Daughter Francesca says I'm an amoeba.
"A what?" I ask. I remember vaguely what an amoeba is, but biology was a long time ago. "Remind me."
"A single-celled organism, immediately affected by a stimulus."
She actually said that sentence.
I don't know exactly what she's talking about, as she went to Harvard University, though I get the drift. I'm a happy drunk, and it doesn't take much to get me happy. A half-glass of wine, and I'm off and running. A margarita, and I might remarry.
Or get another dog.
I learned this about myself at an early age, when the Flying Scottolines went out to a restaurant, to celebrate something. I forget the occasion but I remember the place, Frog in Philadelphia, because it was on the classy side for us. Mother Mary wanted everyone on their best behavior and stopped just short of insisting that I wear white gloves.
She actually believed that if you went "in town," you had to wear white gloves.
This was in 1970.
I know.
Anyway, I remember that I was 15 and I had a sip of my father's martini.
And then I tried to kiss the waiter.
The poor guy couldn't lean over the table without me chasing him with my lips. My father smiled, Mother Mary yelled, and years later, Brother Frank told me that he thought the waiter was cute, too.
So I know that alcohol affects me instantly, even in small amounts. You may think it's my imagination, but I swear it isn't. I'm not the kind of girl who needs liquor to kiss waiters.
Wait. That came out wrong.
So I know not to drink too much wine, but what I didn't realize is that I'm affected by coffee, too. I knew it kept me awake at night, but I've been on deadline for a new book lately, and by coincidence, Francesca's been home visiting. She's the one who pointed it out, one morning after I'd had two cups of coffee and snapped at Ruby the crazy corgi.
"She's just barking," Francesca said gently, and I frowned.
"I know, but I'm trying to work."
"She doesn't know that."
"Well, she should!" I shot back, and we looked at each other.
Then it hit me.
I'm a happy drunk, but I'm mean on caffeine.
It's true.
I experimented on myself the next few days, drinking coffee as I worked, and I'm not just more alert on coffee, I'm downright nasty. Cranky. Dare I say it? Bitchy.
Everything frustrated me. The dogs took too long to go to the bathroom, the microwave took too long to cook a Bocaburger, the computer took too long to wake up. It needed coffee. They all did.
I was the one who should have gone without.
You may be thinking that it isn't news that caffeine can turn you into a witch, but it was to me, and anyway, that's not the point. Because what bothers me is, what does that say about me, if I'm mean on caffeine?
I always enjoyed knowing that I'm a happy drunk, because I believed that it said something about me, inside. The theory is that liquor lets down your inhibitions, showing the real you, and if that was so, it was proof positive that I was a nice person inside.
Generous, sweet, and kind, if lecherous toward men in aprons.
But is that still true if I'm mean on caffeine?
Does this new fact show that I'm really evil inside, or at best, have a high-octane dark side?
I don't know.
I'm afraid to ask me.
I might bite.
