A is for Alcohol

[be warned, I have joined the ABC-Along because Kit made it sound appealing. Also, this blog is wanting for content and goodness knows I don't knit enough to post every other day. I encourage others to join this along-along, because that way we get to know one another so much better.]

So A is for Alcohol. You may already know that I can identify the names of porn stars who aren't Jenna Jameson (a person who does NOT impress me, but crossover-phenoms don't usually). You may have also seen me or heard of my doing other nefarious acts, some of which may be caught on film. [This is the part where Chris clicks the Comment button in order to proclaim his ownership of many such photos.] I'm not proud of the crazy life I've led; in fact I'm ashamed that it wasn't crazier. I mean, good god, I don't even have a police record! So A is for Alcohol, because this post isn't about knitting but it is still about something that is near and dear to my heart.



I don't want to make ethnic generalizations, but I AM of Irish descent, if you get my drift. Interestingly enough, I am also of a long line of Southern Baptists, and this is probably one of the many reasons I must avail myself of psychological therapy. The conflict between the "want to drink" and the "must not drink," is what I mean. Being Southern Baptist is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. I think the music is pretty good, or at least I learned almost all I know about music from singin' with the choir.

I never really drank until I turned 21, which I suppose is convenient because I never had to have covert high school parties when my parents left town, or tried to persuade an older friend to buy crappy beer for me. I think it is fortuitous that I began my drinking career right around the same time that I began to have enough money to drink decent stuff. I had just moved out of the house for good, was living on my own in this strange and foreign land they call "Carolina del Norte," and had friends who knew about things like French wine and single malt scotch.

Alcohol is not always good. I have nearly lost jobs because of it. I tried to give it up for Lent once and could only go seven days before breaking open a brewski. (I guess it should also be noted that I really like hockey, but can't imagine enjoying hockey without beer nearby.) There was a point where I was constantly lying about how much I was drinking, because even the other drunks at the bar thought it was too much.

So what has changed? I have gotten older. Nowadays I don't even have to get drunk to feel hungover the next day. I am such a hangover sissy. I can't handle even a red-wine headache anymore. So I drink a lot less now, and have a great time still, and have realised that there is a difference between "using" alcohol and "abusing" it and lordy have I done my share of both.

This message has been brought to you by my fridge full of high-percentage beer, by the way. The Whole Foods in Raleigh had such a great selection, I couldn't help but drop a lot of money on nothing but beer. I can't imagine cutting alcohol out of my life entirely, because I really enjoy tasting different beers, wines, and scotches, and I understand that margaritas and mojitos do enhance the tacos. But I don't enjoy the feeling of being drunk, the feeling of not remembering how I got home the night before, you know... that feeling. Some people can do it their whole lives, but I can't. And being drunk gets in the way of knitting black lace socks.



The Solid Sock-along technically ended on New Year's Eve, but I was busy working (it), so I was unable to work on Sock 2 until New Year's Day. As you can see, I am a handful of rounds away from grafting the toe and being done with the entire project. Yayayayayy! I can't wait to cast on for the next pair of socks: what will they be?

Speaking of New Year's, I had a decent New Year's Eve; I got out of work just in time to jog to the next-door watering hole and raise a flute of champagne at midnight. New Year's Day was great; Orange-headed Boy made brunch and dinner and I sat on the couch all day knitting. It looks like things between us are going to be okay for a while, which is too bad for you since I only seem to knit when he and I are on the outs. Yay for me, poo for you. I can't imagine being happier, except if I lived in the house down the street with red door. (It's for rent! OMG!!!)