March 1, 2002
Martini Jones

It's 12:47 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and I'm already thinking about a martini.

Here's what I'm thinking.  I'm thinking that I WANT one, first of all. Even three and a half years into sobriety, I still experience the occasional martini jones after a sucky day. Right now I'm thinking about how pleasant it would be to leave the office a little early this afternoon -- say, somewhere around 12:48 p.m. or so -- and go home and get into my comfy clothes and fix myself a nice ice-cold gin martini with extra olives. It hasn't simply been a sucky day: it's been a spectacularly sucky week.  (As if you couldn't tell by the dyspeptic tone of my last three or four journal entries.)  I'm thinking that it would be nice to sit back and put my feet up on a coffee table and sip on a martini ... forgetting all about Boring Logs and *Yuck Molecules* and broken closet doors and people treating me like I'm just a little bit stoopid.

I'm also thinking this: I'm thinking  that maybe I need a martini for medicinal purposes. I'm in the throes of a hormonal maelstrom this week. It's always bad, of course, but this month it's been particularly brutal. The 72 Hours From Hell squared. I'm thinking that the silky, soothing embrace of gin and vermouth might be just the thing I need to alleviate my tension and my physical discomfort.  

I'm thinking, also, that I've certainly earned a martini. (See: Sucky Week/Hormonal Maelstrom.)  I'm thinking that anyone who can sit through sixteen hours of Geotechnical Engineering Materials Testing software training without killing somebody totally dead has not only earned a martini, but by rights somebody ought to make the damn thing FOR her.

(Stirred, not shaken please.)

And of course I'm thinking that I deserve a martini. I've made it into the Diarist Award Hall of Fame, forcryingoutloud! If that doesn't merit a celebration, what does?

But here's what else I'm thinking: I'm thinking that I don't actually want a martini. What I want is a BUCKET of martinis. One martini wouldn't get me where I need to be. Not even close. One martini would merely tickle the *Oh Whut The Hell* center of my addled little addict's brain. If I'm going to have a martini, I'm going to have ten martinis, please.

Better yet: just give me the pitcher ... and a straw.

Of course, I'm going to need some back-up alcohol. Even *I* can't drink gin all night: that's a 6 a.m. pukefest, just waiting to happen. When I'm finished drinking martinis for the evening, but I want to keep that nice light floaty feeling going for a while longer,  I'll probably need to switch to something more benign. Beer is good. Cheap white wine on ice is better. I can drink gallons of the stuff and remain vertical almost to the very end of the evening.

Then once I'm feeling sufficiently lubed and loquacious -- and once I've managed to convince David to join me, which shouldn't be all that difficult: I'll just hand him a vodka and Coke and say "Here you go" -- then the fun can begin in earnest!

  • I can drag out the Alice in Chains CD and play "Again" ... again and again and again!
  • I can sign onto AOL for the first time in three months and start randomly i.m.'ng people!  ("Hiya, CanMan253! You still 'separated'?")
  • I can go upstairs and beat up Upstairs Neighbor Guy!
  • I can pick up the phone and start calling people!  My ex-boyfriend in Oregon ... my ex-boyfriend in Pittsburgh ... my ex-boyfriend in Australia ... my mom ... my first grade piano teacher ... whoever will accept the charges, basically.
  • As long as I'm in *Calling-People Mode,*  I can call The Tots and promise to buy them each a new CAR!
  • I can light the wrong end of my cigarette!
  • I can spill my drink!
  • I can accidentally set something on fire!
  • I can fall down! Twice!
  • I can pick a fight with David over something ridiculous -- "You're giving off that 'I-know-everything' vibe again" -- and we can allow it to escalate into a full-blown knock-down-drag-out marital war. We can call each other "Bitch" and "Asshole," and slam doors a lot, and start throwing stuff at each other. (Grandma's antique canning jars might be good.)  I could yank my wedding ring off my finger and toss it out the window. He could make insulting remarks about my mother. And then when we've finally finally run out of steam -- and alcohol -- we could cry and hug and apologize and have soggy drunken make-up sex that neither one of us remembers in the morning!
  • I can spend all day tomorrow in the BATHROOM ... instead of on my bike!

The funny thing is that when I break it down this way, all of a sudden it isn't sounding like something I want or need. In fact, what I'm thinking now is that maybe I'll settle for a V-8 instead ... and a back rub.

Have a great weekend, everybody.

P.S. A sincere, non-smarty-pants *thank you* for the Legacy Award ... it means a lot. Stee and Renee are both incredibly gifted writers, and I am honored to be included in their company. Thank you.

next        previous        home        archives        throw a rock    

© secraterri 1998-2002
all rights reversed reserved!
comments/questions/spelling corrections HERE
~ nil bastardum carborundum ~

but i can still have the OLIVES ... right?