I was going to write about my ongoing battle to help my husband lower his A1C (the blood test that reveals what your blood sugar has been doing over the past three months) and cholesterol. I was going to carry on about how much he is loving tofu scrambles for breakfast and that I’m getting all my meat from MOINK now because we’ve pretty much run out of that cow we bought a couple years ago.
But I AM PISSED OFF at the news (again). The recent murder of the nursing student in Georgia has sent me over the edge and all I can say is WE GOTTA MAKE OUR GOVERNMENT FIX THE FRIGGIN’ BORDER! AND reverse as much of the damage that has been done as they can. And God help them, they have fucked up so badly – I don’t know what they can do to fix it. In my opinion, they have screwed over migrants with false hope and promises, as well as citizens of the country.
I will still work on my husband’s diet and my sobriety but I will make my voice heard on this – even if it’s just writing and calling my congress-people. BUT if there’s a well organized protest at our southern border? Well, I’ve got an RV and I’m not afraid to use it.
If you bring forth what is within you it will save you. If you do not, it will destroy you. Gospel of Thomas
Today, another writer reminded me that I needed to write. Right? Right here: WaltBox
I’ve often been called a chatterbox. I’m also an introvert so my family has beared the brunt of my ceaseless conversation.
I’m also a pray-er. I talk to God a lot. Almost constantly. God’s ok with my chatter. I often ask Him for relief. Relief from inner anxiety, boredom, anger, fear. Relief from myself I suppose. And His answer is always the same.
He tells me to write.
He tells me to write and I ignore it. I know what you’re thinking – but Kevi, you are surrounded by your own words on pages and posts and journals. You are writing! True dat. But when I find myself weighted down by whatever my emotion of the day is…it’s usually because I’m NOT writing. Days or weeks have gone by without a word.
And there-in lies my problem. I’m a big talker but not the best listener. Or maybe I don’t want to hear the answer. Or perhaps, I can’t believe God would suggest I write because I don’t have anything noteable to say. I write about razor clams and martini cravings and campers.
On our last day of razor clam digging with the wrong shoes, I figured something out — and yes, I agree — I should have been a rocket scientist.
I had walked as close to the surf as I could get. I had tiptoed and leaped across the big pools,
but there was a final river of sea water left by the out going tide. It was simply too deep for me to cross without tall boots. Mr. Sutter had crossed it successfully, but I was left on the other side alone to wander about and I was getting bored.
Suddenly, I had an epiphany:
I could take my shoes and socks off.
Free at last.
What else is holding me back? And by, me, I mean us. I’ve come to find that the chains and road blocks in life are both real and imaginary.
For example…
On a hot summer day, I’d love to strip down to my swimsuit and jump in one of our gorgeous local lakes. But my self-consciousness about my body holds me back. I could still do it though. Overweight people do it all the time. I see ’em out there wading in and I think – how brave!
Another is…
I’ve told myself 1,754,147 times that I cannot get back into art. I’m not an artist anymore. In fact, I probably don’t even want to draw or paint or create – I just feel guilty not doing it. But that my friends could be a lie. There are few things more satisfying to me than creating images on paper. Maybe words on paper suffice. But, I’m not quite sure I should quit other forms of art. And I don’t like that voice that tells me not to even try anymore.
I’ve adding swimming and art to my list. So, how great does this retirement sound?
wade in the ocean
lavish health habits on body, mind and spirit
express a human experience through words
share tasty nourishment conjured in a comfy kitchen
create clean black lines
play with color, paste and paper
celebrate, laugh and cry with family and friends
walk in the woods and jump in the lakes
learn to be comfortable with discomfort
get reacquainted
explore
God has blessed me with the ability to retire. I am blessed beyond belief. I thought I would work forever – in fact, I wanted to. And maybe at some point I’ll have to go back…but for now… I will rejoice every moment of every day and use my time wisely.
