Tag Archives: memories

Tucker Max Drunk

29 Oct

There are nights you expects to be full of shenanigans and know the next morning you are going to regret most of your decisions. I call them rock star nights – party hard, crash hard, try to remember where you left your wallet…and panties.

Then there are the nights you intend to be a quiet outing with a few friends, innocently believing you will have a drink or two then return home at a reasonable hour so  you can discreetly fall asleep watching Netflix. Only things do not go as planned and the next morning you are jolting awake, head screaming, trying to fit the pieces together.

I refer to this as Tucker Max drunk. I don’t think TM himself would necessarily categorize such an event as such himself, but as I never achieve this level intentionally, I find it my prerogative to create the category in my personal life.

One morning on a Thursday in July, I awoke after such a night. I was late for work, clothes were strewn all over my apartment, and my body was aching in every way possible. The memories came back in flashes, but to this day I cannot recollect what inspired me to pee in the sink. Yes, dear reader, walking out into the kitchen I discovered the unmistakeable odor of urine in my sink with no clear idea of what lead to that occurrence. I bleached the shit out of everything and resolved to not drink for a week.

How did this come to be? Well, let’s start a the beginning. I have Wednesdays off and from time to time I participate in a little day drinking while I take care of things around the house (bills, laundry, cleaning, yoga, yada yada). This particular Wednesday I had indulged, but not overly…until LP came home from work. She invited me to Toby Keith’s and that was the end of that.

Drinks ensued and at some point I lost track of how many and what I was doing. LP’s friend came with us and between the two of them they got me to ride the mechanical bull at the bar as I threw back more drinks than I should have been able to ingest.

By the time we got home I was ready to crash, but I am stubborn. For some reason that night I decided I needed to pee…but not in the toilet, in the kitchen sink.

I didn’t remember the next day, but instinct knew it was me.

It was the first in a series of incidents. The sink, the dish washer, my closet…for a handful of weeks, this was my pattern and amusement.

One questions one’s motives when one gets drunk enough to justify such behaviors. And then one read the Tucker Max autobiographies. I recommend them to anyone who feels their lives have hit the toilet because this man will make you feel better about ALL of your mistakes.

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Home

26 Mar

What is a home?

If you Google it you get:

Noun
The place where one lives permanently, esp. as a member of a family or household.
Adjective
Of or relating to the place where one lives: “your home address”.
Adverb
To the place where one lives: “what time did he get home last night?”.
Verb
(of an animal) Return by instinct to its territory after leaving it: “geese homing to their summer nesting grounds”.
Synonyms
noun. house – residence – dwelling – abode – habitation
adjective. domestic – native
adverb. homewards – at home – indoors

Wikipedia will give a similar answer, but I am not the only one to contemplate the word’s meaning beyond a physical structure or area.

The saying goes that the home is where the heart is. What if you’re heart lives everywhere. Does that mean you are homeless? or schizophrenic? Then, what becomes of your body which can only remain in any one place at any one time?

Growing up, my family moved around a lot. My mother was never satisfied with the space we physically occupied. Never satisfied with the places that sheltered us. I never had one specific place to call my “home.” Perhaps that is why I wander so much, yet at the same time yearn to be grounded.

It perhaps is also why I struggle with that initial question so much. What is a home?

My home has always been where my family is. No matter where I go I always refer to where they are as my “home” (even if that changes often).

I also continuously end up calling the building where I sleep most often “home” as well. This can get very confusing in conversations I have with others who often find the need to ask “which home?”

To complicate things even further, although I would never verbally refer to either of these places as “home,” Gordon, where I found who I was, and Vermont, where I found who I was not, are both filed under the box in my heart as “home.”

The list could go on from there, but I think you get the point.

There is a line in a Something Corporate song that I love, “I met a girl who kept tattoos for homes that she had loved. If I were her I’d paint my body until all my skin was gone.” The song itself is fantastic, all about taking risks, seeing the world as an adventure and being a part of something bigger, at least that’s what I get out of it.

Its hard to leave the homes you love. Whether home means a place you’ve been your whole life, or the places your heart has found shelter. The more homes you have, the more full you feel, but the harder it is to look back, and sometimes to look forward.

LP and I went to Ikea yesterday. We bought a coffee table and while we were out I bought new sheets for my new bed along with some other random details that now are part of this home we’ve created. For now its complete, whole. She called it OUR home, and I agreed because that’s what it is. We live here together and form it into something that feels like we belong in it. Its a place to ground myself for awhile and I am blessed to share it with someone I love. I know I’ll have to leave it one day, and probably a piece of me will stay, always connected, but the memories will move with me me and I’ll always have this moment in time.