wedding for my Bohemian cousin. All her hippy friends flew down from Portland to spend the weekend in drunken revelry.

I'm sitting on a barstool in a dive on the infamous 6th Street, talking to a gal who's got to be eight months along. The bar's so full of smoke I can barely see to the opposite wall, and she's sucking cigs down like they're candy straws. Despite the fact that it breaks my heart, I hold my tongue.

The waiter comes by. "Can I get you ladies anything?" he says, sweet southern drawl melting us both like butter.

I order my customary beer. She follows with, "I'll have the same." He returns in a few minutes toting two perfectly poured, frosted mugs. Finally, I pipe up- I just can't hold it in any longer. I know, I know - I'm a judgemental bitch. I have theories about why I feel justified in saying something to a gal I've only just met, but we'll go into that another time.

"That's healthy," I say as she takes her first sip.

"What?" She blinks at me, all wide-eyed and innocent.

"The beer," I say, nodding to her glass.

She frowns. "You're having one."

"I'm not pregnant," I quip. She raises a brow.

"Neither am I."

Ouch.