Back on the beach, I had a barefoot blast! Sand between toes, I heckled the waves. Come and get me! And they did. I made patterns in the sand and imagined the excellent exfoliation my feet were getting. The clam diggers eyed me with envy or disbelief at my foolishness – who cares! Best day of the trip for me, plus we — and by we, I mean he — got our razor clam limit.
The weather on the Washington coast has been phenomenal — blue skies, chilly and not too windy. Mr Sutter and I went razor clam digging the last couple days at Twin Harbors.
Mr. S does the digging with the tube sucking thing, also known as a clam gun.
Noooo this is not the correct way to use a clam gun. It’s just Mr S’s way to take a little break and plan his next move.
Hundreds of people gather along the beach outfitted in their unflattering clam digging clothes: clunky boots, baggy waterproof pants, hats and sunglasses, gloves and layers of bulky sweaters. We look as though we’ve rifled through everyone’s winter closet and chosen to put on everything.
Children, though bundled tight, are free to dive into the deep clam puddles and roll about the beach in the sandy mud. Luckies.
But the sun makes everything and everyone sparkle. I feel lucky to be included in such a gathering and wonder what else on earth is like this seasonal event when humans are turned loose — literally permitted — to go to specific areas for a limited amount of time in search of one creature — once the creatures are determined to not be poisonous. I guess hunting is kinda like this and I visualize this mass of people on the beach holding rifles. While not exactly wall to wall, we are within 20 feet of each other. Thank goodness we only carry clam guns.
My clam digging is limited because I’ve worn the wrong shoes. Tall rubber boots are the way to go, and while it’s not the end of the world if my hiking boots get wet, Mr S is going through some very deep tidal pools so I lag behind carrying the razor clam bag.
Okay, fare thee well my husband. I’ll take care of our clams whilst you’re away.
And you know where this is leading.
Yep. Unfortunately I bond with the clams I’m caring for. I find deep salt water pools along the sand and submerse them in the mesh bag. It’s their last swim.
Bag of buddies hanging out in the water.
I’ve become attached to them. What does a clam do all day? Do they have families? I consider releasing them…but that would end my marriage. I’ve put in 33 years! And plan to make it to 40 years and the Ruby Anniversary, so I just try to make the clam’s last hours as pleasant as possible. I swing them about in the sun, but stop in case any of them get motion sickness.
From top left to right: Stanley, Maureen, Agnes, Francoise (Frank), Danita, Shelley, Jim…
A couple has arrived to the digging grounds. The man is very anxious and begins digging as soon as his feet hit the sand. The woman asks, What should I look for? Where should I dig? These are excellent questions. Her partner shouts, You are standing on the clams! They’re underneath you! You’re literally walking on clams! She jumps about like a crab is nibbling her toes. Does this gentleman have some kind of deep sand clam radar? And, if so, how cool would that be? I imagine looking out across the beach and seeing shipwrecks and skeletons and fossils and ancient ruins and all the critters below us. A thriving ecosystem under our feet. Finally the woman regains her composure and starts digging.
My husband is the clam whisperer. Quiet! he hisses. Don’t move. Just look for their mouths just above the sand. Don’t scare them. Don’t walk toward them. Just point. He squints his eyes and skims the surfaces with his laser vision. I point at a small hole that has just squirted water cuz that’s what I learned to look for. I’m pointing and whispering, Leonard. Leonard! Here. Here! Hey! Here’s one. A hole! Finally he notices me and tiptoes over, rolls his eyes and shakes his head, Nope, it’s gone. It’s too deep now. Then suddenly he turns and plunges the clam gun into the sand, hoists it out and boom — the biggest razor clam yet tumbles out.
So I back off and let him find them. Instead I watch the people and the dogs, and take in all the eco-oceanic-biome while I can.
So not fair he got left behind.
We (he) eventually gets our limit and we head back to Westport to the Best Dive Bar in the Northwest for nachos and drinks and watch WSU lose again.
