California (Drinking) Dreaming…

 

My friends Rae and David are in San Francisco and they have sent me several photographs of themselves in front of famous landmarks. It brought back memories of when I lived there. I think of myself as a ten year alcoholic, but when I look back on my time in San Francisco, it is clear to me now (as it was probably clear to others then) that I was a problem drinker 30 years ago when I lived on Nob Hill.

Every Suggestion Involves Drinking…

The fact is, every suggestion I have for Rae and David to experience in my old stomping grounds involves drinking. And my fondest and worst memories of San Francisco life revolve around getting drunk. I was newly married when we moved there – Jonathan was working for Deloitte and studying for his accountancy exams. He wasn’t home much and I was angry all the time or belly up to a neighborhood bar with a couple of guys I met in the Castro (in a bar).

Doozy, Boozy and Lonely…

I was working in one of those cooperative office spaces where you pretend to be a thriving concern, with an address and a secretary, but are really just a satellite of the real company. Or as was my case, your company is doing you a favor and letting you “research and develop” new business far away from the home office in NYC.

Jonathan and I had some doozy, booze fueled arguments in those days. I threw things. He had another Englishman in his office named Jonathan Bond, who used to call me “Bucket of Wine Marilyn” so I guess it was obvious I drank too much even then… For some reason, a Christmas party Jonathan and I attended sprang to mind this morning and I thought I’d share it. Because it is funny.

A BAD Party Without Alcohol…

It is always a bit horrifying to me to have the supreme responsibility of being part of a small audience. Jonathan and I were invited to a Christmas party by a Swedish woman he worked with. Unlike the usual stereotype of the wide jawed, hot blonde, she was very unattractive and exuded a kind of grey cardigan loneliness. Why we decided to go to this party I don’t recall, but we went in because she lived in an apartment on one of those 90 degree angled streets and we couldn’t see how few cars there were in the drive. I had drunk a few glasses of wine as I was getting ready, because I absolutely hated Jonathan’s office parties…

When our hostess opened the door and it was too late to escape, we could see behind her, looking like bank heist hostages, three people dressed in festive outfits. Everyone shouted desperate “Hellos!” to each other and the hostess took our coats with the kind of panicked look one has when their brain is screaming, “I invited the entire firm and only five people came!”

There was a sad little short haired tree with popcorn and cranberries strung on thread, she had obviously done herself. There was a table laden with too much ethnic food (again, not the stereotype of smoked salmon and caviar, but horrible soups and unidentifiable lunch meats speckled with fat) and there was no wine or beer or cocktails to drink. The only thing with alcohol in it was a thick sludge boiling on her stove that smelled of cloves and over ripe fruit; something she referred to as her “Babushka’s” recipe for mulled wine.

We all huddled over the stove and dipped our Christmas cups into it like refugees. I calculated that forty five minutes would be the absolute earliest I could get us out of there and while we gave false smiles and made hale small talk I cooked up a lie. At minute forty four this is what I said: “Oh my God I left the iron on!” My husband ran for our coats and I couldn’t look at any of the stricken patrons in the eyes as we left, knowing they were thinking (because they were accountants), that their share of the party duty had just increased by 40%.

That turned out to be a good night. Jonathan and I stopped at the Fairmont Hotel for drinks on the way home. Because that was what we did. For entertainment. When we weren’t fighting…

Today I’m not drinking because I’m California dreaming…

How come you’re not drinking?