All of my favorite mommybloggers drink. I do not drink. I am bad at drinking. I have, you know, two cocktails and then feel all sick and stupid and loquacious, and I tell stories about my dead brother, and I go home and probably puke. Also, I have no tolerance. None. And I dislike the taste of alcohol, so my drinks of choice are usually a) weak and b) made primarily of lemons. So, yes – Cranky Mama is a cheap date, but also boring as fuck. It’s a compromise.
But then I read about the clever thing Mimi Smartypants said (“…from now on whenever anyone makes a gesture or sign that I don’t fully understand, I will pretend that it means “what do you want to drink.” And I will answer them cheerfully. And they will either give me beer or walk away shaking their heads”) and once again I feel like I have missed the bus by not ever learning how to like drinking. It’s much the way I felt in high school. You know, back when you thought you’d have one beer and suddenly become all floozy and loose and life-of-the-party-like, but then you actually had a beer and it kind of tasted like socks and didn’t make you feel at all like taking off all your clothes and dancing on a coffee table, not even a little? But, whatever. I’ve tried. Believe you me, I have tried. And there are only so many times you can justify giving yourself a mild case of alcohol poisoning doing something you don’t even enjoy before you’re all whatever, I’d rather have some ice cream. Which is probably at least part of the reason I weigh roughly five thousand pounds and still appear to the casual observer to be three months pregnant. The ice cream.
My point is, I want a beer right now, and I don’t even like beer. I want some sort of mildly self-destructive hobby during which I can’t possibly be expected to wrangle a small child or perform any higher brain function. Not So is currently asleep upstairs after an afternoon of sake bombs with his coworkers, and I? I am jealous. Not of the sake bombs, but of the ability to check out. I had a job once where we were only allowed the requisite two fifteen minute breaks per eight hour shift, but since the supervisor was a smoker she would let us have unlimited smoke breaks. I don’t think I’ve ever smoked as much as I did in that job, because, seriously. Breaks = good. Not taking breaks makes people crazy.
Perhaps this would be a good time for more ice cream.
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