We are still bickering a lot. I think we have a big communication problem. It’s been thirty-three years, maybe we should just be done talking? I mean, I’m a wordy person, but he catches maybe a syllable I say. So, I’ve added some things to my to-do list when we get home:
Mr S Hearing Test
Mr S Memory Test
Mrs S Mood Stabilizers
Or maybe we need retired couples counseling. Spending so much time together is definitely a test of our patience…and it’s just the beginning.
Shared from SpongeBob SquarePants episode when a giant clam eats Mr. Krab’s millionth dollar and Mr. Krab trades his entire body except his left arm and his head to get it back. Sadly, clams are often represented as the bad guy in the media. I’ve come to know their kinder side.
Visually appealing. Superior functionality. A perfect liaison of organization and design offering measuring cups and spoons at the ready.
And then, there’s the wishbones*: symbols of my indecisiveness and overthinking, because I can’t make wishes. Birthday candles, holding ones breath through a tunnel, first star I see tonight. Forget about it.
There are too many needs. Too much at stake. If I told you what all went through my head at the “make a wish” stages of life – I could fill a book.
And with wishbones, two are playing the game. What if I win with the larger bone and I’ve wished for a new dishwasher and the loser wished for world peace? Not that I’d ever wish for stuff. I’d wish for bigger things: family-wide good health and happiness, but wait, not just my family, I must include friends, yes, friends and family, but what about strangers in need? Neighbors and countries?
And while I’m considering my wish, the candles have burnt down, the wishbone has broken and we’ve emerged from the tunnel.
Sometimes I just say eff it and wish for a good hair day.
*I feel I owe an explanation for my plethora of wishbones besides just the inability to make wishes. I bought pasture-raised chickens in bulk a while back. Six of ’em. They were delicious.**
** I’m taking wish requests. You can message me and I’ll take the first six that I see and wish on my wishbones on your behalf.***
***Note that I can’t guarantee that I will win the wishbone pull.****
****I won’t consider wishes that include any malfeasance or acts of sedition, or illegal acts. Or that will cause any harm against others.
PS By the way, we’re back at the ocean. The weather is gorgeous and razor clam season is in full swing! Wish you were here!*****
***** Well, some of you. I wish some of you were here. I’m actually enjoying the quiet time, so I take that wish back too. Unless you had your own space. Then we could just meet for a walk and dinner. So, I wish you were here to meet me for a walk and dinner, then leave. God I’m such an introvert. I wish I wasn’t such an introvert.******
****** No, that’s not true. I think the world needs all kinds of people. And it’s not like I’m a hermit. I get out. I can still talk to people. Ugh. I’m doing it again.
While growing up in the 60s one of the recipes in my mom’s repertoire was macaroni and cheese.
Hey! Smack that image of a box of Kraft neon orange noodles right out of your head and replace it with my chubby, grey-haired, Scandinavian Grandma Pearl…
There she in a floral print dress wearing cat-eyed glasses, table side donning oven mitts, holding a steaming casserole and placing it proudly on a trivet in front of her son (my dad) before scooping him out a serving and putting it on his plate next to the roast beef and overcooked carrots. His eyes sparkle as she adds a ladle of beefy gravy over the top.
This is my dad. I see a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes and Black Label beer when I look at this picture. If you know, you know.
While that may have been the 1940s way of serving mac & cheese, my mom served it as a main dish with a fresh green salad, but she only used Grandma Pearl’s recipe. When she went back to work in the mid-70s, she would assemble the casserole in the morning, leaving after-school instructions for one of us girls to pour milk up to the last layer of elbow macaroni, then pop it the oven. By the time she was home from work, it was ready to go. And the house smelled like heaven.
Before baking. Layers of goodness plus a good pool of milk. Saltines and dots of butter on top.
And leftovers? My sister Paula included the recipe for Granda Pearl’s Macaroni and Cheese in her fantastic family cookbook, The Meshuggeneh Cook, and wrote this description about leftovers: Mom would heat up a little butter in a frying pan, throw the leftovers in and cover it. This was almost better than eating it the night before because as it cooked it formed a satisfying, golden brown crust.
