October 21, 1999
Make Mine A Double


I want a drink.

Specifically, I want a gin martini.  A double, or maybe a triple. Or a quadruple. I don't care. 

I don't care what variety of gin, or what brand name, or whether it's shaken or stirred, dry or wet, yin or yang ... just so long as it's strong, and it's ice cold, and it's served in one of those fancy-pants little martini glasses.

(Or in an I.V., maybe.)

And don't forget the olives: I want at least four of them. No. Wait. I want eight of them. The olives are the best part, especially after they've been marinating in the gin and vermouth for fifteen seconds or so.  As a matter of fact ... forget the martini. Give me a bucket of gin-and-vermouth-soaked OLIVES. Just so long as I can eat enough of 'em to get that warm, fuzzy, pit-of-the-stomach, forget-your-troubles c'mon-get-happy feeling.

And just so long as I can forget that this crappy, ridiculous day EVER happened.

"If I seriously thought a martini would help," David says as he navigates us through rush hour traffic toward home, "I would make you one."

I know. And he knows I know. And I know that he knows that I don't really want a drink: that what I am REALLY craving is a way to blot out a crappy, ridiculous day ...

... and that my method of blotting out "crappy, ridiculous days" for twenty-four out of the past twenty-five years was to bathe my kidneys in alcohol, preferably in cheap chablis, but occasionally with something slightly more *sophisticated*  --  like a BUCKET of OLIVES ...

... and that sometimes, in moments of extreme stress or fatigue or emotional upset, I still turn instinctively to thoughts of my old friend, alcohol. Even after a year of sobriety, I still crave that "medicinal" martini once in a while. I still dream occasionally that I open up the fridge and there's my pal, Mr. Wine Box, saying "Hiya, Secra! Let's get drunk and wreck some marriages, just for old times' sake!"

And that I still tell myself that I would stop at just ONE drink. Even though I know I wouldn't.

David understands all of this. He feels the same way occasionally. But he also knows that the craving passes. It never goes away completely ... but it passes. And eventually we come up with more appropriate (and slightly less DEATH-INDUCING) ways to deal with crappy, ridiculous days.

Beginning with acknowledging the craving, when it hits.  To each other ... but more importantly, to ourselves.

self-important blurb #1 will go HERE: yep ... that's it. that's all i have the *juice* for tonight. don't panic. i'm fine. i work for a raving lunatic, and i've had a couple of pretty awful days, right in a row. [he hands me a list of ten telephone numbers, saying that i need to get EVERY SINGLE ONE of these people on the phone right now for an incredibly important phone conference ... and then he leaves the office for the day. the whole week has been like that.]

self-important blurb #2 -- probably having something to do with the WEATHER: california actually DOES have autumn, i am pleased [and astonished] to report. details to follow, this weekend.

special *howdy* to: anyone who reads this journal entry and feels compelled to worry. don't. i know that craving a martini -- and actually stopping at the black & white for gin and vermouth -- are two entirely different things. i'll be ok.

a year ago

here's where i'll ask a *relevant* question:
help. i'm feverishly searching for other internet journals that deal with 1.) recovery issues, 2.) bosses from hell and/or 3.) ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. i need them for an article i'm writing in my "spare time" [hahahahahahahaha].

got links?

amazingly profound thought of the day:  When anyone announces to you how little they drink, you can be sure it's a regime they just started. ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald ~