I Need A Drink

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.

Like me.

Right now.

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.

Mastitis Sucks

I’m burning up- temperature’s rising and my face is the color of a tomato. I just started antibiotics and my doctor says it will be 24-48 hours until I feel better.

Of course, I’ve convinced myself that it’s not mastitis, but a rare strain of Avian Flu I contracted when I wiped hot, fresh bird shit off of Wito’s stroller this weekend.

You gotta love hypochondria.

It’s Not A Lacoste…

But the collar is up. His daddy is so proud.

Wito’s Response To My Overly-Confident Entry

You talking shit on me? I’ll show you “predictable”…

Annnnnnd, we were back at square one last night. Good times.

The Magic Number

I’ve been chatting via email with the lovely Amanda about our newborns. Avelyn is about 2 weeks ahead of Wito so it’s been very helpful to hear what the future has in store for me from a fresh perspective. When I was in the depths of sleep-deprivation wondering if I truly had lost my mind, she told me to hang on until the 6-week mark because things would definitely improve.

Amanda, you were so right. Hell yeah.

Wito turned six weeks old last Friday. Up until Friday night, he was only sleeping between 1.5 and 3 hours at a time. And trust me, the 3-hour sleep stretches were few and far between (as the massive baggage under my eyes will prove). Well, Friday night he slept for 5 hours, Saturday night he slept for 5.5 and drum roll please…

Last night, Wito slept from 9 pm to 3:30 am.

Sweet Jebus above let your glorious love rain down on me.

I’m so happy, I’m drinking vodka on the rocks with three olives at 3:00 pm. Um, er, of COURSE, I’m not drinking vodka on the rocks with three olives at 3:00 pm. I’m a breastfeeding mother! What kind of person do you think I am? I only drink vodka on the rocks with three olives at 6:00 pm, people. Jesus.

Although, Wito? Changing your sleeping patterns on the EXACT day of your 6-week birthday? Do you have to be so damn predictable? Where’s the mystery? The intrigue? It certainly isn’t very David Copperfield of you…

I’m kidding. Jinx City. I take it back! I mean, I LOVE PREDICTABILITY! I’m sure the ladies will swoon when you call at 8:00 on the dot like you said!! No one likes a smoldering man of mystery! Schedules RULE!

When D and I both woke up last night around 2:30 am, we looked at each other and in unison, asked the age-old virgin parent question, “Do you think he’s dead?”

Of course, I mean “virgin” as in “new parent”, not “chastity belt”…I mean, how would we have made a baby? Hello? Are you out there?

Crickets.

So, we both tiptoed across the world’s creakiest wood floors into his room and stood over the crib, wide-eyed, staring at our perfectly motionless baby. Now normally, this kid is the loudest eater, sleeper, pooper, etc. But not last night. D had to put his hand on his chest ever so softly (because mother fucker, if you wake him I will shove my foot so far up your ass) to make sure he was breathing. And of course he was. So we tiptoed back to our bedroom and instead of going back to sleep, we sat there watching the clock, wondering when he would wake up.

We waited one hour. Yes, instead of resting our tired and pathetic asses, we sat around in the middle of the night waiting for our baby to wake up.

This parenting gig is unbelievable.

Life around here is so dull.

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