Here’s to Me

Maverick made an annoying comment yesterday. “D. Parker, ” he said, “you drink too much.” “Too much what?” I responded, “Vodka?” I mean I’m no idiot, I know that it’s red wine that’s good for you, and I’m pretty sure nobody has tried to pass off vodka as being healthy. Although it is pretty low in calories and carbs, and I recently heard there are some new varieties that are infused with protein, which is pretty damn exciting. But my devoted husband was referring to alcohol in general, and I have to say, I think he’s wrong! I’m not gonna lie, I like my cocktails, but I drink exactly enough, maybe even less than I should, based on the life that I lead. But that son of a bitch got me to thinking and now I feel compelled to explain myself before I open another bottle of anything.

I’ve already mentioned the health benefits. Of the red wine that is. Plus there’s the cultural side of it. I’m Italian. My father drinks wine out of a juice glass with his breakfast. Need I say more?

While I have inherited my father’s talent for doing everything better when under the influence, unlike him, I never drink at breakfast. Unless it’s a major holiday. Then I usually add some juice, but not to champagne, ’cause it’s really tough to get that orange pulp out of my champagne glasses, and why ruin a beautiful bottle of champagne with Tropicana? You see, I’m the type of gal who likes to have a good time, make every day a celebration, look at the glass half full.

Next, I have three kids and a husband. I repeat, I have three kids and a husband. Any mother who says she didn’t want a glass of wine by 4pm when her kids were little, is a cross-eyed liar. Best part of my day, back then, was throwing those kids in the tub, where they were clean and contained, and pouring myself a glass of red. One of the true joys of motherhood is sitting atop the toilet, with a glass of wine and watching your toddlers play with moldy tub toys in the bath. Things are slightly more complicated now, and my kids really resist my attempts to throw them into a tub together. (I hear them mumbling things like “DYFUS” and “mold allergies” and “sicko.”) But trust me, the first time you see your kid drive a car, you had better have a drink in hand because watching them burn rubber out of your driveway is nothing compared to imagining them on the highway. It was years before I found out that Miles was really not following his GPS which I had carefully programmed to take him the longest way everywhere. But by that time Bianca was trying to learn drive and I emphasize the word TRYING, so you see I had much bigger fish to fry.

Then there are the situations like when my twelve year old starts coming home with pockets full of cash and I later discover that he’s been selling his homework to the dumb kids. I know it’s wrong, but I feel compelled to encourage his spirit of capitalism and entrepreneurism. And it’s the grappling with these types of moral issues that makes me pour myself a gin and tonic before sitting down to explain how I am proud of him but he’s in deep shit, and how long has he been doing this anyway and doesn’t he think should raise his prices?

And times like when I have to explain to my teenagers that it’s okay if they party and have sex, but they just better NEVER get caught. I mean NEVER get caught. Don’t get pregnant, don’t get a disease, don’t drink and drive, don’t ever leave a friend alone. If the cops bust a party, hide in a closet, or run like the wind…and if those pigs catch you, give a false name and address.  I’ll find you later. All good advice, I think, for anyone under 21. So you see I’m working a kind of “don’t ask, don’t tell” thing here. I won’t ask if you’re having sex if you don’t tell me why there is a mysterious pair of underpants in my wash. I won’t ask if you’re making out with that goon that keeps driving by our house every night, if you don’t tell your father you’re making out with that goon who keeps driving by our house every night. Clearly, these are serious issues, and when I find my parenting flirting with the edges of morality and justice, it’s cocktail time.

And then there’s Maverick. It would help if he didn’t insist on getting on the roof of our house to make “repairs” and clean gutters. It would further help if he would finish said “repairs” before nightfall…but as he’s not a carpenter by trade, said “repairs” do often take him past twilight. Then there is the strange duet of male stupidity: to increase my anxieties about him falling off the roof, or nailing his hand to a shingle, my father with the broken wrist, wants get up there to “help” him. I swear they must be in cahoots to kill me because if I didn’t have a couple of glasses of wine during that fiasco, I might have thrown myself off the roof just to calm down.

So you see I really should be commended for keeping my drinking in check, it’s obvious that a weaker person would have thrown herself into one of those fancy rehab places years ago.  I would honestly enjoy the rest and relaxation. But now please excuse me, because the college tuition bill has arrived and as luck would have it, it’s also St. Nicholas Day. I’m going to mix up a batch of bloodies before I open the mail.

Cheers.