Day 13: Seven Months Until 11/11/11!

I have a confession to make: J and I broke the fast. We fell off the wagon. Seemed kinda inevitable in a way. In our defense, we did it with intention. No? Not buying it?

We developed a pretty good excuse I think: Baseball Season.

That's how it happened--falling off I mean. It was game two of the 2011 season, the Phillies versus the Astros on a Saturday night. Nothing crazy. Just some bbq, some beers, and some baseball. Is that so wrong? I mean, would you try to tell me if the big JC were around today that he would not be a baseball fan? Please!

Other than that, we have resumed Quizzo attendance (a great way to flex brain cells by simultaneously depleting them. If you do it right, the activities cancel each other out!). And we have had the occasional beers here and there on the weekend. So this begs the question, "Have I failed at what I set out to do?"

I like to think of it along the lines of acknowledging my limitations. I understand the whole bit about depriving oneself of something that brings pleasure in order to gain perspective. However, I would argue that sometimes the benefit lies in not achieving.

Especially for someone like me, who feels compelled to perform tasks at an inhuman level at times, not perfectionistically but intensely. Does this derive from unwavering expectations set forth in my developmental years? The only girl out of my two sibings, and thus the "show-piece" of the family? Most likely.

Another perspectival vantage I can attest to from the fasting process pertains to the disagreements between J and I. Not to say that we have not argued at all since the fast began. Of course we argue about the mundane, daily things just like any other red-blooded American couple just trying to make it work. Fire and Ice we sometimes call ourselves.

It is to say, however, that our tiffs do not adopt an alcohol-fueled life of their own, which spares us the extraneous "drunk guilt." What I am getting at is, while our current disagreements touch on division of household responsibilities, or, say, emotional misunderstandings, the drunken equivalents reside in absolute ridiculousness!

Looking back, I would say that our biggest, blow out fight evolved out of a disagreement over pop musicians' influences and the state of the music industry today. Neither of us have a truly vivid recollection of this argument. The best reconstruction we've arrived at is, while throwing a few back at Fox and Hound in center city on a Saturday night, we saw a Lady Gaga video on the giant screen TV. Disco Stick I think it was. Might have been Bad Romance...I don't know.



It's all your fault, bitch!

  In any event, J commented that everyone lauds the Lady for her originality, but she is really just repeating what Madonna did twenty some-odd years ago. Now, I am not a rabid Lady Gaga fan, nor did I seek to defend her, but I had to point out that artists "ripping off" fellow artists has been happening long before the 21st century.

"Christ, if it weren't for Bo Diddley, the Rolling Stones would have never had a career!"

We don't remember why it escalated, but I do remember thinking at the time "Why is he talking to me this way?"--it wasn't the content, but the tone. That line of thinking, I might add, is first-cousins with "I LOVE you, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!" not to mention a step-sibling of "What? You think you're BETTER than ME?"

Somehow, words became shots, and beers became tears (both in the bathroom, and at the bar), which turned to storming in and out of the place, an inebriated migration across the street to McGlinchey's for last call, all leading up to the climax, and drunken-denoument:


Ah, McGlinchey's: dark, smoky, and you can buy a boiled hot dog for only 75 cents!

  J dramatically rising to his feet from across the booth at McGlinchey's, flinging his cigarette lighter onto the floor (which several vulturous drunks scrambled to claim as their own), shouting, "I'M LEAVING YOU!" and proceeding to drive home without me.

Which, in turn, inspired me to take a cab to Kelliann's, stay there until about 3am, stumble into the apartment, and awaken the sleeping J by sitting on him repeatedly, proceeding to curse him in Ukrainian at the top of my voice and, finally, spittting in his face. Needless to say, our neighbors aren't quite fond of our drunken arguments either.

Of course, the following morning was all achey-hazey-vaguely-painful. We were still angry at each other, but not quite sure why. We still can't agree on the cause of the dispute. We just treated each other like assholes. Alcohol at times contorts confrontations into cantakerous creatures, and sullies the senses of otherwise sensible people. Stepping back this Lent has allowed me to embrace that perspective.

So, at the end of it all I don't feel bad about J and I having some beers and watching some baseball. As long as he doesn't start talking trash about Wilson Valdez. So what he can't play the game like Chase Utley--no one can play the game like Chase Utley! I mean, give the guy a chance, he's new to the majors, let him find his feet! You know he was player of the game on Friday? Yeah just wait till he gets comfortable... I bet by the end of the season J will be rockin' a Valdez jersey, like, "Utley WHO?".... 



It's only a matter of time...


Heh heh... Why don't I just quit while I'm ahead?