The Manny Diaries, Part Six: Sober Up, We're Going Meat Shopping!

One fine winter's morning, the Manny came down from the attic. I saw him padding through the kitchen in soft slippers, apologetically filling a glass of water and retreating, as silently as he had come, back to his aerie.

He made small appearances throughout the day, like a dazed rodent, each time quietly filling a glass of water. Eventually, he accepted a proffered piece of gingerbread.

He must have emerged during the night, for by morning there had been further nibblings on the gingerbread. By day two, the gingerbread had been savaged. Quietly and neatly, with a knife. But there was little left.

By the third day out of seclusion, he started to make conversation again. He was wearing the same costume he'd had on since his return: flannel pyjamas and a sweatshirt. Whatever torments he'd endured in the attic to flush the booze from his system had seemed to do him a world of good. His eyes were brighter and he wasn't muttering and mumbling to himself.

He looked rather longingly at the cookpots and stovetop and said, "Thinking of going shopping anytime soon? Because I'd sure like to cook a meal for those boys. I sure would."

"You'd have to get dressed," I noted, and he practically leapt up from his chair, almost shedding his garments as he did so.

"I'll get changed and get some pants on and we can go buy some MEAT," he said. "We could get pork, and chicken, and pork, and meat, and maybe some beef and some things like that. OH, and some fresh vegetables, maybe like asparagus? And maybe some HERBS? I'll be ready in five minutes."

But gingerbread is tasty!

He clearly hadn't eaten anything other than gingerbread in days. So there we went off to the A&P, the closest local grocery store, which is staffed by octogenarians and patronized by other octogenarians. All of them are waving coupons and squawking to "Hector" or "Agnes" to come over to the register to verify a 45-year-old's ID. Things move slowly around there. I once likened the experience to being pecked to death by an aged duck.

Manny moved rapidly through the aisles, a new spring to his step. He prodded at avocados and rejected grapefruit that I would have happily tossed in my cart. He never even glanced at the junk food aisles. While in the produce section, he seemed more contented than he had ever been. He picked up herbs and sniffed at them. He fondled the rutabagas. More fresh items went into the cart: flip, flip, flip.

He really got going in the meat section. Some meat wasn't worthy of his attention. He really examined it, with the true cook's appreciation for a fine cut. He also squinted at the prices.

Meat makes the former drunk very happy.

"This is a good deal," he announced, tossing a family pack of meat into the cart. He picked chicken, pork, beef. He got more excited as we rolled down the aisles. He started blathering about grains and eggs and all sorts of food. He also grabbed a giant-sized bottle of Aleve and a lump of cured meat and a jar of caviar.

We checked out and loaded it home and he went to work, slicing and dicing and flipping things in his precious wok, which hung on our wall when not in use. The results were phenomenal. The boys gave me a little squint-eye as if to say, "Hey, thanks for the NUGGETS while he was gone. That was really great, mom, those frozen NUGGETS."

"You know what I wanna do?" he said. "I think I ought to start a catering business. I could do well at that. I really could, Miss Jennifer! I could sell good food to a lot of people around here who just want to eat! And I could cater their parties and such. And then, oh, I want to start a cooking show with Eldest son! He wants to learn to cook. I can teach him. I'll set up a video camera right here and then, we'll cook, we'll cook! And we can show how it's done, right here!"

So the days went on and the wok sizzled and the boys ate and ate and the Manny beamed. And then one day he went for a walk. And when he came back he accidentally left on the kitchen table a liquor store receipt for an expensive bottle of bourbon.

This stuff.

He saw me glancing at the receipt and he snatched it up fast as blazes and stuffed it into the garbage can. (Which was a dumb move, really, when one has pockets available.) Then he realized his error and hung about like a rabbit on hot cinders waiting for me to leave the kitchen so he could get the receipt out and destroy it. He kept walking out and coming back and shuffling about the downstairs, huffing and sighing.

But I didn't leave the kitchen, not until he went upstairs. Then I snatched the receipt out and took a photo of it. Then I took the garbage bag out of the can and left it by the back door.

He appeared in the doorway moments later, and his gaze went straight to the garbage bag leaning there against the cabinets.

"I'll take that out for you!" he said. "I'll sure take that out for you right now get it out of your way get it out of the kitchen yeah yeah I'd be happy to."

"You do that," I said. And he shot toward it like a man possessed.

I thought I smelled the stink of bourbon. And I knew that our world was unsteadily tipping, veering toward its next conclusion.

Shimmy shimmy pow!

I've been having some truly whackadoodle physical events lately, no doubt the result of scything out alcohol, smokies, coffee, and psychotropic medications out of my life with one quick, clean blow.

I'm not very funny when I am not drunk. Instead, I tend to weep at fireworks and the song "Drift Away" on the radio, like some simpering fool. I consider the sunflower in its glory, and when my child said "the brussels sprouts are growing larger" I thought sagely "yes, and so are you, my child. And one day you will be grown, and I an old woman." You would think the opposite would be true--that wine would make me sniff over sunsets and pick fights with loved ones, but it just makes me feel pretty darned good. I even type better. I am sober as a worm and have already made 18 + typos that I have had to go back and fix.

