pixie c.d.: friends are golden but vodka is cherry

Today’s guest post is brought to you by a woman who is so real and so funny and so supportive of this blog that I almost don’t even know how to thank her. Please welcome the wonderful Chris Dean of pixie c.d., an awesome, genuine, one-of-a-kind mom-blog that chronicles the adventures of a middle-aged mama who simply refuses to grow up.


Stick around and read about Chris’ very first time hitting the sauce and getting hit right back. It’s hilarious and true and we’ve ALL been there. Trust.


Way back in the dark ages of Girl Scouts, we used to (be forced to) sing this song about friends. It was something about them being silver and gold. Or maybe non-refundable. (Or something like that.) Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is: there are times in every person’s life when you NEED the gold friends.

Don’t get me wrong. The friends that’ll hang out with you at the mall or watch that movie your sweetie thinks looks like a waste of time are all fine and dandy. They would be the silver in your life.

But then there are the folks that aren’t just another shoulder to cry on or ear to listen to you during your darkest hours (like a month into your first year of college when your boyfriend just dumped you over the phone). Oh sure, they’ll be that, but they’ll also have the shittiest of shit-eating grins plastered on their smug mugs as they quietly hand you a bottle of Cherry Dark Eyes Vodka in between your every sob over your two-timing ex. THESE friends? Are pure gold!

Chris, meet vodka

The nice thing is that as you sit there, pouring out your broken heart in tears, sipping straight from the pint bottle your buddy has mysteriously pulled out of his trench coat, the pain will begin to…lessen. Eventually, the giggles will set in, signaling the “I’m OVER that asshole! Because I was too good for that prick anyway and can do SO much better!” phase.

At least, you’re pretty sure that’s what you were trying to say, even though your tongue got all wrapped around your eye teeth so you couldn’t quite see what you were saying. “Now gifs me ‘noder ship, broffer!”

You’re not worried about getting drunk ‘cause nothing that tastes like cherry cough syrup could be THAT alcoholic, right? Besides, you’re starting to feel all warm and relaxed and everything is right with the world because you have the BEST friends in the history of EVER! Right up until you try to stand up and head for the john and everything sort of tilts…sideways.

Forget your buddy with the booze. The wall is your new bestie, holding you up when there’s no one else in the world who will. Which you spend a good five minutes explaining to it, your cheek pressed against its wonderful coolness and your hand lovingly petting it like a wall-puppy.

Once you make it to the bathroom, you probably spend some extra time talking to the sink, since it would be just plain WEIRD to talk to the porcelain perch as you’re perched upon its porcelain-ness. “Don’t worry, Perch. I’ll thank you while I’m trying to remember how to turn the water on to wash my hands.”

Judging by the number of snickering folks gathered outside the throne room door, you guess your conversations with the facilities weren’t in your head like you thought. Or all that quiet. Or maybe everyone in the house has just suddenly gained psychic powers. Which, oddly enough, doesn’t sound as crazy as it should.

You might be wasted if…

But fear not, for these people are your bestest friends You know this by the revolving glasses of sweet, never-before-tasted drinks they keep shoving in your hands. Thanks to their deep love and concern, the night has passed from heartbreak to discovering that your secret identity is Super Woman! Or maybe it’s Super Drunk. Either way works for you, since their superpower is the same — spilling shit.

As the night drags on in a foggy spiral of slurs, spills, enough f-bombs to curl your mother’s hair from 150 miles away, and three times the usual number of visits to your always-there bud, the crapper, it slowly dawns on you that you just.might.be.drunk. HOWEVER, since you’ve never been there before, you’re now forced to ask EVERYONE in the house if you are, in fact, wasted.

Not one to blindly base your belief on the opinions of others, you call friends you haven’t spoken to since junior high to poll them on your state of drunkness. (Drunkness; because good grammar goes out the window in the face of cherry vodka.) Don’t even worry about the fact that it’s after midnight and they’re all away at college; their parents will HAPPILY relay your message first thing in the morning.

The pass-out arrives

As your slurring reaches the point where you can’t even understand yourself and you’re using your fingers to prop your right eyelid half open, it’s officially time to say hello to Mr. Pass-Out-On-The-Floor. Again, your friends are so damn golden that they bring you a pillow and blanket to make the hardwood floor as comfy as possible. They even listen sympathetically as you expound on your fear that, being “asleep” by unnatural means, you might not wake up through the next five or so calls from Nature.

“Don’t even worry!” they say. “We’ll take good care of you.” And that they do, as they continue to drink. Yes, drink to the point that someone comes up with the beautifully TERRIBLE idea to pour a glass of warm water on the floor by your ass, then shake you while screaming, “Wake up! You peed the floor, you nasty bitch!”

Drunken, panicked terror and humiliation — all in the name of a damn good laugh. For them. But the alcohol takes over and you pass back out in your squishy, soggy pants to wake a few hours later to a glorious, sunny, weekday morning. And miss every single class before noon.

Yes, my silver friends, that is the meaning of true friendship. The golden people in your life don’t just love you, they love you enough to offer up their illegally-gotten booze in the name of getting your 17-year-old ass drunk for the first time. They love you enough to lend you their phone for a game of long-distance drunk-dialing. They love you enough to stick around to torture you once the pass-out hits. Because they care THAT DAMN MUCH.

Man, I really miss those guys…



Chris Dean is married to an amazingly tolerant man who swears he doesn’t mind putting up with her. They live in Indiana with their four adult-kids and the petting zoo she has systematically managed to turn their home and yard into.