In which "I don't know what you're talking about" is my only line of defense

Here's a surefire way to embarrass yourself in front of the in-laws, especially those who bestowed beautiful gifts upon your son, spent about a grand on an elaborate party and surprised you with a mini-wedding reception, complete with a small wedding cake: experiment with your Crown Royale to Diet Coke ratio.

I am typically a happy drunk and once Nathan was put to sleep, I entered a level of nirvana most people have to meditate years to achieve. All it took was a fifth of whiskey.

The kicker is that my camera battery died during the baptism, so I'll have to ask people to email me the photos and during those conversations, I'm sure someone will say, "Um, Mona, did you know you kept screaming, 'I love Charles Dickens!' and 'Rock on, late Victorian literature!" or "I didn't know you could put your feet behind your ears like that. No wonder your labor was so easy!"

I am also trying to figure out whether Nathan's borrowed Baby Einstein exersaucer is saying "rocker" or "vodka." Maybe it is the latter and I drank so much that my hangover makes me hear things.