There are different schools of thought on the subject of words said while under the influence of alcohol. One school believes that alcohol is a truth serum. Another school believes that alcohol is a brain poison.

I lean toward the poison school of thought. I tend to dismiss drunken words before the night concludes. "Meh, it was the alcohol talking, she doesn't really want to be a stripper."

But.

Alcohol does lower inhibitions. So yes, in some cases, people have the fortitude to say things they would not normally have the nerve to say. "Wow. I knew she had some resentment about her husband's affection toward their dog, but I had no idea things were that weird and that bad..."

My rule of thumb is to factor in the number and types of drinks imbibed when deciding on the truthfulness of an alcohol induced comment. A breathalyzer of sorts.
Two beers or glasses of wine or less = true.
Two regular sized mixed drinks (one 1.5 oz. shot) of vodka, gin, rum, scotch = probably true, depending on the proof of the booze and whether or not it was diluted with ice and/or a mixer.
Anything said after ingesting more alcohol than that, especially alcohol with a high proof = probably not true.
...with the exception of really bizarre confessions that are just too weird and out of character to be anything other than true.

So, a friend had two glasses of Scotch, neat, followed by a third Scotch and soda on the rocks. Inhibitions: Definitely lowered. To the point nothing but silliness is being spoken? Gray area.

I also have the same rule of thumb for hearing and accurate memory while imbibing alcohol. If I've had more than two drinks I don't allow myself to presume that I heard (and correctly remember) what other people said during the time I was ingesting alcohol.

So, to set the stage, I had one Scotch, neat, and another over a lot of rocks that were nearly melted before I drank it.

My friend, three drinks downed, said, "Face it Trill, no one wants to marry you or even date you, no one wants to hire you. You're not getting any younger. Your best years are behind you and your future is looking alarmingly dreadful. What's the point to your life from here on out?"

Um.

Okay.

It's not as if I don't think this myself at least once an hour every day, so, you know, the words didn't come as a shock. It was just weird to hear them spoken in voice other than the one in my head. 

This is one of my nice friends. A friend who isn't living a Stepford paradise life. So I chose to take her question not as rhetorical criticism, but as a genuine friendly inquiry. I chose to presume that she thought I have the point to my life figured out and she was asking me to explain it to her. Worst case scenario: she's concerned about and for me.

Unfortunately, I don't have an answer because I have no clue what the point to my life is, now that every goal and desire I had didn't happen and won't happen. Career-wise, it's looking like I peaked. Man-wise, well, that just never happened and it's too late now. But she was three drinks down and whatever I said next really didn't matter. I could start talking about purple flying horses and listening to the vibrations of fossils and she wouldn't remember or care the next day.

So I shrugged and said, "From here on out the choices for the point of my life are not what I thought they would be at this juncture. So, I dunno. Charity work? French lessons? Cats?"

She gave me a surprisingly quick and on point response: "Sssssereesly, Trill, you have to ssstttp making a sjoke of evreeething and get your shit together." 

Me, suddenly very sober, facing my now sloppier drunk friend, "Instead of stating the obvious, how about offering constructive advice?"

Silence.

I stumped the drunk.

We each had another drink and I took her back to her hotel. Somewhere en route she removed her shoes, further cluing me into the level of her intoxication. I tried to warn her, I am a good friend that way. I did say, "We're in a cab. A filthy cab. If you take off your shoes you'll be barefooted in a filthy cab. And when we get out of the cab you'll be barefooted on even filthier city street."

She thought about that for a moment and said, "Whatever germs my feet touch won't hurt me as much as these heels."

Score one for the drunk woman. Maybe she wasn't as drunk as I thought, which called her earlier comments into question: Maybe she wasn't just blathering drunk nonsense after all. In which case, I should be...what? Incensed? Offended? Hurt? Angry? Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

She couldn't remember her room number, so I asked the front desk and got her to her room. While I used her bathroom she broke into the mini-bar. Again, I tried to warn her, "NO! DO NOT OPEN THAT!!! THAT TWO OUNCE BOTTLE OF VODKA WILL COST YOU $18!!!!" I was too late. A mini bottle of vodka was being poured into a glass of juice. Oh crap. She opened a $10 bottle of juice. The hangover's going to be bad, but the mini-bar bill at checkout is going to be worse. I was the relatively sober one so I felt responsible for the $28 Screwdriver.

She then poured half the drink into another glass and extended it to me. I declined. My experience has shown that there is no glasnost between Scotland and Russia and I was sober enough to recall that and adamantly refuse the vodka.

And then my friend said, "So'kay. You want advice? I'll give you advice." And she belted down one of the glasses of Screwdriver.

Oh. Whoa. Wait a minute.

"Naw, it's okay. I'm good. I know what I need to do. I just need to get a job and get my career back on track. It's all good. I'm working on it. Really."

She blew slobbery raspberries at me. "Career schmeer. This is what you need to do."

*******************The following is rated PG-13 and NSFW***********************

She yanked off her top and revealed:
a) She's going bra-less these days
b) She had a boob job, including
c) areola tattooing ("tittooing")

You may be thinking, "Um, Trillian? How do you know she had a boob job and tittooing? You would have to have seen the 'before' to accurately assess modification."

This friend and I go way back. We've gone to a lot of concerts, including some long weekend festivals. We've slept in some strange places and stood guard for each other while changing clothes and/or peeing in some unconventional places. You get to know a gal under those circumstances.

We're both whiter than white - we'd have to spend a year carefully building up a tan in the South Pacific just to achieve a "fair" complexion. You can do the math...our dermis is pigment challenged everywhere. Just like most women from the regions from whence our DNA originates. But men apparently prefer tawnier, darker nipples. I didn't think her husband would be the kind of guy who would have a preference for that sort of thing, but she exclaimed, "When I decided to get the lift, [her husband] begged me to get the nips reshaped and recolored, too, and we both love it! I never realized how bland and uninteresting they were before, now I can't stop looking at them!"

