I was about 12 years old at the time and had just started going to the local dances at the Catholic church school. The lights were dimmed, a live rock band was hired, and it was the coolest place to be on a Friday night. My friend Mary and I loved to dance, and we both wished we could find boyfriends but, alas, we were too shy to even approach boys so we danced with each other and watched in the corners of the dance for the older boys who did not notice us. Well, before one of the dances we discussed the fact that perhaps if we were to get a hold of some alcohol, maybe boys would see that we too were cool and they might approach us. Mary's parents did not drink so it was up to me to "find something." What I found was a dusty old bottle of Noilly Pratt vermouth in the cabinet above the refrigerator. It was there for the rare occasion when my grandfather would visit and request a martini. At the time my parents only drank on special occasions so that was going to be as good as it would get. I washed out a peanut butter jar and poured the spoils into it and stashed it in my fringed hippie hemp bag. We got to the dance, and upon being dropped off went around the building to drink the vermouth. I had a half a jar of the vile tasting stuff and we took turns chugging until I thought I would throw up. Actually we couldn't finish it, and left the jar by the corner of the building. Once inside we waited for magic to happen as if, now, because we did something totally cool, everyone would know. As usual we danced our hearts out and still not one boy approached us. We went home crestfallen. I was met at the door by my Dad who had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to figuring out what I was up to. "Come here, he said as he took one look at my face, you've been drinking, I can smell you." Never one to argue when I was in the wrong I confessed to my stealing and drinking episode. " OK bigshot," he roared, "you want to drink, now your gonna drink!" With that he went to his closet and pulled out a bottle of Canadian whiskey and poured a tall kitchen glass full of it. "Now you sit there and drink that until it is finished!" My mother came into the room to see me in tears, gulping the burning whiskey and shot my dad a dirty look. He cut her off before she could protest and defended his action by saying "I'm going to teach her a lesson she won't forget." My mom left the room in disgust. I tried to sip slowly and sure enough, in the process my dad had to go to the bathroom. In his absence my mom appeared, grabbed the half drunken glass away from me and quietly finished it. She then handed it back to me and left the room, mumbling "he is such an asshole" under her breath. When my dad came back, I pretended I was taking the last gulp. By this time the whiskey was taking hold and I started laughing. Then I got up and staggered over to the little organ that I had gotten for Christmas. I felt wonderful and giddy and started playing "I Love You Truly" from the music by numbers book. I even started singing at the top of my lungs the song which I never heard before, but knew it was from my dad's era. "I loovee yooouuu truuuleeee, truleee I dooooooo." It was more than my dad could take and he ordered me up to my room. I accidently fell off the organ bench and crawled on my hands and knees up the stairs to my room still singing the offending song and laughing like a hyena. I got into bed and although the bed was rocking like a cradle, I didn't get the spins or the pukes as I'm sure my dad hoped I would, but slept soundly. Although I had a bad headache the next morning, I came down to breakfast as if all was right with the world and announced brightly, "I'm as hungry as a bear, how about some bacon and eggs." My dad looked away disgustedly. Lesson not learned.
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Reflections from the everyday House Goddess
