I’ll drink to that

I felt all virtuous when the woman from the wine club rang me with a “very special deal” on a case of all their “premium wines” at an average of $17 a bottle, with “no delivery charge”. I said “no, sorry, unemployed, can’t afford it”. She wasn’t going to give up that easily, “We could do a half dozen …”. But I stood firm. Now I look forlornly at the wine rack with its lone Julia-Gillard-autographed bottle of red, won at a fundraiser (woo-hoo) and handful of celebratory sparklings and wish I’d said “bring it on”. I actually cracked one of the celebratory sparklings the other night in a fit of desperation, and that’s exactly how I felt while I was drinking it. Desperate. I’ll drop by the bottle shop this afternoon and get a six-pack of beer for Husband, as he’s half the problem. He gets home from work and opens a bottle of wine because all his beer is gone and he’s had a hard day at the office. I can’t help myself, if a bottle is opened, I must have some (well, lots really, if I’m to be completely honest). If it’s not wine, it’s Diet Coke. I’m down to a 600ml bottle every second day, but I feel like an addict needing a fix when I fight the urge on every other day to dash to the corner store and get one. Whether it’s 600ml of Diet Coke or a glass of wine, it’s the same – I feel so warm and relaxed and fuzzy afterwards that I immediately want another one. Never mind that I have nothing to be anxious about – other than an early, chemical-additive-fuelled death – since I just hang around the house all day picking up dirty clothes and washing dirty dishes (dishwasher broken). I thought the wine might be responsible for my disrupted sleep patterns, but I didn’t have any last night (aside from a few shots of tokay after dinner, but that doesn’t count, does it? That’s just dessert) and I still woke up all hot and bothered from one of my regular being-hunted-down dreams at 2.30am, then again at 5.30am. I couldn’t get back to sleep after the second scare because I started worrying about whether I should completely remodel the house with the Sprogs’ bedrooms upstairs and our bedroom downstairs and how that would impact on our resale value … You see, even when there’s nothing to be anxious about, I’m an expert at finding something. If only I could make a living out of that, I’d be a millionaire.

TONIGHT’S MENU: Sunday’s leftover curried sausages. Am too battle-scarred from carving last night’s chook to attempt cooking again today. Blithely offered the Sprogs a leg each then almost collapsed sobbing on the kitchen floor at the difficulty of separating chook joints with a bread knife (all the other knives were dirty in the broken dishwasher and I couldn’t be buggered washing them … oh, my dishpan hands …)