Why Savage Drinks So Damn Much

Let me tell you about a typical Savage Swiller day...


People ask me why I drink. I tell them that it depends on the occasion. For example, one day last week I woke up, still a bit fuzzy-headed from the night before, poured myself eight ounces of vodka and topped it off with two ounces of Coke. I needed the caffeine jolt for energy, as I do not drink coffee. The vodka was because it doesn't announce itself the way my usual bourbon does. The soda crackers I consumed with it were in anticipation of a churning stomach. The aspirin chaser was for the free-floating headache with my name on it. The eight ounces of straight vodka that followed the first wee drinkie were necessary for my sanity. The day ahead of me was going to be rough. I prayed that I would make it through in one piece. At that moment, the doorbell rang. My hand shook, and I spilled the last few drops of vodka on the carpet. It was time. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and prepared myself for



Luncheon With My Parents.

Daddy insists on driving.

"You sit in the back, and give us directions," Mom says. Daddy starts the car. Well, he turns the key, looks puzzled when there is no sound, then fumbles for the keys on the floorboards. Daddy starts the car.

NINETY MILES AN HOUR TO THE STOP SIGN!

(It's one hundred feet from my front door, by the way.) My mother says (in her usual conversational tone--imagine a very deaf Ma Kettle), "What's the best way to go?"

Go where? I think, as I cover my ears with my shoulders.

Daddy whips around the corner at high speed (Mr. Daddy's Wild Ride!), then slows to a pleasant eight and a half miles per hour, straddling the center line and staring off into space. Do not bother him; he is in the Driving Zone. It is a happy place. For him. Soon, there are fourteen pickup trucks and SUVs behind us. The drivers of these vehicles (I worry that they may be armed) are not happy. They are eager to let us know this. Oncoming traffic skins the paint from both doors. I ask Mom, "Where do you want to eat?"

"I want to eat someplace NICE!" she screeches.

Damn. There goes my plan to take you to Ptomaine Palace. However, I am nothing if not flexible. I throw out suggestions. "Red Lobster? Mimi's? TGI Fridays?"

I know that we must go to a corporate-clone sort of place, or else my mother will say, in her whisper-that-wakes-the-dead voice, "I think they're foreigners here. Who knows what they're serving? I've heard that these people eat dogs!"

Meanwhile, Daddy is driving down an unpaved country lane. We pass by cows, silos, and a pack of mean and hungry-looking coyotes that are savaging what I hope is some kind of large animal. Whatever it was, it was wearing overalls and a baseball cap, but lots of people dress up their livestock these days, right?

"Al! Where the hell are you going?" screams my mother.

"I dunno. Wherever she told me to go, I guess. "

Realizing that I am the "she" being referred to, I take a look around and do not recognize any landmarks.

"Well, if you had let me drive..." I whine, instantly reverting back to the twelve-year-old I once was.

"You know we don't know which roads to take!" says Mother.

Well, aside from the fact that they managed to get to my house, and that they shop in the town that we are going to, and that they always gaff off my directions anyway...well, aside from those things, she is correct. I take charge.

"Turn here Daddy, " I suggest. (Foolishly, as it turns out.)

A few hundred yards down the lane, Daddy turns the car onto a farm access road. A whole bunch of cows gaze at us. No, a flock. No, wait--a herd! Anyway... A pack of farm dogs run alongside our car, barking their little canine lungs out. Soon, we come upon the actual farmhouse. Should I get out and ask for directions? Uhhmmm... probably not. A woman with a rifle is standing on the porch. She opens her mouth to yell at us. She appears to have no teeth. Brandishing the rifle in what I feel is a threatening manner, she pauses in mid-tirade to spit an astonishing amount of cloudy, brownish liquid in our direction. I tell Daddy to turn the car around.

