Stuart is coming home from San Francisco today and I need to pick up the flat for him. It’s just a bit cluttered with laundry hanging up and I was cleaning up my closet yesterday getting depressed about the fact I don’t fit in 95% of the clothing I own.

It’s beautiful today.Sunny. Clear. Feels like Spring in Los Angeles.

I made coffee and settled down at the computer before the mad dash to pick up the house.

Something was missing. I needed something.

Then I knew.

In LA the background noise when I woke up was National Public Radio. It was a huge part of my life. I listened as I got ready for work. I listened in the car. I was one of those people when I got pulled into a story would sit in the garage waiting for it to end, even if it meant being late. I gave lots of cash to my stations as well supporting KCRW and KPCC. I went to events watching Prairie Home Companion and Wait Wait. . . Don’t Tell Me being taped.

I realize this makes me terribly middle classed.

Bite me.

I put on the stream.Who says I can’t listen to Talk To the Nation Science Friday on a Sunday?

Happy now. And Stuart will be home soon.

*All Things Considered Theme Song

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Thursday night I wasn’t in the mood to go straight home, so I roped Al into going for just one. We left the pub at nine. All very civilized. I remember having three glasses of red. Al however said that there were four. Given what transpired next, I am inclined to believe him.

Three or four- That’s a lot of vino, but I can usually handle that. Not saying it’s a good idea- just that I can handle it. I usually however pace myself – especially when drinking wine. I will drink water between the glasses. Spread it out over six-eight hours. I also usually have food in my stomach.

But not Thursday. I drank four (large) glasses of red- basically a bottle if not more on maybe 350-500 calories. In three hours.

I woke up at 6 in the morning in bed. Naked. Luckily it was my bed and Stuart was lying next to me. I flipped the events of the evening Rolodex in my head.

Left the pub. Okay. Laying here in bed. Okay.

Left the pub. Bed.

Pub. Bed.

I was missing everything in between. This has never happened to me before.

Stuart had put a large glass of water and ibuprophen on the dresser for me so I took a couple even though I felt okay and drank half the water.

Stuart stirred and peeked his head over the duvet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You were lashed.”

“Yeah. I don’t remember anything after leaving the pub.”

“You came home at 9:30 singing the French national anthem.”

“I was singing The Marseillaise?”

“See. I didn’t even know it was called that.”

“But I don’t know the words to The Marseillaise.”

“Well, they’re in your head somewhere.”

“I think I’ve watched Casablanca a few too many times.”

“I tried to make you go to bed but you refused. I tricked you by saying you would be more comfortable in your dressing gown.”

Something was coming back. “You undressed me?”

“Yes. And you weren’t very accommodating. You kept rolling around. Then you screamed, ‘Stop hitting me!’ Then you giggled.

“That’s funny.”

“I’m sure our neighbours thought so. Do you remember talking to your mum?”

“I talked to my mom?”

“Yeah, something happened with you sister. She had to have a second surgery. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’d called and left a message and you called back.”

“I called back?”

“At 12:30. You were sitting up talking really loudly and woke me up and I had to send you out of the room. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

I can’t believe I can’t remember either. It’s rather scary. I did some quick research on the topic this morning and I found a really great article by Aaron White, PhD. Basically alcohol messes with your brain hitting the record button.

Alcohol primarily disrupts the ability to form new long-term memories; it causes less disruption of recall of previously established long-term memories or of the ability to keep new information active in short-term memory for a few seconds or more. At low doses, the impairments produced by alcohol are often subtle, though they are detectable in controlled conditions. As the amount of alcohol consumed increases, so does the magnitude of the memory impairments. Large quantities of alcohol, particularly if consumed rapidly, can produce a blackout, an interval of time for which the intoxicated person cannot recall key details of events, or even entire events. En bloc blackouts are stretches of time for which the person has no memory whatsoever. Fragmentary blackouts are episodes for which the drinker’s memory is spotty, with “islands” of memory providing some insight into what transpired, and for which more recall is usually possible if the drinker is cued by others. Blackouts are much more common among social drinkers than previously assumed and should be viewed as a potential consequence of acute intoxication regardless of age or whether one is clinically dependent upon alcohol.

