It’s cocktail time. Time to crack open a nice, medium-bodied (by this I mean medium-priced) bottle of red wine. With a twist off cap for easy access, of course. None of those pesky corks to slow me down.
I love this time of day. My house is as close to quiet as it ever gets. The ankle-biters are in bed. The teenager is out (it’s Friday after all). The husbands in the shower. And I’m curled like a pretzel on a red leather Ikea couch with my bottle of red handy, and I’m relishing it.
I’ve been ridiculously moody lately (which might account for why Bart is in the shower much longer than usual–either that or he’s got some “personal business” to attend to). More moody that usual, though I personally know some individuals who would dispute my ability to be “more moody.” I always find that ignoring these people, or the occasional well timed tongue-lashing helps sort them out–of course, withholding cookies and sex (depending on the audience) helps too.
Perhaps it’s the weather–it actually snowed here this morning, or perhaps it’s nearing a full moon, or perhaps it’s that I’ve been trying to wean myself off my antidepressants, but all I know is that I’m a terrible bitch.
Contrary to popular belief, it’s not all that fun being a bitch. In fact, it lacks most any kind of appeal. My family looks at me as if I’m going to grow snakes for hair to turn them all to stone. My inability to sustain a reasonable conversation without significant eye rolling and snorting has kept me from seeing or speaking to any friends (after all, I’d like to keep them). And even my reflection finds my sour-puss distasteful.
So today, after my kids carefully skirted the filthy kitchen, where I was aggressively preparing myself, and only myself, something to eat, while purposefully ignoring the sink overflowing with dishes, and my husband hastily tripped over the back doorstep terrified he was getting home hairy-eyeball late, I had an epiphany. I had reverted to my 15-year old self. I was behaving like a self-obsessed, unbearable, nauseating teenager.
Good God! What a sickening revelation! I’m my own worst nightmare. All I need is a bottle of gin hidden under my bed and it may as well be 25 years ago.
I swiftly and firmly decided not to indulge myself. I promptly took a shower (the first in 3 days), sterilized the kitchen, made a reasonably healthy bedtime snack for the nose-miners, with only 3 marshmallows each (so stop judging!), then tucked them in, popped a Wellbutrin, and without further delay, unscrewed my bottle of wine.
Thank God for age. I wouldn’t go back to high school for a billion dollars–gin gives me heartburn.