Tim sent this to me several weeks ago, but I forgot. Sorry Tim! Enjoy!
In the effort of keeping a scientific mind, I decided now would be an opportune time for a bit of a project. A study of one household. Thus I give you…
Hypothesis: Is it better to go to bed at the end of the day “under the influence,” or to be Stone Sober?
Data: Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months. Three or four extra stiff drinks a night, and I patter off to sleep. I could be in bed, in the bathtub, on the bar, in the basement, or at my desk. Apples to Oranges, it’s a full solid night of rest… for me. However the occasional WTF the morning after as I stare at the coffee pot and the lack of courage in the carafe, wondering why it’s not there.
Now in an effort to remain unbiased in this study, I chose last night to be sober. Below is the recounting of the events as they unfolded.
I come home from work. The better half is fuming as two little ones refuse to accept their pillows. I intrude, and now the boys must be hugged and kissed and told good night. (Personal note: the boys do get a good bit of bad dreams, so I always tell them to make sure they don’t dream of pink elephant’s wearing tutus. They get angry and sneak up on you while you’re sleeping and tickle you) So I sneak out of the room while the momma bear growls at the cubs, and begin to do a rather large load of dishes. Then pick up all the dirty laundry and do a couple loads, while a buddy stops over and we work on his bike for a bit. Little stuff, nothing noisy like figure out a paint scheme and start spraying. Continue with more laundry. Take the dog for a very long walk. Spent about 30 minutes at a brisk pace, lapping the neighborhood a few times. More dishes and another load of laundry. Step into shower, proceed to wash my posterior, and slip. Reach for curtain rod and fall. While I’m falling through the curtain, I’m reminded of a nagging to secure the curtain rod before someone gets hurt. I then bounce my hip off of the toilet, hit my head on the sink, sending all manner of brushes, combs, and those little doodads Jessie sticks in her hair, and land with a thud on the floor with the curtain rod smacking me in the head for good measure. Jessie screams and rips the bathroom door open, smacking it into my head, and as I lay there with one foot in the toilet, and the other in the tub, the only thing I could say beyond OWWWW is, “would you believe me if I told you I’m stone sober?” The door gently closes. The hall light flicks off. The bedroom door slams shut. And I lay there on the floor, wet, soapy, and sore, trying to figure out how to write this as no one would EFFIN believe it.
Conclusion: Sobriety sucks. However, a lesson previously learned is as follows, if momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody gonna be happy. So I’ll just pretend I was drunk on the one night in months that I’ve been sober, and let her think I need to sober up. Does anyone have an alcoholic beverage that doesn’t smell like a distillery? We gotta keep this on the down low. I can’t afford to keep getting hurt like this. If I was drinking, I’d have never made it to the bathroom in the first place.