Sobriety, Day Three

Don't panic. I don't plan to bombard you with daily Sobriety Updates. Right now it's a new concept to me, so it's occupying a lot of my brain wattage. But soon I expect it to become more commonplace. This should allow me to think of other topics with which to amuse (or bore) you. Warning: It will probably involve dogs. Well, OK, maybe books. Or books about dogs. I guess I do occasionally think about other things, so it's possible not all of my blogs will be about sobriety, dogs, books, or dog-books. Guess we'll find out, won't we?

So. Day Three of Sobriety. Nifty. Recently, Sundays had not been on the Official DrinkFest Calendar, once I figured out that after an entire Saturday of trying to pickle as many of my internal organs as possible, it was a good idea to have a day to dry out before having to face the world again. I'm still counting it, though.

As for the gaping bloody head wound update, I was right. It's starting to itch. Have you ever noticed that any time you have a cut, a bruise, or a sunburn, that is the one part of your body that will consistently come into contact with things that will remind you, in the most painful way possible, of your vulnerability? I'm now an expert on this. Minding my own business, I'm playing Sofa Slug (which involves spending the longest possible uninterrupted periods of time immobile on the couch), when I feel the need to streeeeeeetch. Naturally, the stitchy area of my head ever so lightly brushes the back of the couch, which I would normally not even notice, but in this case causes sharp, pulsating waves of pain to engulf my entire head. If decidedly non-lady-like words also passed my lips, it is totally not my fault.

This has also happened when turning over in bed (do NOT try to use your head as a fulcrum or pivot point, even on the fluffiest of downy pillows), and when my head itches and I forget why, and then must check my "sadly-in-need-of-a-nail-fill" fingertips for signs of gore and/or stitch debris. So far, no damage done, but much unnecessary pain inflicted.

I suppose it's a good thing that I inherited my mother's thick, curly hair. If I'd gotten my dad's hair genes (bald) instead of just his Basset Hound Worthy eye bags, my head's impact with the floor may have had much more Humpty Dumpty-like results. Ew. (Not that I'd be around to deal with it.)

I've also realized wine is sneaky. In the past month or two, as the knowledge that I had a real problem with alcohol started to take shape, I began searching for excuses. Hey, it wasn't me, it was the wine! Yeah, that's it! Total plausible deniability on my part. Wine had some sort of sinister quality, something insidious and tricky, which affected me in some totally unexpected way when I drank it, and somehow manipulated me into drinking way, way too much of it!

So I thought I'd try just drinking some of Tom's Jack Daniels. I don't like it that much, so I'd only have a few, right? In theory, maybe, but in actuality I still got smashed (not literally, thankfully), if slightly less amnesic.

Hey, I used to like gin and tonic! Well, except that one night when I was in my early 20s and ate a shitload of stale bar popcorn, overindulged in gin, then had to lean out of the car in an alley and barf up something the color and consistency of wallpaper paste. Sure, sounds kinda funny (as long as it's not happening to you), but I was seriously worried at the time that I might actually choke to death on this glop. So, anyway, gin was obtained. Diet Sierra Mist was purchased, because tonic water is actually pretty icky. Ice was added, beverages were mixed (and subsequently consumed). Which reminded me of why I don't drink gin.

Massive.

Gin.

Headache.

This, of course, after becoming enormously intoxicated, in direct contrast to my Great Plan.

By this time, given the evidence gathered, I was forced to admit that the sinister, tricky, insidious quality shared by each of these beverage choices was (yeah, like you don't see this one coming)... alcohol!

Yet it took a trip to Urgent Care to stitch up my big, stupid (but covered in luxurious brunette curls) head to make me realize that. I blame the alcohol. It's tricky that way.