Bare Essentials

Prologue

George Clooney is also taking a break from drinking.

"To give my liver a chance to catch up," he says.

My liver would have to run the Badwater Ultramarathon to even make it to the starting line. Still, it's nice to be in such good company. George, that is, not my liver.

The last time my liver was good company was 1957, the year I met Moe. You'd know him by his Christian name, Mogen David. I was only a wee lass, but it was when I had my first encounter with that ultimate thrill-a-minute midway ride, the Slippery Slope.

It's been an exhilarating downhill careen ever since.

~ CHAPTER I ~
(Remembering Eisenhower)

In an effort to introduce a modicum of culture to the wilds of the Iron Range where they were attempting to raise a family, my parents started a tradition of pouring a wee bit o'wine for each pack member, including the wee bairns, at all festive occasions, said occasions numbering precisely three: Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter.

Thanks to centuries of 80 proof Viking blood fermenting in all nine branches of the family tree, my parents' first rule of wine was something easily opened (i.e., screwtop), despite a shared ancestral tendency to rip corks from bottles (not to mention jugular veins from the throats of enemies) with one's incisors.

(*See Appendix One for more on the canis lupus branch of the family.)

Since my first heady out-of-body experiences — compliments of the fevers which accompanied the usual childhood illnesses — I'd been searching for a way to recreate that state of sweaty nirvanic euphoria, sans the requisite 10-gauge injection of penicillin. Pushing on my eyeballs to produce those sparkly little rainbows, spinning in circles until I fell over, swilling Ovaltine ... none of it had the desired effect.

Enter, Moe. Better than the blood of conquered enemies, to be sure, but only just. And so easily opened! Which can also be said of my mouth when it came to sucking down anything remotely mind-altering, not to mention ... but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Thus Moe will forever occupy a special place in my heart, being My First.

But whoever stays with their first? Just ask George Clooney.

~ CHAPTER II ~
(Losing My Cherry)

Once I'd discovered my father's liquor cabinet (an antique free-standing buffet coffined in knotty pine and topped with an orange formica countertop, a shrine to the Sixties if ever there was one, man), I left Moe in the dust like the fledgling smalltown boozehound that I was, and moved on to more colorful pastures.

I slid from liquor cabinet rum (to this day I convulse at the sight of a Bacardi logo) to the lime-flavored vodka other high school hounds preferred (to this day I stroke out at the sight of a Scope mouthwash logo), followed one high school graduation later by jug wine, the choice of Vietnam era college hounds everywhere, which ushered in the mixed drinks phase of Legal Age, as in, You're no longer a minor hound, you're an adult hound, stick a piece of fruit in it.

I should've stayed with the fruit.

I'll lay odds no woman has ever said that about Mr. Clooney.

~ CHAPTER III ~
(Looking for Mr. Daniels)

After a brief return to that old gigolo, wine (this time in those darling stone bottles from Germany, which made those adorable containers for dried flowers, the chief reason for choking down the stuff), I embarked on a long season with Jack.

Hey, I was young (until I wasn't). My liver was laying low in a monastery blowing doobies under a vow of silence (until it began to speak). Jack felt like the grownup I'd been waiting for (until he started beating the shit out of me and the honeymoon was over).

I recovered with the help of a few one night stands — okay, three-to-four-year stands — most of them alien, all of them illegal, none of them sponge-worthy.

(*See Appendix Two for "Seinfeld" references.)

And then, one dark and stormy night, it came to me. In a vision. Literally. I was tripping, and the wallpaper spoke:

"Keep this up and you'll be toast, Lucinda."

Which isn't my name, but who's counting? I mean, you think George remembers names the next morning?

And that is how, in my fickle-hearted roundabout boozehound way, I eventually returned to my first love, Il Vino.

Rest assured this current incarnation is many wardrobes removed from shirttail-relation-seventh-cousin-thrice-removed Moe, so as to be virtually unrecognizable. But for that familiar glint in the eye, slur in the speech, tangle in the tongue one is left with after each encounter.

Which might also describe the aftermath of an encounter with Mr. Clooney. Or so I would imagine.

Epilogue

Awhile back, in an effort to purge and cleanse and start anew — it's Leap Year! — we had a new kitchen floor put in.

In preparation for this momentous event, the refrigerator needed to be moved. There were actual lifeforms growing underneath it, some of whom I recognized from high school ... but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Before moving the thing, we decided to clean it — Leap Year! — and in so doing, we also decided to throw out everything but the bare essentials.

All this purging and anewing and leaping ahead took half a day. When we were done, I took a photo. I've been using it on my desktop. Some people call it wallpaper. I call it background.