There is one benefit of me not eating enough and going to bed without dinner. I was a pound and half lighter Thursday morning than I was on Wednesday. Maybe there is something with the whole starvation thing. (of course I am kidding. And anyone that knows me knows that would not be possible for me to ever do)

I told Al that I had a black-out.

He was surprised. “You must have been drunk!”

That made me feel mildly better that while my record button had been taped over, at least I was functional. . . to someone who had had four pints.

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine. Great. I’m hungry because I haven’ had breakfast, but other than that fine. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Are you kidding? That’s great. They should take your blood and study it. Do tests on you to find the secret to no more hangovers.”

While I don’t generally get hangovers, I really don’t fancy another memory gap.

Although, it would be rather fabulous, if deep inside me, are the words to The Marseillaise.

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I get to go home today and I am happy, happy, happy about it.

There are benefits to business travel certainly. Get to hang out with colleagues you usually communicate with over phone, e-mail or Facebook poking. Get to see friends that live in that city. Nice to go to restaurants and expense your meal rather than calculating what that meal will do to your bottom line to the rest of the month. Lovely to be able to take showers. . . our shower at home is such crap, I refuse to use it. While you might think it is wasteful of me to take a bath rather than suffer through the trickle of water that they call a shower at our house. . . I just don’t care.

The best part of business travel is the bed. Nice big King size just right level of firmness and softness mattress with a fluffy comforter and a million and one pillows. I like to stay at The Westin and they call it The Heavenly Bed. It is heavenly. This has been my view from my Heavenly Bed for the last week.

And this is the view from my Heavenly Bed at night. . .

I would love to actually sleep in a Heavenly Bed when I’m not dealing with some level of jet lag. I often will wake up in the early morning and discover that I have been on a little trip while I have been sleeping and instead of laying head to foot, I’ve managed to flip around so I am lying sideways along the bed. One of the benefits of being in a big king sized bed (and only being 5’ 3’’).

But I am going home to our poxy shower and our tiny double sized bed that I share in a tiny little room with a view of other people’s gardens.

Stuart is meeting me at Paddington.

I can’t wait.

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Stuart and I are now on the wagon. As in the not drinking wagon.  So here I am.

Not drinking.

Not having one.

No sir-ree Bob.

(What is it about quitting drinking that makes you want to drink?)

Is good though because I’ve gained two stone since I’ve moved here and I’m sure it is entirely due to beer. And vin rouge. And me being a lazy cow.

I’ve gone a month here and there not drinking, but overall I have been rather bad since I’ve moved here. Drink at least two times a week (sometimes more like four) sometimes it would be just one or two pints. (What am I saying. It was never just one) and sometimes it would be five. Times that by four times a week and that is a lot of guinness.

I don’t know if I’ve known Stuart to go an entire week off the sauce, but he tells me that I am wrong and that he has. I am choosing to believe him.

Told Al what we were doing. “It sucks because I’m going to NYC next week.”

“He won’t know.”

“That’s wrong.”

“True. And if you don’t drink when you are away from each other and he does, then you have the moral high ground.”

“Exactly.”

So, keep a good thought for Stu and I on day one on the Train to Soberville.

This is not an April Fool’s Day joke.

I wish it was, cause I really could use a drink.

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I’ll admit it. I’m a sucker for Tiffany. I love the clean lines and the sparkly, sparkly things they have inside their doors.

You will understand then and forgive me for clapping my hands with glee when Stuart came home from San Francisco and presented me with a little turquoise bag with a little turquoise box inside.

The boy has great taste. He brought me home this only in Carnelian. It sits right at my throat like a choker. I likie.

“I couldn’t afford diamonds.”

