Never Underestimate The Power of a Margarita
Posted by Moose on July 6th, 2008. Filed under: Love.(Note: The second half is far more cheerful. Feel free to skip down to the booze-y bits, if you like.)
Grief is a tricky thing. You’ll be merrily trucking along with a few blips on the pain radar, but nothing that infringes on your smug feeling of Handling Things Well and Being Brave and Moving On With Your Rather Awesome Life, Thanks. Until grief swings its book bag – containing the complete works of Nietzsche and the Encyclopedia Britannica circa 1972 – on a random Tuesday morning and clips you under the chin.
Even when the epitaph reads “We loved each other. It didn’t work out. The end”, even when you parted well, even when you both know it was for the best – you still have to wait it out while The Wringer takes up residence in your stomach, moves in its potted begonias and ugly dining room set, and forgets to pay the rent. It squats there, cranking every one of your vital organs through its stiff roller until you need to re-hydrate your kidneys with the careful application of many margaritas. THE WRINGER, IT WANTS YOU TO SUFFER. Sometimes The Wringer will take a few weeks off, lying on a beach in the Maldives without you, but it always comes back and usually when you were really looking forward to your weekend.
Apparently, the way I deal with grief is to feel guilty. Very, very guilty. For all the times I was so wrapped up in my hurt that I didn’t notice his. Or noticed it, but couldn’t offer much in the way of compassion. For not sweeping often enough. For getting so mad I chucked my cell phone at the floor. (Which = “not handling anger well” and “broken cell phone”.) For still not being entirely sure when the trash was collected because I never, not once, took it out. I am the guiltiest non-Catholic you will ever meet.
But I’m not blaming myself. People fail each other. That’s what we do. Some relationships can work through the failures, some can’t. So I’m looking at what I can do better in my next relationship (read: plenty) and trying to feel what I need to feel so I can move on. But all that hard-won understanding of How Life Works rapidly deflates when The Wringer returns from Honolulu, wilted leis around his chubby neck, rubs his hands together and says brightly, “What shall we squeeze the life from today?” Then he wraps my small intestine around his knobby fist and bites down hard.
(Was that unnecessarily graphic?)
(Sorry.)
Here’s how I know my (almost) 30 years haven’t been wasted. I still had a lovely Fourth of July weekend. I didn’t let The Wringer destroy anyone’s fun. He was very disappointed. He protested loudly until I drowned him in tequila, ice, and whatever else one puts in a margarita to make it taste so darn good.
TO MY LOVELY WEEKEND. AND THOSE MARGARITAS.
Fourth of July means sun, booze, and grilled meat. We gratefully partook of all three. I might have eaten my weight in guacamole. I definitely pickled my liver – that blender was humming merrily away all afternoon, I tell you what. My friend Erin and I may also have drunkenly registered at Crate and Barrel, hypothesizing that the only way two single girls can score themselves a red Kitchen-Aid mixer is to marry each other for the gifts. Yes, we are deep and profound souls who’ve never had a materialistic thought in the whole of our pure and innocent lives. I’m fairly sure the Crate and Barrel web site wouldn’t let me register for the matching Mini-Cooper I was talking about while lolling about in the tequila haze that makes so many close-held dreams seem possible. “I want a red convertible, and a Le Creuset roasting pan, and … a house boy.” We did manage to apply for the house boy, but that required an entirely different url.
As the sun set over the last crumbs of strawberry pie, we wandered over to Morgan Hill to watch the fireworks. We trooped out to the field, set up lawn chairs, pulled our hats over our ears, and settled down to wait. We waited. We waited some more. Someone joked about the Great Pumpkin and hoped our field was sincere enough. We kept waiting. Every so often, we heard the spark and pop of a firecracker and we’d all sit up and stare intently at the sky. Once it was determined the firecrackers were being illegally set off on a lawn somewhere, we’d go back inside for more chocolate pretzels. That might be an inaccurate use of the plural. I’m fairly sure I was the only one who kept going back inside for more chocolate pretzels.