I’m making Grandma Pearl’s Macaroni and Cheese to bring to my mom this week. She’ll have to reheat it in the microwave as her oven/stove has been disconnected due to too many smoke alarm incidents. At this point, we’re just trying to keep her in her own apartment and out of government assigned assisted living.
Bottom line, I’m trying to bring a little happy memory to my mom. Not so much about her mother-in-law, but about our happy times – the macaroni years.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I had a magical though not perfect childhood and I give so much credit to my mom. Despite my her moodiness and my shyness and my parents separation when I was five years old, 1961 until 1976 were great years for us. Some normal life bad things happened, the kind of stuff that made you a stronger, more self-sufficient human, but I don’t think I formed any deep scars during that time. And nary a box of Kraft Mac & Cheese was ever found in our cupboard.
At age 15, our idyllic years ended when my mom remarried and moved us an hour away introducing a strange new family, a violent step father, a new school and neighborhood and leaving my oldest sister behind. That’s when the scars came in. But those are stories for another day.
These visits with my mom, feel like I want something from her to heal from that time. I don’t expect an apology. We all make bad choices. Maybe I’m looking for an acknowledgment of some kind. I’m not sure what I want yet. Maybe it’s just for me to forgive her.
BONUS! Bean recipe from my sister Paula’s cookbook!
Back to the recipe shown above. I hope it’s easy enough to just click on it and print it or view it or something. I just don’t feel like typing it…although here I am typing away aren’t I. Anyhew, you may be surprised to see minced dry onion. Just do it. AND the Worcestershire. There are no measurements, but be liberal with it all.
Sadly, regardless of gravy or golden brown crust, I predict my husband will not be impressed with Grandma Pearl’s Macaroni and Cheese. I mean, this is a guy who thinks a Smorgasbord is just sandwiches! So I may sauté some prawns, onions and red bell peppers in a little butter and garlic to add to his. In fact, you could change up this recipe a million ways: green chiles, ham, peas, tuna (where’s the vomitting emoji when you need it), gruyere, parmesan, etc.
Good solid wedge of Macaroni and Cheese. My husband had three servings. No additions necessary. That Grandma Pearl…she knew the way to a man’s heart.
Maybe as I enter my 60s, I’m just getting caught up in nostalgia. The past six-ish years have been tumultuous and I gotta throw in that these-kids-now-a-days who grow up with cell phones and microwaves and Megan Thee Stallion are living in a totally different world. So perhaps I’m just an old gal with a fondness for the “good ol’ days”. Even if you ate Kraft Mac & Cheese from a box, I swear it was a better time. And I did walk a mile each way to and from school. I measured it recently with the Google map app on my phone.
(Pearl Orth-Lindstrom-Jacobson was born 1899 in Wyoming. Her mom was from Norway and her dad was from Finland. Her dad died when she was very young and her mom remarried a Swedish fellow and they moved the family to Aberdeen, Washington state. She lived in our basement apartment in Tacoma for a couple years. I remember her letting me dunk sugar cubes in her coffee. She died in 1964 when I was three.)
This morning, as I stood at my station at the kitchen sink, hands deep in warm sudsy water, I thought about which recipes to cook for my mom this week. I usually hone in on food my mom made when I was a kid. Simple, sixties type fare: sloppy joes, chili, tacos, pizza, meatloaf. I really shouldn’t date these dishes…they are timeless! Middle-class-classics I suppose.
It’s been an all-new, soul-searching journey visiting my mom now that she is in her 90s. I hardly recognize her. She used to be so “on top of things”. She’s struggling with it all as well, and that is particularly hard to see.
