Who Says A Cocktail Is Bad For You?…

Whenever I visit Bama to see Baby Chicken I am struck by the friendliness of the South and the pride of the University. And the fact that they can party like no other. Must be something about the laid back lifestyle and all those country songs. Not only will the charm and biscuits save your soul but when you’re full, there are plenty of people who love Fireball as much as you.
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Saturday is the day. The annual LSU-Bama matchup. Nerves have the better of me this year as Bama started the year tentative, scaring the hell out of everyone. Would this be the year? It couldn’t possibly. LSU’s been eating opponents alive and then Corso picks the Tigers over the Tide, ensuring the end of our friendship. Herbstreit earns no pass on my wrath either.

Watching the game surrounded by Middle and Oldest Chicken, along with Baby Pea, I get a bing from Facebook. It’s a flashback to last year. There is a Corona with a juicy lime and the caption, “Has hell frozen over? No, it’s just the Bama-LSU game.” And I know it’s time.

I had a cocktail. Since February when cancer peeked its ghastly head in my door, I’ve not had a drink. My life is less interesting for it. Granted I go to bed early like normal people and no longer dance on tables or sing into bottles at the country dive bar. I am indeed less interesting. And fun. For all that cancer strips away, fun is the hardest one to accept.

It’s halftime but Bama is not ahead enough for comfort. I can take it no longer. It’s been a day of vodka and red bull, shots—even though they are not your friend–and white chicken chili—all of which are out of my grasp.

Quietly I move to the kitchen and pour a small amount of Grey Goose into a glass and add the sugary, high calorie drink presently helping to keep me alive; Cran-Grape juice. If you need calories, get your hands on this stuff. It needs no approval from Gus-Gus, the now decent feeding tube, to enter your gullet.

Situating myself in a comfy chair, I take a sip and down it goes without the burn. Most things burn cancer throats. Another sip—no burn. Am I back? My heart skips a beat. Will my inner girl come out to play again? Can I be fun again despite a feeding tube, garbled speech and a loss of boob and butt fat? Has the day finally arrived?

Half a drink down, I announce to the crowd that I am, indeed, hammered. It is only in cancer’s alternate universe that one’s children cheer for this.

“Maybe you’ll relax a little,” remarks Oldest Chicken. Not sure if that’s a help or a dig, I choose to simply sink deeper in my comfy chair. Relaxation is not known as my hallmark.

Bama goes on to win, move to the number two slot and probable place atop the SEC West come playoff time. Who says a cocktail is bad for you? Pfft.

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