Fortunately, none of the bullets pierce the car. The cows stare placidly at us as we leave. I realize that if I crouch down behind the car seat as if I were fixing my stockings, I can take a few quick nips from my flask. (Why did I leave my rosary beads at home?) A few minutes later, somewhat restored and able to speak in complete sentences once again, I ask, "So. Mom. What kind of food would you like for lunch?"

"Let's go to Hungry Hunter," she says.

Good, I think. Generic steakhouse. Should be a piece of cake--or should that be slab of beef? Daddy knows where it is. Sort of. We make a double left turn and drive the wrong way down a blocked-off street. Those pesky orange road cones cling to the car's undercarriage for several blocks. We briefly get stuck in the middle of a flock of pink plastic flamingos, but soon extricate ourselves.

"They shouldn't have those things in the middle of their lawn when their house is so close to the road," says Mother.

Finally, we arrive at the steakhouse. Daddy parks. Perhaps the people who own the white Bentley won't notice the dents...

We enter the dining establishment. I say a prayer.

"Al! We're going to the ladies room!" bellows Mother, as though she were in charge of encouraging the passengers of the Titanic to enter the lifeboats. Everyone in the dining room looks at us. A Japanese tourist snaps our picture. Daddy remains oblivious, entranced by the artful display of after-dinner mints cunningly arranged in a plastic bowl. In the bathroom stall, I take the opportunity to have another couple of drinks from my flask. Damn! The flask is now empty. Luckily, I have planned for just such an emergency. I have three more flasks in my purse and two in the tops of my stockings. Maybe I should just start carrying around the 1.75 liter bottle around instead. (But it would be hard to be discreet while sipping from it.)

Back in the dining room, Mother rejects two tables for being in the mysterious Unclean Section, but at last, we are seated. I realize that Daddy is MIA. We find him sitting by himself at a dirty table, reading a discarded children's menu and coloring on the placemat. We persuade him to join us. Soon, our very own waitress cruises up to our table. She goes through the "specials" spiel. She is middle-aged. She has waited tables for many years. She knows that no one ever listens to the list of specials. She knows that customers will ask dumb questions, and demand special treatment. She has grown accustomed to the slings and arrows of customer service. She believes that she has heard and seen it all.

She has never met my mother.

"Would anyone care for a drink before ordering?"

"Where do you get your chickens from?" Mother demands.

The waitress is confused. "From the freezer," she says.

"How do I know they don't have Newcastle disease?" jabs my mother.

"They're not from around here," parries the waitress.

"Well, what about the salmon? Has it been checked for mercury?"

"No," the waitress answers shortly.

Riposte! Take that! (Why did we come to a steakhouse, anyway?) I say, "Mom, how about the rib-eye special?"

Daddy is looking up at the waitress like a little boy trying to get the teacher's attention, his finger pointing at something on the menu. Everyone ignores him.

"You know I don't eat beef. All those hormones they give the cows!"

I am growing desperate. And thirsty.

"Well, how about a nice garden salad, Mom?"

She stares at me as though I have grown another head. "Are you crazy? Haven't you heard about all those people dying?"

Now I am confused. "What people, Mom?"

"Those people in Kansas or Pennsylvania or somewhere. They ate green onions and then they died!"

Huh?

"Well then, just ask that the green onions be left off your salad," I say, thinking it a perfectly reasonable solution.

"How do I know the lettuce didn't come from some foreign country where they use dirty fertilizer on it? Do you know what they use?"

No, and I don't want to know. In just a moment, I am getting up and going back to the Ladies to drink some more.

Suddenly, it is over.

"I'll have a turkey croissandwich."

I wonder if turkeys suffer from Newcastle disease. I decide that I really do not care.

"Is the turkey lean?" 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' asks the waitress.

Yes. We've had it on a bread and water diet for weeks.

The waitress snaps her gum. Wait, she didn't seem to have gum, before. Maybe she just cracked her jaw. "Mustard or mayo?" she says.

"Do you have lemon for the tea?"

"Coleslaw or potato salad?"

"I want Sweet 'n Lo for my tea."

