This weekend was excellent, and can be best summarized by the food: Friday night - sushi and cupcakes (a surprisingly delicious combo - but then again, what doesn't go with cupcakes, I ask you?); Saturday - blueberry muffins and margaritas (not at the same meal, although I could probably get behind that combo, too); Sunday - yogurt-covered pretzels, falafel and quinoa (ditto the aforementioned statement).

On Friday afternoon, we had a little office party in honor of someone's last day. What was going to be a mellow mini-cupcake celebration (we have a thing with cupcakes in our department - the direct result of working down the street from one of the most glorious cupcake shops ever. Trust me. I've done the research) turned into a work-be-damned margarita extravaganza when someone discovered an old-yet-functional blender hidden in a kitchen cupboard. A quick trip to the drugstore and BAM - chips, guacamole, tequila and cupcakes = instant fiesta!

Sitting there and nursing my frosty beverage amidst my mildly tipsy coworkers (let me remind you that I work in the entertainment industry and yes, we are all a bunch of debaucherous hooligans), I had a small pang of nostalgia. The first sip of that slushy alcoholic goodness transported me right back to my pre-baby life, which was a blur of social activity largely revolving around rallying groups of girlfriends for frequent pilgrimages to the local Mexican joint to pay homage to the tortilla chip gods. It's the same feeling I had a few weeks ago while driving home through Hollywood on a Friday night and seeing gaggles of 20-something hipsters lounging on patios outside overpriced bistros, preening themselves and sipping their various Happy Hour libations. For just a brief moment, I longed to join them, to while away an evening with cocktails and conversation without a care in the world.

Then my baby squealed in the backseat and met my gaze in the mirror with a drooly grin, rubber giraffe in one hand, beloved red donut block in the other, and just like that, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

At home I relayed Friday's office margarita shenanigans to my husband, and told him about my momentary longing for those carefree days and boozy nights of yore. Later that day, after a virtuous trip to Whole Foods to stock up on organic produce and nontoxic baby wipes, he told me that he had to run to the drugstore for a moment. A few minutes later he was back, smiling and toting tequila and margarita mix.

That night, our precious boy was fed, bathed, cuddled, cooed over, smothered with kisses, nursed, and tucked soundly into bed. And with my baby sleeping peacefully, this mommy went to the kitchen and enjoyed a richly-deserved margarita, extra strong, no salt please. And that night, I discovered that even the most raucous girls' night can't beat puttering in the kitchen, slightly tipsy, pureeing baby food while the LOML relaxed on the couch and the LOOL slumbered in the nursery. Life is infinitely different now, yet so vastly improved.