Aug
24
Ugly
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August 24, 2006
First: a can of Budweiser, stolen from my grandparents’ refrigerator and consumed while hidden among sand dunes on the Lake Michigan shore. Maybe twenty years ago or more. It was metallic, cold, bitter, delicious.
In high school, forty-ounce bottles of cheap high-octane beer. Old English 800. “Old E”, we called it. Swilled and passed from hand to hand, the bottom of the bottle always warm and flat and tasting of someone else’s saliva. Bottles of wino wine: Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.
Early twenties: six-packs of Henry Weinhard, the green bottles. Microbrews. In the winter, Snow Cap Ale (“Go to jail ale”). Sweet Riesling. Chardonnay. Red wine. A progression of the palate, of the minimum requirements.
Crown Royal and 7-UP. Beam and Coke. Bacardi Limon and Diet Coke. Absolut Mandarin and ginger ale. Beer. Beer. Pitchers. Pints. Imperial pints. Grey Goose. Dirty martinis. Shots. Tequila, lime, salt. Margaritas. On the rocks. Blended. Tanq-and-tonics. Double, please. Better make it a double.
Then: vodka, vodka, vodka. Because it’s easier to mask on your breath, because I could tolerate it straight. Blue Skyy bottles, clear Absolut bottles; later, plastic pint bottles of the cheapest gut-burning garbage. Hidden in drawers, in purse pockets, under cabinets, poured into unsuspicious containers.
At my worst I would get up in the morning and feel sickened through and through, I felt like I had an internal rot like a dying tree. Everything was dirty, everything was black and hateful, and I knew exactly what had caused it all and yet I would check the bottle levels, look and look again, because if there wasn’t enough I would have to get more, more, more. Get through the worst of the day by thinking of the bottle. Take the first drink and for the first time in hours the mental shouting quiets, the self-hatred is dialed down, the pounding headache starts to retreat.
Over and over. Get up and do it again. Drinking at work, while driving a car.
Sometimes I would get drunk and cry and try to write down why it wasn’t working and why I should remember, the next day, that it wasn’t worth the pain and the lying and the endless life-fuckery. I’d read my blurry scrawl the next day, take three Excedrin, drive to the liquor store.
It was like being with someone who beats you senseless every night, leaves you bloody and gasping, and waking up every day to kiss him hello. I wanted to stop. I wanted to drink until I disappeared. I wanted to physically gouge out the sickness from my body.
I saw no end. No possible end.
Antabuse. Therapy. Drugs. Threats. Nothing worked.
Then: a DUI. A horrible, expensive, shameful, life-altering legal mess. A night in jail. Fines. Court appearances. I can’t bear to describe it in detail.
Then: a pregnancy. The best thing that’s ever happened in my life.
I never drank when I was pregnant with Riley. That is probably not something to be particularly proud of, but I am.
I don’t drink today. I am only able to write about this now because it is at bay, it is a safe distance away. I feel strong. I feel I am on top of it. I don’t want to numb myself, I don’t want to re-visit that hell, I have so much to live for now. I want to remember every moment, I want to be clear and present.
There are long periods of time when I do not think about drinking at all. I spent years of my life chasing the next drink in my head, being eaten alive from hour to hour by something I could not control. I can’t begin to explain the freedom of not thinking about drinking.
I am scared to post this.
But I am telling you this because to tell the story is to accept its truth. To lay it out where it can be seen, to admit to this part of myself, and help diminish its power over me.
Aug
22
Snakes, movies, tables
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August 22, 2006
For those of you who may be waiting on tenterhooks for my impression of Snakes on a Plane (IE, none of you), I enjoyed the hell out of it. It met my expectations in every way: there were snakes, a shitload of them, and they were extremely bitey. There was a plane, careening around in a dangerous manner. And of course, there was Samuel L. Jackson, beetling his brows and tossing out choice one-liners.
I went to see it with a bunch of my coworkers, because my boss actually bought tickets for everyone as a morale event type thing. Workplace has done this before with movies like Star Wars Episode Whatever, because of the mass nerd appeal, but I was very surprised to see him pony up for SoaP. Especially since my boss is…let me see, how to describe…he doesn’t drink caffeine, watch TV, or curse; he drives a hybrid and he donates blood on a regular basis. A movie full of violence, profanity, and scenes that involved snakes biting 1) a woman’s nipple and 2) a penis just aren’t his thing, you know?
I think he just selflessly enjoyed the fact that his employees were excited about it, though, which was rather sweet. I asked him afterwards what he thought of the movie, and he was hilariously diplomatic. “That film had absolutely no false advertising,” he said. “I think the people that didn’t want to go (for about half the company had no desire to attend the showing, which I decided was the Workplace Litmus Test for me; if my office ever goes up in flames and I’m in a position to save people I am absolutely starting with the SoaP fans) knew exactly what they were missing, and the people who went knew exactly what they were getting into.”
So in conclusion: snakes good. Two poison-filled thumbs up.
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Have you seen this video? For some reason I actually like Britney a little more having watched it. Maybe it’s because she seems too dumb to have a mean bone in her body. She’s like a big retarded golden retriever, panting and blinking and saying “HUH?”
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Speaking of videos! I fooled around in iMovie for the first time last night and managed to make this little movie featuring, surprise, Riley. I apologize for the audio that includes me yelling “RAWWR” over and over and OVER (man, why am I such a dork when the camera is running?) (because otherwise I am never dorky ever, am in fact a pillar of grace and poise much like Audrey Hepburn), you might want to turn the sound down.
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Since today’s entry seems to be of the random variety, my most recent news is we got a new dining room set this morning (the oak/granite combo I mentioned earlier). The old table we had was once my grandparents’, throughout various moves across the years it’s gotten pretty banged up. The chairs all needed reupholstering, too. Most annoyingly, the finish on the table’s surface was extraordinarily delicate – any heat or moisture left a permanent stain in seconds. I wanted something prettier, since the table is one of the first things you see when you walk in the door, and less prone to being ruined by a water glass. Here it is:
I like it, but wow, it’s big. Really big. Our previous table was oblong, and the square size definitely takes up more room.
Also, I don’t know why I post pictures of my furniture online like this shit is interesting. God. I’m sorry, I won’t do that again.
Except for this:
Which I show only to illustrate the long, uphill battle I have in babyproofing the house. The boy has 3845789695 safety-tested toys, including this one:
(My family gave this exceedingly noisy toy to Riley as an early birthday present, after which they immediately escaped on a month-long cruise. People who give loud electronic toys as presents should be forced to hang around and babysit instead of being allowed to go on month-long cruises, is all I’m saying.)
And yet the things he most enjoys playing with are inevitably fraught with danger. If there’s a heavy plant to be pulled onto his head, a ballpoint pen to thrust into his eyesocket, or a Mystery Item to place in his mouth, he’s all over it, and woe unto the person who tries to take it away. He will go all snakes-on-a-plane on your ass.
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