On the trip home with Max, we drove past the church where Tami’s funeral service had been held. We stayed at a hotel near the old Holiday Inn where Tami and I had done cannonballs and held each other’s heads under water. I wanted to drink.
[Thursday, January 23]
It was Tina’s turn to host book club tonight. Everyone was drinking wine but me and I felt like the high school goody-goody steering clear of the party keg. No one but me gave a rat’s ass that I wasn’t drinking, but once again I felt I had to go out of my way to be more engaging than my drinking self. We’d all read the book Rapture, which is one long description of a blowjob, and I shared my grocery store story.
“I ran out to pick up chocolate pudding and whipped cream for dessert after dinner one night and as I was leaving the house, Charlie asked me to pick up condoms. I put the whipped cream, chocolate pudding, and condoms on the conveyor belt and as they moved toward the cashier, I realized what it looked like. The cashier, this huge black dude, stared at my items, looked at me, and started laughing. He rang me up, laughing his ass off the entire time. I see him every time I shop, and he sees me and laughs.”
My friends knew exactly which cashier I was talking about and thought it was hysterical.
“I’m trying to get Liv to join my ballet class,” Kelly announced.
“I went to one class and I wasn’t very good,” Liv laughed. “I won’t be going to another.”
“I’m trying to get her to join my new health club, too,” Kelly said. She looked at Liv slyly and smiled.
“I don’t know,” Liv laughed.
Months ago, Kelly acted aloof toward Liv when I invited Liv into book club. It seemed to bother Kelly that Liv and I were friends. But now that I’m not drinking, it appears that Kelly is out to make Liv her new best friend.
[Tuesday, January 28]
I was lying in bed this morning thinking about how I thought I didn’t give a shit about what people thought of me. I was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of girl. But I care what people think of me more than I want to admit. Drinking swanky martinis and expensive wine was part of a party diva image I tried to manufacture for myself. I liked people who stood out and spoke their minds, and I tried to model myself after them. As I lay in bed, I wondered if I was becoming a dullard.
It’s irritating how much I worry about what others think. Last Friday, Charlie and the kids and I went out to dinner, and I scanned the tables to see what everyone else was drinking. I expected to see a lot of wine drinkers, but many of the people were drinking sparkling water, pop, and iced tea. I felt more comfortable ordering my San Pellegrino. Then I became agitated because I was comparing myself to other people. Who cares what other people do? What the hell is wrong with me?
I was shopping in one of the wealthier suburbs in Illinois, and got out of my Jeep Grand Cherokee in a parking lot full of Mercedes, BMWs, and Land Rovers. I began feeling self-conscious, like I was less than. Pathetic. When I’m around people who have less than me, I worry about having too much. Does that old hippie think I’m bourgeoisie? It’s sickening.
The chairperson at the women’s recovery meeting I went to tonight asked if anyone was celebrating an anniversary. I raised my hand and said I had a month of sobriety yesterday. Everyone clapped. The chair said people celebrating anniversaries at the meeting were given the opportunity to give their story or the lead topic.
“I don’t know, I’m kind of drawing a blank,” I said.
Deidre, the woman who had pointed her finger at me at my First Step meeting and had told me I was planning to drink, fished an inspirational book out of her coat pocket and handed it to me. “Maybe this will help,” she said.
The book flopped open to a reading on fear. “Okay,” I said, and read the passage out loud. The author of the book told a story about how her daughter’s Brownie troop was rewarded for trying new things, like eating “ants” made out of celery, peanut butter, and pretzels. A lot of the girls didn’t like the ingredients but enjoyed biting into the ants. The author made the leap from celery ants to skydiving. If you’re afraid of heights, go skydiving, she said. If you’re afraid of success, try your best. You’ll be rewarded for just trying. I told the group I was afraid that my drinking friends were starting to think I was boring, but maybe being a sober rebel was the most un-boring thing I could do.
Tracy, the chairperson, said she shares a birthday with Mother Teresa. Madonna’s birthday is a day away. “I used to wish my birthday was on Madonna’s birthday instead of Mother Teresa’s,” she said. “Now I’m happy it’s on Mother Teresa’s. When I was drinking I didn’t know who I was, I just knew who I wanted to be. Today I know who I am.”