Et tu, my friend, et tu?

A few years ago she did mention that she was relieved that her daughter inherited her husband's skin and coloring, and she added, "Thank God she doesn't have putrid pale nipples." And it pains me to admit that I kind of understood where she was coming from. If I had a daughter the least of my concerns would be the pigmentation of her areolas, and I certainly would not discuss the subject with anyone. But given the emphasis and apparent importance of these things nowadays, I'm sure it would cross my mind at some point. And yes, okay, yes, I would feel bad if my daughter inherited my almost pigmentless nipples. I know, I know, with all the problems in the world it's ridiculous to even enter into this train of thought. I know. But. I know from embarrassing first hand experience that men, or the men I've met, do not like pale nipples. And apparently my friend's husband has a preference, too.

"You need to get those girls lifted and reshaped, you always said you want a reduction! So do it! Trill, I gotta tell ya, the bigger they are, the farther they fall, and it's only a matter of time before yours fall to your hips. You're obviously not having children so the 'waiting until after I have children' excuse is no longer valid. Get it done, and color those nips (she fondled hers for emphasis). It will give you a new lease on life and you'll get your old spark back. A little tummy tuck, a little lypo on the hips and bum...a little filler around the eyes...best thing I ever did."

Oh crap.

Whatever she wants to do to her body is her business. And I knew she had some work done. She told me about it. To her credit, she isn't one of those women who pretends they haven't had anything done.
But I didn't know she had that much done and I certainly didn't need to see it.

But I did have a question. Something that I've wondered about since I first heard about tittooing.

She was drunk and standing there topless in front of me, so I took the opportunity to ask her.

"Okay, so, your husband, and other men, prefer darker nipples. And yours were very pale pink."

"So are yours, Trill," she interrupted, acting a little defensive.

"Yes, yes, mine are very pale. As are other private areas of my body. Which leads me to my question..."

"Oh good God no, Trillian, I cannot even imagine how much that would hurt. They had to freeze my boobs just to tattoo the areolas. Plus I don't think it would be safe to inject ink down there."

I don't know about the safety of it, but I'm pretty sure women do get tattooed in and around their vulvae.

But. Here's my confusion. If men prefer tawny, darker nipples, doesn't it stand to reason they prefer similarly colored nether regions? If not, why?

Wouldn't it look weird to have mismatched vulva and nipples?

Let's put it another way: If a guy had tawny or dark nipples but a pale or pink penis, I would notice. And it would distract me. (I wouldn't really care, but I would think, "Ewww, did he have his nipples tittooed?")

Further, what about anal bleaching? Why are darker nipples preferred while paler, whiter anuses are what men desire? I'm sure I'm missing some crucial point because it doesn't make sense that mismatched intimate body part colors would be a turn on.

I didn't want to see my friend's nether region and it was getting more than a little weird to be in a hotel room with my friend half naked and drunk. I asked her to put on her shirt. She obliged.

"I'm just saying, Trill, we're not getting younger. You're in a rut and a serious funk. Your tits have always bugged you, this is the perfect time to just go for it. And get a few other tune ups while you're at it. It's done wonders for me and my attitude."

"Let's just say I had a lapse in judgment and took your advice. Where am I getting the thousands of dollars to cover the expense?"

"Oh, right. You're really that skint?"

Good grief. Does she really think I have that kind of money squirreled away after three years of unemployment? That had to be the booze talking. This friend is not that unaware.

"Ummmm, yeah. I'm really so broke that I can't afford plastic surgery." I jocularly threw a pillow at her and got up to leave. She was drunk, I was tired and didn't want to discuss boobs, hers or mine, anymore.

"You can't leave. We haven't figured out the point to the rest of your life yet!"

"I don't think a better body and tittooing is the point to the rest of my life."

"You need a man."

"No I don't. I need a job. I do not need a man." 

"Every woman needs a man."

"Not every woman. Lesbians don't need men."

"Shut up, Trill. You're splitting hairs. Men don't like that, by the way."

"A man is not the answer to any of my problems."

"Yes it is. A man answers the problems of your loneliness, your funk, your rut, your lack of point to the rest of your life."

"How about if I work on charities, take French lessons and get some cats instead?"

"Nope. Boob job. Tittooing. Tummy tuck. Man. In that order."

"Where is 'career' in any of that? I'm not exactly the kept woman type of woman."

"Boob job. Tittooing. Tummy tuck. Man. That's your new mantra. Say it, believe it, and it will be so. And by the way, I wasn't going to tell you this because I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but, I got a promotion, I'm a VP, now, and I'm sure it's because of my new confidence and happiness with my body and my re-energized sex life. So. Boob job. Tittooing. Tummy tuck. Man." 

She was drunk so I decided to placate her, "Okay. That's my mantra. Congratulations on your promotion. You've worked really hard for a lot of years, I suspect that's why you got the promotion. I gotta go."


Now, in the aftermath, of course I'm mulling over the bigger picture. My friend does seem, well, imbued with a bit more joie de vie. I thought it was because both her kids are in school, now, and she's not juggling as much work-mom-wife-work stress. Maybe it is the new nipples. Maybe there's something to it. I hope not, I fervently hope a lot of cosmetic surgery isn't the answer to a stalled career...and for that matter, a stalled romantic life. The former is relevant to me, the latter not at all.

Or maybe she was just really drunk and spouting alcohol-included crap.

Either way, she has tittooed new breasts and she loves 'em, and apparently her husband is no longer living under the oppression of pale nipples.

If that's the point to her future, my charities, French lessons and cats don't seem as pathetic as they did before my friend shared her enhancements.