I feel bad when I’ve focused so much on the negatives of our mother-daughter relationship. I remind myself that much of my youth was spent at beaches and parks with picnic lunches, weekly trips to the library, to swimming pools, rollerskating, skiing, horseback riding, riding tricycles, bicycles, camping, festive holidays, road trips, as well as days spent in our huge playroom filled with toys and crafts or our glorious backyard with sandbox, swimming pool, swingset and tetherball pole.
Don’t get me wrong, we spent plenty of time sitting in front of the TV (as evidenced by my ability to sing every word to sitcom theme songs and commercial jingles from the 60s thru 80s), but we were given so many other opportunities thanks to the efforts of my mom. A parent who doesn’t give a shit about being a parent, or the well-being of their children, doesn’t put in that kind of effort and time.
In the mid-60s my parents sold our Chevy 2-door. My mom still remembers the stir the FOR SALE sign caused throughout our neighborhood and beyond. Teenage boys flocked from all corners of town.
But with three kids, she needed a wagon.
Ours was blue
This of course was before mini-vans were invented. Sometime in the late 70s we upgraded to one with wood panelling. I learned to drive on that one and banged it up pretty good, not to mention I ran over our dog Heidi Ho Ho Jacobson, Senior who survived with only a slight limp.
One of my greatest memories of childhood was being at the ocean, sitting on the open tailgate of the station wagon, feet covered with sand, toes almost touching the ground, hair wet from swimming in the Pacific, as my mom drove us down the beach.
Now, I have to ask myself as I stand here at the kitchen sink washing containers that I will fill with an eggplant, Italian sausage, pasta and homemade chili – was this a woman who never cared about her kids’ feelings and was chronically cranky?
She was quite the cupboard door slammer…
My mom wasn’t the best at comforting our emotions. She didn’t have a lot of patience for hurt feelings or fear. But she did make her three daughters matching holiday outfits and homemade halloween costumes; our cookie jar was always full; and to this day, my eyes get wide and my heart skips a beat when I drive onto a beach. Even when I’m not even hanging out the back.
Gray area drinker is a term used in recovery circles. A gray area drinker worries about their drinking, some days/weeks/months more than others, but overall, we are not living in a gutter, shackled with multiple DUIs, shunned by our families or unable to hold down a job. Some might refer to this as a high-functioning alcoholic. Gray area drinker is a bit softer description.
A gray day
The last day of our ocean trip was gray and wickedly rainy. I loved it. Hunkered down in the camper – I wrote, read, napped, then went into town with Mr. Sutter for dinner and Monday night football.
We indulged in more luscious, fresh, local crab and a glass of wine at our favorite spot, then ventured on to The Knotty Pine. It’s a great bar that boasts the title of “Best Dive Bar in the PNW”. It’s a friendly place. Two customers brought their dogs. To my delight, one of the dogs sat in a chair at the bar for a short time.
This is Grace who sat in a bar stool.
The kitchen looked clean. Lots of people ordered food. I drank two pints of water and two pints of hard cider*, we enjoyed classic rock songs like “Dude Looks Like a Lady” on the juke box, the Raiders won and a good time was had by all.
I could stay in Westport for a couple more days. BUT we are in also in a gray area when it comes to working:
A couple months ago, we sold our paving business to a young local company looking to grow. They were in a bind with a large job they had lined up and needed equipment ASAP, so we took a small deposit and gave them the equipment while we finalized the paperwork for the sale. Our lawyer wasn’t thrilled about this, but so far we’ve all been on the same page with the main details, so there’s just some minor fine-tuning happening.
(geez this is turning into a boring long story)
Two months later, we are almost done with Sutter Paving, but we still have a couple jobs that have fallen between the cracks during the transition. And now with the rain arriving we are having to get creative to figure out how to get them done. Patience is a crucial element.
Anyhewsy, we’re battening down the hatches in the camper and heading back home to be at the ready for an available crew and equipment and dry weather. We can’t roll at a moments notice when we’re three hours away, lallygagging about at the ocean, mouths full of crab and drunk as skunks.*
And while we’ve strategized a reasonable retirement budget, the thought still looms: what the hell are we going to do with all our free time? And without a dog? Will I just watch Netflix and count my drinks?