At about 9:00, one solitary yellow flash lit the sky above the field. I skittered out of the house, mouth full of chocolate pretzels, and joined everyone in anticipation of the spectacular show we were about to witness. We sat at attention, eyes scanning the horizon for any stray colored lights. I didn’t blink for two whole minutes. We waited. Conversations kicked up again and doubt was expressed. Doubt was quickly hushed, citing the Great Pumpkin and the necessity of faith. And sincerity. I sincerely enjoyed those chocolate pretzels, so I don’t know what the problem was. Around 9:30, another firework exploded in the air above us. This one was green.
I’ll save you the suspense. And the chill night air. And the chocolate pretzels. (I finished them all anyway.) THERE WERE NO FIREWORKS. The two we saw were testing the wind, and apparently the wind wasn’t cooperating. Fire marshals were being vigilant because of all the fires and exhausted firemen (my brother and his crew just worked 19 straight 16-hour days, so…yeah) and decided to take no chances on stray sparks and their penchant for setting things aflame.
Suffice it to say, this year’s fireworks were the pyrotechnic equivalent of bad sex. Lots of anticipation for two stray pops and the overwhelming feeling of “Was that it? Is that all I get?” So you go and eat some chocolate-covered pretzels.
~~~
Tomorrow (because this sucker is getting long): The wedding, the conga line a la Rosin Coven, the bouquet with bulbs of garlic, and why I wanted to become a lesbian. (And not just for the red Kitchen-Aid.) (God, I make it sound like a food processor is the door prize for coming out.) (Um, is it flip and/or awful of me to think that would be awesome? “We didn’t give you any legal rights for years, but HERE’S A KITCHEN-AID MIXER FOR YOUR TROUBLE.”)
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July 6th, 2008 at 10:29 pm
Dude, the lezzie wedding with the veggie bouquet? CANNOT WAIT.
Also, I miss you.
Also, it’s almost your birthday, woot woot! Bring on even more margs!
July 6th, 2008 at 11:08 pm
Fried nipples!!
July 7th, 2008 at 6:04 am
excellent post Moose–unusually good writing on this one. totally chocolate-pretzel good.
July 7th, 2008 at 6:11 am
The red kitchen aid mixer makes awesome chocolate chip cookies. And bread. Yeah, I married a rich guy and I have one. But I’m almost 40 and don’t live in SF, so don’t get too envious.
July 7th, 2008 at 9:54 am
my red kitchen aid is the pride of my kitchen. yes, i registered for it and i did get it as a shower gift. best reason to get married. EVER.
July 7th, 2008 at 10:00 am
I love my mixer. My cats, however, do not. They keep peeing in the bowl. How can they not like baked goods? Oh yeah, it’s my baked goods they don’t like (just can’t seem to get it right).
July 7th, 2008 at 11:14 am
The Wringer can go to hell. It deceived me into wasting a lot of precious time, unnecessarily so, over a break up years ago.
And yes, chocolate pretzels are very healing. Okay, maybe they’re just comforting. That is sufficient.
July 7th, 2008 at 11:55 am
Here is how to get a Kitchen-Aid mixer. Do you have a rich uncle? This will help. Put the Kitchen-Aid mixer on your Amazon Wishlist (do you have an Amazon Wishlist? This will help too) and then let it sit there for YEARS. Now and then, talk vaguely (and without bitterness and hurt) about the time this rich uncle gave YOUR BROTHER two hundred pounds AT YOUR COLLEGE GRADUATION. (What did your rich uncle give you at your college graduation? Nothing.) When your rich uncle emails you a month or so before Christmas to ask if there’s anything you’d like in particular, direct him to your Amazon Wishlist. Maybe also mention the time he gave your brother two hundred pounds at your college graduation. Right after this, move all the other stuff on your Amazon wishlist (books, DVDs, anything not costing $300 and made by Kitchen-Aid) right to the bottom of the list.
Wait a week or so. I guaran-flippin’-tee you that a large box from Amazon will show up on your doorstep like clockwork. In it: a Kitchen-Aid mixer, hot pink, just like you wanted.
