“Betty the Cave Dweller”– holy shit, that’s me!
Hello, Sober Blog Citizens. I am attempting to write to you from the depths of my subterranean murk. I have been spending excessive amounts of my SWEET PRECIOUS TIME in a cave-like manner: IE, my dimly lit air conditioned bedroom with curtains closed.
This is incredibly easy to do when it’s 90+ degrees and smoky (which is my story for the moment, you may or may not know that west coast of the US is en fuego right now). It is also easy to do when it’s 60 degrees or less, raining, cloudy, windy or other. So by my estimation, there is a very narrow band of habitable temperatures, somewhere between 65 and 77, where I am NOT allowed to retreat the darkness of my bedroom.
Obviously I’m justified.
But the fact is, the hours I spend hiding in my bedroom are starting to look suspiciously like the pattern I inhabited while drinking. Hours where I just check the fuck out and zone out on TV, laptop, phone (sometimes all at once: THREE SCREENS DEEP, BITCHES).
Usually these cavernous retreats arrive shortly after the completion of all-consuming projects: fixing up a house to sell, decorating the beach house, etc. I feel like I finally get time to relax and then……. BOOM!: LEISURE OVERDRIVE.
Clearly, something needs to be done. The first thing I’m doing is this. Literally, THIS, typing this out is currently making me feel whiny and rather put out. It’s taking me away from watching TNG on Netflix and reading my endless design magazines (to glean design ideas I’m never going to employ because I cannot be arsed to leave my fucking bedroom). So I’m doing this-here.
Also, I am currently on the hunt (in my MIND obviously) for a vintage table the likes of which I shall paint a jaunty hue and install in my hallway, in honor of my Elle Decor mags (my version of their designer console will be slightly more affordable, about $4975 less). This will segue nicely into some other projects that I have been sitting on, much like an egg that’s going hatch someday.
In other news:
My son turned 21 last week and Mr. Betty and I took him out to dinner to celebrate (we barely stuffed all 6 feet of him and about 12 inches of his outrageously buoyant Caucasian-fro hair into the back seat of Mr. Betty’s hamster car) in Portland at a Brazilian steakhouse style restaurant. This is one of those places where the gauchos walk around with delicious chunks of meat on skewers and slice them off onto your plate until you say OH DEAR GOD PLEASE STOP. Because after all, nothing says “you have come of age” more so than bacon-wrapped filet mignons flying at your face.
Whilst we were wrangling with the pork chop tornado and while I was desperately pleading with the hundreds of circulating waitstaff to BRING ME MORE DEEP FRIED BANANAS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, a friendly fellow with a cart appeared off the starboard bow and moored. The cart contained several containers of sliced pineapple and cherries and syrups and I thought OOH TREAT!! But then I saw that it was BAR CART and he was peddling the Demon Alcohol. *disappointment* So I said, “Whatcha got there?” and he launched into a description of this wonderful fruity magical Brazilian-y shot that he was going to make us, that was going to change our VERY LIVES and–
— “Oh, sorry, you’re wasting your time here, friend. This is the AA table.”
The poor little guy looked horrified, and I felt rather bad for him so I told him, “I’m sure all these other people are going to LOVE it. Can I have some bananas??”
After that I looked at my TWENTY-ONE YEAR OLD son and said, “Oh, did you want one??” He just laughed and informed me that he and his friend who also just turned 21 were going out drinking next weekend (which is THIS weekend, so he may be suffering as I type). I asked him what he thought he was going to drink and he did not know! He’s probably the only 21-year-old on the planet who waited until his legal birthday. My hope is that he hates it and goes back to the relative safety of his craft root beer addiction.
In what has been deemed (by myself) a Herculean effort, I left my home after work last week and met a friend for happy hour (appetizers) downtown. In the usual manner of the Alcohol Industrial Complex, the server immediately launched into his cocktail special, “The Spicy Cucumber” to which I replied, “Sounds good! I don’t drink, can you make that without alcohol??” He looked crestfallen..no, no we can’t do that. However he did come up with a shrubby sort of drink for me: vinegar, lemon juice, blood orange soda and mint. Fabulous! My lady-date sipped a 1/2 off cocktail (my drink was waaaay better) and we snarffled a pizza Marguerita and some pulled pork sliders.
Also, I have developed an obsession with my hanging flower baskets on my front porch. I deadhead them every morning before I get in my car to go to work, I talk to them, I tell some of them that they are VERY PRETTY and the BEST PLANT; others, I murmur my disappoint to…I see, can’t bothered bloom again, eh?…you can be REPLACED with a cheerful geranium who is grateful to be hanging here…
I have perfectly dialed in my drip watering system and have fertilized on schedule. I’ll be honest- in spite of that, they still don’t look that great- particularly the stubborn petunia on the end (who shall remain nameless!!) But they are definitely taking some of the focus off of the Serengeti that is currently my lawn.
So that’s my summer so far! Next month, I am traveling with some friends to Beverly Hills to attend SheRecovers LA so I am super excited about that. We’re renting a condo close by the hotel and are hoping to invite some other ladies to come out chat in the evenings. The rules of the rental read: “no parties” so I sincerely hope that a dozen women drinking Celestial Seasonings and La Croix does not qualify, lest I be black-listed on the Air BnB.
If you are attending SheRecovers LA and would like to meet up feel free to PM me (email is on my Contact page.)
Hope you are all enjoying your sober summers, in or out of your respective caves.