Field Data / Abstinence Study

• Trash haulers no longer making book on number of wine bottles they'll find in subject's recycling.
  
  
• Subject no longer needs Bobcat 2100 UTV to transport recycling to curb.
  
  
• Subject can find curb without asking directions.
  
  
• Subject's recycling no longer reverberates like the Angelus through neighborhood when mechanical arm slam-dunks it into truck.
  
  
• Subject's Catholic neighbors no longer cross themselves when subject's recycling is slam-dunked into truck.
  
  
• Trash haulers have started making book on number of plastic mineral water bottles they'll find in subject's recycling.
  
  
• Subject can manually carry seven to twelve recycling bags to curb simultaneously.
  
  
• Trash haulers have started manually slam-dunking subject's recycling bags into truck.
  
  
• Trash haulers have started making book on how many recycling bags can be manually slam-dunked into truck simultaneously.
  
  
• Police have cited subject's trash haulers for multiple illegal gambling operations.
  
  
• Subject embarrassed to be seen buying O'Doul's at neighborhood liquor store, disguises self as elderly woman.
  
  
• Everyone at neighborhood liquor store recognizes subject.
  
  
• To save face, subject sneaks empty O'Doul's bottles into neighbor's recycling under cover of darkness.
  
  
• Subject's face saved.
  
  
• Subject found face lying on bathroom floor, saved it, keeps it in a jar by the door.
  
  
• Subject still looks in bathroom mirror and sees Mickey Rourke.
  
  
• Subject no longer looks in bathroom mirror and sees three Mickey Rourkes.
  
  
• Subject can find bathroom without asking directions.
  
  
• Netflix has updated subject's preferred genre from "Historical Documentaries" to "Understated Emotional Dramas Featuring a Strong Female Gnome."
  
  
• Subject thinks "Gnomeo and Juliet" great example of ensemble acting.
  
  
• Subject looking forward to future release of "A Midsummer Night's Gnome."
  
  
• Subject looking forward to future.
  
  
• Odds of subject having future to look forward to recently improved.
  
  
• Subject has started making headway on road to future.
  
  
• Trash haulers have started making book on how far subject will get before asking directions.
  
  
  
  

Greatness is Within

My daughter got a punching bag for her birthday.

She killed it.

I rest my case.

Who Wants To Be A Tosspot?

Having nothing better to do, I decided to quit drinking.

A person can choke from laughing that hard, you know. Let's try that again:

Having nothing better to do, I decided to quit drinking. For thirty days. I'm "doing a 30," as the saying goes.

This is day thirteen.

The first couple of days went relatively smoothly, and after a week of such madness, I felt so smug I wanted to celebrate with a case, er, glass of wine.

This seemed inappropriate somehow, so I decided to Phone a Friend. Except all my friends are soakers, I can't remember the last time I had a sober phone conversation, nix that idea.

So I decided to Ask the Audience.

"Hon..." I purred to my husband in a voice I haven't used since the first Bush, "...are you up for a little..."

But I couldn't finish the sentence, I didn't want to raise his hopes. Among other things. For me the word "celebration" is synonymous with "drunken orgy." Plus my husband's also doing a 30 — the family that detoxes together, etc. — what good is he.

All I had left was the Fifty-Fifty option. But deciding between a case of beer and a case of wine seemed, once again, inappropriate. I was at my wit's end. Literally. I had one wit left. And it was nonalcoholic. What's a rummy to do?

I took my remaining wit and my mineral water and located the nearest TV/Barcalounger combo, where I planted my dipsomaniacal ass and channeled Netflix. After seven hours of indecision, I Rokued "Two Weeks in Hell" and "Aryan Brotherhood Behind Bars" and settled in.

Sometime the following day I emerged, sober as the day I was born, which is pretty much the last time that happened. Between the Green Berets training program and a seemingly endless stream of humongous white tattooed shitbags, I'd had my fix. What this particular fix says about me, I don't want to know, but suffice to say I was loaded for beer, er, bear.

Which is a saying I utterly loathe. How about loaded for tea partiers? Loaded for teetotalers? Loaded for tea drinkers? Better yet, just make it loaded and let the party begin.

Believe me, "party" takes on a whole new meaning when you're doing a 30. (See above-mentioned Netflix selections.) For decades I've been accustomed to raising a few whenever life presents one of those special occasions, i.e., birthdays, weddings, funerals, Thursdays, daylight. Raising a few juice boxes to toast the weather, or the arrival of the mail, just doesn't cut the mustard.