I want to know who I am.
[Sunday, February 2]
It’s Charlie’s birthday tomorrow. We went out for pizza with Liv and Reed and Kelly and Joel after our kids’ soccer game for a pre-birthday celebration. The waiter set the pitcher of beer we’d ordered on the table, and he and I recognized each other from meetings. The waiter skittered around the table, avoiding making eye contact with me.
Besides Charlie, Max is the only person who knows I’m going to meetings, and Max doesn’t really know what they’re for. I’ve been leaving the house most nights to go to meetings when I would otherwise be drinking, and Charlie says it’s bothering Max. I told Max I’m going to the No Alcohol Club where people like me who’ve decided not to drink discuss the alcohol problem.
Before I quit drinking, I was uncomfortable drinking around Max because his school delivers a big antidrug message. Whenever I’d have a cocktail he’d say, “Is that alcohol? It’s not good to drink alcohol. It ruins your brain.”
“A little glass of wine here and there doesn’t hurt,” I’d answer, knowing I was a rotten example.
When Max asks me if I’m going to the No Alcohol Club, I see his face fall when I say yes. It tears me up. But if I don’t go to meetings, I know I’ll end up sucking down martinis. I told Max, “I don’t want a lot of people knowing I go to the No Alcohol Club,” and asked him not to discuss it with his friends. I wonder what he thinks.
At a meeting a few nights ago, I said I hadn’t told anyone I was going to meetings and wasn’t planning to.
“The last thing I need,” I said, “is everyone at Max’s school knowing his mother’s an alcoholic.”
The woman sitting next to me said, “I’m worried you’re not telling people so you can go out and drink again.”
I felt like slapping her.
The woman who spoke next said, “Before you tell anyone you’re going to meetings, you should consider your motives. Are you telling someone you’re working a program so you can feel superior, self-righteous?”
I looked at the woman sitting next to me and she looked stung by those words. Good. But there was some truth in what she said to me.
The first time I tried a recovery program I told everyone I quit drinking. Then I started drinking again. If I decide to drink again, and I’m not ruling it out, I don’t need people whispering about my alcoholism.
[Monday, February 3]
Today is Charlie’s fortieth birthday. I threw a big surprise bash for him on his thirtieth, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw a big drink fest for him this time around. Instead, I made reservations for us at the Sybaris, an upscale romantic resort. I booked a cottage for the afternoon with a private swimming pool, waterfall, hot tub, steam room, and enormous bed with a swing over it. I told Charlie to come home from work at lunchtime and take the rest of the day off. I packed food into a picnic basket and grabbed the bag of sex toys I’d bought. When Charlie arrived home, I told him to get in the car.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” I shrugged.
I pulled into the Sybaris and Charlie got a big shit-eating grin on his face. We pulled up to the cottage and I unloaded the picnic basket and toy bag from the back. I set up lunch in a little dining area and we sat down. Charlie hardly touched his food, which is strange f
or a guy who normally inhales it. Charlie took a couple bites, looked at me nervously, and said, “Well?”
Suffice it to say we had a fun four hours. But sex isn’t the same sober. It’s not as uninhibited and naughty. It’s good, but it’s not wicked fun. We took a Jacuzzi bath together before we left and laughed about how we used to rip on Sybaris commercials.
“How sad to need a tacky joint to get a good fuck,” I’d said.
“Sometimes you need to throw good taste out the window to have a little fun,” Charlie laughed. He sipped sparkling wine that the Sybaris provided and I felt a twinge of longing for a glass, but I pushed that thought out of my head and we got dressed for dinner.
[Tuesday, February 4]
Tonight was Max’s first band concert. I’d forced Max to take piano lessons for two years, but it had gotten ugly and I let him drop piano and take up the trumpet in the fourth grade. Trumpet was working out better. I couldn’t play the trumpet, so I couldn’t be the trumpet Nazi.
