R e a l i t y F i s h

As it turns out, Death Wish is an expert at sniffing out dirty diapers.

Staying the fuck out of things never helped the problem, but it also never hurt.

Robin G.: *hic*
The Wookiee: Aww. Um… boo?
Robin G.: *hic* That never works. *hic*

[ten minutes later]

Robin G.: *hic*
The Wookiee: [looking over box scores] Oh, shit… Justin Morneau broke his shoulder!
Robin G.: *strangled gasp of horror*
The Wookiee: [smiles]
Robin G.: …you bastard!
The Wookiee: Did it work?
Robin G.: *breathes* Yes. But I still hate you.
The Wookiee: Okay then.

A few nights ago I got thoroughly buzzed on a beer and a half. Buzzed enough that I woke up the next morning with a mild hangover. I laid in bed, scraped the fuzz off my tongue with my teeth, and wondered what the hell had happened to me. The girl that, by the age of 18, needed a half bottle of 60 proof to get fucked up; who could line up the tequila shots and knock them back with surgical precision; who drank eight different mixed drinks on her 21st birthday and didn’t even puke (unlike certain Wookiees I could mention).

Medication happened, that’s what.

I have battled with the sauce since I was sixteen. I do not like to use the A-word. I prefer the term “unhealthy drinking”, which means “Drinks for reasons she ought not, and is not good at only having ‘a few’.” The A-word means “Needs alcohol to make it through the day.” I have not been there, and God willing, I never will be. But the road to hell is not lined with primroses. It’s lined with martini glasses.

When I got my prescriptions, the doc looked at me as seriously as a chirpy middle-aged woman in knee-high leather boots can look and said, “No alcohol.” That lasted about 48 hours. Then I had a few glasses of sake with my sashimi, wandered out into the street, and stood in the blistering cold for ten minutes, trying to figure out where my apartment was. (It was, for the record, exactly where I left it, a block and a half away.) Since then I have taken the “Do Not Take With Alcohol” label a bit more seriously. It helps that when the meds are working, my anxiety is like a crazy great-aunt locked in the attic — I can hear her clawing at the door, but she can’t get past the deadbolt to barrel downstairs and try to stab me with a steak knife. And when my anxiety is locked away, I don’t need to have two beers to stop my hands from shaking.

I test it anyway. I have the extra beer, and I have it when I’m wound up or shaky. I have it because it tastes good and somehow seems like less of a concession than a half tablet of Klonopin. But the extra beer now comes every couple of weeks, rather than every couple of days. And that is better.

I am posting this to remind myself that it is better.

Between thinking about The House and being a touch on the side of manic, I find myself picking up paint swatches.

I’m a sucker for paints. One of the useful things to come out of being a Drama Bitch in high school, aside from a very thick skin and the ability to wield a 1×3 with deadly accuracy, is an eye and skill for paints. Ah, the endless hours of checking masking tape for bubbles, coating forty plywood boards with primer and then color, having to change the color on all forty plywood boards five days before opening night because Herr Director has had a hissy fit… how I don’t miss those days. You can’t paint that many boards, though, without learning a lot about painting. So, when I’m fidgety and bored and feel like imagining how I’d redecorate The House, I buy paint swatches and have fun. Or I play on the Ace Hardware paint site, because it’s awesome and Ace Hardware is my favorite paint store. The fact that in high school it was right next door to a cheap barbecue place in no way factored into my approval.

Spring is definitely here. I’m getting domestic.