February 3, 2007
By the age of three, I was addicted to cigarettes, could happily live on sugar water, was adept at zipping down car windows to utter a string of invectives [along with hand gestures] at drivers in other cars, and had already achieved falling down drunk.
That is what I call early development.
My mother does not approve of my language, my soft drinks, any alcohol consumption, or my cigarettes.
This is of course the mother who smoked cigarettes while I was in the womb. [Get ‘em while they are young, that is my motto.] Gave me bottle after bottle of sugar water. Taught me by example how to curse out any driver foolish enough to cut her off on the road. [And only reconsidered that when I beat her to the window at age two.] And took me to my first wine tasting at age three – where I had my first sip of red wine, liked it a lot, asked for more, and promptly fell off my stool.
I still love merlot. I live on Coca Cola. I can, when the occasion calls for it – and sometimes when it does not – curse like a Turkish sailor. [I know all the hand gestures still too.] I smoke cigarettes. And I am not even sorry for doing it.
My only question is: Was anyone really expecting some other outcome here?
Okay, the attitude, that is just mine I arrived with that. But the rest of it? You are kidding, right?