Speaking of which, I've had some interesting cravings these past two weeks, mustard being one. Also salt, oregano, tofu, PAM, Crest White Strips and duct tape. Most unusual of all, I had an uncontrollable urge for an O'Doul's last Friday. Which, I'm happy to report, I was valiantly able to overcome, lest I actually be seen buying the stuff. My god, I still have my pride.

For an old boozer like myself, this is proving to be a cathartic experience. Not to mention lucrative. For the first time since becoming an adult (a person can choke from laughing that hard, you know), I suddenly have disposable income. Typically most of my income gets disposed down the nearest toilet — one doesn't buy beer, one borrows it — but now, here I am, swimming in cash! Frontcrawling, backstroking, deadmansfloating in it! What's a lush to do?

I opted for distraction. Is that one of the Lifelines? It should be.

I pocketed my booty and grabbed the car keys and headed out, not to my friendly neighborhood liquor store — my home away from home where everybody knows my name — but to my friendly neighborhood grocery store, where I planted myself in the produce section and harvested as many fresh citrus fruits (and a couple sticks of celery) as a shopping basket could hold.

Which I dutifully lugged through checkout while "My Name Is Wanda! How Can I Help You!" eyed the abundance of lemons and limes and peered at me as if to ask,

"Is that your final answer?"

No need to let Wanda in on my nasty little secret — I utterly loathe fruit! — so I gave her an acidic smile and loaded my purchases like wayward cue balls into my earth-friendly pockets.

Trust me on this, doing a 30 is not one of life's special occasions. When it comes to the excess citrus, I'm simply stockpiling for the next such special occasion: February. Because, as the saying goes, when life gives you lemons...make margaritas!

Hola! Seventeen days to go.

Old School

My daughter requested a punching bag for her birthday. My husband asked me where we should hang it.

"How about around my neck," I said.

She wanted it for Christmas, but Christmas came and went with nary a punching bag in sight.

When her aunties asked what their niece wanted for Christmas, I didn't hesitate.

"Plastic," I said, conjuring that guy from "The Graduate."

They obliged with a deluge of gift/credit cards that made the pack that attacked Alice look like runoff. Christmas was two weeks ago, I haven't seen my daughter since. But she texts regularly from various coordinates in the mall.




Now it's her birthday, we're back to square one. Not to worry, not that square one. I'm happy to report my daughter's been speaking to me for several months now, and has assured me she's canceled the hit man. Whew. Apparently you can take out a contract on just about anyone these days through Facebook, or is it Ebay? Whatever, technology rocks.

Some people get their rocks off pounding the shit out of inanimate objects — my dream of meeting Michelle Bachmann in a dark alley some day comes to mind — and more power to them. I, however, am old school. I prefer pounding the shit out of myself. Less collateral damage.

In this matter my daughter is also old school — she prefers pounding the shit out of me, too. Or, rather, she used to. Her request for a punching bag is a sure sign of impending maturity (Google "transference"). Although until today, she reminded me regularly of that "impending" status.

"Mom," she said, "I'm still fifteen, no one will hire me."

All I did was wonder aloud if she could handle a fulltime job in addition to homework and Hulu, is that too much to ask?

"You're a sophomore," I said, "it's so...sophomoric. Plus, do you really need eight hours of sleep a night? Can't you get by with, say, three or four? Like Bill Clinton? And make up for it on the weekend?"

It was just after this conversation that my daughter put in her request for a piece of boxing apparatus. Did I mention we've been communicating better lately?




But that was then, this is today. The cat's out of the bag, Pandora's out of the box, the eagle flies on Friday — my daughter has turned Sixteen! I never thought I'd see the day. Don't get me wrong, I knew she'd see the day. I just figured I'd be pushing daisies by the time it arrived.

I remember the day I turned Sixteen! as if it were yesterday. Make that yestercentury. In those days it was customary to give a girl a special gift to mark the occasion. My parents gave me a ring, my best friend gave me a book of poetry, my boyfriend gave me a hickey the size of Iowa. I'm just saying. Maybe I can't remember if I put on underwear this morning, but my longterm memory is still intact. I know what Sixteen!-year-olds are like. It scares the shit out of me.

So regarding my daughter's (Sixteenth!) birthday: while the days of lockets and watches and rings may be behind us, I just can't wrap what's left of my mind around the idea of a punching bag. Or a Planned Parenthood gift card. Or a fifth of vodka. For me. What's a mother to do?

For awhile I considered giving her a surprise party.

"No one's ever given me a fucking surprise party," I said, and my husband said, surprised,

"So give yourself one!"

Except life's just one big fucking surprise party after another, am I wrong? Looks like it's back to square one. But not to worry, not that square one. My daughter's Sixteen!, parties are old school. She's discovered plastic. Call it square two.

Time to paws...

