Tequila the Wonder Drug

My neighborhood looked like this yesterday morning.

I've been dragging myself through life the past couple of weeks. Gray sky inside my head. Mail piling up. Tasks accumulating. The layer of dust over everything in my house growing thicker. A dead plant on top of the armoire in the front hallway. Tired. So fucking tired. 

It occurred to me that I'm drinking too much wine. There was a time when I was making a point of not drinking. After my mom's fall on Thanksgiving and the post-fall rules which dictated she could have a mere 2 ounces of martini every evening, I decided I'd top that by foregoing alcohol all together Monday through Thursday. Things were pretty wobbly in Pillville back then. I needed every bit of focus I could muster. Then things changed. And I needed every ounce of wine I could justify. I'm never sure how these transitions get made here in Pillville. I'm just the boss of everything here in Pillville, and I guess, being the boss of wine, I declared that I should have more.

Yeah, so, yesterday I cooked my weekly dinner for my L.A. friends. (Chicken and cauliflower curry, roasted carrots and cucumber salad.) 

                                                            This is the chicken and cauliflower curry.

We had tequila afterwards. And chess pie. And more tequila. And more pie. And cookies. And more tequila. Honest to god, I thought I'd killed myself. And then this morning I woke up feeling fabulous and felt fabulous all day. I actually did stuff. Rectified all of the above-mentioned problems, plus called doctor's offices for my mom and sat on hold and then explained that no, she doesn't owe them money, that they have to bill her supplementary insurance (I'd had a complete mental block against doing this until today.) I ran errands like a champ, filed all the papers that had been teetering on every surface in my room, did laundry, made up the beds for guests, caulked the crack around my fireplace molding,  texted the Someone (which I'd been dreading) and asked about a check I thought I had coming, and THEN a neighbor brought a mis-delivered piece of mail to my door which turned out to be a check from the Someone. 

I mean. Really. It's got to be the tequila. Right?

Secret Tuesday Afternoon Margarita or How Not to Be Afraid

Set out to mail a letter and when your feet want to take you to a Mexican restaurant, let them.

When the hostess tries to take you to a table, tell her you want to eat in the bar.

In the bar, order a a Margarita and a bowl of albondigas--never mind that you are a vegetarian and drink wine only on the weekends.

Admire the orbs of grease shining in your soup bowl. Look for constellations as you cut into the meatballs while praying that the animals providing this feast lived and died at the hand of kindness.

Notice the men at the table against the wall. The 80-something father, white eyebrows like awnings, his hands gripping the edges of the table as if the earth's turning on its axis might be power enough to spin him into the next world--while the son (your age) silently sips his coffee.

Listen to the conversation at the bar behind you. Young Guy With a Beer speaks to Older Woman:
"That's one big ass tortilla chip you've got there."
"Tostata or something like that," she says. He goes on to tell her without a trace of an accent that he's from Spain, and in Spain they eat soup out of bread bowls.
"You eat the soup and the bowl," he says as if it's the most exotic thing ever. She offers him a bite of the big ass chip and some guacamole,  and he takes it while you nearly go insane with anticipation.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asks.
"No, no, no," she says, but somehow its seems as though the door is still open. "I only ever have one."
"Are you sure?"
"What are you doing in the U.S.? she asks. "Are you working here?"
"I have a plumbing company" he says. "But my manager is handling things today."

Meanwhile, when the waiter comes to your table and offers you a second Margarita, order a Mexican coffee instead.

When he brings the coffee that smells more like tequila than coffee, ask what they have for dessert. Then ask him if he'd mind going through the list again. Give up pondering the three kinds of flan. Order the cheesecake.

When Older Woman gives Young Guy With a Beer the rest of her guacamole, and he takes it, imagine for minute telling her how kind she is when you run into her in the women's restroom later--which won't really happen.

Do your best not to turn around and stare when Young Guy tells Older Woman he's having lunch out as a tribute to his niece's birthday. "She has Trisomy 18," he says.
"Oh no," Older Woman says. "I'm sorry. How old is she?"
"Two," Young Guy says. "But she looks like she's a month old. My sister is beside herself."

Meanwhile a man sits down at the bar. He calls the bartender jefe. The bartender calls him jefe back and gives him a big glass of something.

Turn around just a little when Young Guy orders a shot of tequila. "The cheapest you have," he tells the bartender. Young Guy is clean cut and very tan. His ball cap sits next to him on the bar. He  offers Older Woman a drink again. She's pretty. Red hair out of a bottle. Fifty or fifty-five.
"No, no, no," she says. "I only drink Chardonnay."

Tell yourself that you only drink on the weekends. That you're a vegetarian. That you're not afraid.  That you're the jefe--at least of you. You are. You are. You are.

Pay your check and get the hell out of there. Walk home the long way, alternating looking up at the sky and walking with your eyes closed, counting the steps--working your way up to thirty. Thirty steps blind, always cheating with eyelids fluttering open when you try for thirty-one.

Postcard from Divorceville

Dear Friends,

I have been kidnapped and taken against my will to a place called Divorceville. I am trying to get back to Margaritaville or to the town down the road called Pillville. My i.d. has been stolen, and I think I may have forgotten my name. My divorce attorney has sent a huge bill to my email address, but the last name is not my own--though it sounds vaguely familiar. I am confused and have been having weird dreams. They might be putting something in the water here in this place called Divorceville. I dreamed that The Someone refused to admit he'd been lying to me about his income and the bonus money he owes me. In the dream we met face-to-face, and he looked odd and somewhat terrifying. He had false teeth and they were very large. I kept trying to be clever, wanting to connect the idea of false teeth with bearing false witness, but I couldn't get the words out.

Please wire tequila immediately.

Austerity Budget: Margaritaville Style

I went for the vodka first. Both bottles had been in the freezer for a year. One purchased by me for a New Year's Eve punch, the other left by some house guest or another. Vodka and orange juice garnished with a twist of lemon and a slice of blood orange. Pretty.

The bourbon was next. There were two bottles of that, too. How do these things appear in my pantry? I haven't a clue. I used some of it to marinate prunes--like the French do with Armagnac. The rest I designated for manhattans. That went on for a night or two, but it seemed wasteful to dilute such good bourbon with bitters and sugar. The prunes were quite tasty when I previewed them, so I decided to save the bourbon.

My attention then went to a half used bottle of tequila--not really enough to save for a pitcher of margaritas. Sitting next to it in the far back corner was a nearly full bottle of cassis. I'm sure I was thinking of kir royales when I bought the cassis, but champagne is not something I'm likely to have on hand. I tried orange juice as the mixer, but it looked like mud with the cassis. On to cranberry juice which looked much better. Good-bye tequila. Um...hello, cassis...your're still here? My you're tall. I'm not sure what I'll do with the rest of that bottle. Has anyone marinated anything in cassis? Suggestions for cheap champagne that doesn't end in a headache?

Yesterday I bought four bottles of very inexpensive red wine. The tasting will begin Friday evening. I'm determined to find a cheap wine that I adore.

Austerity in Margaritaville is more like a party than austerity.

You're invited. But don't bring any bourbon or cassis.