Can you top me up, Alicia?" Debbie asked, her voice already giggly. I obliged and filled her glass with white wine, almost to the brim as she nodded her head encouragingly, laughing to myself at how wild these middle-aged ladies got when they had the opportunity to let their hair down.
It was the night of my Mom's cocktail party at our house. It usually happened every few months, with rotating hosts. Mom always got really excited about hosting. I had only been to the ones we had at our house, which was probably for the best, because while the nights usually started off fairly unremarkably, the debauchery tended to overwhelm things quickly.
They all loved their wine and, of course, there was always a signature cocktail to be had. They always got dolled up for the occasion, embodying the why not? attitude that dominated most of their social gatherings. Mom was dressed sensibly in jeans and a white blouse, but had spent a lot of time on her make-up and had her shoulder-length hair down, the dark streaked through with grey. Most of the ladies were divorced, including my Mom, and after they imbibed, they really knew how to let the colourful language fly. They didn't hold back, the volume steadily rising as they yelled about their sexual exploits, cackling with glee at the scandalous behaviour they routinely entwined themselves in.
I could tell from the cacophony booming from our kitchen that we were rapidly approaching that point of the night. I peeked my head around from the living room, spying my Mom with a few of her friends, hollering and laughing like they hadn't a care in the world. I actually did like seeing her this way; she was always a joyous person, but her spark seemed a bit dull lately.
Most weekend nights I'd be out with my friends, but seeing as how I lived at home in my early 20s still, and these events were important to Mom, I attended out of solidarity. I knew she loved having me around for them, and I unofficially fulfilled the role of drink-topper