Working My Way to Rehab One Sip at a Time
I have drank alcohol to excess for as long as I can remember. My parents, God Bless their souls, are not strangers to late night slurred phone calls. My first year of college these calls were mainly that I wanted to come home or had a fight with my girlfriend. My second first year of college in Lubbock, TX, these calls mostly centered around the fact that you had to drive outside of town to buy alcohol. Could they believe that? Now I no longer dial direct but rather don't know when it is a bad time to return their call. Case in point: It is not a good idea to call your mother back after three bring you to your knees margaritas and two beers. My saving grace is that I have surrounded myself with functioning alcoholics much like myself. On occassion their antics have made me feel like a saint.
For instance, when I see my friend strip at a restaurant in front of total strangers after forcing them to play the dating game, it makes the time I woke up face down in a friend's living room with my face firmly planted in a cowboy boot seem like an innocent mistake. Anyone could have fallen off the couch in their sleep.
Is it no wonder I read Augusten Burrough's memoir Dry with such rapt attention? It was like looking into a crystal ball into my past or future. At this point I just don't know which it is; did I dodge the rehab bullet or do I merely live in the crosshairs.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
Desperately Seeking Jackie
While out running errands this weekend, we pulled up beside another car at a stop light and there, hanging from the rear view mirror, were turquoise rosary beads. It got me traveling back in time to the fashion deficient Eighties and the fact that I followed EVERY bad trend.
If you were to ask me today, I would say it started with Madonna. After watching her videos repeatedly on MTV, my weekend wardrobe consisted of men’s boxer shorts, a wife beater tank top, and colored bracelets snaking up my arm. Sad that if I were in school today those bracelets would make me a walking billboard of sexual preferences. Madonna wore rosary beads around her neck. My mother, being the good Catholic that she is, did not allow me to wear mine.
I got tired of Desperately Seeking Jackie and changed my look to more of a Flock of Seagulls meets the Munsters. My hair was stripped of all color then teased as high as possible in a swoopy-flat-top then sprayed with an entire can of Aqua Net. Next came a few layers of pancake base in the ever popular shade at the time~ Winter White. Approximately half an inch of black eyeliner around the top and bottom of each eye, black clothes to accentuate the white face, and Red as a Baboon’s Ass lipstick topped off the look. I can prove this with a picture of me sitting on our piano bench, looking angry for the camera of course.
Punk got old and I ventured out into my Talking Heads big blazer look. I gave up the teasing comb and Aqua Net and replaced them with hot rollers instead. I did not, however, give up the bleach in a bottle. That event happened just seven years ago.
I know that fashion trends come and go but please, I am begging the Image Gods, don’t bring back the Eighties. My poor hair couldn’t take it again.
While out running errands this weekend, we pulled up beside another car at a stop light and there, hanging from the rear view mirror, were turquoise rosary beads. It got me traveling back in time to the fashion deficient Eighties and the fact that I followed EVERY bad trend.
If you were to ask me today, I would say it started with Madonna. After watching her videos repeatedly on MTV, my weekend wardrobe consisted of men’s boxer shorts, a wife beater tank top, and colored bracelets snaking up my arm. Sad that if I were in school today those bracelets would make me a walking billboard of sexual preferences. Madonna wore rosary beads around her neck. My mother, being the good Catholic that she is, did not allow me to wear mine.
I got tired of Desperately Seeking Jackie and changed my look to more of a Flock of Seagulls meets the Munsters. My hair was stripped of all color then teased as high as possible in a swoopy-flat-top then sprayed with an entire can of Aqua Net. Next came a few layers of pancake base in the ever popular shade at the time~ Winter White. Approximately half an inch of black eyeliner around the top and bottom of each eye, black clothes to accentuate the white face, and Red as a Baboon’s Ass lipstick topped off the look. I can prove this with a picture of me sitting on our piano bench, looking angry for the camera of course.