...and begin again.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

What is the Beautiful?

Truce

Recently a good friend of ours was hospitalized with a stroke, and it gave those of us of a certain "era" pause. The good news is that our friend not only survived this frightening incident, but his prognosis is for a full recovery, in spite of his having spent an intense two weeks in surgical ICU with a hole in his head, from which a tube drained blood and spinal fluid away but, thankfully, not his excellent mind.

During those two weeks, his friends and family kept track of him on Caring Bridge, a website devoted to connecting people regarding health matters. There we could read daily journal entries, view photos, make tributes, or, if we chose, post to a guestbook.

By the time our friend was released from the hospital, his guestbook had risen to well over 200 posts, and given that he's a journalist, the posts from colleagues made for some great reading. These, alas, were scattered in amongst the usual plethora of God-centric outpourings, and after skimming a few dozen of the latter, I began to wonder if any of those people ever got up off their knees.

Still, I was reminded of W.C. Fields, a lifelong atheist, who, as the story goes, asked for a Bible on his death bed, and when questioned about this, explained that he was "looking for loopholes." Every man for himself when it comes to staring into the abyss, I say.

My husband, however, took great umbrage to the whole set-up.

"When I keel over," he huffed, "don't you dare put me on fucking Caring Bridge."

"You won't have much say in the matter," I snorted, "you'll be fucking keeled over."

"You mean you won't honor my last wishes?" he demanded.

"Who says they're your last?" I retorted. "Miracles do happen."

"I don't believe in no miracles," he grumbled, "and neither do you."

"What does that have to do with letting your loved ones know the score?" I countered.

"I don't have any loved ones," he responded.

"You'd be surprised," I cautioned. "In a crisis, loved ones come out of the woodwork, there's a loved one under every rock."

"That's just what I mean," he complained. "I don't want some wayward loved one praying for me and 'sharing' it on some fucking website."

We paused momentarily in this grumbling/countering/complaining. Something had gotten my husband's goat, and now that the goat was out of the garage, it was too late to lower the door. Whatever.

After awhile, my husband shrugged.

"Okay, have it your way," he acquiesced. "When I keel over, set up a Caring Bridge site, I don't give a fuck. But don't you dare allow a guestbook."

"I don't think you'll have a choice," I pointed out. "I think it's part of the package."

"There will be no fucking guestbook!" he inveighed. "It'll make me even sicker having to read all that drivel!"

"But think of our friend's guestbook," I mused, "there were so many great postings."

"That guy has talented, interesting, intelligent friends," he admonished, "their comments offset all that religious crap."

"Now you've gone and insulted our...other friend," I warned. "I mean, you think after your brush with death, there'll be 237 posts on your guestbook? Think again, Bubba."

"But I won't have a fucking guestbook!" he emphasized.

"We'll just see about that," I chided. "Come to think of it, maybe I'll open my own Caring Bridge site. Then well-wishers can sympathize with me for having to deal with a fruitcake like you! Whatta ya think of them apples?"

"When I keel over," he muttered, "you'll be at my bedside 24-7, you won't have time to go around opening websites."

"Whatta ya mean, 'I'll be at your bedside'?" I mimicked. "This is the ICU, don't forget. There's nothing I can do, my hands are tied, it's all up to the doctors now. I'll be down at the bar."

My husband stared at me.

"What?" I scoffed.

"Hospitals don't have bars," he sighed. "Cafeterias, coffee shops, gift shops...no bars."

"Well, what kind of fucked up deal is that?" I bellyached. "Who needs coffee at a time like this? A couple stiff bumps is more like it."

"I'd say you got a couple stiff bumps," he observed, "on your head."

Which brought us back around to the recent matter involving our friend's head, which gave us pause, which made us feel like a couple of muttering/mimicking/bellyaching assholes for carrying on while our friend was recovering from having just spent two weeks in ICU with a hole in his head, not to be confused with the holes in our heads which, I might add, have been there considerably longer and show no signs of closing up any time soon.

I stood up. Did I mention we'd been sitting around the Christmas tree?

"Truce?" I asked.

"For instance?" he wondered.

"How's about a little Christmas cheer?" I offered.

"How's about, 'Two-Four-Six-Eight! Meetcha at the Pearly Gate!'..." he suggested.

"That's not what I meant," I replied. "Besides, you don't believe in no pearly gate."

"I'm talking about a drink," he corrected. "There's gotta be a drink by that name."

"I'll Google it," I promised. "In the meantime, how's about a couple stiff bumps?"

"Just what the doctor ordered," he agreed, and resumed Christmas-tree-gazing.

Meanwhile, out in the starless night, the snow careened mercilessly around a nearby streetlight.