Give Me a Kutch

"Awwww, give me a kutch!" the Welsh woman in the red shirt said as she enveloped me in a huge hug -- one that lasted so long that it was almost uncomfortable.

A "kutch," as I learned at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named tonight, is a hug -- a cuddle, of sorts -- that comes from the heart, especially when something has been lost. When I asked her to spell it, she looked taken aback. "Well," she said, frowning. "I've never written it before."

For me, something has been lost. My grandfather died on Saturday evening, in his sleep. It wasn't a huge shock -- his health had undergone a serious deterioration since the last time I saw him, in June. I had been told that he could no longer be alone -- he had to use a walker and an oxygen tank that helped his "forgetful" spells.

I have pushed it aside for the most part, because I got the news at N's apartment, early on during a Sunday afternoon. I felt selfish, standing there in a man's T-shirt, on my cell phone, in an unfamiliar place. My grandfather was not the kind of person that I am. He was the kind of person who served on boards and distributed scholarship money and worked in the church and for his family.

Today was hard. Real-estate drama with my move (an apartment that's half-finished and coated in a fine layer of construction dust, yet they assure me I'll be able to move in by Thursday). Heart drama with N (I so wish that he would have called me today, but I have to play the Game and wait for his move, since I've asked HIM out these past two times.... I hate that.). Drama with my willing shelving of the news of my grandfather's death. And drama with the fact that I hate my roommate, who gets less and less bearable as the days until my move tick by.

So, of course, I went to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named tonight for some form of distraction. No Brazilian bartender. No Clooney-esque bar manager, who is always trying to convince me his motives are pure. It was me and this friendly, enviable, so-in-love middle-aged Welsh couple and a highly unattractive, portly, gay Irish bartender. We drank in rounds, and it's way too late now, and I had sworn that I wasn't going to drink tonight, but...here it is. Denial coupled with too many Miller Lites that produces some form of drunken prose that I always expect to sing. This is it tonight. This is how I feel. I hope that you respect that and my state.

Drinking Stories

Sometimes I wonder why the only pop-culture stories about drinking that I can relate to are those told by men.

Here's what I relate to when I drink (um, not that I've done these things, but they seem most authentic):

Vince Vaughn at the end of Swingers. In a diner standing up on the table booth, swinging his sportcoat around, and saying, "So I'm the asshole?! I'm the asshole!" We've all been the asshole at one time or another.

Adam Davies's character "Harry" in the book The Frog King. Harry has only three or four dollars left, to his name -- money he won from a bet on the dictionary meaning of words with one of his mentors -- and the female bartender has to pry it out of his hands as payment for the PBRs that he owes her.

Paul Giamatti in Sideways. The scene where he drinks and stares at the pay phone and drinks more and goes to the "dark side" and calls his ex. In my opinion, this is the best representation of real-life drinking and dialing and desperation...ever.

Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. Screaming nonsense (or non-nonsense?) -- "I am his father!" -- in a bar. I hear that Nic Cage was actually drunk when he did this scene.

Augusten Burroughs in the book Dry. Aside from myriad other serious problems, in one of the first scenes of the book, he somehow ends up in a karaoke bar in Manhattan in the wee morning hours, belting out tunes he never would have sung in "real" life. Been there, done that. Sometimes without the alcohol.

I think that the women in pop culture who are portrayed as drunks are also portrayed as sluts -- and I don't feel that's the case in real life. Here's why I don't relate to the women drunks in pop culture:

Sandra Bullock in the movie 28 Days. I'm not going to lie -- I've watched this movie at least five times. My favorite line is "I'm a journalist. I drink." Nice. But there are too many come-to-Jesus, sincere moments, and not enough resistance on her part. There's no way a hard-boiled journalist would have taken this program seriously, especially after only 28 days.

Judith Light in some horrible Oxygen movie that I can't remember. She played a physically abusive wife to Peter Sellers or some similar actor, and she'd drink white wine (seriously? just white wine?) and begin to beat him as he slept, beginning with the phrase, "You were never theeere for meeee!" Um, yeah, no.

Marcia Cross in Desperate Housewives. Does anyone honestly believe Bree is an alcoholic? Even her blackouts look fake. And off of white wine? Thank you. Case closed.

Tara Reid in Taradise. I'd slam her, but I'm a little afraid I'll end up like her, tanked off my ass at Sea World. Okay, maybe I wouldn't do that, exactly but she's a minor tragic figure no one wants to be compared to.

Helen Hunt in Pay It Forward. I don't think anyone would believe Helen Hunt as a drunk.

But here are the women drunks I can get behind:

Meg Ryan in When a Man Loves a Woman. I like the honest smoking. I like the honest drinking. I like the, "I'm worried I'm not going to be fun anymore." Good line. Also: Love Meg yelling out the window, three sheets to the wind, at her neighbors, "Some people are trying to have sex in here!" And also, to her rakish costar, Andy Garcia, "Ask me how much I want to drink right now."

Parker Posey in Broken English, a performance that I'd mandate win an Oscar if I were two-thirds of the academy. She's a single New York woman -- thin, drinking bottles of wine alone, smoking (God, I miss smoking), and hoping for someone who will see her good heart.


Please add your own thoughts in the comments, if you feel so inclined.

On the Wagon

So, um, some of you who read this blog on a semi-regular to regular basis may have noticed that I enjoy the drinking. And by "enjoy" I mean "love." In a good way, of course. A genial way. A totally not trashy-and-yelling-at-bartenders way. Really.

Despite that, due to several drunken...shall we say "incidents" this past weekend, I've decided, dear readers, to put myself on the wagon. For how long? Dunno. I've been dry since Monday. Here's hoping I can make it until Sunday at least.

Here are a few thoughts I've had about being a drunk girl who's trying to stay dry, holding fast to that last little plank of the wooden wagon before a nail gives way and I tumbles onto the red clay:

-When you make a pledge to "not drink," "drinking" becomes one of the only thoughts in your head, even if you've only previously drunk on weekends. Ordering a sandwich at the deli? A beer would go great with this ham on rye. Stressed at work? Lord, I need a shot of Jack. Have a spare 30 minutes in your schedule? Man, the bar would be a great place to kill some time.

-When you're a drinker who makes a temporary sober pledge, it becomes your mission to tell everyone, regardless of whether they care. A coworker of mine asked me if I wanted a beer the other night (we have a pretty laid-back work environment). I could have easily said, "No thanks, man." What I did say -- quite happily and brightly, I might add -- was, "No thanks! I'm on the wagon!" and then I actually skipped away.

-Even if you're holding a nonalcoholic beverage, you shotgun it. I was at a bar with my buddy the other night after a concert, and I was swilling that Diet Coke like it was the lifeblood that would sustain me. He finished his whiskey and soda, and I said, "I'd be happy to get another with you." And another crisp, clean DC with lemon I sure did order, and I downed it within minutes.

-"Sober" can mean "time ticks by like it's molassses." I think to myself, as I'm home and clean at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night, that I would normally be into the wine or into the Bud Light or into a deep, drunken conversation. And then I have another thought: This is where my novel has gone.

Maybe these non-drinkers are onto something...?