Punk got old and I ventured out into my Talking Heads big blazer look. I gave up the teasing comb and Aqua Net and replaced them with hot rollers instead. I did not, however, give up the bleach in a bottle. That event happened just seven years ago.
I know that fashion trends come and go but please, I am begging the Image Gods, don’t bring back the Eighties. My poor hair couldn’t take it again.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Mommy and Babies Make Three
We had dinner with a good friend last night and her twins. We were there the day these babies were born and have watched them for the past three years morph into little people. Last night it dawned on both of us that these are not babies anymore. We don’t need to run behind them hunched over waiting for the one misstep that will lead to a busted lip and screaming fit. Motor skills are up and running. When I say running I literally mean running around the patio jumping for joy at the bottom of a step.
Little Miss. M arrived wearing a shirt that read “I (Heart) Ponies”. On her arm was one of her mother’s old purses filled with My Little Ponies. There is Pinky (the pink horse), Purpely (the purple horse), Orangey (the orange horse) and oddly enough Key Lime (the yellow horse). Miss. M. has this wonderful fake, infectious laugh that is all teeth. It reaches into your chest putting your heart in a vice grip.
Mr. J has become the epitome of a boy. He was the one referenced above running the patio and jumping down stairs. When Mommy grabbed his arm to tell him to sit down he promptly began telling her “Quit it. Stop doing that. Quit your pinching” followed by very loud “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!.” Where is CPS when he needs them? He is not the first one to realize that a mother’s embarrassment leads to a quick release of the arm.
We both left in awe of a woman raising twins all by herself. How exhausting it must be. She said trips to the grocery store have been reduced to no more than the thirty minute attention span of two three year olds. I picture that game show Supermarket Sweep. Mommy running the aisles, arms swinging items into the basket, throwing everything on the conveyor belt, glaring at the slow cashier, dashing to the car a screaming child under each arm and a puzzled look when unpacking that says “Did I mean to pick this up?”.
Both of us left dinner last night with a yearning to spend more time. To spend time savoring the small but rapid changes that take place in the blink of an eye. To spend time enjoying conversation and laughter with a close friend.
We had dinner with a good friend last night and her twins. We were there the day these babies were born and have watched them for the past three years morph into little people. Last night it dawned on both of us that these are not babies anymore. We don’t need to run behind them hunched over waiting for the one misstep that will lead to a busted lip and screaming fit. Motor skills are up and running. When I say running I literally mean running around the patio jumping for joy at the bottom of a step.
Little Miss. M arrived wearing a shirt that read “I (Heart) Ponies”. On her arm was one of her mother’s old purses filled with My Little Ponies. There is Pinky (the pink horse), Purpely (the purple horse), Orangey (the orange horse) and oddly enough Key Lime (the yellow horse). Miss. M. has this wonderful fake, infectious laugh that is all teeth. It reaches into your chest putting your heart in a vice grip.
Mr. J has become the epitome of a boy. He was the one referenced above running the patio and jumping down stairs. When Mommy grabbed his arm to tell him to sit down he promptly began telling her “Quit it. Stop doing that. Quit your pinching” followed by very loud “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!.” Where is CPS when he needs them? He is not the first one to realize that a mother’s embarrassment leads to a quick release of the arm.
We both left in awe of a woman raising twins all by herself. How exhausting it must be. She said trips to the grocery store have been reduced to no more than the thirty minute attention span of two three year olds. I picture that game show Supermarket Sweep. Mommy running the aisles, arms swinging items into the basket, throwing everything on the conveyor belt, glaring at the slow cashier, dashing to the car a screaming child under each arm and a puzzled look when unpacking that says “Did I mean to pick this up?”.
