No one ever assumes you eat Brussels sprouts. No one brings you to their living room, presents two plates of Brussels sprouts, and sits grinning, waiting for you to go to town. No one orders a round of Brussels sprouts for the table. No one asks you out with, “let’s get Brussels sprouts.” And no one nods knowingly when you’re a shambles Sunday morning from Brussels sprouts gas.
Now, it happens, I do, in fact, love Brussels sprouts. It also happens that I do not drink alcohol. And yet, everyone I meet makes the assumption that I do, until told otherwise. Drinker until proven abstinent. This bothers me.
I quit drinking in April 2009, because I didn’t like how entwined my dating and drinking lives had become. I decided the only way to fully render them apart would be to quit drinking completely, until I found myself in a relationship, procured sans-drink, at which point I would re-evaluate.
The bad news is I’m still waiting on that relationship.
She was old but sharp and I knew she identified me yards before I even noticed her standing there. With a sweet smile and grey hair, she was the kind of woman just nutty enough to have 3 or 7 cats but sweet enough to make apologies for her behavior. She held her clipboard like it meant the world to her.
My dad always said that children were like small drunk adults. They walk around with little regard for their safety, they say stupid things, and they vomit. I am probably not going to have them. And I'm going to be real: I don't want to get fat. I don't want my body to change into something I don't recognize. But most importantly, I don't have the patience to be a mom. I have no idea how my mom put up with me. I would sabotage grade school Christmas shows by dressing as Michael Jackson. I would argue about everything, especially regarding bike safety (I didn't care that my helmet was a Barbie licensed helmet damnit.) I wouldn't eat anything she cooked.
A few days before my birthday, a picnic table arrived in our yard, carted down the driveway in Roy’s truck. Roy held out for as long as he could, swearing he was not going to pay money for a picnic table when he could build one for much less, or better yet, build us a really lovely outdoor dining table. I know he was disappointed not to have the time to do it this summer, but at least he didn’t leave us without something to sit around for the birthday gathering.
The “Sunday Styles” Section of The New York Times recently ran a front page story on the evolution of the noun Charlie Sheen into a verb, as in sheened and sheening, meaning, among other things, partying or making bad decisions (Laura M. Holson, “When Your Life Becomes a Verb,” March 6, 2011). Apparently the first cited/sited reference appeared in Urban Dictionary, and more recently posters on Twitter have offered their definitions.