Living with a drunk is fun (NOT)

I'm not drunk...

I\’m not drunk…

There are so many ways to list how living with a drunk is not fun. Notice I didn’t use the term alcoholic. There’s a definite difference between the two (I’ll save that for a different post). I don’t live with an alcoholic. I live with a drunk. And there are so many ways to list how it’s NOT fun.

Of course no two drunks are the same so your list may be quite different than mine. I will also be adding to this list on a regular basis, I’m sure. But as of this minute, here are my top reasons why living with a drunk is not fun.

  • You may have your headphones on so I can’t hear your depressing and sappy music, but I can hear YOU. Listening to you singing the depressing and sappy songs at the top of your lungs really sucks. You’re not that good of a singer under the best of circumstances. Now add the headphones and the crappy song selection and I’m ready to rip those headphones off your head and stuff them up your arse.This just in: You are NOT a rock and you are NOT an island, no matter how many times you sing the song; no matter how loud you sing the song. Some smart guy once said that no man is a fucking island.
  • I can hear you (not just the singing). You might think you are mumbling incoherently under your breath, but you are really talking in your “out loud” voice. Actually, you are  talking in your “at top volume” voice, and I can hear the snide remarks, the sarcasm, the stupid comments–all the bitchy things you think only the voices in your head can hear, well, I can hear them too. They are not endearing you to me.
  • Only dental patients, stroke victims, and people without tongues should slur their words as much as you do. Of course we wouldn’t notice if you’d just keep your mouth shut and be drunk in silence. But no, you have the wordy squirts, which is, just so you know, another giveaway that you’re DRUNK.
  • You’re turning me into an alcoholic too. Do you want to know how I try to cope with your bullshit? I drink. Gee, I wonder where I learned that from. Of course I would classify myself as an alcoholic, but we can get into that later. It really pisses me off that what used to be a nice glass of wine at the end of the day to relax has become a nice bottle of wine at the end of the day to cope.
  • I have two kids. They don’t have the same name. You profess to love each of them so is it really that difficult to call them by the correct name? It must be difficult when you’re drunk. Yes, the Young One does notice that you always call him by the Big One’s name when you’re drunk. I’m sure it won’t affect him in the long run.

There’s more, but right now I have to go stuff your headphones up your arse and find a way to keep you from slur-talk-singing to the boys. Who have different names.

Living will

Last night my friend and I were sitting in the den and I said to her, “I never want to live in a vegetative state, dependent on some machine and fluids from a bottle to keep me alive. That would be no quality of life at all, If that ever happens, just pull the plug.”

So she got up, unplugged the computer, and threw out my wine.

She’s such a bitch.

Vodka, tequila, and beer, oh my

vodka, tequila, beer, cocktails, mixed drinks, etc.

Did I say I was going to take advantage of Mother’s last few days here? After just 1 night, I may have to hang up my drinking shoes. Sad, sad, sad.

Meshegne decided on Saturday that he wanted to go out. I jumped up and said “OK!” seeing as how he really never wants to go out anymore. He even took me to my favorite pub AND threw darts with me. That’s where the trouble began. Just to give you a little background, Meshegne is a true dart master. Back home, we both played in dart leagues. He played in the league that was one step away from GOD-like. I played in the league that was one step away from the gutter–oh wait, that’s bowling. You get the point. I didn’t suck, but I wasn’t nearly as good as Meshegne. I digress. We played darts. I played God-like. He did not. Much celebratory drinking ensued.

Helpful hint: don’t mix vodka cocktails for staying in, with celebratory shots of tequila when you’re out. Topped with bottles of beer. Never a good combination–especially at my age.

Needless to say, my “mother-of-the-year” nomination is close to being rescinded, seeing as how I spent most of Sunday curled up in a ball on the couch, yelling “Turn that damn thing down!” and “Where’s your father??!!”

I managed to watch about 2 minute of football, think about the laundry, wolf down a burger and a soda, and nap for 6 hours. I guess I’d better pull out the Geritol and Depends, seeing as how my birthday is pending and it appears I need to trade in my ID for an AARP card.