Both of us left dinner last night with a yearning to spend more time. To spend time savoring the small but rapid changes that take place in the blink of an eye. To spend time enjoying conversation and laughter with a close friend.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Bittersweet October
I am getting really excited about Halloween. Not really sure why. This year I am going to try to make popcorn balls from the Martha Stewart cook book. She makes it sound so easy but I’ll probably walk away from the experience with permanent scars from hot Caro syrup splatter. I don’t’ even know if the parents in our neighborhood will let their children eat homemade popcorn balls. I know when I was a kid I LOVED popcorn balls. Trick or Treating was a bit spotty for me until we moved out of the apartment complex by LSU. College kids don’t buy candy, they rent kegs. I remember going to several doors and when they realized I was trick or treating people at the party would begin handing over spare change dropping it in my bag. My parents let me spend this change on candy that I like. No Bit-o-Honeys, no black licorice, no apples.
I always had homemade costumes. My father made some of them. One year he made me a daisy. My suit was green with white petals stemming out from my neck. Another year he made me an apple tree. This time a brown body suit and when I lifted my arms red apples dangled down. Flora and fauna seemed to be the theme those days.
One year I told my mother I wanted to be a gypsy but what I really meant was a belly dancer. She worked so hard to make the gypsy costume and when she was done I was clearly upset. She changed the whole thing and by Halloween I was a belly dancer. I had a great clown costume my mother made with big yarn balls hanging down the front as buttons. I wore that one for at least three years in a row.
Our family ALWAYS carved a pumpkin. To this day I love to carve pumpkins. In fact I have convinced our neighborhood to add a pumpkin contest to the annual Halloween festivities. I am ready for the pumpkin but we will see about the popcorn balls.
I am getting really excited about Halloween. Not really sure why. This year I am going to try to make popcorn balls from the Martha Stewart cook book. She makes it sound so easy but I’ll probably walk away from the experience with permanent scars from hot Caro syrup splatter. I don’t’ even know if the parents in our neighborhood will let their children eat homemade popcorn balls. I know when I was a kid I LOVED popcorn balls. Trick or Treating was a bit spotty for me until we moved out of the apartment complex by LSU. College kids don’t buy candy, they rent kegs. I remember going to several doors and when they realized I was trick or treating people at the party would begin handing over spare change dropping it in my bag. My parents let me spend this change on candy that I like. No Bit-o-Honeys, no black licorice, no apples.
I always had homemade costumes. My father made some of them. One year he made me a daisy. My suit was green with white petals stemming out from my neck. Another year he made me an apple tree. This time a brown body suit and when I lifted my arms red apples dangled down. Flora and fauna seemed to be the theme those days.
One year I told my mother I wanted to be a gypsy but what I really meant was a belly dancer. She worked so hard to make the gypsy costume and when she was done I was clearly upset. She changed the whole thing and by Halloween I was a belly dancer. I had a great clown costume my mother made with big yarn balls hanging down the front as buttons. I wore that one for at least three years in a row.
Our family ALWAYS carved a pumpkin. To this day I love to carve pumpkins. In fact I have convinced our neighborhood to add a pumpkin contest to the annual Halloween festivities. I am ready for the pumpkin but we will see about the popcorn balls.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Sowing the Seeds of Misinformation
It was me. I am Suspect Zero. Patient X. The gossipy gardener from whence this nasty seed of misinformation was planted.
It all started at a restaurant when a certain Mother said her daughter used to dance. We were not discussing ballet, however a less refined form of dance. I looked around the table and with only TWO daughters to choose from picked the likeliest candidate.
Who knew there was a THIRD STEP DAUGHTER out there to whom she was referring. One single little STEP in front of the word DAUGHTER and this whole thing would never have taken ten years to straighten out.
So for the written record:
She was not an exotic dancer. She has never danced except at parties with all of us and when she does that it is fully clothed.
It was me. I am Suspect Zero. Patient X. The gossipy gardener from whence this nasty seed of misinformation was planted.
It all started at a restaurant when a certain Mother said her daughter used to dance. We were not discussing ballet, however a less refined form of dance. I looked around the table and with only TWO daughters to choose from picked the likeliest candidate.
