Fix it again...

It has been four weeks, and again, here I am bragging to myself that I have not had a drop to drink.  My brother Steve thought I would last 1 day.  To be completely honest, I thought I would last only 1 day.  But here I am.  Four weeks in and not even the slightest temptation to drink wine.  And might I remind you, that includes living with one of the biggest winos of them all, Minette.  If I can survive being sober in a house with her, then I think I proved to myself that I am indeed not addicted to alcohol, which I knew all along, but needed to test myself anyway.  Here and there I get the question of "When?".  Every once in a while I think about "When?".  When will I start drinking again?  My birthday?  Some horrible day after work?  Minette's birthday (her suggestion)?  But I have to tell you, I don't really think about it.  Wait a minute.  Who am I?  And what have I done with the real Matt?






Well, recently it became very obvious that the old Matt is coming back, hopefully to stay.  Yes, with my decision to buy a car known to the entire world as possibly a big mistake, the old Matt of yore is back in action.  Once upon a time, in a state far, far away, I used to be a person that never went along with what was necessarily a smart choice.  I always tended to do stupid things, make rash decision, waste money, and not really care much about the consequences (even though I never got caught doing things I wasn't supposed to do).  For a while, I forgot how to live like that - you know, by the seat of my pants.  But now it's back.  Ok...maybe I am a more responsible person to some degree, and I do think about tomorrow to some extent, but not in any way that my financial advisor, Suze Orman, would ever condone.  I don't anticipate that I will ever appear on her "Can I Afford it?" segment, so what do I care.  Yes, back in September of 2010, I made the leap, after absolutely no consideration of what the consequences of such an action could be, a leap to put a deposit down on a Fiat 500 "Prima Edzione" #468.  I'll refer to her as "468".  

468.

468 was a pipe-dream for about a year and a half.  I've already blogged about my fascination with the Fiat 500 when I was in Europe during the summer of 2009.  I  saw the car and knew instantly that I wanted one, only to be slapped in the face with the reality that Fiats weren't sold in America and hadn't been sold here for 27 years (something about reliability blah, blah, blah, mumbo jumbo...).  I put the idea of buying it mostly out of sight, but not at all out of mind.  It would never come to the Untied States, so I figured it was a safe bet that I wouldn't be able to get one.  Until they decided to bring it the United States.  Now I was able to get one.  Well this is all just great news especially since I referenced Fiat (in not such a great light) during the summer of 2009.  Prior to going to Europe, Fiat was the butt of one of my jokes that no one ended up getting or appreciating, except myself.  I'm sure this happens a lot.  Anyway, here's the story:

The Fiat Charger, minus the rims.

During the summer of 2009, Carley and I drove cross country (a blog post for another time that also involved wine - go figure).  We stopped in North Carolina and stayed at my brother Mike's house for a day or two.  He had just bought this big ol' macho car called a Dodge Charger Wagon.  It was big and black and basically looked like a really fast hearse.  Well, the Chrysler/Fiat deal had just recently gone down during the whole government buyout of the American auto industry.  I made fun of him for buying a Fiat Charger and that it was a pile of crap as a result because heck, Fiats were piles of crap.  He had no clue as to what I was talking about, but I thought it was funny regardless.  Little did I know that soon, I would be eating those words...or maybe not.  To date I still have not taken ownership of 468.

The Homer.  

468 almost didn't happen.  I was going back and forth as to whether or not I should get one.  I was sent an email from Fiat that they were going to take reservations for the first 500 "500's" and would need $500 for a deposit.  I still wasn't sure.  They gave no information about the car other than what it looked like, sort of.  I only had images of the European version to go on, as well as the company telling me that they were going to make certain stylistic changes to it for the American market (in my mind, I pictured something similar to the "Homer" - the car that Homer Simpson created in the episode where he met his long-lost brother Herb).  Turns out that I missed the initial reservation period by the time I made up my mind to go ahead and reserve one.  Then, a few days later, I received another email from Fiat that said that someone backed out and #468 was available.  I was at work, probably in the middle of something important, and jumped on it immediately.  I was given the option of three colors to choose from - red, grey, or white, only they used the Italian words for the colors.  I chose Bianco (that's white for those of you who don't speak Italian).  We were also given the choice of two options...a sunroof (check) and an engine block heater (no check).  Then we were told nothing for a while.  

