There is wine all over the house—in the garage, behind the bar, in the family room, upstairs, and in my closet. Bottles ranging from 1970somehing to 2012 yada ya. Every kind of red wine you can imagine.
(I drank the white, but, to be honest, there wasn’t much of it) My Dad collected? hoarded? wine for years and years until he retired, wanted more mobility? flexibility? space? and gave it all away.
I feel like I’ve seen some talk regarding Mommy/Wine culture as of late and... to that I say:

• ​to each your own
• make good choices
• don’t be a douche
• share with a friend

It’s not my place to shame, to scrutinize, or to categorize moms who like that glass of wine. Like my OB said about prenatal sipping—“as long as that glass doesn’t become the bottle, you’re fine.”
I think that applies across the board to all, always.

I was a bartender for many years—The Zephyr Lounge, Redrock Bar, Jub Jub’s Thirst Parlor, all over Reno (and Black Rock City) with the oddball gig other places. I slang the hooch, listened to the drunks, laughed til the wee hours, and hung over many mornings. I stood and watched youngsters and old farts alike pound PBR, snort booger sugar, and chain smoke into friendships, arguments, and tomorrow’s. I dated bassists, door guys, coworkers, and good tippers. I danced to the jukebox, cheers’d the newlyweds, and tossed shitheads out the door. It was a great job and it taught me a lot about the human dynamic, the human condition, and choices along with their consequences.
Those were my twenties and I lived them hard, year round.

These days the smell of whiskey makes me nauseous, I can’t even take a shot on my friend’s memorials.
These days the thought of being hungover sounds like a nightmare.
These days Tylenol is put to better use on joint pain and sleep deprivation headaches.
These days I can’t afford, literally cannot afford, to drink.
These days I don’t smoke.
These days my favorite bar is closed.
These days I’ve got Nugget and she’s more important than anything.

But...

Sometimes I like to drink a heavy wine glass of red wine really fast just to feel less for twenty minutes,
Less sober, less controlled, less back pain, less poor.

Sometimes on around 11am some days it feels like the day has doubled itself in length and instead of cooking another baby friendly meal it’s easier for me to crack a lager. Just one. For calories and cuz I can.

Sometimes on my few “days off” baby I reach out to people to grab a drink cuz I am thrilled at the idea of being able to go park my car, get out of it alone, and enter the forbidden building within two minutes with only my purse.

Sometimes when I have ten bucks I’d rather put it in a pennies machine and pretend my life is different while I push the same insane buttons over and over and over.

Sometimes I feel like a bar is the only place where people talk to other people and I am so tired of talking to myself, I would rather sit alone on a stool in a crowd.

No fuckin’ judgies.



​

Holiday Ham.
Chocolate Pie.
Mashed Potatoes.
Corn.
Crippling Food Coma Fatigue.

It's nearly that time of year where the raised Catholic guilt is at it's holiest and strongest. That time of year where you're supposed to think about babies, and families, and forgiveness, and the ''spirit of the season'' and whatnot. That time of year where you're supposed to reach out to the members of  your estranged family and invite them to your table for warmth and nourishment because the soul will be fed through joy and morals.

Allegedly.

I woke up this morning with that nonsense on my mind. Family... eh... I can forgive. We'll all come around.

It's the FOB that I'm rather having a difficult time ''being friends'' with. It's he that I'm having a hard time adjusting to the concept of co-parenting and forever-ness. I mean, when someone gives up on loving you five months into your pregnancy, it's a hard pill to swallow, regurgitate, and then call something else.
I saw this post today on facebook... someone I don't consider remarkably insightful shared it, but it struck a cord. It read:

How deeply I loved him.
How exposed and vulnerable I became.
How he was told all my secrets.
How forever-ness he felt.

And how much all that feels like it was held against me.

I'm not going to invite FOB to my holiday table. I'm not going to spoil him with love or attention or gratitude. I'm simply giving him the gift of coexistence, of letting go, and the first layer of forgiveness (not to be confused with forget-ness because nothing nothing can make me forget his transgressions).
Just one layer. A thin one. Moderately transparent and not very warm.
A single layer nonetheless.