I love vampire movies. I love serial killer movies. I love alien movies. I love monster movies. But if there's one horror genre I can't stand, it's a zombie flick.
Zombies as y'all must know, are reanimated corpses that go around pulling faces off people, eating said faces and generally making a bloody mess of things, including themselves. Historically, zombies were usually controlled by an evil genius or sorcerer - or more recently, some nasty virus.
The first official zombie film was "White Zombie," a 1932 Universal offering directed by Victor Halperin. It was about a young woman who transforms into a zombie at the hands of an evil voodoo master - Bela Lugosi, of course. The film was trounced by the critics but went on to become a financial success - and spawn a long list of other zombie flicks (most of which I haven't seen - or fell asleep to).
Anyway, the reason for my zombie tirade is this: a zombie died on the weekend and there wasn't a drop of blood. The drunk zombie inside of me, I mean. Because Saturday night we had a get together with some relatives. It was a party of six. The hubby and me. An aunt and uncle who could party any Grateful Dead fan right under the bus. Their daughter who learned her considerable party skills at the hands of her gifted parents. And her new husband, a New Zealander who fit right into the party family vibe.
We went for dinner and then back to the newlyweds' condo for more drinking and mayhem. (Btw, we played Apples to Apples. Hilarious game. Am addicted.)
Anyway, with a drink before I went out, and a bottle of wine with the aunt at the table, and more copious amounts of wine playing Apples to Apples, I did not flip my switch. I obviously had too much to drink. I hadn't even listened to my own rule about knowing my limit when I'm out (usually 4 or 5 drinks) and sticking to it. No. I left my limit waaaaaay behind.
But I didn't black out - though there are a few blurry spots when it came to getting the cab home. And I do remember saying that since it was already almost 1 and we'd been partying since 7, there was probably no more partying when we got home. My husband burped (he had some bad beef nachos that he won't soon forget) and said, "You're right."
When I woke up Sunday morning, I was pretty hungover but not trashed. However, we were both feeling under the weather enough to call another family visit off ('tis the season) and just hang around the apartment and chill. Which was fun. But at one point, I looked over at my hubby and I said: "I got pretty drunk last night."
"Did you ever," he said.
"Were you mad?" I might have said 'scared' or 'worried' instead. But the point was the same.
He said, "Not at all. You were hysterical. Yeah, you were drunk but you were so much fun and in such a good mood. The zombie is dead."
"Yeah. You used to change when you drank. I couldn't get through to you. It was like you were being controlled by something else. You were a zombie. But that person's gone now."
I smiled to myself and thought, as I always do when I hear about zombies, that I hate zombie movies - and that I'm incredibly relieved the one inside of me is dead.
Because that's really all I wanted to do: I didn't want to quit drinking. I wanted to kill my zombie. And I did. THINGS ARE VERY DIFFERENT FOR ME WHEN IT COMES TO DRINKING NOW. I know I still drink too much (ask any doctor - most of whom I also avoid like zombies). But that balls-to-the-wall insatiable need and obsession with MY NEXT DRINK at all costs, even when I'm still working on the one in my hand, that hypnotized, helpless, drunk zombie ... is dead. And it didn't even take a silver bullet to the head.
Isn't that how you kill a zombie? With a silver bullet? Maybe. But there's another way, too. And it's cleansing. Because, honestly, the world is a much better place with one less zombie. Mine.