Why it might be time to stop drinking

A special shout out to my liver for making this post possible, especially as I sip rum and nog on this beautiful Christmas morn. Enjoy your holidays, all!

I like to drink. I enjoy drinking. I LOVE TO BOOZE IT UP. Ok, maybe that’s taking it too far, but for those of you who have uncorked a bottle of wine, unscrewed a bottle of liquor, or uncapped a bottle of beer with me, you’ve seen the glimmer in my eye and the pep in my step. Cue in concerned gasps, “Rachel! Are you an alcoholic?!” No, no where near; nonetheless, I’ve certainly asked myself that question a few times throughout my life. As an experiment three years ago, I went booze free for four months. Successful? Yes. Easy? Definitely. Burdensome? Nope. Fun? Meh…Not as much as when there is a martini glass glued to my hand.

While I’m no longer concerned with being a souse, I am concerned that maybe it’s time to at least cut back on the saucing, and here’s a lovely little narrative that delineates why.

Our journey begins about a year ago when my NorCal BFF, Megan, took me on my first trip to Napa Valley and my love affair with wine began. I still remember calling my mother and telling her, “I found this red wine I really like. I think it’s called port.” To which she replied, “Jesus Christ. Of course my daughter would like port. It’s not even wine; it’s practically liquor!” Since then, my liver and I have had had a love-hate relationship with this libation. (I love to pour it down my gullet, while my liver hates sieving it from my bloodstream.)

Couple this newfound wine affinity with the greatest dive bar ever, Fred’s, within walking distance of my apartment in California, and a year later I have beaten, drowned, dehydrated and trained my liver into an awe-inspiringly efficient filtration system.

After a restless red eye into Guadalajara, tacos de rata and freshening up with a little Head & Shoulders, I was ready to hit the town with Marco and his Mexican posse. And so began the true testament of my liver’s ability to outdistance even Mexicans. Our first stop was to a traditional cantina where I was introduced to songs, chants and cheers and a terrible beer called Pacifico. Next up, to appease la Gringa, we went to a blues bar, where, no longer being able to endure Pacificos, I decided to move on to tequila shots. Some eyebrows were raised in my direction, but a Mexican Flag was eventually ordered for me. Ok, American Girl, you want tequila, we’ll show you how to do it right. Smash a lime slice in salt, take a bite, thrown down the shot and then sip up a shooter glass of tomato juice. More eyebrows were raised when I then exclaimed, “This is how I’m serving all my tequila shots from now on!” Becoming anxious that I would soon drop to the floor, they decided to take us salsa dancing to work the liquor out of our systems. However, one shouldn’t salsa without a little liquid refreshment, and it being Mexico and all, you probably shouldn’t drink the water. Coronas for all! Dancing was had, more beers were drank and eventually the bar closed for the night. However, home we did not go, but rather to a techno club. My feet were aching, my legs sore from dancing and voice hoarse from laughing, but we soldiered on and finished the night strong at 5am with strobe lights, glow sticks and vodka and Redbulls. And by we, I mean me; I was ready to go to the next club, but alas my escorts were ready for some shut eye.

Now here is the heart of my journey to self-realization that I have been taking my dear liver for granted, my first Mexican wedding. The night started off pretty tame, a lovely dinner, a brandy and coke, watching the beautiful bride and groom have their first dances. Then came a torrent of traditional Mexican wedding dances. You know what helps you understand a foreign language better and improves dancing skills? Alcohol! Another brandy and coke and I was out on the dance floor getting my groove on. What?! Another version of salsa I have to learn on the fly? Ok, another brandy and coke then! Another choreographed tango line? Yesshhh, another brandy and coke!! Rinse and repeat this a few times and I was having a goooood time. However, all good things must come to an end, and the band started packing up around 3am. I started to gather my belongings, but no one was leaving. Hesitant to bother my translator for the umpteenth time that night to ask what the hell was going on, I quietly sipped what may have been my 20^th brandy and coke while rubbing my frigid hands over my swollen toes. 3:15am and another band walks in and sets up. You’ve got to be kidding me?! I call over Marco and ask him what in God’s green Earth is going on, and his response will forever be etched in my memory, “Of course. It’s Banda,” all the while shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly and returning to his prior conversation, as if all weddings have a second band that comes past 3am. The music starts again, and so begins another round of dancing. At this point my feet refuse to be trapped by strappy sandals and I take a seat. Several of Marco’s cousins join me and a round of tequila shots are ordered. Uh oh, this could go down quickly. As more and more guests join the table, more and more shots are ordered. And more and more eyes are drawn to me. Hmmm, Gringa seems to be holding her own. We’ll fix that! A Spanish drinking chorus is begun, a glass of whiskey is thrust into my hand, and the crowd looks at me expectantly. I ask what I’m supposed to do and am told, “You can say: Bottoms up!” Ummm, ok. I take a sip of my glass, and the crowd cheers. But wait, I’m being shouted at again, “Fondo fondo foooooooondo!!!” I take another sip, the crowd roars, but the chanting starts once again. After several rounds of this, I finish my glass and magically another one appears in my hand. Crap, what do I do?! I ask again and am given the same response, “You can say: Bottoms up!” Ooooh, what the hell; I tilt my glass back and pour down the entire contents in one fell swig. The crowd goes silent for several seconds, and then a new chant is started: “Rachel for president! Rachel for president!” A few more tequila shots, and we end the night no longer strangers from different countries, but primos, brought together by our unusually high alcohol tolerance.