San Pellegrino.

Chianti.

Pizza.

Ragu.

Michael Corleone.

Now that I was buying a relatively major purchase of something quite Italian, I of course had to make a game out of it.  I started to embrace all that was Italian and annoy my friends.  San Pellegrino mineral water.  Chianti wine.  Pizza.  Ragu.  The Corleone family.  I was dead-set on becoming as Italian as I could, being the French-Canadian, Irish, Polish-American that I was.  I didn't keep up the running joke, but every once in a while I slip a little bit about my new-found Italian heritage, usually while ordering food or a drink.  Grazie...

My seats.

Over the course of the next few months, some more information about 468 was trickled out by the company.  First, they sent a photo of what the car would look like.  I'm glad I chose white.  Then they sent me an invitation by mail to the American debut of the Fiat 500 at the L.A. Auto Show, which fell on a Tuesday.  Damn.  I was working.  Then they sent another email.  This time they told us most of the options that the car came with (I won't bore you).  Then I went to the San Francisco Auto Show to see one in person.  I was in love instantly.  Then they sent a signed and numbered print of some artist's rendering of the Fiat 500.  Then they sent me another email saying that they were doing quality testing and that delivery of the car wouldn't be until February at the very earliest.  Then they sent another email saying that they are now constructing the Prima Edizione 500's and attached a photo of the front driver's seat.  Then they released all of the specification information about the Fiat 500.  Now all I'm waiting for is that damn car.

Fix It Again, Tony.

You know the saying that "Everyone's a critic"?  One constant critic in my life is my friend Sofia.  Through her pessimism, she has this amazing way of grounding people and making them think a bit more rationally about things.  The minute I told her of my decision to buy a Fiat, she immediately said, "You know what 'Fiat' stands for, don't you?  Fix It Again, Tony".  Yeah.  We'll see when she gets her BMW 2002.  God, I hope she's not right though.  Memories of Joan the Saab have come to mind.  Has it really been 7 years since Joan has been out of my life?  Have I forgotten what it was like to spend hours upon hours waiting for my car to be repaired?  Am I ready to give up a life of dependable, Japanese automobiles that have no style, yet substance?  Probably.  I was once known for making such rash decisions in the past.  After all, I did buy Joan after seeing her on the side of the road and test-driving her after she wouldn't start and needed a jump.  I may be smart in some ways, but when it comes to the emotional decision of purchasing my own cars, I can be as dumb as they come.  Bring it on...

Week number three...

I woke up this Saturday with my first headache in years.  I can't remember the last headache I had, and of course, I blame this exclusively on teetotaling. Yes, I was experiencing an unhangover.  In the very recent past, I could have easily had 2+ bottles of wine and woke up the next morning at 7 am ready to go to the gym.  Now I sleep until 10 am and wake up with a headache.  WTF!?!  I don't doubt that most (including scientists) would agree that it should be the other way around.  I suppose my body was so used to drinking red wine that it just sort of expected it, like a baby expects to get fed.  And now that it doesn't get it, I'm being punished like a baby throwing a tantrum because it hadn't been fed.  Really though, some people rely on actual nutrients for energy.  It appears that I relied on red wine.  It had become my lifeblood.  And after Saturday morning, I was even more convinced.

Imagine...

