Idiosyncratic Obscene

Every few weeks, I like to stage what I call "Hemingway Night". I shoo Mr. Thumbscrews out of the house, deposit J.Q. in his crib and - once he's solidly asleep (on all fours, diminutive butt held aloft, puddle of milky drool spreading rapidly across sheet) - I begin Drinking and Writing. I use both terms' connotations loosely. My short stories read like what would happen if Quentin Tarantino molested Holden Caulfield in Henry Miller's tool shed and, while I'm capable of knocking back ten rum 'n diet Cokes while remaining upright and fully clothed, I don't generally engage in such debauchery in my own home.

There's something appealing, however, about my sloppy, silly homage to "writers who like to drink... like, a LOT", as one of the characters in Stephen King's final "Dark Tower" book so aptly put it. While I may never bang out a whiskey-fueled masterpiece in Dar-es-Salaam, putting back Peppermintinis (shut up, the mix was 75% off at Target; at that price, I can deal with smelling like a degenerate Doublemint Twin) while blogging in Suburbiaville has its own charm.

Midway through my last, heavily-mentholated attempt to channel Lester Bangs, I was struck by a revelation (unlike many of today's revelations, mine did not feature Kirk Cameron). "This," I slurred, hitting "Save" and stirring my mouthwash-eqsue libation with one finger, "Is exactly the sort of thing I love about myself."

Okay, so the statement wasn't entirely accurate: I was DRUNK. That doesn't even rank in my Top Five Worst Things Said While Drunk:

5. "I only gave the Sea Monkeys a PINCH of food!" (as my then-boyfriend and I stared into a vessel which didn't resemble a Sea Monkey tank so much as an avocado milkshake in which someone had deposited a small plastic treasure-chest).

4. "Orken bjorken!" (while attempting to charm an acquaintance's magma-hot new girlfriend, who happened to be... brace yourself... Swedish.

3. "I can make it to the bathroom!" (I couldn't.)

2. "Gimme fifty cents!" (invariably results in the selection of the ONE jukebox tune which will, within three brief minutes, cause every bar patron to become depressed enough to slit their own wrists with little plastic cocktail swords).

1. "Dude, this bus will totally get us back home." (resulted in Mr. Thumbscrews and I spending most of the night in an area of Philadelphia which was the subject of frequent local news features with titles like, "When Will Black People and White People Stop Killing One Another With Such Alarming Frequency?"

Point being, there are quite a few things I admire about myself which do not involve drunken idiocy and/or overuse of adjectives. My determination, my devotion to friends and family, my steadfast morality (which is self-derived and hence includes no prohibition against Bukowski-ish jackassery). However, with the help of a wonderful therapist and enough antidepressants to prevent the reuptake of a tanker-truck full of serotonin (dude, wouldn't it be awesome if that tipped over on the highway? Everyone would be three hours late getting home, and they WOULDN'T CARE!), I'm beginning to discover a different side of self-love (no, not that one, pervs; I discovered THAT in junior high, when one of my neighbors left a prominently-displayed copy of "Chic" magazine on top of his recycling bin).

Rather than waiting for someone else to embrace my unique collection of quirks and escapist behaviors - flees and tics, as it were - I'm learning to appreciate them myself. When I choose to reopen the doors of my battle-scarred heart, it will only be for someone who will cherish what lies within as much as I do.

What weird/funny/disconcerting little things do YOU love about YOURself? Does anyone in your life appreciate them? I'll get the party started (or lubed up, to continue the weary self-love metaphor... I can't resist, damn it):

A. My dreams. They're always complex, convoluted and hilariously stupid. Case in point: several weeks ago I dreamed that I was part of a group of people being held against our will in a shadowy organization's secret training camp. It was a densely-layered, intricately-plotted thriller of a dream which ended with the discovery of Shadowy Org's top-secret mission: stuff seeing-eye dogs with explosives and use them to blow up state capitol buildings (insert incredulous forehead-slap here). I should mention that, throughout the dream, my fellow detainees and I were repeatedly frightened by far-off explosions. This was apparently because the organization had used HORSES as their initial test subjects, and the anatomical differences between equines and canines had unfortunately led to some prematurely-Detonating Pinschers. Oh, oh! The best part! One of the signs which led me to believe that this was an EVIL organization (forced detainment, monochrome uniforms, wanton animal cruelty) was the fact that, at mealtime, every member of the group was only allowed to have one quarter-cup of ice cream.

Holy SHIT. You can't tell that I'M an American, now can you?

B. Despite the fact that I haven't played "Never Have I Ever" since high school, I deliberately seek out strange/unique experiences which will contribute to my N.H.I.E mastery. I guess I could be called an experiential collector. Case in point: prior to J.Q.'s birth, I considered eating the placenta after delivery. This was not due to any New Agey leanings or a particular craving for placenta pot pie; nay, I just felt like it would be somewhat cool to have engaged in cannibalism. I was dissuaded from placenta-eating by... well, everyone (universal consensus: "EWWWWWWW!"); this is just as well, considering I delivered at Gigantic Soulless Medical-Industrial Complex. My placenta was probably oozing its way down Organ Disposal Chute 7-G seconds after it emerged.