It’s Saturday afternoon, and my house is peaceful enough that I’m actually enjoying the cats weaving between my feet in the kitchen while I’m trying to cook. Usually, even the people in the house can’t get by with that kind of proximity. But cooking just now is striking me as a leisurely activity — I’m steaming my broccoli, zucchini, and carrots for the week, and it’s become such a rote thing that I can now actually blog while I do it. And ignore cats, apparently. I’m freakin’ zen, y’all.
It’s five o’clock nowhere, but I’m standing here seriously pondering the virtues of getting liquored up while I cook. I’m supposed to go to a meet-up at 6:00 with about twenty people I barely know and my sister (in-law), who (as you may or may not know) I love. Truth be told, I’m going for her, though I also (kind of) know a few of these people from high school. I’m figuring that my sweet sister will get busy visiting with folks (many of whom she considers family) and I’ll be left wondering what the hell to do with myself. Thus the early contemplation of booze. My dear husband was initially planning to go with me to this shindig so I’d have a fallback person (I’m pretty sure this is why people get married), but he’s asleep after working all night, and I’m not inclined to get him up early. He had eye surgery this week, and it literally looks like he was punched in the face. I’m sure he’s in pain, plus, I don’t really want to spend the evening occupied with assuring people I barely know that I did not punch my husband in the eyeball for smarting off. I mean, if he was normal, I wouldn’t have to ever say these kinds of things, but he isn’t (not at all), and I’m forced to grin stupidly and shake my head in the direction of my towering giant of a spouse in some kind of mocking gesture that I hope says as if! or see this dumbass? I married him because I loved him beyond reason.
My youngest brother became a first-time father last night. The baby will be my fourth nephew; I also have two nieces. All of us kids are step-parents, but until last night, J and I were the only ones who didn’t also have biological children. Now I’m alone in that, and at 43, my biological clock has long been sounding a lot like pounding, overwhelming, disgusting death metal. I’m unbelievably happy for my brother, but beneath the surface, I’m also pretty sad. Since I was 12 years old, I only ever wanted to be a mom; I guess it just wasn’t in the cards. I’m a killer aunt though. Seriously. And my sister (in-law) has always been great about sharing her kid with me. (She calls her “our girl.” As in, “you’re not going to believe what our girl did yesterday.” She’s now 13, and though she almost entirely grew up with me six-hundred-and-some miles away, my sister swears the kid acts more like me than her.)
Anyway. When shit gets a little real, I fantasize about getting sloshed while I’m steaming my broccoli. It makes me feel better even though I’m too old to drink much anymore. Plus, I’m the child of an alcoholic so I really shouldn’t, and I’m trying to watch my calories, which means that all the really tasty drinks are now way out of my league anyway. The best I could do and still stay within the budget is eat nothing but vegetables for supper; then at least I’d have room for two or three shots. Not that I’d want to take them…that shit’s nasty without a mixer.