Three weeks have passed since alcohol has touched these lips, tarnished this liver, and further deteriorated my blood brain barrier.  I feel better, have more energy, am sleeping more, and I'm losing weight.  However, I have noticed one other side effect (yes, these horrible things are apparent side effects of teetotaling).  I am beginning to forget.  I have had many internal conversations with myself over this discovery.  Is it that I have become much more forgetful?  Or is it that my brain remembered how to work, and I am actually thinking about more things now-a-days that there have become more opportunities to forget?  My vote is for the latter, for I am way too young to be worrying about the early onset of Alzheimer's.  It does get me to thinking though.  My Uncle George died at at a young age of Alzheimer's, and he drank a lot of wine.  Mr. Howarth, a family friend, neighbor, and a man that I admired deeply (you'll soon find out why), also died at a relatively young age of Alzheimer's - and he was never without a cigar and a glass of red wine.  (If you couldn't tell, this is why I adored Mr. Howarth.  He was on my paper route, and whenever I would run into him, he would greet me with, "Well, Hello Matthew...", cigar and glass of wine in hand.  Always.  He truly was one of the best.) 

Maybe not as hot as this.

Back to being forgetful (and possibly allowing certain friends to assume that they are correct in diagnosing me with Asperger's Syndrome).  I am one of those people who puts things in place so as to not forget things, especially when normal routines change, like when they changed our trash day from Monday to Friday.  I put a reminder on my phone to remind me to put the garbage out on Thursday night.  That was over a year ago, and to this day when the reminder goes off every Thursday night at 9 pm, I always think, "What now?".  Then I look at the phone and it says, "Put out garbage".  I also tend to put my keys on things that I need to take with me as I leave the house, such as mail, or something I need to bring to work.  But I only do this with non-routine items.  Well...the other day, I went to McDonald's for lunch with one of my students.  Just as I was about to order, reached for my wallet and noticed that I didn't have it.  I never forget my wallet.  It must have been lost or stolen.  I was convinced.  I never forget my wallet.  This made me go crazy for about a half hour.  It made me go even crazier about a week later when I forgot it again.  I never forget my wallet.  I am not developing Alzheimer's.  In both instances, after freaking out, I came to my senses and remembered that I also do not lose things.  I somehow assured myself that it was at home, and I got over freaking out about it.  And it was at home in both instances.  I never forget my wallet.  Now, I put my keys next to my wallet.  Next step: set a reminder on my phone.

Well then, set a reminder...

Recently, I have become obsessed with setting reminders on my phone for everything.  It has been the best advice (in my professional opinion) that I have been giving out to everyone who asks me to remind them to do something or if they say they have to do something, like make an appointment or call someone later that day.  Set a reminder.  You all have a smart phone.  Make it work to make your life easier.  Make that smart phone prove it is smart by reminding you of your tasks at hand.  Cuz we all know you're gonna forget. You're gonna get distracted by something shiny and totally blow off picking up your friend from the hospital after having heart surgery, like I did.  And if it wasn't for Carley's smart phone, I would have turned out to be the worst person in the world.  And I was, but for just a short while.  Here's what happened (it involves wine, of course):

Our friend Larry went in for a preventative procedure on his heart.  He was in the hospital for a day or two down in Mountainview, or someplace near San Jose.  I received a call the night before confirming that I was going to pick him up the next day.  Well, I had been watching TV and drinking red wine, and to be completely honest, I don't remember the call at all.  I know.  Bad.  Right?  I went to bed that night, woke up, went out with Carley for breakfast, and then I received a call from Larry.  I thought to myself, "What could Larry want?".  "Hi Matt, where are you?  We're ready and waiting."  Holy Shit.  Right then and there I had been voted as THE worst person in the world by a landslide.  The directions were somewhere at my house in Oakland, and I was in San Francisco.  Larry was in San Jose, and I was sinking deeper into a pile of shit as I realized I was the crappiest friend ever.  Luckily, I remembered one tidbit of information from that drunken conversation the night before.  Larry was at Kaiser Permanente.  Carley was able to pull up the directions on her smart phone and I was able to minimize the damage.  In hindsight, I probably should have stopped drinking that very day, but it wasn't red wine's fault.  Oh no.  It was the fact that I didn't have a smart phone to remind me.  Needless-to-say, that fall, I gave up my dumb phone and joined the revolution.  And I feel just as dumb as ever.

Portugal: Part One....

