Juuuuust About Drunk Enough ...

Sometimes it takes a minor catastrophe to make you appreciate what you have left. Say, for example, your computer finally goes belly up, and you have to restore to factory condition, losing everything you ever added, in the process. However, what you are left with is a computer that doesn't freeze up everytime you sneeze wrong, as well as the realization that everything you've written thus far is complete and total crap, anyway.

And, for instance, your grandmother has, by all accounts, decided that she doesn't want to live anymore, and has stopped eating. (Which isn't really minor, but just keep reading, mmm-kay? Mmm-kay.) This makes you finally realize and come to grips with the fact that your mother, despite her many assurances to the contrary, is pretty much emotionally vacant. However much you wish that she was different, that she would just be able to listen to you cry while she plays with your hair and hug you when it's all over, it's something that is never going to happen. However, it also makes you realize that despite this, you have raised a swell couple of kids, who always know that you love them, that they can express themselves without fear of having their emotions held up and subsequently pissed on. Kids who will offer up their stuffed animals as a consolation, and offer to call Grandma back, to try and explain why she hurt you, which is just so fucking noble and selfless that it makes your heart hurt.

You also come to realize that you may have married the best man in the entire world. A man who will field her calls, and calmly explain that Yes, she's still upset and No, she doesn't feel like talking to you right now and Yes, I understand why she feels this way and here's why I don't understand why YOU don't, and No, I won't just put her on the phone, and OK, I'll tell her you called and she'll call you back when she's ready. Then, after the kids are in bed, he'll go about his business, staying sober while you get steadily drunker and you know that once you can't feel your fingertips anymore and slide off the chair, he'll be there to carry you, unconscious and drooling, to bed. (Because, let's face it, The Old Gray Mare ain't what she used to be, and after 2 glasses of wine, she's facedown on the floor.)

Finally, you can appreciate your friends. You know them, the people who you don't want to hit repeatedly with sticks and who put up with your crap without pointing out what a tool you really are. Friends who will listen to you bitch and moan, and will send you pictures of baby giraffes, and will in turn bitch and moan to you, while you send them pictures of masturbating cats. (Llama, feel better, and thanks for not smacking me with the stupid stick for all my questions.)

OK. So, the vodka is all gone, I've done my drunken rendition of Sally Field in Steel Magnolias, and aren't YOU the lucky bastards?