June 26, 2003

My new thing is thick, black Edward Gorey-style eye makeup. I'm convinced sporting smoky raccoon eyes will make me tall and thin and elegant and vaguely sinister like all those tall and thin and elegant and vaguely sinister ladies he drew. Unfortunately, so far, it just makes for filthy pillowcases because I'm not in the habit of washing my face--but I still have high hopes.

My other new thing, which I should have dreamed up yesterday in prevention instead of this morning in remorse, is not drinking so darn much. Yikes. Ever since Sue moved in, we've both been making a pastime of getting snookered. Mid-week pitchers of margaritas or bottles of wine, weekend afternoon beers, habitual Scotch nightcaps. Every mini-celebration or fit of frustration is punctuated with a cocktail. It's sort of glamorous--particularly for me, since I don't smoke anymore--but it's smallishly noxious and worse, fattening. It's a relic, of course, of our not living together. Before, we'd hang out maybe once a week and share a bottle of wine. But now we see each other every day and still keep highlighting all our witty repartee with alcohol. You'd think we were in a Noel Coward play. Except that our repartee really isn't that witty. More like The Days of Wine and Roses. Ugh.

Last night, we both vowed to quit saying: drunk, shitfaced, wasted, trashed, hammered, and fucked up; and to substitute the more expressive, old-timey sayings. We even made a list.

But it looks like we won't be using it for a while, because this morning, we vowed to shun alcohol until the 4th of July (oh my! a whole week!). Not too daunting, but considering the recent escalation of back-porch nightcaps, it will probably be a challenge. I'm putting all the booze out of sight for the occasion. Maybe I should buy a big bottle of nerve tonic à la Mr. Burns. Do they still make nerve tonic? It sounds delightful, very refreshing.

I'd do a juice fast to clear out the toxins, but it's just so involved. All that scrubbing and peeling and cutting and assembling and dismantling and rinsing and scrubbing again. Bleck. I should go on a bikram yoga spree and sweat out all the crud. But then there's that problem with my being a lazy fatass. That seems to keep me from yoga most of the time. But not today, no sir! I'm hauling my carcass to the 4.30 class. By 5, I'll be vaguely nauseous, and by 6, I'll be well on my way to clean. In the magical world of make-believe, I'd stay for the 6.30 class as well, with only a short break to throw up in between classes. (I'd be throwing up from the heat and residual booze--I haven't decided to take up that bulimia hobby again.)

Between eschewing the drinky and getting back to yoga, I'm hoping to fit into those low-rise jeans I bought a couple months ago without sporting crack. I've noticed the kids these days seem to have no problem wearing them impossibly tight and sporting crack themselves, but I'm no 16-year-old. I simply will not knowingly display my ass crack in public. It's not dignified.

And I am nothing if not dignified.

5.01.03