Makin' Mama Proud

A long time ago, in a land far, far away (aka, high school)  I coined the phrase "rat booty." 

Here's the definition:

rat booty, (n.): been everywhere, done everything, carrying lice.

Or maybe plague.

You get the point. And if you don't, well, you're probably my mother. In which case I would like to take a moment to say:

Hi, Mom, you might want to skip this post because you raised me better than this. Seriously. You did. And I don't want you to have to start questioning your parenting now. Not after all these years. I mean, I'm thirty-four for Hank's sake, and I haven't done any prison time, or even jail, and all my babies gots the same daddy and I've never been on Springer, so, yeah, just skip this post. You'll sleep better.

 Now that we've got that out of the way.

I've made up a lot of sayings in my time, some of which occasionally make their way to prime time television. Now, like the telephone and electricity and other useful inventions, maybe the time was just right and other people lit up with the same ideas as me at the same time and they invented phrases like "I love your guts" or "rocket surgery" (actually, that last one was Mr. Poppins but we're two-who-became-one now so I don't mind taking credit), or things like that. I'd write down more if I could remember them offhand, which I can't, because I had a baby a few years ago and that really wrecked what was previously a beautiful mind.

Take that however you want. Just don't try to make me stop talking to the voices. They are my friends.

Shhh. I'm listening.

And, no, I'm not going to tell you what the voices say. Those are private conversations.

Okay.

Anyway, I used to swear a lot. I got that from my mom. She used to swear a lot, too. She doesn't really anymore. I don't either. At first, I stopped because it shocked Mr. Poppins. Then I forgot how. Seriously. Now sometimes I can remember a single word and repeat it over and over but I have a hard time using cuss words creatively in context. I'm a little sad about that.

I think vices make people interesting. Oh, not the run of the mill, boring ones that lots of people have like alcohol, drugs, and chocolate. No one cares about those. I'm talking about the vices that don't come with a support group. Things like meat poking at the grocery store and popping other people's bubble wrap. Or compulsive rectal temperature taking.

Whatever.

I may have mentioned that I tried alcoholism but I couldn't make it work. Mostly because I just couldn't remember to drink alcohol and even when I did remember I couldn't get past the first drink and I kept forgetting to leave the house and find a bar.

But I loved the idea of it, you know, that when the going got tough and Secret Lulu was on tantrum number fifty-two of the day and I burnt both the pot pies and my finger,  I could yell "I'm outta here," slam the door, jump in the car, gun the engine, and find the nearest bar with an understanding bartender and cable. I imagined staring quietly into my beer while other people took care of my responsibilities, peeking up occasionally to watch a few minutes of Cheers, maybe becoming a regular so that, like Norm, when I walked into the bar everyone would greet me like a long lost cousin.

That was a really appealing fantasy. Only like I said, I couldn't make it work. I'm just not nearly as into alcohol as I am vanilla coke zero. And I'm kind of agoraphobic.

But if that weren't the case, then it might really be cool.

Right now, the vice closest to my heart is staring at the wall. I can just zone out. And it doesn't have to be a horizontal wall either. I'm flexible. I can stare at the ceiling, too. Only sometimes, it stares back and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Yesterday I noticed something. When I was younger, about two-thirds of the age I am now, The Dol and I would go out dancing. We opened the bars and got home before eleven most nights. We both really love getting a full eight hours. Anyway, the DJ would play all of our favorite songs because, hey, we were the only ones there, and we'd get free drinks. Only The Dol was usually designated driver and so she just got free soda.

I had this litmus test for how far along I was with drinking. If I went to the bathroom and could still hover, I was fine. If I sat down on the public toilet, I was good for maybe one more drink. If I sat down for a spell and had a little rest, I cut myself off. I mean, even when inebriated, I knew that feeling soooo comfortable that I just wanted to have a little nap  while sitting on a barroom toilet was a clear sign of having reached my limit. For the most part, with a couple of regrettably, humiliatingly memorable exceptions, this method of pacing myself worked out great.

I call this method the "bar toilet index" and, in my opinion, it is as accurate as a breathalyzer.

Only, yesterday, I sat down to tinkle (TMI, I know, but it's impossible to tell the story without it) and I found myself having that exact same barroom toilet comfy feeling, which was odd because I hadn't been drinking. Just staring at the wall.

And I wonder, what does that mean, that I can be past my limit on not-a-drop in the middle of the day at my own house? I asked the voices, but they've got nothing.

 

Comments

[Bookgirl]

If I remember correctly, you coined that term in response to my heartbreak over a girl who had the unmitigated nerve to sleep with the guy I was pretending not to like... One of the many reasons you make such a great friend. You were also fabulous at being openly, publicly rude to someone who had done absolutely nothing to you, but had hurt my feelings.

[Diosa]

Long live the HBP! We were a little bit evil.