The job has been terrible. Mitchell dumped a large project on top of my already large workload and every day has been a struggle not to drown. That it was nothing either of us had planned doesn’t give me more hours in my day. Fortunately, I’ve been adhering to a strict regimen of Warsteiner Dunkel at Fritz & Franz’s Oktoberfest to keep me sane. Infant cow rendered into bratwurst, sauerkraut, beer pretzels, blondes in short skirts and low-cut shirts with puffy sleeves, bearing the gifts of cleavage and refills – what’s not to love?
Before I started drinking five years ago, I didn’t realize different alcohol could have different effects. Red wine hits me like a mild ecstasy pill (warning and advice, ladies). Martinis go right to my head, without affecting my speech or coordination. I’m buzzing but still able to make pithy, witty, Oscar Wilde-type observations. Beer is all aboard the drunk train. “Boisterous” is the term we’ve come to use for my loud, childish behavior under the influence of beer.
I took Hilldawg out on Tuesday to get her beered up, help her forget she just got laid off. A few more friends showed up and we left feeling good. Then I biked home and cried hysterically for no discernable reason. The separation really is like a death, hitting me at the oddest moments, when I’m so sure I’m done mourning.
Wednesday, same deal at Fritz & Franz, only more so. It took a few hours of farting around online before I was sober enough to bike home and watch Superbad.
Nights like those are bittersweet. Within all the fun, I know there’s no way I’ll be writing in the morning. After drinking, a five a.m. alarm is a joke. My whole day will feel off because I didn’t work for myself in the morning before the job, and the job will be awful because I slept in and the work didn’t do itself while I was slacking off.
Thursday night, some friends and I attended a fundraiser for Lauren’s Light at the Miami Improv called Lighten Up. I paid $20 for raffle tickets and won a $25 gift certificate for Guadalajara. We ate, drank, and watched some very funny stand-up comics. They kept thanking us for our contributions, but it didn’t feel like charity at all. There were beautiful women there and I flirted copiously, but I only had eyes for Anastasia (not her real name). Unfortunately, I had no flirts for her. Letting this whole man-woman square dance happen naturally can be poetic, but I get around her and become a mannequin.
Friday was a dark day. Work was terrible for everyone. None of us felt like a third day of Oktoberfest, knowing it would be more crowded. I forced myself to go, and forced myself to force others to follow. The crowd was thick and loud. Two friends left after one beer. I wasn’t supposed to drink with the friend who remained. Keeping pace with a problem drinker is no way to start a weekend, but I did it. The horror, the horror.
It’s exciting, not knowing where my day will end, agreeing to whatever anyone wants to do. Now I wonder about my motivations. I tell myself I’m taking the move slowly, but come on. Getting drunk or staying out late, ensuring I’ll do nothing responsible when I get home - have I been delaying and denying my new life?
Friday night, I had a dream. The Treehouse was finished. Everything stored, hung, cleaned, etc. etc. I woke enflamed to activity.
Hanging picture rails, drilling holes, assembling lamps, these things take more time than I thought. Also, I went out to a movie and drinks with Hilldawg on Saturday night. Then Sunday, I rescued my artwork from going into storage by giving it to friends. They used the word honored, as in, “I’d be honored to display your artwork in my home.” The honor is mine. That someone would like my paintings enough to want to look at them all day, in their homes? Wow.
Sunday night, Hillary had a barbeque. I got to grill, drink, and talk shit with friends until the wee hours. When I got home at four a.m., my column lamp was still only one third assembled. I finished putting it together and drifted off around five. After work Monday, I finished the rest, sometime after midnight. There are still purchases to be made and projects to be done, but I am home at last.
I’m still discovering how that feels.
Hullo you,
ReplyDelete'Bringing the gifts of cleavage and refills'?
I laughed out loud, and have been giggling and smiling across the last half hour. Superb! An absolute classic.... thank you.
I love the way language linked with wry observation can be both so visual and so unexpectedly personal, pulling you to a place, a person and a moment.
I see flashes of my own past, newly alone and working determinedly, consciously filling time with beer and buddies to avoid that time spent alone where to be honest I was a scary and depressing prospect.
I also found that I was on a rollercoaster of not wanting to be near another woman or looking for anywhere just to empty the boulders or simply to hold someone. I had to resist becoming a user of the opposite sex for my own sanity I think. More guilt was all I needed at the time. - Sorry by the way, not suggesting thats you, just remembering.
I too was prone to periods of frantic activity or neglect in claiming my space and defining the single me. Something you absolutely want and dont want in equally deperates measure.
{frantic neglect? Thats a subject for me to ponder later...}
Blogging wasn't available at that time so I resorted to very bad poetry writing. I found it again several months ago and came to the conclusion that technology had let me down.
Blogging would have been much better. I'm a really shitty poet!
regards.........Al.
Thanks, Al. It's not been easy, but it hasn't been dull.
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