Mama don't preach

Grayer and I got drunk emailed this weekend. And no, it wasn't from an ex or a friend having a good time. It was from our mother.

Our parents don't drink. At all. It's not like they have a glass of wine at dinner or have a cocktail every now and again, but never get drunk. They never drink. Period. If someone gives them a bottle of wine as a gift, they will wait until we come home for Christmas to open it. Before we were of drinking age, bottles of wine would remain in the cupboard for years, just going to waste. Therefore, they are completely clueless about all things alcoholic. A few years ago, after a trip to Curacao, famous for their rum, they thought they would be super-cool and send me and Grayer some rum-filled care packages. While Grayer got some delicious flavors, I received a bottle of rum raisin rum, because as my mom said, "you like raisins." Thank you mother, but just because I tolerate raisins in trail mix, oatmeal cookies, and bagels doesn't mean that I'm passionate about raisins (who is?) and want a raisin flavored adult beverage.

The alcohol ban isn't because of a religious belief or anything. They just don't like alcohol. Unless it comes in the form of a sugary, sweet concoction, which brings us back to the drunken email. My parents are yet again on a Caribbean vacation. They have been known to order fancy drinks on these types of trips, but they are usually of the virgin variety, and seriously, is there anything more lame than a virgin daiquiri? This time, however, they (or at least mom) isn't skipping out on the alcohol. The main topic of the email was what cocktails she had yesterday. And she didn't call them drinks, or cocktails, or even booze (which is what she usually does, a vocabulary preference that has always baffled Grayer and me). No, she called them "My drinkie-poos." Drinkie-poos! Then she rated each of her "drinkie-poos" on a scale from "OK" to "yummy." 3 out of the 4 drinks received a "yummy" rating. I had to read it twice before I said out loud, "Holy shit, Batman! My mother is smashed!"

I quickly contacted Grayer, who not only agreed with me, but had already responded by telling her she sounded wasted. I mean, this is a woman who doesn't drink at all. One mixed drink would leave her completely hammered, but 3 in one day? Yes, the woman is blitzed.

At least, I hope she is. Because if there is anything more pathetic than a woman in her mid-50s getting drunk from a fruity tropical drink, it's a woman in her mid-50s not getting drunk from virgin daiquiris, then using the word "drinkie-poos" in an email to her adult children while completely sober.

Either way, she has just received a new family nickname: Boozer.

The Good Doctor

My apologies for my extended absence from this blog. I have finally acquired a second job (Nanny take 2), so I went from having most of the afternoon for goofing off to having limited time in the evenings for goofing off, and normally I don't even turn on my home computer. Luckily, a massive snowstorm of Biblical proportions (a whole 4 inches!) has paralyzed the south, giving me several snow days to get you all caught up.

Phoebe: Are you lying? Is this like that time you tried to convince us you were a doctor?
Ross: I am a doctor!

The Cute Neighbor is a doctor. Not a medical doctor, but a doctor like Ross Gellar is a doctor. He has a PhD. From a really good school, in a challenging subject (i.e., not English). He's a smart guy. Obviously this means that technically the title "Dr." goes in front of his name. He, however, thinks this is pretentious and never uses the title. I don't think of him as a doctor. Hell, in warm weather he wears shorts and flip-flops to work.

You know who does think of him as a doctor? My parents. They seem to be thrilled that one of their daughters is dating "a doctor." They refer to his "doctor" status far more than is normal. Odd, considering my dad has the same educational status. It's not like they should be in awe of him.

When they came down to visit and we were all playing cards, at one point my mom announced that it was "Dr. Neighbor's turn." I was really hoping he didn't notice. When I told my dad I was thinking about asking the cute neighbor to take my GREs for me because of my fear of them (joking, obviously) he said that yes, I could just have my "boyfriend, who already has a Ph.D. take them for me." Thanks dad for reminding me that my boyfriend has a Ph.D. And last week, while I was getting ready for our New Year's Eve party, my dad asked me what "the good doctor" was making to bring to the party. It took me a moment to realize who he was talking about. And you know what? That's not the first time he's referred to the cute neighbor as the good doctor! Or just "The Doctor." He's not even a real doctor! In the medical sense anyway! (Although one of his favorite jokes is to use that stupid line, "Trust me, I'm a doctor." Followed by an evil laugh.) I can just picture my parents playing cards with their friends, and saying something along the lines of "You know, Violet's boyfriend. The Doctor..." "Violet spent Thanksgiving with her boyfriend, you know, the doctor?"

Yeah, I really hope they're not doing that. Because if I ever do decide to take him home with me and unexplicably introduce him to the locals, I really don't want them saying to him, "Oh, you're the doctor!" after which he gives me a befuddled look and I make up a story about Grayer dating a doctor or something and they must have them confused. Silly old people.