Let’s talk liquor, shall we? ‘Tis the season to get plastered. Consider this my PSA. Dating under the influence is dicey.
The reason I don’t drink can be traced back to New Year’s Eve of my 14th year (also the night of my first French kiss). I was at a co-ed sleepover, getting cuddly with a very buff basketball player, when one of the college-aged neanderthals took an ornament off the Christmas tree and tried to eat it. It was a glass ball ornament and it shattered in his mouth upon first bite. Blood gushing ensued. All the while, the kid just sat there dazed and confused, unaware of what a dickhead he was.
That’s all it took for me. I have a hard time making healthy decisions sober. I’m a terrible driver as is. My foot already spends a fair amount of time in my mouth. I’ve only just learned to keep my pants on in the presence of men. Chemically impaired judgment probably would’ve killed me by now.
Granted, there are times I wish I DID drink, like during my date with Irish Eyes last week. Especially after I told him so, a la “This would be so much more fun if I was drunk.” (Good one, Erica. Way to increase your allure.) I understand the appeal of alcohol when it comes to awkward interactions, dancing, or during family gatherings.
I don’t think there is a male equivalent of me out there; someone who avoids alcohol as a preventative measure. Every man I’ve ever dated was a drinker. Most of them tend toward two extremes: the drunk-turned-over-sharer in recovery or the closet alcoholic who’s still in denial.
The last man who swore alcohol wasn’t a problem for him was Jail Bird. We started going out after he’d been sober for 6 months (dating during the first sober year is against the AA rules for a good reason. Jailbird wasn’t in AA. Kinda makes you wonder…)
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll go back?” I asked him after hearing the lengthy story of how his addiction had left him homeless, broke, and almost killed him.
“I know I won’t,” he said. “’Cause I found Jesus.”
Oh. My. God. Don’t get me wrong—you’ve gotta have faith in something in order to overcome addiction, but as I told one of my readers earlier this week, there are going to be times when God feels very far away and the flask (or prescription pill bottle, or in my case, peanut butter) and it’s short-lived promises of relief, are just an arm’s length away.
While booze isn’t a vice of mine, I have plenty to keep me busy: exercise, inappropriate men, Facebook, seducing inappropriate men on Facebook (with the intent of working up a sweat off-screen, natch).
Besides, aren’t I intoxicating enough? Do you have to be drunk to enjoy me? (In Jail Bird’s case, at least the times we attempted, the answer was yes.)
Just before giving me the break-up speech six weeks later, Jail Bird unzipped his jacket and flashed a bottle of Jack in my direction.
“I didn’t drink any,” he said. “But I got close.”
My eyes almost bugged out of my head. I pride myself on driving men crazy, but I don’t want to be responsible for anyone running into the arms of their addiction in order to cope with our relationship!
Cut to nine months after Jail Bird dumped me (for the second time. What can I say? I’m gullible.). I was leaving Super Target with a trunk full of cookbook ingredients when I noticed a pair of cop cars swerve into an adjacent parking lot. It’s very odd to see someone get arrested in broad daylight in suburbia. Ever odder when the man getting handcuffed is your ex-boyfriend. (And you’re not the one putting him in restraints!) Jail Bird fell off the wagon…and as far I know, went back to the clank.
Fast forward to this fall, just after the release of INSATIABLE.
“You’ll never guess who’s e-mailing me,” I said to Shrink at our most recent appointment. “Jail Bird!”
The most surprising part of this was not that Jail Bird got back in touch with me (They always come back. ALWAYS. I’m like alcohol in that way.). What surprised me was what an articulate e-mailer he was! (Who woulda thunk it?)
“He wants to get together,” I said. “But I don’t know if I should.”
“Why not?” Shrink asked.
“Hell-oh! Don’t you remember who Jail Bird is?”
(a.k.a. The convicted felon with a tattoo sleeve, sans drivers’ license, currently living in a shelter.)
“The hot-tub guy, right?” Shrink said.
“Heh heh,” I chuckled. “You DO remember!”
(Sometimes therapy IS fun! And the hot tub story is steamy. More incentive to buy the printed Man Eater as soon as I find a publisher.)
“I suppose it wouldn’t be a free lunch anyway,” Shrink smirked.
Not only would I be paying for said lunch, I’d be working it—and not in the slutty sense. I’d be doubling as Jailbird’s sounding board, which I don’t mind as long as it’s on a computer screen that I can turn off at will. In person? No, thank you. I don’t need any reminders that it’s a cruel world out there. Then there’s the addiction trigger. A certain energy magnetizes addicts together…and can set each other off.
When I told Jail Bird I didn’t think it was wise to get together again, he urged me to reconsider. “It’s not like I’m going to try to have sex with you,” he replied.
So lemme get this straight: you want me to pick you up, pay for your food, and not even entertain the idea that you want to get naked? (Which I would refuse, but it’s still gratifying to be in the lusted-after role.) That sealed the deal.
Delete, next. As in, Irish Eyes, a man I never expected to be sober considering the genetic coding. Besides, I was quite the handful that night. Inebriation was necessary. But the concern about how much is too much kept gnawing at me.
I’ve gone out with men who don’t like sweets; talk about a recipe for resentment! If I can’t have my sugar, you don’t wanna be around me. I imagine it’s the same with men and booze. No one wants to be judged for their indulgences.
Can drinkers and non-drinkers date happily without alcohol? Time will tell. For now, I’m cooking up my good intentions with a sober version of eggnog cheesecake, the perfect dessert for a dry, but still delicious, New Year’s Eve.
UNSPIKED EGGNOG CHEESECAKE
INGREDIENTS
For crust:
8 crunchy granola bars, crumbled
4 tablespoons melted butter
3 tablespoons sugar
For cheesecake:
2 boxes (8 ounces each) reduced-fat cream cheese
2 eggs
1 egg yolk
¾ cup egg nog
¾ cup sugar
1 tablespoon flour
1 teaspoon vanilla
¾ teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups pecans, chopped
Whipped cream (for topping)
METHOD
• Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 9-inch spring form pan with cooking spray.
• In small bowl, combine crumbled granola bars, melted butter, and sugar. Stir.
• Press crust mixture into bottom of spring form pan. Bake 8-10 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside.
• In large bowl, combine cream cheese, eggs, egg yolk, egg nog, and sugar. Beat with electric mixture on high until creamy.
• Add flour, vanilla, nutmeg, and salt; beat until combined.
• Stir in pecans.
• Scrape batter onto crust.
• Bake 20-25 minutes or until set. Remove from oven; set on cooling rack.
• Once pan is cool, refrigerate at least 3 hours and up to 3 days.
• Serve with whipped cream and sprinkle with additional nutmeg, if desired.
