Wasted Effort

(Okay, this blog was written on Saturday, so let's pretend it's still Saturday.)

It's 12:30 on this blustery, blizzardy Saturday, and where am I on this fateful night? The fate of the night being that after thirteen sometimes flawless sometimes miraculous victories, the New Orleans Saints have just lost their first game of the season. So, ahem, where am I, you ask? Not crying into a cold beer like I'd like (well, like Mike and Allison would like--I'm pregnant and agonizingly sober). And why are these young patriots being robbed of their birthright to do anything they want anytime they want? Because the suburbs of Boston apparently do not sell any alcohol past 11pm on Saturdays, much less any day of the week! No Bud, no Beast! And it calls itself an Irish community!

The three of us spent a difficult three hours retching and writhing in front of the big screen upstairs, at first carefree and happy to finally catch a Saints game on a TV screen in this part of the country (thanks for your pretty pictures, NFL Network), but the cares quickly crept up as the Dallas Cowboys charged down the field, over and over and over again, plowing over the defense, offense, poor wittle Drew Brees, and the indefatigable New Orleanian spirit over and over and over again. It was painful--but in the 4th quarter, the Saints at an unlikely but not unconquerable point disadvantage, they started to come back. Things were looking up in an almost religiously miraculous way, as they always had this season, and then, with 12 seconds on the clock, they fumble, turn over the ball, and choke and lose it and die. Goodbye, perfect season.

Meanwhile Mike and Allison are throwing back the martinis nervously, oblivious to the absentminded sipping. For some reason I am designated the--wouldn't ya know it--"Designated Bartender," and every time I return from the kitchen with another round, Allison is in a more profound state of droopiness. It's funny until the commercial break ends and another butterfingers on the Saints side drops the ball. Anywho, once the reality kicks in that the game is over, that the hopes of a perfect season are dashed, all anyone wants is a cold one. These two are getting vodka sloppy and I pray for a less concentrated nightcap.

When I finish sobbing violently into Mike's shoulder, they convince me we must go out and get beer. Who cares that the blizzard is moving through and I for one haven't seen snow in over two years and really just want to sit rigidly by myself and cry and wonder why I am really so bothered by this emotional letdown? No, we must get beer! Okay. I'm not gonna stand around in my scarf and boots forever. Let's go.

And it is quite the bitch outside! There's already over an inch of snow, albeit fluffy, wet, and not yet icy. We maneuver through the blankets of falling snow like three grandmas in an Oldsmobile, just up to the gas station two blocks away. And can you believe it, they don't sell beer! We continue on grudgingly, finally fishtailing into the Stop n Shop parking lot which contains a liquor store. And it's closed! Just past midnight! Foiled again! We try once more, doe-and-bleary-eyed. And that shit is locked up like a warehouse during the off-season in Bogota.

So these two, not to mention my tired and bloated ass, are peeved that this so-called modern city is antagonistic toward the responsible sale and consumption of alcohol well before bar-closing time. What, if we want to drink alcohol we should go to a bar? You want we should drink and drive and get in a brawl? What if after a heartbreaking Saturday night special presentation of Thursday Night Football I want to drown my sorrows (or watch my loved ones do as such) in the privacy and comfort and safety of my own home? You don't want to see any of us right now, I tell you that! Well, maybe Allison, she's a card and isn't emotionally attached to tonight's turn of events. But she is pretty loud. It's a give and take.

So really, WHAT is up, Weymouth? Or, as Mike says, "Way out of the Wey-mouth!" Way out of the way of making any sort of sense! Now I have to endure these kids playing grab ass with the liquor cabinet while debating the legitimacy of the destruction of the Death Star at an annoyingly aggressive tone while I wallow in the Saints' loss and the reality of three sets of taper candles I hand-dipped earlier that look like uncircumcised penises! Harmph!