As I ignore the implication of massive martini usage, even though the thought does cross
my mind several times in a twenty four hour period, I’m hardly what I would call a heavy
drinker. Being a full time loadie would only qualify me a membership with the Rat Pack.
Seeing as they aren’t around to hold me up, I’ll proceed to fend for myself.
As a woman with a need to unwind, this responsible merrymaker does not need to relinquish her many cork crafted art pieces and Vodka bottle vases. And why should I be targeted anyway when there are about three trillion other women walking this earth who adore the fermented sedatives themselves. I don’t know what more I could possibly do to not be port, pilsner, or Patron possessed. I can’t help it if people say I’m wide eyed and bushy tailed when they reference my falling into some shrubbery. I lost my balance. Perhaps I lost my balance after being out with my happy hour girlfriends. And of all the liquor licensed joints in all the towns in all of north San Diego county, my neighbor had to see me out-shining myself, and left me dumbstruck by some of her sentiments. My friends love me no matter how much I embarrass them, because they appreciate my gosh darn brilliant style of expression. As for divulging those rather genius qualities, because I don’t need to do it through a thesis and attending four years at Brown University, I’m going with the off chance that I’ll not run into my neighbor again when I moonwalk on her lawn.
I totally believe in the detoxification system. That’s why I began the regime of sloughing
off dead skin cells and moisturizing more often, but had to stop that when the street light
in front of me turned green. I’ll be perfectly honest here. People have seen me silly, and almost never sloppy. My parents had cocktails every night. But they had ten kids. I would have a cocktail every hour on the hour. Now if you find me asking to borrow your phone and I start singing Walk Like An Egyptian while dialing Cairo, then I’d say it’s cause for concern.
Let me tell you a little story about when some alcohol saved me…
It was a beautiful summer weekend with not a cloud in the sky. A gal pal introduced me
to the island of Catalina. Now since I was native Michigander, I wasn’t accustomed to this much water. Even the Great Lakes don’t have this much water. On the day we were to return home, we weren’t able to take the first boat back and had to wait for the afternoon ferry. In the few hours we waited, the winds picked up and the sky turned dauntingly deep gray. A humdinger of a rainstorm let loose, as did the surging of the sea displaying gigantic swells. It ignited the fear that we would be embarking on the ride of our lives. I kept visualizing myself either submerging into the intense darkness of the Pacific never to be found again, or becoming the next stranded castaway on Gilligan’s Island. We, the landlubbers, went to the boat dock and asked the experts if any of their seafaring ships ever sank. They said, “Not in fifty years.” They could have said NEVER. One girl told us to go to the pharmacy and buy Dramamine and we would be fine. Now I’m not advocating drugs mixed with alcohol by any means, unless your life depends on it. We bought the motion sickness relief, AND looked for a place that sold anything spiked. We found one such a place, and were satisfied with our double dose of remedy relief HECKWITHITOL. Because we almost didn’t make the ferry after having too much fun straining our vocal chords by trying to stay pitch perfect with Billie Holliday and her ever so appropriate rendition of Stormy Weather. After Name That Tune, we became unscathed mariners and boarded the vessel as it swayed to and fro with waves flying high on each side. We rocked the whole way home pretty happy while watching attendants pass out puke bags. I felt the urge to further strain my larynx by singing, “How dry I am, how wet I’ll be, if I should die, within this sea.”
Another voyage that caused an arrhythmic heartbeat was a Boston trip I took with a
different girlfriend. Her job gave her such perks as extravagant all inclusive trips, so in
turn I had the perk of being her friend who could go with her. At one point we were
waiting for a Hyannis Harbor cruise, sitting outside a pub with the President of American
Express himself who generously bought us drinks. I wondered how coherent he was when he pulled out a Discover card to pay the bill. We weren’t plowed, but we sure were smiley sailors among the hundreds ready to ride this ferry. We got to our seats and began the water tour when somebody got their hands on the ship’s microphone. I heard a man’s voice say, “Patty Clark?” I looked around in astonishment. “Patty Clark, don’t you remember me?” What were the odds of another Patty Clark? I’m looking rather puzzled at this point as the voice continued to razz me. After several minutes of trying to connect a face to the voice, I realized the trickster who just happened to pick me out of the crowd, had seen my name on my name tag when I boarded ship. He was just a teasing sea captain trying to jumpstart his comedic career. I’m sure Nat King Cole would have given me three thumbs up for playing along with my off key response of, “Yes, I remember you, you’re the one who made all my dreams come true a few bedrolls ago!”
What can I say. I like to unwind, AND sing.