For years I had been promising Suzette and her mom that I would go with them to Portugal, undeniably known to many as the land of wine.  I never seemed to have the money nor the time off, but mostly the money.  Well, in 2005 I started an ideal job that would allow me both the time and the money to travel.  Yes, I had become a public school teacher.

My new-found fortune as a public servant allowed me to book the long-awaited trip to Portugal that I had only dreamed of for the last 11 years.  It was the summer of 2006 and I was finally going to experience what I had been hearing about for years.  Truly I had no idea what I was in for.  However, not at all to my surprise, I fell completely in love with it.

That summer, I figured I knew what was best when it came to booking travel reservations.  Sue offered the services of one mysterious Mr. Mello, her family's travel agent who seemed to work travelling magic for them (they always seem to manage to book flights, cancel them, and then end up flying first class).  But I wasn't having any of that.  I knew what I was doing and so I bought plane tickets through various websites from various airlines.  What could go wrong?  Turns out, a lot could have, but luckily nothing did, except one mishap with luggage on the way back, but that was due to a faulty bag bought on Mission Street.  After that experience, I know why people usually stick with one airline while traveling.  Anyway, with all of my infinite wisdom, here is a rundown of my flight itinerary to and from Portugal that summer:

• San Francisco to Charlotte through Dallas via American Airlines (for a brief visit with the family who fattened me up with loads of cheese for my summer vacation - Thanks Gab...)

                     

 Take note at how much cheese my sister deemed appropriate for her lasagna.

• Charlotte to Boston via Continental Airlines to catch a Jet Blue Flight to Philadelphia, PE.

• Boston to Philadelphia via Jet Blue Airlines (thank god for the thunderstorm in Boston that allowed me to make this flight!)

• Philadelphia to Lisbon, Portugal via U.S. Airways (There was a plane on the tarmac that had slid off the runway just before we were to take off.  It was raining.)

• Lisbon, Portugal to Philadelphia via U.S. Airways (my luggage burst open and everything was all over the place on the conveyor belt, dirty underwear and all) 

• Philadelphia to Boston via Jet Blue Airlines (luggage duct taped to death, which received suspicious looks from security, especially since this was like a week after the shoe bomber prevented me from loading my luggage up with wine.  Asshole.)

• Boston to San Francisco via U.S. Airways (After I returned, I thought back on this trip's itinerary and really didn't know what the hell I was thinking.)

Between various airlines, airports, and luggage corrals on my way there, I had made it without incident.  Now, all I needed to do was meet up with Suzette and her sister Christine - both of whom are as reliable as a Fiat (which will be the topic of another blog entry soon to come...).  I used the restroom after barely making it through customs (Sue's father's joke "You're so full of shit, your eyes are turning brown" would have been appropriate at that time).  That was a photo finish for sure and to this day I credit the public restrooms in Lisbon Airport as the sole reason I feel more comfortable with using public restrooms.  With shocking disbelief, Suzette managed to call me on my cell phone and tell me of her whereabouts.  Christine was circling in the rental car, waiting for us to emerge from the terminal.  The flight was a red eye, which means I didn't get any sleep that night.  I was exhausted, but I was in a new country.  I couldn't sleep now.

We headed to the hotel room in the Avenida neighborhood of Lisbon, which I gather stands for "Avenue" as it was near a big avenue.  See?  I know Portuguese.  The first thing I noticed as I got out of the car was the smell of exhaust fumes.  Sue told me to get used to it.  We went to the hotel room which was perfect for two 5 foot tall Portuguese ladies but quite small for a 6 foot 1 inch oaf.  I soon learned that smaller was the norm, and so I got used to it pretty quickly.  I showered, we ate, and then we were on our way.  I think I slept most of the way because I don't remember much of the ride from Lisbon to Arcos, which is in the northern part of Portugal, and the town where the village is located.  I do remember passing the Cintra Brewery, however.  (Cintra Beer is the Pabst Blue Ribbon, or should I say, WAS the Pabst Blue Ribbon of Portugal.  Just so you get a taste of what the beer was actually like.  They no longer make it.)