Somehow, without either player acknowledging the other, the order is transmitted and recorded. When her croissandwi(t)ch arrives, my mother will look at it suspiciously. She will take two bites and then abandon it on her plate. "I'm not hungry," she will say as she sighs, making the napkins at the table across the room go flying. I let Daddy order his meal all by his very own self and for a wee bit, we are hung up on the beverage selection. The restaurant serves Pepsi. Daddy wants Coke.

"Why don't you have Coke?" he asks the waitress plaintively.

"We just don't. We have Pepsi."

"But I want a Coke."

"We only have Pepsi."

"Why don't you have both?"

"Because we don't."

"But I like Coke."

"Sorry."

"Oh. Well, do you have Moxie?"

Suddenly, the waitress has a brilliant idea.

"I'll bring you a Coke," she sighs.

Daddy smiles like a good little boy who has been promised a cookie. All is well.

At last, it is my turn.

Here it comes.

I can have one if I want!

I am an adult.

I have a husband, and several grown children.

I'm a homeowner. I pay taxes.

So there!

"I'll have the Petite Steak Special and a glass of red wine."

My mother's eyes widen.

"Going to get schnockered before noon, are you?" she asks. "Do you always drink first thing in the morning?"

I grind my expensive dental crowns together, and manage a rather tight smile.

"It's. Eleven. Forty. Five. I mean, no! I don't--"

"You know, I read in the Reader's Digest that women shouldn't drink more than two drinks a week. It upsets your estrogren balance."

I read in the National Enquirer about a daughter who beat her mother to death with a gin bottle.

The drinks arrive. Sullenly, I take a big gulp of wine, and nearly choke. Mother sneers.

"At least I'm not driving," I mutter. I excuse myself and return to the Ladies for fortification. On the way there, I run into our waitress and order a carafe of wine.

"But put some vodka in it," I tell her. She does not seem surprised by my request.

Back at the table, the food has arrived. My vodka-wine sits embarrassed in the middle of the table, the subject of stares angry (Mother) and perplexed (Daddy).

"You know, alcohol is nothing but empty calories. Do you really think you need them?"

I take a deep breath, and suck in my stomach. "Well, Mom, maybe I shouldn't eat this steak. All those fatty calories, you know."

Damn! She's goaded me into answering back. It's like entering a time machine...

"Beef is very bad for you. Those hormones they give the cows..."

"Mom," I say quietly. "Since you don't seem to be enjoying your meal, perhaps you should order some dessert."

"I'd like some pie," Daddy says wistfully.

Mother glares at him. "You know what the doctor said, Al! You need to lose some weight."

I look at Daddy, all 125 pounds of him on a five-foot nine-inch frame. In shorts, his legs give Colonel Sanders evil thoughts. What the hell kind of quack were they going to?

"Your father is pre-diabetic and pre-hypoglycemic."

What?

She scoops up my pair of rolling eyes and throws them home.

"He has to take pills!"

Geeezuz, I would too, if I had to live with the Food Nazi.

Daddy is gazing longingly at the pie being served to the table next to us.

"And, he has pre-diverticulitis, so he's not allowed to have nuts."

No.

I let that one pass.

"Well," I say, taking pity on him. "I would like some dessert. What kind of pie do you want, Daddy?"

His smile is wondrous to hehold. He has apple pie, with ice cream and a beer(!) I order more wine. Mother glares at us. We ignore her. I make another visit to the Ladies Drinkatorium. On the way back home, Daddy blows through three or four stop signs (I wasn't counting--unless you count my imaginary beads--and pulls out in front of opposing traffic even though our light is red. I don't panic because, after all, we are all pre-death. I'm sitting in the back seat, happy that this family excursion is nearly over. When I look out the window, I realize that we are on the I-15 freeway, heading north towards Las Vegas. Home is twenty-five miles behind me and getting farther away by the second.

Bwahahahahahaaa! I don't care. I know that there are plenty of places in Vegas to get a drink.

And I still have one flask left.