A couple of folks left comments about my nomination of “The whole nine yards” as an annoying phrase. I said that I thought few people even knew what it meant. Well, it seems that at least two people do, or at least know the prevailing theories.

The first and most popular theory is that during WWII, the ammo belt for a certain large automatic weapon was exactly 27 feet long, and if you fired the whole belt, you’d “given ’em the whole nine yards”.

The second theory, heard in many variations, involves fabric. A bolt of fabric (at least in this country) is a yard wide and twenty-seven feet long, and has an area of nine square yards (or just “yards” to a seamstress or tailor.) The very best suits are said to be those that incorporate the whole bolt, wasting little and using “the whole nine yards”. Likewise with the sarong and sari … I think those two are the same thing, but if not, I’m “sarong” and “sari”. (OK, so I stole that joke from Ellen DeGeneres, she won’t miss it.)

I have learned something this weekend, and I’ve learned it in a very painful and sad way, but I think I’m better for it.

Yesterday my wife and I had a terrible argument. It was one of those that’s everyone’s fault, yet no one’s fault, but which hurt both of us immeasurably and will doubtless leave scars in its wake. It has always amazed me that such bitterness can emerge between people who love each other. At 3 AM on Sunday morning, I found myself sitting awake, stunned and shaking, unable to sleep and unable to cope with the situation. It was then that I remembered the half-bottle of whiskey in the top kitchen cabinet, and finding no comfort elsewhere, I sought solace inside.

I have never been one to drink heavily. I drink a beer or two here and there, and sometimes have a drink socially or with meals, but I seldom get drunk, nor have I seriously partaken of other intoxicants. I don’t like the feeling of being out of control, of not being myself, of appearing altered. There’s nothing WRONG with it, per se, it just isn’t me.

Last night I disliked the feeling of being despondent, hopeless, and sad a lot more than I disliked being out of control. I remember taking several long, long pulls on the bottle, the fiery sensation as I swallowed … I am accustomed to Scotch, but this was Kentucky whiskey, strong and harsh. I remember getting a glass of water, but the second pull didn’t burn as much, and the third didn’t burn at all. I remember the pain going away, and a sense of calmness and well-being settling over me like a warm wool blanket. I don’t remember anything after that. When I awoke this morning, the bottle (which had held about a pint of whiskey) was empty, the wall clock read 11:00 AM, and my wife was standing over me. The anger was gone, we talked calmly, made up, and resolved to never put ourselves in that situation again.

I don’t plan on instituting a regimen of alcohol as a solution to my problems, but with this experience, I think I now understand why some do. I always wondered what was in that bottle that made one of my friends seek out its company, even when it caused him to get into trouble with the law over and over for driving while intoxicated. I knew alcohol could relax a person, but I never knew that incredible sense of peace that comes from essentially overdosing on the stuff. I think I understand how that could become addictive. I think I’m not going to keep much whiskey around the house, for a while.

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the accident at Three Mile Island, the worst reactor accident in US history. I celebrated it by melting down, but I think I am in the cool-down phase now.