"No, I'm — I have to fix the — you're crooked. Hold still." Lee, you're the one teetering all over the place despite your butt being planted firmly on something solid and stable. She's still trying to figure out this wine-hand-other-hand problem.
"Like what? For feet? Who advertises this? Everybody have already got two." She's decided to solve her problem by draining the rest of the glass, and then and only then can she put it down on the coffee table littered with other people's glasses, purses, overflowing ashtrays, and someone's pipe, the bowl still full of burnt black char. She plants both hands on Michael's shoulders and then promptly forgets what she meant to do.