It's 12:47 p.m. on a
Friday afternoon, and I'm already thinking about a martini.
Here's what I'm
thinking. I'm thinking that I WANT one, first of all. Even three
and a half years into sobriety, I still
experience the occasional martini jones after a sucky day. Right now
I'm thinking about how pleasant it would be to leave the office a
little early this afternoon -- say, somewhere around 12:48 p.m. or so
-- and go home and get into my comfy clothes and fix myself a nice
ice-cold gin martini with extra olives. It hasn't simply been a sucky
day: it's been a spectacularly sucky week.
(As if you
couldn't tell by the
dyspeptic tone of my last three or four journal entries.) I'm
that it would be nice to sit back and put my feet up on a coffee table
and sip on a martini ... forgetting all about Boring Logs and *Yuck
Molecules* and broken closet doors and people treating me like I'm just
a little bit stoopid.
I'm also thinking this:
I'm thinking that maybe I need a martini for medicinal purposes.
I'm in the throes
of a hormonal maelstrom this week. It's always bad, of course, but
this month it's been particularly brutal. The
72 Hours From Hell
squared. I'm thinking that the silky, soothing embrace of gin and
vermouth might be just the thing I need to alleviate my tension and
my physical discomfort.
I'm thinking, also, that I've
a martini. (See: Sucky
Week/Hormonal Maelstrom.) I'm thinking that anyone who can sit
sixteen hours of Geotechnical Engineering Materials Testing software
training without killing somebody totally dead has not only earned a
martini, but by rights somebody ought to make the damn thing FOR her.
(Stirred, not shaken
And of course I'm
thinking that I deserve
a martini. I've made it into the Diarist Award Hall
forcryingoutloud! If that doesn't merit a celebration, what does?
But here's what else I'm
thinking: I'm thinking that I don't actually want a martini. What I
want is a BUCKET
of martinis. One martini wouldn't get
me where I need to be. Not even close. One martini would merely tickle
the *Oh Whut The Hell* center of my addled little addict's brain. If
I'm going to have a martini, I'm going to have ten martinis, please.
Better yet: just give me
the pitcher ... and a straw.
Of course, I'm going to
need some back-up alcohol. Even *I* can't drink gin all night: that's a
6 a.m. pukefest, just waiting to happen. When I'm finished drinking
martinis for the evening, but I want to keep that nice light floaty
feeling going for a while longer, I'll probably need to switch to
something more benign. Beer is good. Cheap white wine on ice is better.
I can drink gallons of the stuff and remain vertical almost to the very
end of the evening.
Then once I'm feeling
sufficiently lubed and loquacious -- and
once I've managed to convince David to join me, which shouldn't be all
that difficult: I'll just hand him a vodka and Coke and say "Here you
go" -- then the fun can begin in earnest!
- I can drag out the Alice
in Chains CD and play "Again" ... again and again and again!
- I can sign onto AOL for
the first time in three months and start randomly i.m.'ng people! ("Hiya,
CanMan253! You still 'separated'?")
- I can go upstairs and
beat up Upstairs Neighbor Guy!
- I can pick up the phone
and start calling people! My ex-boyfriend in Oregon ... my
ex-boyfriend in Pittsburgh ... my ex-boyfriend in Australia ... my mom
... my first grade piano teacher ... whoever will accept the charges,
- As long as I'm in
*Calling-People Mode,* I can call The Tots and promise to buy
each a new CAR!
- I can light the wrong
end of my cigarette!
- I can spill my drink!
- I can accidentally set
something on fire!
- I can fall down! Twice!
- I can pick a fight with
David over something ridiculous -- "You're
giving off that 'I-know-everything' vibe again"
-- and we can allow it to escalate into a full-blown
knock-down-drag-out marital war. We can call each other "Bitch" and
"Asshole," and slam doors a lot, and start throwing stuff at each
other. (Grandma's antique canning jars might be good.) I could
wedding ring off my finger and toss it out the window. He could make
insulting remarks about my mother. And then when we've finally finally
run out of steam -- and alcohol -- we could cry and hug and apologize
and have soggy drunken make-up sex that neither one of us remembers in
- I can spend all day
tomorrow in the BATHROOM
... instead of on my bike!
The funny thing is that
when I break it down this way, all of a sudden it isn't sounding like
something I want or
need. In fact, what I'm thinking now is that maybe I'll settle for a
V-8 instead ... and a back rub.
Have a great weekend,
P.S. A sincere,
non-smarty-pants *thank you*
for the Legacy Award ... it means a lot. Stee
are both incredibly gifted writers, and I am honored to be included in
their company. Thank you.
throw a rock