I really do.
And not just one drink. Lots of drinks. Copious amounts of drinks.
I’ve done the obligatory one glass of wine with dinner or maybe even a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale while watching my Fantasy Football team dominate on Sundays (although, Shaun Alexander, breaking the foot is not cool. NOT. COOL. And, um, did I just hear you say that prayer healed your foot in less than a week? Because if so, Praise Sweet Jebus. Amen.) Of course, I always have my one drink directly after nursing so it can work it’s way through my body before feeding again. So responsible, I know.
But lately I have been waxing nostalgic about the good ol’ days of being blatantly over-served and ending the night either 1) passed out, 2) crying, 3) eating something viciously old from the refrigerator and waking up surrounded by the remnants in my bed, 4) attempting roundhouse kicks on large houseplants or 5) shooting holes in my wall with a pellet gun.
Now, don’t get your pantaloons in a wad. You don’t need to stage an intervention. I just think some people need a little inebriated fun now and again.
As I laid in bed this morning with the Keflex wreaking havoc on my gastrointestinal system, I reminded myself of drunken times in the past. Before the sleep deprivation. Before the fevers and antibiotics. Before the red hot potato boobies. Oh so long ago…
Like my trip to Montana. The night before we rocked the Ponderosa Saloon, my family enjoyed multiple libations at my grandparents’ home that led to my interpretive dance session to the vocal stylings of Louis Prima while my grandparents watched in utter delight and/or disgust. I’m not quite sure- they were very blurry at the time. I’m pretty sure it was delight, as they had tied on a couple themselves. After all, it was my grandmother who passed down her immense love of vodka to yours truly. Gotta love genetics.
Later that evening, my sister Lala and I decided to perfect a duet of Endless Love. We hooked up the dual headphone jack to the iPod (yes, Endless Love is on my iPod, suckas)- I took Diana, Lala took Lionel, and we sang the shit out of that song for probably 2 hours. It was messy, people. Singing along to a song on a stereo system is one thing, but singing at the top of your lungs while listening to headphones is entirely different. Innocent bystanders can’t hear the music. They can only hear your drunken feeble attempts of mastering what people might call “harmony”.
Oh, but we were so serious. I do believe we both were doing the Christina-Aguilera-holding-the-eardrum-closed to find that perfect pitch (which was nowhere, and I mean NO WHERE, to be found) with our eyes squeezed shut and clenched fists. I think I recall looking at Lala, grabbing her hand (borderline tears in the eyes), and said in a hushed tone, “We are really good. Really good.”
We then called the rest of the family members into the bedroom, performed our duet (keep in mind HEADPHONES PEOPLE, THEY COULDN’T HEAR THE MUSIC), and I do hazily recall looks of concern from most of the audience. When we were finished, they suggested we should keep on perfecting the song, but maybe outside in the cool air. We were so drunk we had no clue they were trying desperately to get us the hell out of the house. So outside we went, singing the same song over and fucking over, while the coyotes howled and bears flung themselves from trees trying to commit suicide. Ah, good times.
Little did I know that Endless Love would find it’s way back to me later on that year during a visit from my parents. D and I took them to The Royal Hawaiian, which is famous for their Lapu drinks. These drinks are served in large fishbowl glasses and are rumored to have 9 shots in each one. I’m not sure about the 9 shots, but LSD? Maybe…because, God as my witness, they make you completely batshit insane.
Well, we each had one, and then decided it would be fun to split two more between the four of us.
Bad idea. Very bad idea.
We ended up back at my home, smoking 80 trillion cigarettes (none of us smoke) while dancing to Motown hits from the 1960’s. Well, the inevitable happened, and it was time for duets. My father and I chose Endless Love.
I don’t even want to begin discussing how sick and wrong a father/daughter duet of Endless Love is, but hey remember, DRUNK! And possibly on LSD!
Well, we sang it. Over and over, we sang Endless Love while the neighbors cursed our name and hurled tomatoes at our porch (that might have been the LSD working it’s magic). But we had no actual audience! Both D and my mom had passed out on the couch…what party poopers.
Anyhoo, that night ended with a mostly one-sided conversation between my father and I in which I explained (in pain-staking detail complete with sobbing dramatics) why the world would never be the same without the genius that was Jeff Buckley.
Oh, as a side note, my father later found out the pesky lingering sore throat he experienced since that fateful night of duets was actual damage to his vocal chords. What can we say? We’re non-discriminatory drinkers. It’s not just brain cells we destroy; we welcome any body part to join in the destruction!
Ahhh, livin’ la vida loca. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my boob just exploded.