Nine letter word, as in 'Desperate -----------'

One glass, drunk while sitting on the coffee coloured leather lounger of Whiskey Blue, was enough to get me going, but I didn't know it. M. did, and decided against ordering the second glass of merlot.
"It's not a good wine," he said, and we stepped outside to walk to the restaurant. We were meeting friends of mine for a Mexican dinner, and it was such a good feeling to be out on a Friday night.

At the restaurant, we discovered we were the first ones to arrive so we sat ourselves down on the cushioned wicker sofa to order a glass of wine. I was excited and nervous to be meeting my friends, and I could not help fidgeting with my new skirt. The impulse to childishly ask M. how I looked in it was terribly strong, but I shooed it away with the aroma of Rjoja. It felt like aeons had passed since I had been out for dinner with my friends. My friend A., upon her arrival, immediately noticed the skirt and said, "You're definitely not dressed for warmth."

It took a long while for everyone to order, and even longer for the food to arrive. In the mean time, I helped myself to pounds of spicy guacamole and tortilla chips, while we talked about each others high school days. Feeling slightly merry yet not drunk, I ordered another glass of wine, despite M.'s blazing glare. Taking a sip from the new glass, I decided I could not be drunk just yet - the others looked fine, we were eating - so M. was being overly protective. We demolished dessert and the rest of the group decided to move on to a bar. M. said to me, somewhat stiffly, "I'm going home."
"Oh? All right then, we'll go home," I said. It was eleven o'clock. The other jeered as we said our goodbyes, pointing out that it was incredibly early. But it was bitterly cold, and I felt relieved to be heading back to our warm little flat.

On the way home, I felt queasy. In bed, I realised I felt sickeningly drunk. Three glasses of wine over the course of a meal and I was out for the count. This was novel to me - the combination of getting drunk on so little and going home so early. 'What's happening to me?' I silently moaned to myself as I drank a large glass, this time, of water. 'Where is the party girl, the drinker of shots? Am I pregnant? What have I become?'

My friend A. seemed to have some ideas about what I had become. Her next email to me started off with 'Hello, housewife'.