The next day, after I caught up on some sleep, we headed up to the village.  The ride from town up to the village was not your typical car ride.  Oh no.  This was a life-threatening thrill ride.  The roads were barely wide enough for two cars the size of shoe boxes to squeeze by one another.  And then there were the turns.  You could not see any oncoming traffic around the turns on the way up to the village.  You had to rely on two things: the driving skills of the crazy people behind the wheel driving at full throttle, and your horn to alert oncoming traffic that a crazy person was behind the wheel driving at full throttle and was coming upon the turn.  The first few rides to and from the village made me change my underwear, but soon enough I felt comfortable with the ride and assumed that everyone driving must know what they are doing.  Kind of like what you force yourself to think when you get in the back seat of a cab.  Do you buckle up?  You know you don't.  It almost seems rude to buckle up, and also, part of the thrill is forgoing the belt.  






The village, which I'm sure has a name, was a throw-back straight out of the 16th century.  The roads were unpaved, the buildings were made of stone, mortar, and wood.  Water had to be captured from the hillside for drinking, cleaning, and irrigation.  Food was grown, raised and killed by the villagers and shared among each other.  And a lot of the old people had one, maybe two teeth.  It was unlike anything I had ever experienced, except maybe Plymouth Plantation or Old Sturbridge Village.  But that was fake.  This is real.  I was in love.






Thanks to my "trust-worthy" guides, Suzette and Christine, I was able to get the dirt on all the villagers.  Turns out, everyone in the village did nothing but gossip.  Another reason I was in love.  Here are some of the more interesting tidbits of information I received on some of the characters I was introduced to (I don't remember everyone's names, so nicknames or descriptions will have to do):  

                                                   
                                         Justina wearing a wig.


Justina (the village whore): Justina lived next door to Casa Medeiros (Sue's parent's house) in her employer's house (she was a housekeeper).  She seemed to always be around, and rumor has it that she had a little somethin' somethin' going on with Sue's grandfather in the past.  Rumors were also going around that she had the hots for Dennis, Sue's father.  I never saw her pull anything, but you could tell she was definitely up to no good.  That slut.

                  Lady, Matt, and Tia - in Tia's kitchen smoking chourico.


Tia (the coolest woman in the village): Tia, which I think means "aunt" in Portuguese, is Sue's mother's aunt who lived down the road.  She seemed very matriarchal and was the center of attention wherever she went.  Maybe she was the center of my attention because I absolutely adored her.  I have this burned-in-my-mind image of her walking down the street barefoot, holding an upside-down dead chicken in one hand and a bloody knife in the other.  Yup.  She had just killed dinner.  She proceeded to show me how you kill a chicken by moving the knife back and forth in a sawing motion across the skull while the chicken hangs upside down over a bucket to catch the draining blood.  I love Tia.

                                              Donna Corga


Donna Corga: One night I went inside the house for probably another beer, and upon my return, Lady was nowhere to be found.  Her cousin, Donna, however, was sitting in the lounge chair, expecting to be waited on hand and foot.  God, she was a handful.  She looked a lot like Lady, but way more pushy and rocked a mullet, which I swear was a wig.  She stayed for a bit, but she had to go (thank god).  After she left, lady magically appeared out of nowhere.  They had just missed each other just as Superman always seemed to have missed Clark Kent.  Strange.  

                                                 Petusha


Petusha (the flea-ridden mutt): Petusha was the best dog in the village.  She ruled the village, coming and going as she pleased.  She wasn't pretty, but she had loads of personality.  And she liked her belly rubbed and spanked.  

                                                 The cat.


The Cat: What a bitch!  


The younger village whore: I don't remember her name, but she had an instant crush on me and immediately started to flirt.  Rumor had it that she did this with everyone in the village who had a penis.  It turns out that she was mentally retarded, according to Sue.  


The Portuguese Ninjas: These are the ladies who outlived their husbands and dressed all in black to "mourn" them.  It was (and is) my belief that they killed their husbands off so that they can become members of this elitist club.  They mainly hang out, stare at tall, blond Americans as they walk by, grow beards and mustaches, gossip, and go to church.  Sue made it a point to find the hairiest ones and have them kiss me as they greeted me.  What a "See You Next Tuesday", if you catch my drift.


