Oh if only she'd blog!

I've been trying to convince some good friends of mine to blog. I recently sent them all an email with links to good blogs and plenty of encouragement to join in the fun. This is a response from one of my friends .....I HAD to share.

My dear Dilys, et al

The reason why I cannot write a blog is that I do not want my kids or parents to know what kind of stuff I think about. This is, I think, something you could more fully appreciate if I revealed to you the mental email I was composing to you yesterday morning. It was about Drunken Sex.

I'll spare you the details, but the gist of it was that I woke up the next morning (at my house, thank you very much!) with the worst hangover I can remember since I was in my 20s. The TV remote was on the floor in the bathroom. The few inches of wine I hadn't managed to consume were drying in my glass on the kitchen counter, the wine bottle itself laying on its side like it died of exhaustion. There was an unnatural amount of candle wax spilled on the deck by the hot tub. I can't explain the bird feathers. Worse, there was a large puddle that looked like blood. For one full second, I thought we sacrificed a goat. But it was just clothes. From the neighbour's across the alley.

Kidding. The clothes were Wayne's and mine. I don't recall shedding them. My last clear thought is coming from dinner with Barb (where we consumed a bottle of wine) to discover the back yard completely lit with tea candles. They outlined the edge of the patio, went up both sides of the steps to the hot tub, and lined the ledge of the tub itself. There were candles on the patio table, and on the lawnchair side table. It was beautiful. Magical. Wayne had a glass of wine poured for me, ready. Music played. He looked very handsome.

So I decided I could allow myself to take a recess from being magnanimously distant. This was my most recent response to his latest screw-up. (As Wounded Wife responses go, it is pretty good: lets you talk and behave very politely, while you are letting him know superior you are.) I think another release factor was that, at dinner earlier, I had become Benign Buddha Karen. Loving all life, filled with compassion, profound spiritual awareness--you know the mood. Two glasses of wine, and Benign Buddha tells Wounded Wife to let the past be past, and become One with the present. Three glasses of wine and candles look like glowing love fairies.

Why is it that you wake up earliest on the days you feel worst? My theory is that your cosmically connected Inner Self wants to take advantage of the teaching moment. As I wandered around the house that morning, I really felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. It surprises me now to think how reasonable it seemed--even for a moment--that we had sacrificed a goat. Reason asserting itself was not that we would never have done such a thing, but that we didn't own a goat.

These are things my parents and children need never know. But if I was blogging, I would entitle the whole thing "Why You Should Eat Lunch Before Having Wine with Dinner". It's always ultimately about food, if you ask me.

xxoo
Karen

P.S. Does anyone know how to get massage oil stains out of carpet?