“That sounded sloppy!” I’d shout from wherever I was in the house while Max practiced piano.
“That’s the way it’s supposed to sound,” he’d shout back.
“Bull!” I’d yell, stalking into the room and making Max slide over on the bench. Then I’d play the piece. “That’s how it’s supposed to sound. Now keep practicing until it sounds like that.” I’d return to what I was doing and scream, “That’s not right,” as Max continued to slop through the tune.
“That’s the way Miss Olga played it!” Max would insist.
I’d stalk back into the room, play the piece again, and yell some more. This would go on and on until Max’s practice half hour was up. Life got easier when Max began playing the trumpet.
“Sounds good,” I’d yell as he practiced. I didn’t know what the piece was supposed to sound like, and it was better that way.
My expectations were pretty low for the band concert tonight. We dropped Max and his trumpet off in the band room and Charlie, Van, and I found chairs in the already-packed gymnasium. Soon after, the band filed in. They began playing. They were good. They were tight. There was no disjointed noise. I looked down at the floor to check on Van, who’d been playing with Play-Doh on the seat next to me. He’d been rifling through my purse and my bright orange Twelve Step directory was lying on the floor in front of the woman sitting on Van’s right. I felt the blood drain from my face. I bent down and swiped the directory off the floor. As I straightened up, I locked eyes with the woman. She gave me a pinch-lipped smile and turned her attention to the band.
[Thursday, February 6]
I had dinner with Kelly, Kelly’s friend Lexi, and my sister-in-law Bonnie at Café Francesca’s. Bonnie went to high school with Kelly and Lexi, and Lexi and I have become friends after repeatedly seeing each other at Kelly’s shindigs. I picked up Kelly and we drove to the restaurant, put our names on the waiting list, and sat at the bar. Kelly ordered a glass of wine and I ordered a club soda with lime. The bartender looked at Kelly, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Club soda? We’re gonna have to do something about that.” Kelly laughed and nodded. I thought about saying, “Hey asshole, I’m an alcoholic.”
Lexi and Bonnie arrived a little while later and the hostess seated us. Lexi, a light drinker, was pregnant and she and I split a bottle of San Pellegrino. Bonnie ordered a glass of wine. “Good,” Kelly sighed. “I have one person to drink with.”
Kelly was one of the few people who could match me drink for drink. Every time we went out for dinner, we’d plow through a bottle of wine, order a few more glasses, and as we waited for the check I’d ask, “Should we go somewhere else for a drink?”
Kelly would smile impishly. “Should we?”
We always did.
Three months earlier, Kelly and I would have been half in the bag by now, but tonight Kelly was pacing her drinking with Bonnie’s, and Bonnie is an extremely light drinker who nursed one glass of wine all night. It reminded me of my dinners with Emily and Aunt Alina, and I felt sorry for Kelly.
On the way home, our drive was not filled with the usual laugh-filled banter. We were pretty subdued. I miss getting messed up with Kelly.
[Saturday, February 8]
Today is my thirty-ninth birthday. Charlie and I went out for seafood with Sean and Marcy, and Tim and Clio, two high school friends of Charlie’s and their wives. I ordered a San Pellegrino with lime and got miffed when the waiter brought me a tumbler instead of a wineglass with the big green bottle. I handed the waiter the tumbler and told him I wanted a wineglass. Sean looked at me. “Are you not drinking again?” he asked.
Sean is the friend of Charlie’s who went to rehab and met a rock star there years ago. I’d called him when I decided to get sober the first time. Sean has been on and off the wagon since. The last time I saw Sean, he’d been sober six months, ran every day, and looked great. However, he was drinking tonight.
“Yeah,” I said and told Sean about the Mary and Pat bacchanal weekend that “pushed me over the edge.”
Marcy, who’d been listening, said, “I’ve heard lots of stories about Mary and Pat showing up for dinner parties with their baby and drinking into the wee hours. I hope nothing bad happens to them.”
“Keeping up with them got me to quit,” I said, feeling guilty for blaming them.
“There was more leading up to it than that, right?” Sean asked.
