Habits

This was something of an action packed weekend.  Most of Saturday was spent puttering around the house getting things done.  Not quite hardcore Saturday cleaning, but like checking things off the ole to-do list.  Dishwasher repair man came, lots of laundry, shopping for today, general productivity. Lots of spending time with Alden hashing out, forgiving and discussing Friday's episode.

Last night it was my intention to have a relaxing late dinner, with a little sangria, then get moving around 11, and do some early prep for today's visit.  We were to bring a Greek salad, a key lime pie, cookies, homemade pickles, and DeMarco's pizza bread.  Normally, I am so on top of that shit, I would have had everything done, and ready to whisk off to Toms River.  Last night, I was so burned out from a trying, anxious, horrible week, that I really wanted a relaxing evening under the stars, with one drink.  Not drinking, just a glass of sangria to sip.

Then, at 10 pm, as we were finishing up the beverage, and idly munching on some pretzels, preparing to go back in and start mincing onions, a friend showed up.  Dressed to the nines.  She knows we hit the bar every Saturday and was ready to rock and roll.  She hung out with us, finishing the sangria, and acting kind of antsy.  I really wasn't dressed, but we were like "sigh, hell, let's go." It was close to midnight, and we figured a few beers wouldn't ruin the night.  I still really didn't have a mind to drink.  There were only a few people there, all friends, no strangers, and the moment we walked in, there were shouts, cheers, and the drinks started pouring in, literally.  They bought me a shot. The bartender poured two fingers of Jim Beam.  They bought me a beer. Then fronted me another.  We bought a round.  Another shot.

Fast forward to Last Call, and I was edging from tipsy to drunk.  Then, we resumed sitting outside, and Bill moseyed over after he was done closing up, and sat with us for a while, chatting.  Somehow, I found myself with another drink in hand.  There's always a little rational tiny voice in my head, when I'm drinking.  It only gets obliterated when I move from drunk to fucked up. It coldly says "just one beer...that's all you were gonna have, not shots. what the fuck."  I woke up feeling extremely hung over, and saying the same thing to myself out loud.

I used to be a beer at dinner, once a week maybe, kind of girl.  I'd only really have more, once every few months, and then we'd really deliberately tie one on.  Never thought of myself as a heavy drinker. Now we have the bar, and all the culture that surrounds it.  Good friends there, the happiness of walking into a place and everyone going "YAY YOU FINALLY GOT HERE!!"  It seriously feels good.  It's always awesome to be accepted, loved, part of something.  It's just sometimes difficult, when that all comes with copious whiskey.  Once every few months has evolved into every Saturday night. Nursing a few beers all night evolved into "a shot of Jim for me, and whatever my friend over here wants!".  All this, plus the beer with dinner after a particularly rough weekday.  Sometimes, especially now, with all the current bullshit anxieties with the house...that rough day is two or three.

After mulling all this over, I've decided that it's fine to cut loose once a week.  It's good for Irv, who needs the bar environment, and male friends he can sort of hang with.  It's good for me, both for the tarot business, and just for social reasons. It's nice to have acquaintances.  Good food, great people.  It's decidedly all around a positive environment.  Moderation is it, here. I feel like I want to reign in the hard booze, and go back to nursing the beer.  I've also decided to cut the weekday drinking.  No need. I enjoy the taste of good beers, exploring and discovering new things, but my leisurely sipping at a bomber of stout is a Sunday thing.  Both the Saturday night over-indulgence, and the once a week beer evolving into a 3 nights a week beer, worry me, on different levels.