Day Two: Winos

Catchy blog title, right? I struggled a little with this mostly because I kept deleting text instead of striking through it. Also, I’m pretty sure I went over the allotted 30 minutes.

Prompt: There are two types of people: drunks and survivors of drunks. Which are you?

I never saw my parents drink or express any desire to drink until I was in high school. Drinking and alcohol were pretty foreign to me; reserved for tales my grandparents told me about their young days, boisterous stories told by my Navy veteran uncle, and in whisperings of failed marriages.

I remember the day that it all changed; well not the exact day, but the place. The Sam’s Club in dusty, flat, waiting-for-another-oil-boom Odessa. Even though I was old enough to stay at home I always enjoyed those trips, mostly because it meant the possibility of buying a cheap paperback.

This time, before heading to the checkout lanes my parents detoured to the wine aisle. It was a foreign space to me and to my parents. They walked slowly up and down the aisle and stood around, seemingly confused by the plethora of chardonnay, shiraz, pinot, and malbec options.

The anger inside of me was quick, fierce, and (looking back at it now) comical. A fury burned in me guided by the fact that my parents did NOT drink. “Why are you even looking at this stuff? You don’t even know what it is,” I remember hissing at my parents. I remember a very distinct look, one of surprise, confusion, and mild amusement. They ignored me, and I huffed away across the aisle to the books and magazines.

That day we went home with a bot I went home empty handed and my parents with a bottle of some nondescript red wine. It sat underneath the kitchen sink for the longest time. “Right where it belonged,” I thought “with the other poisonous substances.” What a foolish girl.

Since my quest to stop them from purchasing the bottle didn’t work I changed tactics: proclaiming what had transpired to the high heavens. Well, not really; maybe just to my family.

I spent so much time hounding them about it that I never really paid attention to when they opened it. I remember one day opening the fridge and seeing it; unceremoniously jammed into a nook with the ranch dressing, half-used jars of pickles, and array of jams and jellies. It stayed there for a good, long while.

I took my first sip of alcohol a few years later, as a junior in high school. I was working at Texas Burger with a bunch of kids that were more worldly than I was. I was invited to go cruising down the drag (out of pity?!)stopping at the 7-11 to get a pack of beer–Coors Light. (one of the girls was over 21). By the time I drank a sip it was lukewarm, looked like piss and tanged all the way down my throat.

 

 

Writing Challenge

Prior to leaving on my Costa Rica trip, I jotted down several writing prompts from “642 Things to Write About” which my brother gave me for Christmas. I had planned to write everyday, but I didn’t; at least not in regards to the prompts.

In my attempt to become a better writer, jump start my creativity, and find a healthy outlet to stress I have decided to engage in a little experiment. Blog one prompt a day for the next 60 days. A few ground rules:

  1. Pick the prompt at random; basically open the book up and write on the first prompt I see
  2. Do not delete anything. Crossing out is allowed. This will help to engage my stream of conscious while also helping me see my own creative process.
  3. Write on each prompt for 30 minutes

Start date: Monday, June 16, 2014
End date: Tuesday, August 14, 2014 (three days before my 29th birthday!)

See y’all on Monday!

SOC 1: “You Can’t Kill Me, Look at all the Witnesses!”: An Unlikely Love Story

A (hopefully) ongoing series. 

Although I’ve totally disregarded this blog I have jotted down stories, ideas, prompts,etc. This story is from months ago; when I was still in the Ham. Instead of cleaning it up I’ve decided that this will be the first installment of my Stream-of-Conciousness entries. I don’t doubt that there are grammatical errors, but the objective is to just put my stuff out there as a way to see how my thought process works and, hopefully, evolves. So, without further delay SOC 1

“You Can’t Kill Me, Look at all the Witnesses!” An Unlikely (True) Love Story

Setting: Birmingham, AL 

I’m sixty percent positive that this story occurred sometime in October – November of last year. Why? Because I was studying for my comps. Okay, back to the outdoor B&N patio. As I sat down I noticed a guy sitting at the next table over. Not one for quiet, private conversations he was jabbering with an unknown person on the other side of the all important phone. A few minutes of awkward conversation later, he abruptly excused himself, hung up, and gazed up. I followed his gaze and looked to my left; ever the (non creepy) people watcher. Entrance cue: a somewhat overdressed young lady, with blonde hair (not making any generalizations here, mind you), a bowling ball bag purse, sunnies, and a phone riveted to her hand. 

“Oh! Look at all the people here! You can’t kill me!” were the first words that excitedly, and loudly, came out of her mouth as she  walked towards (clearly) psychopath man. Obviously, this isn’t exactly the normal greeting; even in the genteel and civilized South. “Strange,” I thought until she mentioned something about showing up late. The relationship between them was fuzzy, undefined, and intriguing. It turns out that I was eavesdropping on an initial blind-date (ish) meet-up. A very awkward, not in the “aww you’re cute so I’m flabbergasted and nervous” way but in the “run, dude, run” way. 

Okay, so maybe by now you’ve figured out that this isn’t a typical love story. In fact, the odds are high that this isn’t a love story at all. Shall we continue? 

The entire date/coffee meet-up was way awkward. First of all there was no coffee. In a span of a few minutes the guy–and the entire patio–learned that Bowling Bag chick was undergoing a round of chemo, was wearing a wig, and was late because she had been yakking on the phone with her friend. Poor guy just sat there and listened to her barrage of nonsensical information. After a while BBC started fishing for compliments. The poor guy just didn’t. get . the. hint and, thankfully, she eventually gave up.

Another awkward moment was when she asked the guy to, please, take off his sunglasses. Like a gentleman (with no regard for his eyes–the sun, man!) he acquiesced to her request. However, when he asked her to do the same she refused. Now, perhaps a cancer patient can’t subject her sensitive little peepers to the sun, but, then again she was outside on the patio, in a shoulder-baring sundress. Either way, it was a bit rude and certainly uncomfortably awkward for all involved (including the innocent bystander, me). 

I gotta say, though, the most awkward part of this meet-up was the fact that she kept repeating the following two statements:

  • “You can’t kill me because there are a lot of people around!” Variation: “You can’t abduct me, look at all the people that would witness it!”. 
  • “I was afraid you were a psychopath and would be all weird and stuff!” Note: she never actually rescinded the idea of him being a psycho.

Looking back at it, I’m pretty sure Bowling Ball Chemo Lady was the psycho. Now, I’m not a guy– although I do like to say that like them, I have commitment phobia, but that’s another story for another time, and for another audience (like my shrink)–but common sense tells me that at this point the guy should have run. Yep, you read that right. Should have. But, he didn’t. Said guy was either really smitten with psycho lady or, as my uncle said, “A poor, poor bastard whose emotions and wits fail to comprehend that now, is the time to run”. 

The relationship is going to go far, I can tell. However, dear reader, I had enough common man sense to pack my bag and get as far away from the train wreck in front of me.