Moose in the Kitchen

What possessed me to drink three ciders at the beach last night? Did you know that cider has alcohol? It does. Rather a lot of it. The devil alcohol, that which shall never pass my lips again. I will become a Temperance Spitfire of Old, tromping into bars in my sensible shoes and going Carrie Nation with a large axe. That is, until I forget about my indiscreet overindulgence and have four cocktails. This sweet oblivion of forgetfulness will take at least 36 hours. At the moment (that moment being 5:35 in the bleeding a.m. if you were wondering), the alcohol is pounding its way out of my cranium with a rusty crowbar. A rusty crowbar that’s been marinating in a primordial soup of bile-feeding worms. Primitive invertebrates that are currently crawling down my throat to dismantle my spleen.

Moral of the story: the cider was not a stellar idea. The summer solstice bonfire was. And the firecrackers that exploded over our heads courtesy of the fire to the right. The cop who warned us to “hide our alcohol better next time.” (The alcohol was hidden; it was my drunken weaving and inappropriate use of a lampshade that gave us away.) Listening to a wind-up short wave radio while being told “This song reminds me of my first kiss” and stifling my “This song reminds me of the oldies station” reply. All the Doritos were definitely a good idea. Drum circles (fire to the left) are never a good idea but I generously decided that drum circles are permissable between the hours of 8:00 p.m. to midnight on the summer and winter solstices. Any other attempts will be heartily berated. Which means Hippie Hill is toast next weekend. They’ll meet the business end of my temperance axe before I confiscate their pot.

I’m becoming ornery in my old age. If I’m this cranky about (relatively) innocent drum circles when I’m 27, what will it be like when I’m 67? If I had a lawn, you bet I’d be waiting in the shadows of the porch to shout “Get yourself and your damn good mood off my damn lawn!” In this neighborhood I have to settle for “Get yourself and your damn heroin off my damn driveway!” The grumpy appeal of this is somewhat lessened by the altogether more cranky addicts yelling back. I’m crazy but not yet crazy enough to compete in that arena.

It’s getting light out. My opportunities for restorative slumber are shrinking by the minute. Perhaps it’s time to add to the chorus of snores.

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More from the sleepless:

My Carrie Nation scheme is in the final stages. The hatchet and sensible shoes have been purchased, now all I need is a pair of spectacles and an evil case of dyspepsia.

I plan to single-handedly return us to the Prohibition era. Because if I’m not disciplined enough to keep away from the demon alcohol, everyone should suffer. So look for me and my axe in a bar near you.

The idea of swinging a sharp, heavy tool into a shelf of liquor bottles is strangely spirit-lifting. (Spirit lifting, get it? I kill me.) I’m feeling rather chipper. Rising at the unholy hour of 4 a.m. is strangely bracing. At quarter to 7:00. By noon, I’m going to be back on my Demon Alcohol kick because I am exhausted and unable to leave the confines of Need To Earn a Paycheck. But for now, I am enjoying writing and getting things done and the very real possibility that I will make myself a healthy breakfast and have time to sit and enjoy it while perusing the paper. Or my blogs, because we don’t get the paper. And, actually, a healthy breakfast means eggs with pepperjack cheese, lots of bacon and even more coffee. Oh, yes. Feeling better already.

Please excuse me while I enjoy the two productive hours I have left before squinting into the cold, hard light of “16 more hours before I can do a faceplant on the bed while still wearing my glasses.”

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1. The Hapless Wonder Triumphs!