My face felt hot. “Yeah,” I said, completely ashamed.
“Well I’m proud of you,” Sean said. “I need to get back in a recovery program. I’m gonna do it soon.”
[Friday, February 14]
Charlie and I went to Café Pyrenees for dinner with Liv and Reed. There is an extensive wine list there, and I was trying hard to ignore it and be the best company ever. I’m sick of all this effort.
Charlie and I went home and had sex afterward. I told Charlie it was the last time he was getting sex when he was drunk. It sucks having some drunk ass pounding away on top of you.
[Saturday, February 15]
I took Van to see Blue’s Clues Live at the Rosemont Theater with my sister and her two boys, Zach and Riley. Blue’s Clues is Van’s favorite show. I expected Van to jump and dance excitedly with his cousins, but when the curtain opened, he sat like a statue, mesmerized, never taking his eyes off the show. It was the cutest thing. We all went to lunch afterward and Van talked about the show incessantly. It was the best eighty dollars I’d spent in a long time.
[Monday, February 17]
I play scenes over and over in my head of things I’d like to say to my mother but know I never will. I have these fantasy conversations while I’m in the shower, driving, working around the house. No matter how they start out, I inevitably get on my high horse and deflate her rigid religious beliefs. I point out how her ignorant piety damaged me and prove myself to be more enlightened spiritually than she is. What a head case I am.
This morning, however, I was having a fantasy conversation in my head with my friend Fay. Fay recently made a crack about a cokehead mom who lives in a dilapidated two-flat at the end of her street—a building everyone in our neighborhood wants razed. The woman has a little boy who runs around the neighborhood, and the principal of our elementary school often picks him up and takes him to school.
“Just look where she lives,” Fay commented. “If you can’t get it together and have a house by the time you’re our age … blah, blah, blah.”
What the hell does having a house have to do with anything? What would Fay have if she were on her own supporting her kids? What if she had a deadbeat husband? What if her parents were poor? What if she grew up without a good education and positive role models?
Fay rambled on and on about this poor sad sack of a woman at book club. Then the conversation segued into everyone’s home improvements.
Kelly was turning her basement into a plush rec room, just like her neighbor’s. She’d recently ripped out her deck to install a different shaped one. She’d also just remodeled her
kitchen.
“I just couldn’t live with that dark cabinetry,” she lamented.
Tina mentioned that another book club friend of ours was moving back to town. Shelly’s husband’s temporary transfer was up and Tina had been talking to her about buying a new McMansion.
“Ted and I have been looking for a new house,” Tina said. “Wouldn’t it be fun if Shelly and I were neighbors?”
I thought back to a conversation I recently had with Max about buying a new car. Our Jeep has been having transmission trouble and I told Max we’d probably be trading it in.
“Make sure you buy a nice car because I don’t want my friends thinking we have a crappy one,” Max said.
This town is sickening.
[Saturday, February 22]
I’ve got to dump my sponsor, Lida. Lida is the last person I would have picked for a sponsor (which is probably why I haven’t mentioned her until now). Lida was at the first meeting I went to on December 8, and she attached herself to me. During that meeting I was feeling sorry for myself, sniffling, and half listening to the people speaking. But Lida’s comments knocked me out of my self-absorption.
“Feelings, yeah,” Lida said. “Yeah, they’re important, yeah. You know? Um, I’ve got to talk about my feelings. That’s what you’re supposed to do at meetings. Yeah, talk about your feelings. Yeah, uh, a lot of meetings you can’t do that. Um, so I go to meetings where I can, uh, talk about my feelings.”
This went on for five stupefying minutes. When the meeting ended, Lida cornered me.
“Do you have a sponsor?” she asked.
“No. This is my first meeting.”
“You need a sponsor. I’ll be your sponsor. Here,” she said, handing me a piece of paper with her phone number on it. “What’s your number?”
Lida called me a couple days later. I was her only sponsee—go figure. I learned that she is a suicidal head case, spends a lot of time on her therapist’s couch, doesn’t believe in meds, and in her mind is qualified to psychoanalyze me.
Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife Page 6