July 7th, 2008 at 12:19 pm
Great post! Let me count the ways I agree with you…
…(Which = “not handling anger well” and “broken cell phone”.)
I can’t tell you how many cell phones I broke before discovering that bigger = better = longer lasting battery (have yet to replace that one).
…the only way two single girls can score themselves a red Kitchen-Aid mixer is to marry each other for the gifts.
How many times have I thought this?! I’m so ready to register for a wedding to myself, a.la that Sex and the City episode I so adore.
Oh and I’d definitely be right with you on the pretzels. My friends have a running joke that the reason I pick certain activities is based on their snacking potential.
July 7th, 2008 at 12:38 pm
I tried to watch the fireworks too and saw NOTHING. I had this eerie feeling that it was a little too The Emperor Has No Clothes. Like what if the city of San Francisco came up with this GENIUS scheme to save money, which was to just not set off fireworks but to SAY that you did. GENIUS! Well, evil genius but who is counting anymore.
Mourning loves lost sucks. Don’t forget that old SATC chestnut. It takes half as long as you were going out to really be over it. Just try to relax into it and accept the good days with the bad.
July 7th, 2008 at 1:34 pm
So my 4th was super anticlimactic, too. So much so that Chris and I ditched the fireworks finale to watch a documentary on Bob Dylan.
I think my days of enjoying the Fourth of July are somewhat over. And then I remember that two Independence Days in a row I 1. nearly broke my leg falling through a dock, and 2. found out my best friend wrecked my car when I let her drive it.
So, I think maybe July 4th and I were always destined to be just friends.
July 7th, 2008 at 1:40 pm
Ah but the prize for converting someone to lesbianism is a toaster. To the converter. You can register for that mixer, but the lesbians you invite will bring toasters. Be prepared for returns!
Less than 10 miles north? Great fireworks. All sizzle and pop and bang and thug and pow-pow-pow and me all squee.
Indeed.
July 8th, 2008 at 3:36 am
Well, if you’re going to use a margarita to cure what ails you (and um, intestine biting, while graphic really just hit the entire thing home. well done) I hope you’re at least using the good stuff. When you’re suffering badly you should at least make it count.
P.S. There is very little I wouldn’t do for a Kitchenaid mixer, just sayin’. But given that being a lesbian still sucks (my roommate keeps breaking up with her girlfriends as of late) I’d rather just remain single and make 19 payments of $19.99 to get one.
July 8th, 2008 at 9:43 am
Did you know that Cuisinart makes a mixer fairly comparable in size and power to the KitchenAid? $100. Beaters are on the detachable hand mixer. It can be our engagement present. Coming over to make cookies soon?
July 8th, 2008 at 10:52 am
Stick with the Kitchenaid mixer; I’ve not always been happy with Cuisinart. I take it this puts the kabosh on any grandkids – not that there’s anything wrong with that.
July 9th, 2008 at 1:16 pm
It must have been fog in the way of your fireworks because we saw them (the SF ones along with Berkeley, Oakland, Alameda, and our neighbors’) from our house. COME TO THE EAST BAY!
July 10th, 2008 at 9:21 am
Fabulous post, from a girl who dreams about registering for things just like you. Still waiting…
July 16th, 2008 at 10:01 am
As someone who went through a similar “We loved each other. It didn’t work out. The end” breakup over a year ago, I can say it gets better…then gets bad again…then better again…then, it just IS. Ya know? Good luck.
July 22nd, 2008 at 10:26 am
I’m showing up REALLY late here, because that is sometimes what I do.
This was a great post.
In my experience, The Wringer’s visits will become less and less frequent. He will eventually get the hint that you don’t particularly ENJOY these unannounced visits, and he will stop showing up. (Even The Wringer has an ounce of pride, after all.)
I’m not sure about that “takes half as long as you dated him to get over him” rule. I don’t know, it sounds ridiculous to put any timeline on it. I say feel your grief while it’s here but as soon as it goes away — whenever that is — don’t look back.