Home with the spread

One of my favorite things about coming home to Alexandria is the spread of cheese, meats, olives and nice beer and wine that inevitably awaits each time I arrive. Vinnie told me yesterday that my father said to him, "Well, Justin and Cara are coming up, we've got to get some cheeses and things," with a resigned air as though it was necessity, and not desire, that fueled the purchase of such items.

When we arrive, late or early, the bags are pulled from the fridge. J normally chooses some new kind of beer from afar, while I opt for a glass of red wine in a ceramic wine glass and we sit at the counter and make a mess. It's certainly becoming habit. It may be becoming necessity. Sometimes I don't want to leave. Maybe just stay a few weeks and drink good wine nightly, exist on snacks and enjoy digital cable.

Punishment for taking the drink

Last night we initiated one of our favorite summertime traditions - happy hour at He's Not Here, a Chapel Hill bar that sees fit to serve beer in large, plastic cups which resemble small buckets. I have to hold the cup with two hands to get the precious and inexpensively priced beer into my mouth. Kelly and I somehow managed to drink a good amount of the He's Not Here beer, more than when we can remember, and when I say a "good amount" what I mean is enough to ensure that this morning I'd be both struggling against total body failure and hoping that death will come and the pain will end. The pain! Earlier I drove my sorry self to the post office to get the office mail which has been piling up over the past week. When I arrived and stood before the endless line of post office boxes (what order are these in? Why is this so CONFUSING??) I couldn't remember what our number was. So I tried and failed at several while an employee looked on suspiciously as though I were attempting to steal mail. "Who'd DO THAT?" I felt like screaming and then thought about maybe falling to the floor in a sad little puddle and demanding a chicken biscuit from Bojangles, and fries. But I remained cool. I simply stood there, confounded (and did I mention that I look awesome, today?) until I finally realized that the letter I was holding in my hand to send had our complete address listed right in the corner. Oh. I opened the box to discover piles of mail silently taunting me.

All I've got for now is faith in the knowledge that soon this will end. Hangovers pass, leaving you with a vague memory of the pain, and all the memories of a fun night out. And so we never learn. All I have is this hope. And the promise of an ice cold Coke I can hold with just one hand while I drive myself home.