“Bah. After seeing Blood Diamond I don’t want them that much anyway. . . Not to say should you decide to get my diamonds you should feel anyway discouraged.”

Personally I think there is something about the Tiffany brand and the little blue box that turns girls dopey. You could present a Cracker Jack toy in their packaging and we would adore it.

I love my necklace and will be wearing it everyday for a while. It isn’t from a Cracker Jack box after all. . .

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I survived ice skating. Didn’t even fall once. Stuart fell twice. He said the first time a woman tripped him up which I did not see, so I guess I have to believe him. The fall I saw he was windmilling like crazy and did a fall backward that was something out of a cartoon. One of the people that hang around the rink to make sure people are okay just shook their head.

He also thought hockey slamming me against the wall was a sign of affection.

It was really good fun and I now know that I can ice skate. I taught myself to stop by turning in a circle and I got going pretty fast.

The one negative is how many people were there. I’d like to go somewhere where there isn’t that many people so I can get even more confidant.

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. . . was a resounding success. My stuffing was nothing at all like my Mom’s, which was disappointing on one level, but it tasted absolutely amazing so I was pleased.

Ended up cutting the squash, cabbage, green beans and baked apples from the line up.

Libby brought a yummy nut loaf and Amanda covered the pumpkin need with a lowcarb pumpkin cheesecake that was absolutely delish.

(Aussie ex flat-mate) Jen made up a cheese platter and along with Al helped me out in the kitchen with peeling and slicing and carving.

Everyone brought wine and beer and I think we drank it all along with the vanilla extract.*

The turkey was too dry I am afraid. I didn’t take it out when I wanted to because the meat thermometer made it look like it needed a bit more. I think it lied to me. Still, I would rather serve over cooked turkey than kill my guests.

Even more important than the food was the company. Was a good laugh.

When Chris and Libby arrived, it was so cute. . . Chris said, “Happy Thanksgiving! . . . That is what you say right?”

Al wanted us to go around after dinner and say what we were thankful for but it got lost in the vino and a competitive game of Cranium.

One funny moment that I missed: The meeting of American Jen and Aussie Jen.

Aussie Jen to American Jen: It’s Jen is it?

American Jen: Yes.

Aussie Jen. I actually prefer Jennifer.

American Jen: That would be nice if it was your name.

Aussie Jen: Actually it is.

Last night the kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off in it and I was really not looking forward to the washing up. This morning I let myself have a lay-in, which I deserved after cooking and not going to bed until 1:30 and with all the red wine floating in my blood. Got up at 11:45, shuffled down the stairs and I saw a shocking, shocking sight.

Stuart doing the dishes.

I gave him an enormous hug and kiss. He has no idea how much I appreciate that he did that.

Jen took photo’s of the drunken Cranium madness and I can’t get over how fat I look. Going for a long walk right after I eat a platter of leftovers.

* Family Ties reference. Tom Hanks (before he was Tom Hanks) plays the visting alcoholic Uncle and he is so desperate for the sauce, he drinks an entire bottle of vanilla extract.

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It’s three in the afternoon and it is dark and rainy and windy and cold outside. I’m still in my dressing gown watching TV while I surf the Internet for Thanksgiving recipies. Lazy girl I am. Stu is away for a few days for work.

I need to go to the store soon since it closes at ridiculous o’clock on Sunday but I’m warm and it looks cold out there.

I wish Stuart was here being a sloth with me.

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The gentle Nobel Savage tagged me with a fun and slightly disturbing meme. I am going to make this 5 things about booze and bars and me.

1. One of my favourite songs about drinken’ is Willie Nelson singing “I Gotta Get Drunk”. Not sure if he wrote it or not. Here are a few of the lyrics:

Gotta get drunk and I sure do dread it
Cause I know just what I’m gonna do
Start to spend my money
Calling everybody, honey
Wind up singin’ the blues

Spend my whole paycheck on some old wreck
Brother I can name you a few
But I gotta get drunk and I sure do dread it
Cause I know just what I’m gonna do

I gotta get drunk, I can’t stay sober
There’s a lot of good people in town
Who gotta hear me holler
See me spend my dollar
And I wouldn’t think of letting em down
There’s a lot of doctors that tell me
I’d better stop putting it down
But there’s more old drunks
Than there are old doctors
So I guess I’d better have another round. . .

