By: Ann Brown
I drove my drunk neighbor home last night. She told me that she knew she could count on me. This is so depressing.
It’s not so much that she and her husband got shit-faced at a school auction, and that they spent over five grand on all sorts of lucre that I won’t even be able to borrow (backstage passes to concerts, artwork). And it’s not even that she was an adorable drunk – happy (“I think I am very drunk”), self-effacing (“I think I am very drunk”), introspective (“I think I am very drunk”) and a sparkling conversationalist (“Am I very drunk?”). I mean, God bless the young drinkers. They are funding our locals schools, waving their auction paddles in the air, thinking they are ordering another round for the table when they are actually bidding fourteen hundred dollars for a one-day zoo pass and pizza lunch.
Someone at my table offered two grand for my unfinished salad. There’s just nothing wrong with heavy drinking at school auctions. In fact, the NEA might want to take note of this post when PBS funding is up for a vote again. Cheap booze, readily available. The paddles practically raise themselves. I’m just saying.
My issue is that Heather called me at 8 fucking thirty this morning to thank me for driving her home.
I was asleep, of course, drooling into my bite guard and dreaming about strong coffee and hip replacement surgery. I squinted at the Caller ID, saw it was Heather and picked up because I was worried she and her husband were too sick or something to care for their kids. Instead, I hear this chipper, “good morning!” and that same adorable laughter that rang out of my car window all the way down the 205 freeway last night, singing out, “I was only supposed to spend two HUNDRED dollars tonight!”
I croaked to her, “you sound good this morning. How are you feeling?”
She didn’t even understand the question. Evidently, drinking your weight in alcohol and falling asleep on the living room floor does not necessarily preclude a restful sleep and the ability to pop up at seven o’clock with your kids, make them breakfast and then go for a run.
And that just pisses me the fuck off.
I drank very little last night, got eight hours’ of sleep and I am the one dragging my fat old ass around the house this morning – limping (I have no idea why), burping, headache, and no recollection of how a dollar bill got into my bra. I am sitting at my desk this morning, rubbing my forehead and trying to decide whether I should take my nap before or after lunch.
Heather just went jogging by. If she waves to me I will give her the finger. Just for being young.
So, with my 57th birthday just around the corner, I am making a resolution. Starting today, I am not going to go gently into this good morning. No reason that I should be shuffling around, popping Advil, watching the world go jogging by. I am not going to be the old biddy who has one champagne cocktail, wears sensible shoes and drives the life of the party home.
The world is my (kosher) oyster. I can whip myself up into shape; exercise, lay off the hooch and the carbs, shower regularly and not try to pretend the blood dried to my toes from last week’s toenail accident is red nail polish.
Or I can stop answering my phone at 8:30 on a Sunday morning and carry on as before.
I’ll let you know after my nap.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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