I decided to get drunk last night – because that is what writers do! They get drink and let it all fucking go and in that aspect of my career, I am sadly far, far behind.
TheHusband and I have a pretty well stocked bar at Throbbing Manor and we never, ever partake. Like ever. There are loads of reason for this, ranging from alcoholism in our individual family histories to my bipolar. Neither of us have cultivated a taste for alcohol “just because” we like the taste, it was always about getting drunk; this attitude ruled much of our 20s.
But I’m 42 now. Adult. Need to step up the game. Get serious about letting go and learning how to handle my alcohol much more responsibly than I did back then. That’s why I made sure to bring up some delights from home for my writing retreat.
So it was entirely in the realms of the possible I start mixing myself white russians while waiting for the 42 year old stove take 1023984102938 minutes to boil some goddamn pasta for my dinner.
(TheDrunk informed me last night via Facebook I made the amateur mistake of carbing up before drinking. One should only do that if they are planning on a day long binge, like beer fests.)
During all of this, I decided I really needed to hear Aphex Twin. Which turned into me mixing a 33 song set, while regaling people on the Internets of g-d nearly every song, lyric, and dance moves coupled with stories behind songs I was choosing. I even started ranting about TheEx for a bit with the thought if I ever saw him again, six years on now, I’d rip his testicles off and shove them down his throat.
I’ve totally grown up and gotten over my anger — I didn’t use the word “balls.”
You will note Aphex Twin is not anywhere on the list.
I spent a lot of time “singing” and “dancing” around the cabin, with the blinds wide open on the and not giving two fucks. And I’m using quotes here because shit starts moving when in places you don’t expect when one dances. So I decided to tell the world that, and then this happened.
I sort of got clued in around 2AM that I was not the least bit tired, I was ready for yet another glass of my magic potion, and I could continue mixing my love song to the 90s tape for a few more hours.
So of course I was probably manic. Durr.
To wind the night down, I decided to make a Vine to prove the darkness of the night and in the background, you can hear the BZZZZZZZ of the cherry orchard equipment running at 2 goddamn in the AM. They are fertilizing and or picking cherries, according TheHusband.
(Sorry, the Vine autostarts!)
[iframe class=”vine-embed” src=”https://vine.co/v/MQ1udVrD3pT/embed/postcard” width=”600″ height=”600″ frameborder=”0″]
Hilarity: I had to google how to use Vine because I am old and forgetful.
There is something infinitely freeing about just letting it all the fuck go. Not getting sloppy drunk, or getting maudlin drunk (though that was close to happen there for a hot second, but I pulled out of it).
I woke up this morning with nary a trace of a hung over, while it was probably the carbs and the gallons of water I drunk before bed, I’m giving thanks to my Scottish ancestry for stepping up like woah, lassie.
Time for tea.
This past week was chocked full with unprecedented social behaviour.
Sunday, TheHusband and I had dinner with TheDrunk and her husband then headed out to see Skinny Lister at the Intersection.
Tuesday, I had lunch my last, while still employed, work lunch with Work Husband #3.
Thursday, library staff took me out to lunch on my very last day and that night, TheHusband and I saw Ben Harper and Charlie Musselwhite play at Meijer Gardens. After, we had a late dinner in which I tried to drink my weight in margaritas.
Friday, TheDrunk picked me to hang with her, her husband, and their friend Becky and Pete for unbelievably cheap happy hour at Gippers, where happy hour lasts eight hours. $2.50 for a pint of Perrin Black? Yes please.
Saturday, my brother texted Friday night to see if we wanted to go boating with him on Saturday. YES PLEASE. We spent six or seven hours drinking, sunning, and hopping in and out of Lake Michigan.
Our price for all of this normal, human social activity behaviour? TheHusband and I are too sunburned to touch the other. Despite multiple layers of broad spectrum 30 and 50 SPF throughout the day Saturday, the only thing not burned is our lips and the palm of our hands (and my belly). So instead of rubbing or hugging, we’ve been high-fiving each other all day long.
YOLO. (And why I’m never, ever leaving the house again.)
After having dinner with TheDrunk and her husband last night, TheHusband and I headed out to see Skinny Lister, a British punk folk band, as our first concert of the summer season. TheHusband discovered them via NPR’s All Songs Considered, and they fast became a house favorite.
The band is best known for punk rock variations of sea shanties, such as their take on the nearly 200 year old shanty, John Kanaka:
Once we got to the club, things got a bit awkward. There were maybe, MAYBE, including the band members themselves, about 50 people in attendance. But neither the opening band, The Bangups, a local two piece outfit, or Skinny Lister themselves seemed to care if they were playing 50 people or a thousand, they both gave great shows. I drank more cider than what was good for me and used TheHusband as my maypole as I danced around him.
As I’m always trying to support indie people as much as possible, make sure to go pick up Skinny Lister’s first album as their second one is dropping soon.
I had forgotten how much I loved the intimacy of smaller venues. When we saw Elbow at the House of Blues in Chicago in May, there were easily 1000 people packed ass to stomach, tit to back. It was kind of terrible ($6 cans of Miller Lite! $50 to have a barstool! To fucking hot!) and wonderful (Elbow! Guy Garvey!) at the same time.
Where was I? Oh yes, drunk on cider, dancing the maypole around TheHusband to punk rock sea shanties. Coupled with the great dinner we had with TheDrunk and her husband, we had a fantastic night.
The night was planning on getting better because last night was the return of True Blood, which was patiently waiting for us on the DVR when we got home. Coddling a water bottle to keep myself dehydrated before I conked out, we got caught up in the hot mess that is Bon Temps.
Time is ticking away at its normal pace, but it feels slow and here I am.