2. The first time I got drunk, I was 18 and had just arrived at Uni. I had drunk a little prior to this, but not really. Never really liked it when it was around at family dinners. Had a few White Russians in High School, the ingredients siphoned off from David’s parents liquor cabinet and my High School graduation I had a few wine coolers, but I didn’t really get drunk.

This was autumn 1988. There was one boy that all the girls noticed because he had long blonde hair and wore Birkenstocks. He was attractive but we all called him Jesus because of the hair. We weren’t being complimentary. This will be important later.

My dorm at Southern Utah University had boys and girls wings and after curfew, you had to leave the areas for the opposite sex.

I was in my friend Darren and his roommate Jason’s room with another girl from my floor. Jason pulled out a bottle of cheap, white rum that wasn’t even good enough to be well booze. We started passing the bottle and I was knocking it back. Just thinking about it makes me want to hurl. We drank so quickly, one moment I was completely sober and the next I was off my tits. Then it was 11 pm. Curfew. We had to leave the room. Except I was not capable of movement. Darren and the girl from my dorm helped me down the hallway. Coming towards me, the longhaired blue-eyed boy who was also off his tits drunk was being helped down the hall by his friends. I took one look at him, giggled to myself and shouted, “Jesus!”

It took me years to live that down.

3. I don’t remember the first bar I went into for sure. I do remember my Dad taking my sisters and I into one when we were in Kingman. I remember him putting salt in his beer. I’m not sure why he did that. At Uni there were only two bars in Cedar City and they were both cowboy bars. We went a couple of times when I had my fake ID and later when I was 21, but for the most part we went to house parties.

I will always have a soft spot for The Midas Touch, which may be the worse pub ever. Stuart and his friends used to go there every Friday night. It is on Golden Square in Soho just down from the youth hostel and the beer is really cheap so it is always packed to the gills with back packers. Stu and I went to a few places on our first date but this was the pub where we had our first kiss. This is the pub where one Saturday afternoon I kicked his ass playing Monopoly and this is the pub where he introduced me to all of his friends within a week of meeting me- which is no small thing. So while it is really a terrible little pub, there is a part of me that will always love it.

4. The group of friends in Vegas that are like The Island of Misfit Toys have a really great New Years Eve party each year. They calculate the odds on who will be the first to vomit that year. Odds are calculated by past performance as well as other intangibles. The year I won, it was shortly after midnight and shots were suggested. Tequila. The stuff on its own stone cold sober sends me from zero to sick.

5. My poison? Red wine but I hate how it turns my teeth red. Beer- Guinness, ambers. A well-shaken dirty vodka martini is a thing of beauty. Scotch for dessert is an occasional indulgence.

I tag whomever would like to do this!

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Alrighty. Bad every day of November blogger.

I do have a very good excuse however. Went to Vegas for a wedding and I really didn’t have time to ask my friend that I was staying with to give me access to his wireless.

Wedding was lovely. Was great to see everyone. Had a good time. Drank a bit too much but not too too much. Only said maybe five really stupid things.

Hung out with my 11 year old nephew on Sunday. The top of his head is at my chin. I am short so that isn’t saying too much.

Flew back to Seattle Monday morning, caught the flight back to London in the evening. Arrived today. Stuart was waiting for me at the airport holding a sign that said THOMAS COLE. Then he negotiated the tube with my ridiculously heavy bag.

“I love you.” I said as I watched him struggling to carry it up stairs.

“That’s just because I’m carrying your fuck-off heavy bag.”

“No. Well, yes. But I still love you.”

“I love you too.”

It is very good to be home.

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