Random little girl: She was walking through the village one day as we were walking through, barefoot and carrying two jugs of wine.  She was chubby and had purple lips from drinking what she was carrying.  I think she was 12.  Sue stopped to talk to her in Portuguese.  A minute later, Sue introduces me, and said, I quote, "Matt, this is my little friend.  Now kiss her!".  Again.  That little "See You Next Tuesday".  






Gossip was the driving force behind everyone in the village.  Everyone had something to say about everyone else.  It was all about image as well.  How could it not be if gossip was running rampant.  You had to look good in the eyes of the other villagers or else you were an outcast.  One example that explain the crazy lengths the villagers would take this...people would hire "wailers" for their family member's funerals because after all, those who had the loudest wailing at their family member's funerals would forever be talked about in "Times Square", and remembered as loving their dead relative the most.  AND THEY WOULD TALK ABOUT IT FOR YEARS!!!!  A side note: "Times Square" was the center of the village which consisted of a bar, the post office (which was never open), and a general store (which housed the post office, and therefore by default was never open).  By far, the most interesting bit of gossip I heard while milling around the village was that Dennis, Sue's father, was THE best clothes hanger in the entire village.  No one hung wet clothes to dry quite like Dennis.  This elevated him to rock star status among the villagers, but true to form, Dennis remained humble amidst all the quiet accolades.  I witnessed his craft first hand.  And besides, how could 100 villagers be wrong?  

Happy, Sad, Sober...

And so today ends a second week of life without wine.  It didn't come and go without its trials and tribulations, however.  In this week's news, our old dog, Harper (renamed Happy by my nephews) fell down after really having to take a big poop on Sunday of last weekend and hurt his hind leg.  He ended up pooping in the house.  Minette cleaned it up.  It was also my second week back at work dealing with students and public school adults (which is never a fun thing...the adults, that is).  Everyone keeps asking me how long I'm going to remain a teetotaler.  I must admit I am having fun riding this wave of non-inebriation.  I sleep better.  I'm losing weight.  I can drive like an idiot AND pass any DUI test they may throw my way.  I have ideas about what I want to do with my life.  I signed up to become an administrator.  My new beard is getting lots of compliments.  I found out what another definition for "beard" is.  My demeanor seems much more pleasant (or so I gather by looking at myself in the mirror).  My god, I've done more this week than I have done in the past 6 or 7 years...  Overall, I think I have found a new fondness for life.  I NEVER thought I would say this, but life seems good being on the wagon.  However, let's not be ridiculous.  Sometimes I do wish I were off it.  For instance, this past Friday I went to Happy Hour with Carley and Tanya after work.  I ordered a Shirley Temple, then realized that it was a bit girly.  I immediately changed my order to a Roy Rogers instead.  Phew.  Crisis averted.  I don't want to be known as a pansy!  I also had to tell the bar tender what the hell a Roy Rogers was (Coke with Grenadine).  Don't they teach you how to serve drinks to 10 year olds at weddings in bar tending school?  The drink was absolutely disgusting.  

Ew.

