Hair of the dog

Sorry about the long silence.  I have not died, or relapsed.  It’s funny to have a blog to talk about something you’re not doing.  Today … I didn’t drink!  Yesterday … I didn’t drink!  Tomorrow, I won’t drink either!

The only alcohol-related story I can relate happened Sunday.  I was talking with a friend of mine on the phone, someone I used to drink with.  Once a month we would get together for happy hour.  He drinks more than he wants to, especially since he and his boyfriend of 10 years broke up, a couple of years ago.  Last time I talked to him he was in the middle of doing a dry month.  He said then that he felt it he was ready to only drink when he went out, that he wasn’t going to drink at home, alone, anymore.

I remember making those rules for myself.  They didn’t last.  It doesn’t look like this one lasted for my friend either.  While we were talking, he mentioned how hung over he was, and popped open a bottle of wine for a “hair of the dog.” 

I remember doing that too.  I loved the hair of the dog.  First of all, as a fan of our ever-inventive English language, I find the phrase delightful.  Its origin is related to an (alleged) cure for rabies, wherein you place a hair from the rabid dog in the wound from the bite.  Not likely to help much.  As a metaphor for drinking alcohol to cure a hangover, it dates back to at least Shakespeare.

All I know it was an excuse to drink in the morning.  Bottoms up.

So glad I don’t have to deal with that anymore.  But I am worried for my friend.  I didn’t say anything about it when we were talking.  Other than serving as an example that giving up alcohol can be done, is there anything I could or should do to help him?