Friday afternoon, I come into my office and on my computer is a note from Keith telling me that his computer and liquor are in his gym bag and will I take them home.
And be careful to treat the bag gently because he doesn't want anything to happen to his liquor.
A big, full bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.
Good to know he has his priorities straight.
Last evening, Sunday, while watching the season premiere of The Simpsons (which was not all that good, if you want my opinion) I glanced over to Keith's desk, and noticed the big bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum was sitting on top of it.
But it was no longer a big, full bottle Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.
It was now a big, empty bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum.
I don't even want to know if he drank all of it by himself.
Keith was, for the longest time, a shy, quiet, reflective young man.
He spent time in his room playing World of Warcraft, doing homework, spending hours with his Mama.
Until he started working at the theater.
Then my shy, quiet, reflective young man because a social animal.
Out all the time.
Drinking.
Smoking pot.
He goes to work, attends all his classes, spends lots of time studying, gets good grades, never asks for money, is still reflective, so I don't see that there is too much I can complain about.
In fact, the first time he ever found himself in the inebriated state, he comes home and as soon as I wake up and head downstairs, he meets me at the bottom of the stairs.
He says, "I want you to know that I got drunk last night. I have a hangover now, but I didn't want to go to bed until I told you."
Tell me, please, where is the fault????
Every first he has told me about.
Why?
Because he loves his mother so much that he feels compelled to share every intimate detail of his life with her?
No.
Because he knows I'll find out, so he may as well be the one to tell me, rather than have the story distored through the incorrect telling of another person.
Another person like Meredyth.
Because while Keith tells me everything he has done, he had the common sense to tell me enough to know what happened, but not enough to make me question his sanity.
His sister, on the other hand, delights in sharing with me all the details Keith wishes to remain hidden among his close-knit circle of friends.
Growing up, I could tell my parents somethings but not everything.
At least nothing major.
So I am thrilled that Keith feels he can share everything with me.
For example, I never told my mother and father about the first time I found myself in the throes of too much alcohol.
My parents had spent three years living in Germany, when my father was in the military.
This provided them, and many armed forces personnel with the opportunity to travel throughout Europe.
In fact, had my mother not insisted on boarding a plane to Canada when she was 8 1/2 months pregnant with me, I may have been born a German citizen.
Along with me, my parents brought many things back with them from Germany, including the practice of letting children have a small glass of wine, or other alcholic libation, during special occasions.
Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my parents would bring out the "good" dishes, including the wine glasses and my brother and I would be allowed a half a glass of wine.
And my mother thought the post-dinner antics were the result of too much cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.
Our wine consumption was tickety-boo until the Christmas we spent at my grandmother's house.
My grandmother, as far as I know, was not much of a drinker.
In fact, if memory serves, she was very much against taking the odd alcoholic tipple.
But that never stopped my father.
(In fact, little stopped him when it came to my grandmother. They had a mutual dislike for one another.)
He brought a bottle of wine, poured glasses for himself, my mother, and my grandmother's second husband.
He sat down.
And I, with all the indignity my under-10-year-old-self could muster, I demanded to know where my glass of wine was.
I didn't get my half-glass of wine.
But I did get a swift kick under the table from my father.
A pinch on my leg from my mother.
And the death stare from my grandmother.
I was 15.
My best friend was turning 16.
We were at her "cool" aunt and uncle's house. The first thing her Uncle said to me when I walked through the back door was , "DON'T get drunk."
One beer.
Okay, but I wasn't seeing the appeal. What was it about this beverage that was so enticing.
Two beers.
Better. I'm starting to realize how come people may find themselves beguiled by this libation.
Three beers.
Much better. At this point, I come to the realization that what I was experiencing was being tipsy.
Very tipsy.
Four beers. I am sitting on the floor, laughing at absolutely nothing. My best friend is laughing, too.
Maybe not absolutely nothing, because apparently I was pretending to play the guitar like BB King.
I can see how that would be amusing. Its amusing now, and I'm sober when I do it.
Five beers. NOW I get it. I have been thoroughly seduced by this yeast based liquid refreshment.
Completely.
Six beers. I notice that I am slowing down. I can sense it.
I can also sense my body's unwillingness to accept anymore of this glorious, amber coloured potation.
Thinking some fresh air will make things better, I go out the back door and down the stairs, drawn by the allure of the cool March air.
And promptly stepped on the tines of a rake, bringing the rake handle in direct contact with my face.
Cool air, a bloody nose and what would become a bruised face.
Beer seven. I had now reached maximum capacity.
No more room at the inn.
And rather than disgorge myself in the more acceptable manner, my body decided on a much faster, and far less attractive means of ridding my insides of its liquid albatross.
Thankfully I was able to avoid any further humiliation by mkaing it to the salle de bain on time.
Again, sometimes you just have to grateful for the little things.
I wasn't feeling grateful the next morning.
In fact, I wasn't feeling much of anything outside of the throbbing in my head, behind my eyes, in my ears. .
My hair hurt.
I was ready to swear off food for the rest of my natural (and perhaps unnatural life).
If you know me, you know how well I have managed to swear off food.
One would think, given that I am quasi-intelligent person, that this experience would have been enough for me to come to the logical conclusion that perhaps over-indulging in liquid libations was nothing something I would want to do again.
I didn't come to that conclusion at all.
Between the fateful introduction to alcohol at the tender age of almost 16, and turning the legal imbibing age of 19, there were a couple of other occassions where I may have possibly engaged in some tippling.
One time glaringly sticks out: I was in grade 12, and two of my friends and I decided to drink a bottle of Baby Duck among us before a school dance.
We knew the admonitions from the school about coming to the dance after drinking, however, we were on the dance committee. We would be there earlier than other students, hence avoiding the nasty encouters with those teachers who insisted on checking your id's, and smelling your breath, or the RCMP officers who were always called in to monitor students coming into the dance, returning when said students were leaving the dance.
We just hid out in the coat check room until the pre-entry inspections were over.
All I remember about that night was a lot of dancing, and the loud voice in my head that kept yelling: DON'T ACT LIKE YOU'VE HAD ANYTHING TO DRINK!
But at least this was before the advent of Facebook.
Because having friends who know what you did when you were out the night before is one thing.
Having friends who are willing to share those details with anyone who will listen (and we all have those friends, don't we) is something else.
But having a full colour picture documenting your antics from the previous evening is another.
You know the picture: the one of you wearing nothing but your mother's granny panties on your head, face in full makeup artfully applied by your drunken friends, little ditties written all over your torso in lipstick, like "There once was a man from Nantucket. . .", you holding a bottle of Sailor Jerry's in one hand, while in the other is the can of whipping cream your mother bought for Sunday dinner's dessert and you're squeezing its contents into the Homer Simpson boxers you thought would be fun to wear.
Immortalized on the world wide web for eternity.
With your name on it.
Once I started having children, drinking became far less enjoyable.
There is no amount of fun garnered from drinking the night before, that is worth getting up the next morning, with a hangover, to three loud children who insist upon my paying attention to them.
And now, in my almost mid-40s, I have reverted to my lightweight drinking status.
One glass of wine, a vociferous "WOO HOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I'm out cold in bed, snoring loudy, probably reminicing in my dreams about the "good ol' days."
Title Lyric: When I was Drinking by Hem
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