Who knew there was a THIRD STEP DAUGHTER out there to whom she was referring. One single little STEP in front of the word DAUGHTER and this whole thing would never have taken ten years to straighten out.
So for the written record:
She was not an exotic dancer. She has never danced except at parties with all of us and when she does that it is fully clothed.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Western Haze
This weekend we attended our second small town festival this month. Below are just a few of the memories that survived Saturday's menu of beer, wine-a-ritas, wine, and champagne:
1) A man we met at the bar told us he is really "hermitized" and spends much of his time traveling by himself in his motor home. On the particular day we met him he had a new haircut and shave. The first in awhile I imagine. He promised as he left the bar, six pack in hand, that the next morning when we saw him he would have his good teeth in (imagine no teeth grin here).
2) Only a man would take lemons, cut them in half and place them beneath the skin of chicken cooking on a smoker with a beer can up its butt. The end result is a chicken with a D cup.
3) The Scrambler (World's Best Carnival Ride) should never have tacky, non-stick seats. The purpose of going on the Scrambler is to squish the person on the outside and slide around wildly. I have a skinned elbow from this new non-stick material. Should I sue for free rides for life? Only if they bring back the glitter infused red pleather seats.
4) If you're looking for junk food, look no farther than a festival: corn dogs, barbecue, tacos, tamales, sausage on a stick, funnel cakes, roasted nuts, and ice cold beer to wash it all down.
5) Wine-a-ritas, although disgusting sounding are DELICIOUS! I am saying this now but must try one before a six pack of beer to confirm. I did sort of look at the woman when she recommended Arbor Mist Blackberry Merlot as the best wine to use.
6) mutton Bustin is hilarious! Children 50 pounds and under are placed on the back of one pissed off sheep with nothing but a helmut two sizes too big and judged on how long they can stay on. A riot I tell you! If I had a child that was under 50 pounds I'd buy a sheep so we could do this in the backyard. Maybe charge admission to the neighbors.
This weekend we attended our second small town festival this month. Below are just a few of the memories that survived Saturday's menu of beer, wine-a-ritas, wine, and champagne:
1) A man we met at the bar told us he is really "hermitized" and spends much of his time traveling by himself in his motor home. On the particular day we met him he had a new haircut and shave. The first in awhile I imagine. He promised as he left the bar, six pack in hand, that the next morning when we saw him he would have his good teeth in (imagine no teeth grin here).
2) Only a man would take lemons, cut them in half and place them beneath the skin of chicken cooking on a smoker with a beer can up its butt. The end result is a chicken with a D cup.
3) The Scrambler (World's Best Carnival Ride) should never have tacky, non-stick seats. The purpose of going on the Scrambler is to squish the person on the outside and slide around wildly. I have a skinned elbow from this new non-stick material. Should I sue for free rides for life? Only if they bring back the glitter infused red pleather seats.
4) If you're looking for junk food, look no farther than a festival: corn dogs, barbecue, tacos, tamales, sausage on a stick, funnel cakes, roasted nuts, and ice cold beer to wash it all down.
5) Wine-a-ritas, although disgusting sounding are DELICIOUS! I am saying this now but must try one before a six pack of beer to confirm. I did sort of look at the woman when she recommended Arbor Mist Blackberry Merlot as the best wine to use.
6) mutton Bustin is hilarious! Children 50 pounds and under are placed on the back of one pissed off sheep with nothing but a helmut two sizes too big and judged on how long they can stay on. A riot I tell you! If I had a child that was under 50 pounds I'd buy a sheep so we could do this in the backyard. Maybe charge admission to the neighbors.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Great Gobbler Gallop
Ever seen a turkey race? For that matter how many of you have heard of a turkey race? Not only have I heard of one, but last weekend I had front row seats in Small Country Town America, USA for their annual Turkeyfest which, yes includes a turkey race down Main Street. Front row seats meaning I parked my ass on the curb camera in hand at the ready for the fun to begin.
