I Drink, Therefore I Smoke

Why, pray tell, do some people get to stay sane when they drink?

My mother and I had had a rather heated conversation about alcohol a while ago, her point being that not everyone who drinks are going to turn into raving boozers and my point being that they are.

Now, normally I am a very philosophical, grey area-loving debater but in this case I tend to get a little subjective.
Of course I’m probably speaking out of my arse, as my mother seems to believe.
This idea might have been enforced by the fact that I was drinking quite heavily whilst having this argument.
The reason for this extremist opinion about alcohol and the drinking thereof is simply because I can’t wrap my brain around people who’ll drink half a glass of wine, once a month.
Because what. In the heck. Is the point?
Unless of course you combine it with some potent hallucinogenic, I don’t see the function.

And don’t give me that I-like-the-taste-with-some-steak crap, because you don’t.

Okay, so here’s how I usually do it (I’m sure you’re all very interested).
I modestly pour half a glass of wine to sip on while I’m preparing a scrumptious cooking channel-inspired meal for my dear husband.

I’ve seen people doing this on television and thought it looked rather elegant.
I’ve always felt that drinks can serve as stylish accessories, in some cases.

For instance, in my brooding gothic days, I drank only gin and tonic at Zeplins because it would glow an eerie blue under the blacklight.
It went beautifully with my PVC corset and blue-black hair.
Sometimes losers who claimed to be “wiccan priests” or “psychic vampires” (sexy) would come up to me, sipping at red wine as if it were blood recently tapped from a virgin girl at a séance. Alarmingly, these people tended to be fans of Elizabeth Bathory, the champion psycho bitch from hell, who allegedly bathed in her victims’ blood.
Man, sometimes you can’t help but blame the parents.

But I digress, once dinner is done I’ll dish it up and realise that I’ll need some more wine to compliment the cuisine.
Some experts believe that wine goes well with food.
Plus a table just doesn’t look nearly as sophisticated without wine on it.

Then once dinner is finished, I think of chocolate.
But being in the first year of marriage I am terrified of ballooning into a giant, custom-made tent-wearing Donna Claire overnight, so refined sugar is out.
Therefore, to dull the pain of dietary self-control, I indulge in a sip of extra wine to go with my after-dinner cigarette(s).
By the end of the night I weave jovially through the house, barging into the bathroom where my startled husband is taking a crap, to declare my love anew to him.
This is usually met with a scathing rebuke, which flings me into righteous, towering indignation.
I’d then pick my cat up by his tail and drag him to bed to help me sullenly lick my wounds.

And the next day it starts all over again.

Of course the culprit doesn’t have to be dinner.
It can be lunch, snacks, game shows, celebrations, rewards, self-pity or whenever someone pops in for coffee.
“Nonsense, coffee’s bad for you! Here, down this pint of Tassies, that’ll get your heart pumping!”
I’ve grown accustomed to suppressing the urge to feel guilty about inevitably sending my guests home, swerving dangerously across the road, as I wave them off.
So...back to iced tea, then?

And another thing: smoking!
I am so sick of being abused as a smoker that now I have decided to join the winning (judgemental, smug sons-of-bastards) team: non-smokers.
These bogus new laws have turned all my favourite restaurants into elite clubhouses where I am most unwelcome because of my tragic addiction to cigarettes.
I find myself hiding in corners at shopping malls, fanning my cigarette like a kid on the school pavilion. I’d drag on it like some home-sick jail-bird about to be executed; all the while shooting furtive glances over my shoulder to see if any security guards have caught wind of my criminal activities. Because if they had they’ll charge into my face like drill-sergeants and give me stern reprimands, spittle flying at my tear-stained, half-frozen face.
Maitre D’s at restaurants don’t even really talk to us smokers anymore; they just point to the Siberia-esque corner in the parking lot or lead us to gray rooms where we have to read Braille menus because we can’t see through the smoke.
All this occurs under the upturned noses of the wretched non-smokers, perched comfortably on cushioned, velvet chairs in beautifully decorated halls, complete with violinists and candles.
It sucks.
I can’t stand it.
Unfortunately this means that Sean and I will have to sit at separate tables on our date nights, since he still stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that smoking is a very expensive, slow and annoyingly ineffective method of suicide.

My father-in-law quit about a year ago and is doing quite well.
He chews feverishly on Nicorette gum whenever I see him, though. I think he chews it between bites at mealtimes, to be honest.
He gave me one to try out the other day and it almost struck me down dead.
My entire upper body spontaneously combusted, my brain skipped beats and my one eye closed half-way and refused to open again until I spat it out.
I wheezed and coughed and spluttered and cracked jokes to hide my discomfort but in the end failed miserably and clawed, panting, at the hateful rubber in my mouth.
“So, do you feel like a cigarette now?” my father in-law smilingly asked me.
I had to admit I didn’t.
I didn’t feel like doing anything except maybe STOP, DROP AND ROLL!

Plus I have rather enough latent addictions to sense that swopping my cigarettes for Satan-Chappies might fit in all too neatly with my self-destructive streak.

My shrink says it’s all chemical...that I was born this way and I can’t help it.
She also said that I'm probably bipolar and tend to make massively impulsive desicions at the drop of a hat.

Gosh, I wish I had a cigarette.