We have a couple more weeks of work left…then, it’s November and retirement and winter. It’s gonna get grayer.
If you want to learn more about gray area drinking…click HERE
Up next: The Wagon Ride.
*The Scullery Maid’s Rule’s of Life #6: Don’t lie to yourself about what a serving is. One glass of wine and two pints = at least four servings.
My seafaring man returned to our campsite three hours earlier than expected due to rough waters that caused him to toss his cookies overboard. According to my husband, despite the hurricane force winds (his pole was knocked over) and tsunami height waves (he got some water in his boot), they still caught their limit of ling cod and rockfish and made it safely into the harbor. It was Deadliest Catch Westport-style.
He lowered our camper’s Murphy bed, closed the blinds and took a nap. So I headed out for my walk – destined to get to the beach.
About forty-five minutes in I was so close to the beach I could taste it…when suddenly the back of my knee started aching. I limped to a bench near a lighthouse and called to wake my husband in hopes of a pick up.
Thankfully he was feeling better, so he found me and we were able to explore a little via truck. First we looked at houses and land for sale because of course we are going to move here now. Then, we followed some roads and trails to find magnificent ocean vistas and plenty of beach for exploring tomorrow. I was very excited and inspired at my beach hike options and over dinner I suggested he leave me and the camper in Westport until he returns next weekend for razor clam digging.
Between bites of crab cakes and caesar salad piled high with Dungeness, we devised a plan. I’d have five days alone in our little camper in the rain, about two miles from the beach with a bad knee and crappy internet. I’d live off a can of Nalley’s chili, two bagels, a jar of peanut butter and a package of Saag Paneer.*
We returned to the RV, made a campfire and hung out. I sipped sparkling water and did fireside hamstring and shoulder stretches. Then I spent some google time figuring out the potential causes and treatments of my knee pain.
Here’s my diagnosis:
A few weeks ago, my beloved BorderBull (border collie-pit bull mix) Rex died. I miss him like crazy.
Rex was what got me up in the morning. Literally. He loved puppy chow, cat chow, people chow and early breakfast. Rex was my snuggle pal, my cooking companion, my welcome home and my exercise buddy. We walked pert near every day for the past twelve years. He had slowed down on our walks quite a bit before his passing, turning for home sooner than normal.
He was diagnosed with cancer one week before he died peacefully at home. The morning of his passing we went out for a short walk. I let him lead the way. He took me through a close by neighborhood, then did a loop around a small park bordered by the backyards of a half dozen houses. As we walked on the park’s path, dogs came out in their back yard to bark in tribute to Rex.
Returning home from this short walk, Rex got his traditional treats and I headed out to go grocery shopping. I was gone about an hour and driving home when I got the call from my daughter that Rex was not looking well and perhaps dying.
When I got home, he was lying on his rug in the corner, looking comfortably at rest. My daughter had my husband on speaker phone. He was telling Rex how much he loved him. I sat next to Rex, put my hand on his side and said, Rexy? He quivered a bit and took his last breath.
Tyger slept with his buddy Rex on his last night
I really haven’t walked much since. Rex always made me go further and faster. We explored new places. He drank water from the rivers and waited patiently while I picked up poop. He ate some pretty sketchy stuff on our walks. In his last year, he became very friendly to other dogs while we were walking, although he was always more interested in their owners.
Over the years, both Rex and I had become highly suspicious of people walking without dogs. What are you doing out here loose with no dog to guide you safely? Poor thing, I hope they make it home ok.
We loved being connected to each other by leash. And yes, he was walking me.
He did go off leash at the ocean. Rexy loved the beach. He would roam the sand dunes in search of dead things to taste and to chase the birds or the ball. Gosh I miss that dog.