Harper, a.k.a. Happy, is an old dog, whom we also call "Old Man".  He has growths all over his body, which is why he is also known as "Growth", which also goes along with a clever catch phrase, "Growth's growths are gross".  Like I said, Happy hurt his leg last Sunday racing for the front door because he really had to poop.  He hasn't been the same ever since.  All of us thought for sure that this was the end of Happy.  He couldn't walk anymore and needed to be carried from his bed to outside a few times per day to do his business.  We made him comfortable and catered to him like an invalid at a nursing home.  Curtis took him to the vet to see what the hell happened, knowing full well that he was most-likely going to be put down.   It turns out that Old Man had metastatic bone cancer, only they found a secondary tumor which means there's another one floating around in that lumpy body cavity somewhere.  Believe me, choose a lump...you might guess correctly.  Anyway, in a text message conversation with Curtis while he was at the vet, we came to the conclusion that Happy would have to be put to sleep.  I started tearing up,  knowing that it was the right thing to do for Happy.  I was still at work.  I would end my day and then go straight home to comfort Timmy (renamed Tommy by the nephews) and Toby (renamed Tibby by said nephews).  It was a somber ride home.  I listened to KCBS new radio, where they talked about happy things like the economy and the Arizona shootings.  I made it home and Curtis' truck wasn't there.  He had asked earlier what time I would be home.  I figured he wanted company after making such a hard decision at the vet's office.  I assumed he went for a drive to clear his thoughts.  I parked the car and went inside.  Greeting me at the door was Tommy and Tibby.  They were so excited to see me.  I bet they had no idea what had transpired that day.  I consoled them, or rather, they consoled me.  I told them, "Well boys, it's just the two of you now".  I made my way through the house and into the kitchen, sifting through the day's junk mail.  I look down and I see this big lump under a baby blue blanket with an old dog's head sticking out.  It was Happy.  He was alive and, um, well, alive.  Angry, I immediately called Curtis to ask him why Happy was still alive.  After all, I had just grieved his death.  I even texted my close friends to tell them the bad news.  Turns out that Curtis couldn't go through with it, so he asked for heavy pain medication for Happy while he "thought about it", meanwhile completely neglecting to tell me of his decision.  I was so pissed.  I immediately texted everyone back.  "Um, sorry guys.  False alarm.  Harper is alive and, um, well?  Will text you soon when he isn't."  Or to that affect.  

 This is Happy, fast asleep in Tibby's bed.  Years ago (note the Nokia phone).

One week later, and Happy is actually doing pretty well.  He is eating, drinking, pooping and peeing.  Oh, and walking.  I feel bad that just one week ago I was ready to sprinkle his ashes over his bed (his favorite spot!) just so Timmy can roll all over them and then need a bath.  I've been seeking advice from such professionals as Janelle Lavoie, Dog Kennel Assistant, and Minette Viljoen, Tenant.  After much deliberation and careful consideration of the facts presented, this death panel has decided to wait and see what happens.  

A few months before the new year, I decided that I would give up drinking as a sort of experiment to see what would happen to my mind, body, spirit, and pocketbook.  I was afraid that I would drag others into my new, boring lifestyle of sobriety and crankiness.  It turns out that I am more fun to be around while not drinking than I was while drinking (according to my self-evaluation - I'm sure it's completely scientific and legit).  I have more energy.  I'm funnier, I swear.  I want to have a good time and actually go out and meet up with friends.  I mean, I thought I had the life before I gave it all up.  Come on...coming home after work and watching Jeopardy and Judge Judy with a full glass of red wine was the high life.  Turns out, it wasn't.  I still enjoy Jeopardy...and who doesn't like a good episode of Judge Judy.  The fact of the matter is, I was convinced that I couldn't fathom a life without red wine.  I realize now that such a horrible existence is indeed possible.  And, dare I say it...fun.  I know now that I must ride this positive wave of life without wine and make the most out of it before I snap and drink everything in sight.  The sad reality is that I highly doubt that would even happen.  I have been having a lot of fun without wine, and although I have had my temptations dangled in front of me these past two weeks, they weren't really that alluring.  After much thought, I have come to the conclusion that I am not an addict in any way, rather I am a person who develops really bad habits that become rather persistent over time and am able to overcome them by setting a date to stop the foolishness.  After all, I gave up smoking with relative ease, right?  Stopping drinking has been a cakewalk, and so far a fun one at that.  Fun Fact: Cakewalk: (formerly) a promenade or march, of black American origin, in which the couples with the most intricate or eccentric steps received cakes as prizes.  Best of all, those who know me know that I enjoy sleep more than anything in the world.  Not only have my afternoon naps returned in full force (maybe not to the extent of my 3 hour naps when I lived on Mission Street), I also fancy sleeping until 10 am on weekends once again.  I can't remember the last time I did that without some kind of a pill.