There was Virginia Boote, the food and restaurant critic, who had once been a great beauty but was now a grand and magnificent ruin, and who delighted in her ruination. --from "Sunbird" by Neil Gaiman
This weekend marks my last days as a boozy trollop. Three days to the September Rules.
This weekend I am reveling in hot messdom. I am filming my own version of Leaving Las Vegas, holed up in the house with two Magnums of Conquista, Joel McHale, and Star magazine: "The Cellulite Edition."
I've eaten pizza, pad thai, and potato chips; injected a gallon of iced coffee; and emailed the Scoundrel.
Yes, a proper bender includes whiskey and Marlboro Reds, a tattered robe, and an unshaven man named One-Eyed Pete who uses his one good eye to play Keno at Jack's Bar. But this is the modified mommy bender, conducted at home after hours. A couch party of one.
Last night, before I attempted the swim to my Rock Bottom, I was delayed by a big-headed Mexican explorer. A sleepy Hooligan #2, at my side on the sofa, demanded Dora before bed. I would sooner wear novelty socks than get shitfaced in front of my children. So we watched Dora and sang the Backpack song before I put him to bed and poured my second glass of Malbec.
A bender with a singing backpack is no bender at all.
The funny thing is I wasn't in the mood to self-destruct. In truth, I'm eager to begin detoxing, depissing, and devinegaring.(Hey, a pig just flew past my window!)
Still, I marched on, gluttening for punishment. Even though I felt too fat to eat, too hungover to drink, and had zero interest in Jennifer Love Hewitt's cellulite. (Really, J. Love? you play tennis in a bikini? The same one that caused the cellulite pointing in the first place? Riiight. You're as smooth as my legs this morning.)
So maybe the September Rules will be breeze. Maybe I'm not as bad as I think I am. Or maybe last night was a fluke. I will certainly ponder this revelation.
Just as soon as I finish my Irish coffee and see what the latest fuck is up with Kate's hair.
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