When Life Gets Tough, The TeeTotalers Don’t Quite Get Drunk

Sometimes life gets a little rough.  It happens to all of us, no matter our social status.  Sometimes life gets so damn rough that even a teetotaler like me can succumb to a wee nip now and then.  (Notice I say wee nip here, with the emphasis on wee.)

Come inside my kitchen of an evening.  It’s a particularly lousy evening that follows a day full of utter catastrophe, dread, trauma, anxiety, frustration, and every other negative adjective you can think of.  In a few words, it was just one of those days.  Okay, in fact, it went beyond just one of those days.  It was more like the apocalypse.    

I stand before my kitchen counter watching as my husband finishes the last bites of dinner.  He glances up on occasion to find me staring at him.  Finally, he can take no more of the silent stare.  He lifts his head and says with his signature smile, “What?”

“Honey…I’ve decided,” I announce with conviction.

His fork lowers to his plate, his smile wavers just a tad, and a nearly undetectable, “uh-oh” forms on his lips.

“I’m getting drunk!”

He laughs.

“No, seriously, I am.  I’ve had me a day, and I’ve decided if other people can come home and shake it off with a beer, then so can I.”

“Except that beer part, right?” my husband says.

I consider this for a moment.  There’s a reason why I call beer Rotten Sneaker Juice in my book Blackwater.  Mainly because…well, it does taste something like what one might expect Rotten Sneaker Juice to taste like.

“Okay, so…maybe not beer.  How about wine?”

What’s left of my husband’s dinner is now completely forgotten as he gives me his full attention.  Our dog Mooch takes this opportunity to inch closer to the table as she stares at the few morsels left on his plate. 

“Hun, you hate wine…and beer…and…every kind of alcohol.”

“Yeah, so.  I can change my mind if I want to.  Don’t we have some wine left over from the store?  That organic stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s try it.”

My husband is the sweetest man on the planet, so he dutifully gets up and rummages around in the kitchen looking for the aforementioned bottle of wine.  I’ve never opened a bottle of wine before, so I leave him to this task.  Meanwhile, I nab his plate off the table and scrape the leftovers into Mooch’s bowl, much to her delight.  She wags her tump in gratitude and digs in.  I give her a brief pat and then take my husband’s plate into the kitchen.  He’s struggling to get the bottle opener to dig into the cork.  I pat him on the rump and start loading the dishwasher.

“It’s not chilled, you know,” he comments.

“That’s okay,” I call over my shoulder. “It will still do the trick.”

By the time I finish the dishes, he has the wine bottle open.  I give him a hug and reach for my glass.  He hands me a thimble.  Perplexed, my fingers pause in midair as I stare at this tiny thimble.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

“Your wine glass,” he answers, smiling his beautiful smile.

(Did I mention that my husband is seriously funny?)

As I’m laughing my ass off, my husband sets the thimble on the counter and proceeds to try and pour wine into it.  Most of the wine goes all over the counter.  When he’s finished making a huge mess, he again holds the thimble out for me to take.

I hesitate.  “Um…hun…you didn’t wash that.  I don’t know whose finger has been in that thimble.  You really want me to drink from an unwashed finger holder?”

With a groan, he pours the tiny portion of wine into the sink, washes the thimble out, and starts the process all over again. 

“Where’s yours?” I want to know as I take the newly cleaned thimble from him.

He lifts a glass off the counter and shows me his portion, which is about equal to one sip.

“Okay, here goes, hun.  We’re definitely going to get drunk.”

“Bottoms up,” he chimes.

I finish off my thimble in one…er…lick…while he tosses his one sip down the hatch.  We stare at each other for a moment of silence.

“Yuck,” we say at exactly the same time.  (We do that sort of thing.  I often say that my husband and I are like twins, we share a brain, and maybe even a soul.)

I set the thimble down on the counter.  “Oh, god, my head feels funny.  I think I have to go lay down.”  (Yes, I say lay not lie.  Hey, I am a hick, you know.)

My husband follows me down the hallway.  He’s laughing…I think.  I’m busy holding my swimmy head.  I plop onto the bed, my husband gets in the other side, and Mooch clumsily piles in with us.

“Oh, god, what was I thinking?” I moan, still holding my head.  “I feel funny.  Not good.”

My husband is still laughing.

“It’s not funny.  Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Me? Stop you?” he says.  “Since when can I keep you from doing anything you set your mind to?”

“I don’t know.  Always,” I moan.

“Never, “ he corrects me.

“Am I gonna have a hangover, ‘cuz I really don’t want a hangover.”

“Hun, it was a thimble full.  It will pass in about two seconds.”

“You think?”

“I think.”

“Don’t ever let me get drunk again.  Promise?”

My husband just laughs.  He does that a lot since hooking up with me.  I hope that’s a good sign.

Copyright 2008  C. D. Blizzard  

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Profile, and Broken.

Go To: www.cdblizzard.com