The emcee of ceremonies introduced this The 33rd Annual Turkey Race by giving a little background into the competitors. It seems that there are not one, but TWO towns in America fighting for the title Turkey Capital of the World. When people ask do they really say, “Well, I’m from the Turkey Capital of the World. Where are you from?.” I don’t know, there are a lot of things I will admit to but I think I would keep my mouth shut on that one.
Next the mayors of the two competing towns got up to give a little pep talk to the Turkey team members and spectators. It was George Forman and Mike Tyson before the fight. They actually insulted each others turkeys. Come on fellas leave the birds out of this.
A different bird races each year but their names are passed down from generation to generation thus the race is always between Ruby Begonia and Paycheck. There is even a bar in town named Ruby Begonia’s Roost. The town’s football team is the Fighting Gobblers. I’m pretty sure there is even a Turkey Queen! Hail to the Queen of Gobblers. Will she put that on her resume one day? Maybe in her wedding announcement?
Finally it was time for the Great Gobbler Gallop. The hounds (oops, fowls) were released followed by handlers shaking giant bead filled paddles to egg them on. The crowd went nuts. Paycheck flew into the crowd but was quickly brought back into the street. Men were standing on trash cans screaming “Go Ruby Go” I caught myself screaming her name as she bobbed by me.
For the first time in three years Ruby won back the traveling trophy and the town is once again Turkey Capital of the World!
This weekend is Western Days in yet another small town. I’ll let you know what I find.
Ever seen a turkey race? For that matter how many of you have heard of a turkey race? Not only have I heard of one, but last weekend I had front row seats in Small Country Town America, USA for their annual Turkeyfest which, yes includes a turkey race down Main Street. Front row seats meaning I parked my ass on the curb camera in hand at the ready for the fun to begin.
The emcee of ceremonies introduced this The 33rd Annual Turkey Race by giving a little background into the competitors. It seems that there are not one, but TWO towns in America fighting for the title Turkey Capital of the World. When people ask do they really say, “Well, I’m from the Turkey Capital of the World. Where are you from?.” I don’t know, there are a lot of things I will admit to but I think I would keep my mouth shut on that one.
Next the mayors of the two competing towns got up to give a little pep talk to the Turkey team members and spectators. It was George Forman and Mike Tyson before the fight. They actually insulted each others turkeys. Come on fellas leave the birds out of this.
A different bird races each year but their names are passed down from generation to generation thus the race is always between Ruby Begonia and Paycheck. There is even a bar in town named Ruby Begonia’s Roost. The town’s football team is the Fighting Gobblers. I’m pretty sure there is even a Turkey Queen! Hail to the Queen of Gobblers. Will she put that on her resume one day? Maybe in her wedding announcement?
Finally it was time for the Great Gobbler Gallop. The hounds (oops, fowls) were released followed by handlers shaking giant bead filled paddles to egg them on. The crowd went nuts. Paycheck flew into the crowd but was quickly brought back into the street. Men were standing on trash cans screaming “Go Ruby Go” I caught myself screaming her name as she bobbed by me.
For the first time in three years Ruby won back the traveling trophy and the town is once again Turkey Capital of the World!
This weekend is Western Days in yet another small town. I’ll let you know what I find.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Things to do today:
- Quit current job. (organize desk so everyone knows where everything is when I am gone, must maintain best assistant ever image)
- Find circus. (if they still travel by rail this should not be too hard, I'll just walk the tracks until I come across one, then again I could search on the internet and find out where they are right now)
- Runaway with circus. (this may be difficult as I do not swallow swords, couldn't hold my fat ass up on a trapeze if there was no net and letting go would mean certain death, I can't train cats to walk a wire the diameter of yarn- hell, I can't keep my own cat from eating himself to death, I could however lay strapped to a spinning wheel while someone else threw knives at my shiny sequined costume)
Friday, October 07, 2005
Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent
My father is writing a book. Part historical novel, part mystery, part Southern fiction, and the real kicker part family history. I asked to read what he had so far. He e-mailed me the Prologue and the first 54 pages with the following disclaimer:
Dearest Daughter,
Attached is your reading assignment.
WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!THE DAUGHTER IS NOT YOU!!!!!!!!REPEAT!!!IT IS NOT YOU!!!!!!THIS IS JUST A BOOK AND DOES NOT REFLECT PRESENT OR PAST FEELINGS ABOUT ANYONE!!!!!!!(except your mother, of course)IT IS FICTION___NOT REAL LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love, Daddy
Okay, I thought, that’s sweet. There must be something I will recognize, some story from my childhood that he has taken poetic license with and changed to fit the story line. Oh no, mon cher, he took his poetic license got in the driver’s seat and ran over my character like a turtle crossing a highway in rush hour.
First, the character he warns me about is named Nicole. This is what he wanted to name me that my mother would not. She finally compromised by giving me the middle name Noelle. This is how my mother meets in the middle. She drags the line just a little over to her side then refers to the case in point as a compromise. Nicole. Noelle. You got your way they sound similar enough.
Second, the character is a total bitch! I’m talking money hungry, uncaring, and downright evil. I admit I have had my moments in the past when my personal objectives overshadowed the fact that I was asking for money from a man who, at the time, did not have it but always managed to get it to me anyway. I have put myself through enough old fashioned Catholic guilt that those transgressions should have moved from the liability to asset category. I’ll be damned however if they don’t keep coming up.
Back to his disclaimer, I think he was afraid to call me and ask what I thought of the book thus far. Everything in me wanted to pout and make him change Nicole to a loving, caring, giving (or just human) daughter, but I sucked it up telling him I couldn’t wait to read more. Then I promptly sent him an e-mail detailing all of the fun times we had going over anything nice I could think of in the past that I had done for him.
I have never been accused of letting sleeping dogs lie.
My father is writing a book. Part historical novel, part mystery, part Southern fiction, and the real kicker part family history. I asked to read what he had so far. He e-mailed me the Prologue and the first 54 pages with the following disclaimer:
Dearest Daughter,
Attached is your reading assignment.
WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!THE DAUGHTER IS NOT YOU!!!!!!!!REPEAT!!!IT IS NOT YOU!!!!!!THIS IS JUST A BOOK AND DOES NOT REFLECT PRESENT OR PAST FEELINGS ABOUT ANYONE!!!!!!!(except your mother, of course)IT IS FICTION___NOT REAL LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love, Daddy
Okay, I thought, that’s sweet. There must be something I will recognize, some story from my childhood that he has taken poetic license with and changed to fit the story line. Oh no, mon cher, he took his poetic license got in the driver’s seat and ran over my character like a turtle crossing a highway in rush hour.
First, the character he warns me about is named Nicole. This is what he wanted to name me that my mother would not. She finally compromised by giving me the middle name Noelle. This is how my mother meets in the middle. She drags the line just a little over to her side then refers to the case in point as a compromise. Nicole. Noelle. You got your way they sound similar enough.
Second, the character is a total bitch! I’m talking money hungry, uncaring, and downright evil. I admit I have had my moments in the past when my personal objectives overshadowed the fact that I was asking for money from a man who, at the time, did not have it but always managed to get it to me anyway. I have put myself through enough old fashioned Catholic guilt that those transgressions should have moved from the liability to asset category. I’ll be damned however if they don’t keep coming up.
Back to his disclaimer, I think he was afraid to call me and ask what I thought of the book thus far. Everything in me wanted to pout and make him change Nicole to a loving, caring, giving (or just human) daughter, but I sucked it up telling him I couldn’t wait to read more. Then I promptly sent him an e-mail detailing all of the fun times we had going over anything nice I could think of in the past that I had done for him.
I have never been accused of letting sleeping dogs lie.
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