Why take a break, then? Well, I suppose I don't feel so durned good in the mornings, especially with two boys sitting on my head and using it as a launching pad to my duodenum. And cigarettes, while they make one unutterably cool, are supposed to be kind of bad for one's health. I only smoke them occasionally and surreptiously after the sun has gone down, but even one wreaks havoc with my smell buds (or whatever them things are called) and sends me into a hypochondriacal tither.

I just wanted to know what it was like to eat some fresh veggies and drink a cup of tea for sport and not be jiggered up with all sorts of drugs and hoo-ha. I just had to fix eight more typos. Blast this heaththt busunessd!

So, overall I feel better. BUT I am having the oddest dizzy spells, from whence I know not whence. (Is that an accurate syntactical construction? This sobriety crap is making me feel all giddy and giving me the jim-jams!) They tend to start when I stand from a seated position or turn my head suddenly to one side. It seems I can feel a vibratory, metallic kind of shimmy in my head--like I am occupying more than one place in space at one time. Like a rapid-fire camera is going click-click-click as I turn my head, and each instant of the turn is being recorded, and I am existing in each instant of the turn. In case you were wondering, it's not fun. It's not like those tracers you used to get after your big LSD binges when you used to follow the Dead, you decadent old hippie!

Sometimes the dizziness feels more like I turned my head one way, and my brain--a lump of recalcitrant dough--rebelled and went the other way. Sometimes I get an uncomfortable little electrical surge of blood up through my brainbox, and even the blood cells seem dizzy, as if they got shocked and darted that way and then found they could not get out through the top of my head.

So when my boys asked me tonight if I'd like to roll down a hill with them, I politely declined. When we drove home, I decided looking at my blind spot too much--requiring a head turn--was not a good idea. Then I saw some fireworks over the horizon, at Rye Playland. "The fireworkers are running up in the trees!" said the littlest boy. We drove after the fireworks. We chased them down Playland Parkway, but we couldn't seem to catch them. "Don't worry, you will see plenty of fireworks in your life," I said, and cried, because "lives" in general are just awfully moving and sad sometimes. "In mein lifejacket?" said littlest boy.

The presence of any typos in the above posting should be directed to management. That is, comments about the presence of said typos should be directed to management, etcetera.

And so it follows...

People drive down my street in riced-out krap cars at 75 mph with NO MUFFLERS.
The same people need to be egged, heavily, with eggs that may or may not be organic.
If I egg them, I will need to buy more eggs.
I will also be arrested and will have to pay a steep fine.
Additionally, if I buy too many eggs, I will have less money than I need.
If I have less money, I will not be able to move from this house and go to a place where people drive sedately down quiet, tree-lined, well-groomed, lovely streets.
My children will go to lousy public schools and will become murderers and thieves.
I will spend too much time on my porch drinking wine, and my liver will swell up and engulf my brain.
My ankles will swell up, too.
I will become known as "that eggy old lady."
I will die in this house a broken, embittered old bat still pining for Potatoe, my lost cat.
Trump will buy my lot and erect another overpriced luxury highrise.

I Drink Because of You

So I went to my doctor this morning and she didn't respond to my ceaseless whining about my back pain and misery, so when she left the room I slipped on my "Give me Painkillers, Now!" T-Shirt and she ignored that, too. I have never even had painkillers except for wisdom tooth removal, an occasional ear infection, and giving birth ("The baby is crowning? Wow, who knew!") but I just know I would like them very much and would like to become heavily addicted to them. I would make the ideal painkiller addict and I would like a stab at it before I die. But no one will give a chance to descend into addiction, battle it, and emerge a cleansed person with a story to tell. It's so unfair.

I am sure that happiness is an absence, not an addition.

But the addition of painkillers would be the perfect equation, yes?

Instead, the doctor said that if I tried to lead a healthier lifestyle I would probably feel a lot better very quickly. I talked a lot about our organic farm share and she seemed impressed. I waited for the painkillers prescription after that, but in vain. Did she realize how MUCH salad I eat? I have flavonoids and antioxidents seeping out my pores! Healthier lifestyle? I asked "Is it OK for me to drink?" She said, "Oh goodness, a glass of wine a night is absolutely fine! Don't worry."

Hmm.

Here are 10 reasons why drinking is so spectacular:

1. It drowns out your caterwauling, you mewling creatures.
2. It makes places like Juniors (North Avenue, New Rochelle) seem dreamy and avant-garde, even while a drunk is gnawing on your ankle and vomiting into your purse.
3. Everyone's prettier.
4. I can sing.
5. You have the right to hang a cocktail flag from your porch. Ours has a depiction of a martini with an olive. It's rather...unique in our neighborhood.
6. Pain go away!
7. It works equally well for celebration and a miserable, naval-gazing stupor.
8. It makes heatlh freaks and yoga addicts look boring.
9. Personality...enhanced!
10. It blocks out the memories of YOU, my Evil Midget Boss!

Chapter Two of the latter story to arrive suddenly, when you least expect it. Better check the blog.

I could do ten more. Send me yours.