As for my knee, I think I’ve just gotten out of shape over the past couple months without him. Either that or it’s osteoarthritis or bursitis or a blood clot.
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
I’m not sure if I’ll stay at here alone. I’m feeling melancholy without Rex and now it’s dumping rain. I think I need the distraction of home.
Rex in heaven at the beach.
*I did have two glasses of Chardonnay with dinner, which I will count as three glasses as they were filled pretty full.
I’m at the beach, but not. We are staying at an RV campground in Westport, Washington.
Middle ground: at the beach…but not.
I think the beach is a forty minute walk away. I’ll be proving that later today as I attempt to walk to the beach and have a good long surf meditation before heading for the harbor to await my man’s return from the sea.
As its name indicates, Westport is a port or marina town and home to one of our favorite restaurants, Bennett’s Fish Shack. Will I eat crab cakes and sip wine whilst I await my husband’s return from his fishing trip? Perhaps. I’m struggling with my sobriety right now. I can offer up dozens of reasons, including some huge sweeping changes occurring in my life, but for reals, it’s that I’ve let alcohol get its gnarly, stinky foot in the door. And I’m licking its toes instead of crushing them and slamming the door.
The fact remains that I used to drink 360 days a year – five days off for severe hangovers. And not a glass of wine every night. No. It was a bottle at least. Or my favorite: one big ass martini and two glasses of wine.
Over the past year, I’ve drank maybe sixty days. An improvement from where I was, but hear me out…
I’ve researched and listened and read a plethora of health analysis’ on the effects of alcohol on our being. It is NOT good for human consumption.
MAYBE if you live in a blue zone and have a thimble of wine with meals AND you are eating homemade, organic, homegrown food in moderate amounts AND getting proper sleep AND being physically and mentally active AND having support from family and/or community. Then maybe you can fill your thimble a couple times a day with a locally made wine without negative health repercussions. Otherwise, no. Don’t tell me it’s good for you in moderation.
So you have to determine…if I drink X number of servings (and know what a serving is) of alcohol per week, am I ok that it will negatively effect my sleep, my organs, my cells, my brain and decrease my lifespan by X number of years. Is it worth it? The buzz or the social aspect or the taste or the habit. It very well may be worth it for some of us. Including myself. I’m not going to lie I’ve missed certain things about drinking.
And yes, the same can be said for sitting too much, or smoking, or stress, or eating sugar, mayonnaise and fast food.
Bottom line for me is this…I think I’m tinkering with alcohol moderation once again. And, as I’ve mentioned, there isn’t a medically recommended amount. So, I think we have to determine by our own side effects from drinking as well as what we can accept deep down in our souls as the potential risk to our lifespan.
For example, if I was going to live until 98 but instead will only live until 92 due to alcohol sipping and mayonnaise eating, then perhaps I’m ok with that. I love martinis and ranch dip more than six years of old age.
However, my side effects from more than one drink include the risk of: poor sleep, arguing with husband, lower energy throughout the day, haggard face and bad decision making. So it seems obvious that I need to limit my drinking to one a day.
And there my friends is the issue.
I rarely RARELY can have one drink. Bad decision making seems to rear its ugly head early on (OR was the bad decision to drink in the first place?) and more than one drink is had.
I sometimes blame a pushy waitress trying to sell more wine. Or my favorite game: oh you have 1/8th of an inch of liquid left in your glass, so I’ll get another to have while you can finish it. Oh now I’ve got some left in my glass? You should definitely order one more. And so on and so on.
Is my problem with alcohol simply because I’m an anxious overthinker? In other words, am I the problem? not addiction? Maybe both things. Alcohol is an addictive drug.
Total sobriety from drugs or alcohol is a superpower my friends, one that cannot be attained unless you truly want it and are willing to develop it. I don’t know if there is a happy middle ground for me. Otherwise, I may need to re-commit to abstaining. Straddling the fence is not a great place to live. We shall see.
A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways. (James 1:8)
The 21st Century Scullery Maid 