However, if Mexican 20-somethings are impressed with my drinking skills, then perhaps it may be time for me - a corn-fed, Midwestern, Caucasian girl- to cut down on my drinking, After all, I did promise my liver I’d treat it well in the new year…

A little tidbit to get you through the next few days

My plan to post a new blog every day I'm home with my parents in Michigan has been foiled by friends, cats, cookies and last minute Christmas shopping. In order to get you all through this dry spell, I am posting the link to Signifying Nothing where I guest posted last week. Originally composed of two ridiculously ripped and seriously sarcastic men, Signifying Nothing has taken a turn for the sardonic as my friend and editor, Everett, monopolizes the blog with his musings on Yoga, life and general malaise. Enjoy your trip through their blog, and follow them if you so dare*.


xoxo
Rachel

*Warning: Signifying Nothing is absolutely addicting. Make sure your cup is full and your bladder is empty before clicking on the above link, because you will not leave your computer for the next 3.5 hours.

Can someone please tell me where the soap is hiding?, The Head & Shoulders Mexican Monopoly, … Oh, and where the hell I’ve been the last year

Welcome back!!! I’ve been informed that before I can jump back into posting I need a re-introduction since I have removed all my old posts. Ok, here is your introduction: Here is my blog. Read it. Don’t like it? Stop reading. Don’t know who I am or why or what I am blogging about? Hmmm, I find that hard to believe since I can count on one hand the number of people who will read this. And yes, that includes my mom, dad, brother and grandma. The fifth person? I taught my cat to read. That’s right, you wish you were as badass as me.

Let’s be honest here, I don’t know what direction this thing is going in, but for those of you near and far, this will be a good, albeit interesting way to keep up with what the hell I am doing these days. Enough introduction and now onto the actual blogging.

I recently accompanied Marco, who is my coworker; good friend; and honorary cousin, to his homeland of Mexico for his cousin’s wedding. The following are some tidbits from an amazing weekend spent drinking, eating, being perpetually confused, drinking, dancing and drinking. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with every single detail; I’ll just hit the more interesting highlights of my Gringa impression. And let’s just get this one out of the way since it seems to be first fucking question everyone asks. No, I am not sleeping with Marco. Sorry to disappoint; ladies, he’s all yours.

Let me remind you all, I speak NO Spanish. NONE. Nada. Ninguno. Actually that’s a lie. I know what Madra Puto is thanks to being called it at the Y once by an angry kid. However, not so useful when visiting a friend’s family. On our first leg of a seemingly endless redeye into Guadalajara, complete with two screaming babies, I asked Marco to school me in my “Spanish Need to Knows.” Somehow, out of all the words and phrases taught to me, the only things I was able to retain were animal names and how to order various tacos made from the following creatures: rat, cat, dog, donkey, armadillo and ant. And yes, I did spend the rest of the weekend telling his family I wanted rat tacos. I never did get one…

Let’s fast forward through lunch and a short siesta and on to showering before going out for the night. After extensive travelling the last few months, I decided that bringing soap is a waste of precious cargo space. Unlike shampoo/conditioner, I don’t have to worry about my arm hair tangling when I attempt to brush it, and unlike face wash, I don’t need to wash makeup off my ass. Except for that one time in Reno, but Courtney and Kristin have both signed nondisclosure agreements… Anyway, soap is a universal necessity and is therefore prominently displayed in the shower, right? WRONG. Apparently in Mexico, there is a special compartment where the soap is hidden. Haha Gringa, try and get clean now, you’ll never find that soap. I searched high and low, even venturing out of the shower looking for anything that remotely resembled something to wash my body. If I can’t speak Spanish, of course I can’t read it. So there I am, no contacts or glasses, dripping wet, buck naked, trying to decipher from pictures if anything in the bathroom might possibly be used to clean my stinky pits. No. Nothing. However, I did find approximately 13 bottles of Head & Shoulders in various shapes, sizes, scents and what I assume to be different purposes. Hmmmm strange, I guess this family really likes H&S and must be out of soap…? Again, WRONG!!! How so, you may ask? Taking this trip completely out of order and moving on to the following day, Marco and I stayed with family friends in Aguascalientes for the wedding. Same scenario: dripping wet, naked, blindly groping around the bathroom cabinets – and no, I obviously did not learn from my first lesson and check before entering the shower. Again, a futile attempt at locating soap, yet once more I discovered a variety of H&S. And for the third time thus far on my trip, I squirted some random H&S on my washcloth and scrubbed away, certain that I could party the night away without worrying about body dandruff.

You’ll be happy to know that upon returning to Guadalajara, I gave up my search for soap and merrily lathered myself with H&S. So can someone please tell me where the soap is hiding and what’s with the Head & Shoulders Mexican monopoly?

Oh, wait!!! I told you I would update you on the last year of my life, right? Ok, here it is, and because I’m such an ass, we’ll work backwards. Mexico for Marco’s cousin’s wedding, San Diego for Megan’s wedding, Yosemite with my PV gals, Palm Springs for Megan’s bachelorette party, Salt Lake City to visit Court, Girls’ weekend in Vegas, Keith and I broke up, camping in Sequoia, new job as a clinical research coordinator at the Veterans Affairs, lifeguarding at two local YMCAs, I quit my job at Stanford, and that brings us to Christmas which is about as far back as I want to go. That’s about a year anyway. So there, that’s what the hell I have been doing the past year or so. Details you say? I didn’t even finish telling you about Mexico???! I guess you’ll have to tune into the next installment: “Why it might be time to stop drinking.”