Another Unproductive Day

:: toasts the date with a shot of rum ::

I figured I'd better if I was going to. It's almost midnight. Almost tomorrow. Today was the eigth anniversary of mine and Mara's wedding. And, well, we're still legally married. So I figured a nod was in order. At least. I have just the right rum, as well. I have a bottle of dark Bacardi that's been lurking around the house for years. It lived in the freezer for a while, and I used to put it in my coffee on occasion. So it's family.

Yuk. How the fuck do people drink rum and coke? You need something to accent the taste, not puke on it. I knew I should have bought a Mountain Dew. Of course, I'm not mixing a drink, but chasing a shot. I don't think I've ever done that with Coke. Now, coke is another story. But that was another time and another life. I've said too much.

However it sounds, this is my first shot of the night, and will probably be the only. Actually, I drank the shot and forgot the toast. So I guess there'll be a second one. Funny how quickly old habits return.

I kinda wish I could re-live the old days for a moment. That'd be that the bartender would set me up in one of two ways. Five shots of Jack Daniels lined up in a row on the counter, to be drank at my leisure (but usually within thirty minutes). Or the first of five B-52s. That used to be my preferred method for achieving low-level flight. A quick, intense buzz, followed by maintenance for the rest of the night.

I was thinking today that the person I've become has turned out to be quite a surprise. Most of the women I've known through the years would be surprised, too. The crazy hell-raisers (“If you can out-drink me you can screw me”). The goth chicks with razor blades (“Lick my wound, Wic. Taste my blood”). The strippers (“I love the way your long hair feels on my thighs”). For Christ's sake, I'm forty years old, overweight, and I'm driving around in a mini-van. Hehe. The worst part of it is that I don't even have kids to take to soccer practice, so I have no excuse. What's wrong with this picture? This isn't how anyone thought I would turn out. Justice used to tell me I would retire to some cave somewhere with a few raven-haired beauties that I kept on leashes. She never said anything about a mini-van.

Anyway, this is not why I started writing. I had intended to mention how unproductive my day was. I got up late and felt bad, so I dragged my feet. Then Mama showed up and wanted me to take her computer desk to her apartment, put together her new TV stand, and put up some curtain rods. Then she cooked supper, after which I wound up staring at her television (they're fascinating gadgets). One episode of Stargate: SG-1, two episodes of Dead Like Me, one episode of Eureka, and a whole hour of ECW wrestling (I wanted Mama to see The Big Show). A wasted day followed by a wasted evening.

Well, Mama's TV stand does look rather nice. Can I claim that as progress?

I hate this whole packing thing. Can't I just take what I want and leave the rest? Actually, I can. The guy who wants to buy the house told me to do just that. I suppose the more I leave behind, the wider his potential profit margin. That bothers me. I'd much rather just burn everything. The house included.

However that sounds, I'm not upset about losing the house. Not anymore. I've made my peace. I just want to move on. It's mildly ironic that this week would fall on mine and Mara's anniversary. New beginnings and all that.

Which is why I'm looking at this bottle of rum. My phone reminded me of the occasion early this morning at 00:00 (that's midnight, if you don't know). I thought then that I should make a toast before the day was out. True to form, I waited until the last possible moment to do so.

Well, okay. There was to be a toast.

Here's to tomorrow. Here's to what was and what will be. May Mara find her peace.

:: drinks to it ::

There should be another toast, too. One for me. One for the larger picture, which I feel that this week and this transition represents. So ...

Here's to hope, B'god. Ever upward. Over, under or through.

:: drinks to it ::

That last one was without a chaser. That seems appropriate.

Okay. Three shots in fifteen minutes and only mildly feeling it. There's a bit of the old Wic left in me yet.

Now. I've paid my respects. I'm going to bed. Sadly, without the raven-haired beauties.