Wild River Review
Wild River Review
Connecting People, Places, and Ideas: Story by Story
May 2010
Open Borders

A short blog about drinking…


This has been a glorious weekend. The first after a series of three, where the focus has been on a) my husband’s daughter as the nucleous of our universe and b) me as the evil-wicked one-armed wart-infested cross-eyed disposably-good-for-nothing stepmother. And let me tell you, these few days have been a much-welcome reprieve–kind of like taking a hot sudsy bath with lavendar infusion after along day of toiling on the icy Tundra. At least on my end (since my husband does love his daughter unconditionally, as he should…).


So to celebrate (at least on my end), Dan and I kicked it off with a Friday night soiree at a friends’ house for great laughs, “Flight of the Concord” videos on YouTube, and never-ever-too-much Thai Food. And now, on Sunday, we’re wrapping things up. Just back from seeing “The Reader” (finally!), we’ve made a deal to part for a few hours to do some respective work (me to write a blog, him to study for his upcoming LEED Certification Exam)–and then regroup at 0:600 for a little drinkin.


That’s right, drinkin. And I’m not talking Kool Aid or fruit juice. I’m talking booze. As in “I’ve been to the liquor store and now I’m going to enjoy my purchase”. To those of you (which would be everybody I’ve known or spent time with since birth) who know me as somebody who never drinks (since I always prefer my calories in food), surprise surprise. Mommy’s changin.


As a result, this Sunday night, unlike all others, while Dan and I watch 60 Minutes and ponder how many hours we have left before we get caught up in another Monday grind, we’ll also be happily boozin’ it up. Taking little sips of whatever zippy we can find in our modest liquor cabinet–barely larger than two stacked breadbaskets–in between breaths and contemplations of all kinds.


That’s because, “boozin’” (along with Twittering and paying for stuff with Paypal) is quickly becoming one of my new favorite pasttimes. And all it took was one errant stepdaughter, two unexpected new wrinkles, and  a crashing world economy.


But then again, they say timing is everything.


Now, before any of you potential clients or employers start googling my competitors or shredding my resume, let me give you my definition of boozin: It is three conservative sips of a Riunite ripoff, a fruity schnapps concoction, a Bailey’s Irish Cream, or some reasonable facsimile thereof–often tempered with ice or seltzer water. Because frankly, a small injection’s worth is all I need to give my adrenal glands the night off.


It is, in fact, the need for less that makes boozin’ so appealing. That, and the fact that in the world of boozin, I’m a “lightweight”. And this, my friends, is the realization of a 46-year-old dream.


At least for me.


Why just this weekend, it took only two half glasses of dimestore Sangria (my husband is so good at finishing what I’ve started) to arrive at a satsifyingly-slightly-bigger-than tipsy. Lightweight in action, she sips, she glides…


Add to that last night’s tablespoon worth of Baileys, and, in true lightweight fashion, I had more this weekend than I did in all of, say, 1985–when I was wrapping up graduate school and bartending on the weekends at the Famous Atlantic Fish Company in the heart of touristy Boston.


So you see, when I say I’m boozin, it’s for real. Count on it.


So what’s the point of this post? Well, actually, there is no point. That’s the beauty of a post about boozin–and boozin in general. There’s no end goal. No objective to be met. No expectation to be satisfied. You’re not looking for a job. A reduction in your mortgage payment. A five-pound weight loss after two straight nights eating nachos. Nobody’s asking you to take a pay cut, reduce your hourly rate, or get Botox. Booze says, “Go ahead and grow old. Have a temper tantrum in public. It’s all good.”


You do it–you booze up–because you can. And, if you’re lucky, it’ll be yummy, the effects will be mild and shortlived, and it won’t grab you by the throat and drag you through crushed granite for more time than you’ve got to spend.


For me, I’m just fine, thank you. Save the fact that those 12-or-so collective sips in 48 hours have given me a headache. And this morning, I had to wrestle my way into a pair of blue jeans–and the blue jeans won (she writes, from now the comfort of black spandex). Both of which mean that drier days are on the horizon. At least for me.


Fortunately, I love coffee.

Until next time…


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