Let’s take a step back from these self-acclaimed accolades for a moment, shall we?  Yes, I am VERY proud of myself and all that I’ve accomplished, these last two months.  I can safely say that I’ve worked harder and more diligently in this position than I have ever before. Not that I was always phoning it in, but I just never really HAD to work that hard.  Even WHEN I was a high functioning alcoholic, I was still pretty darn capable and did a decent job for most of my employers.  Save the last two, I’d say, when the shit was getting ready to hit the fan, or more accurately, the liver was about to hit the floor.

Anyway, my point is that even as dysfunctional as I’ve ever been, I’ve always been a bit of a rule follower and good example, when it came to job function.  Now, this is NOT to say that I haven’t come in a little worse for the wear over the years and I DO have one of my BEST EVER drinking stories that overlapped into a work morning that was pretty epic and I was told by my best friend  that she could SMELL ME when we shared the elevator.  Now that’s impressive, no?  This story also involved Juliette Lewis and an open bar tab so I feel like just living to tell the tale was really accomplishment enough. In fact, that may have been the exact night Cirrhosis decided I could possibly be a host candidate.

At my new job I find myself super stressed and ridiculously uptight when I make a mistake, which is pretty often. As I mentioned, there is an insanely large curve in my learning these days. Tiny mistakes happen all the time, right?  RIGHT.  Well, sometimes you might make a WHOPPER of a fuck-up.  As in, an incredibly large mistake that is so horrid and grotesque that you are left only to send up a flare for help and hope for the best.

Well, that exact thing happened to me recently and it was ghastly.  I made a mistake that took a good two hours to unravel and required the help of THREE higher-management co-workers to find a solution.  It was, I was later told by one of my favorite co-workers, a “douche parfait” in that it had many sticky and terrible layers to it. Indeed it was. Naturally, I tortured myself about this for the remainder of my day at work, and then my obsessive brain decided that wasn’t enough self-induced torture, so I took the whole experience home with me and dedicated my entire evening to self-flagellation, lament, and woe.  Super healthy and productive?  Notsomuch.

Fast forward to the next day.  I got to work with the measly optimism that at least I wouldn’t make THAT mistake again, and that was the one bright spot in this debacle.


I did the exact same thing again the next day.  Admittedly the worst thing that could happen in my opinion, at that exact moment. . . AND IT HAPPENED.  Now, I won’t pretend there wasn’t some “feedback” regarding the second unfortunate instance because, well…DUH, but I will also say it was handled with a level of grace and understanding that surprised me. I was assured that indeed it does suck and indeed it happens, and will more than likely happen again, at some point.  Hopefully not the following day, of course.

Since then though, I’ve adopted a freer attitude about my mistakes and failures, if you will.  The “worst” thing happened.  Oh yes, it did.  And you know what?  We all walked away from it, mostly unscathed. Another co-worker shook his head laughing at my self-deprecation and said, “well, kid, you’re trying, and the only way you’re going to learn and get any better is to keep throwing yourself out there.”  So that’s exactly what I’m doing.  Every single opportunity that presents itself, I’m the first to jump in, sometimes blind, but I figure it out.  Or someone helps me.  Or I just have to be honest and say, “I don’t know”.  What an incredible gift, to just be able to say “I don’t know” and then find the answer, or solution.  It really is that simple. What’s more, is now I’m being recognized for those actions; being “fearless”, jumping in to help, learning on the fly, asking questions.

Recently at work I told another kid that I was feeling anxious and fearful about the day ahead, and how busy we would be.  He smiled and said, “Remember in Finding Nemo, when Dory said “just keep swimming?!” think like that!  Just keep swimming!” And that, indeed, is good advice.

However in the interest of full disclosure, he also said, “You’re kind of like Dory, you know, because you ask the same questions over and over, like you have short term memory loss!” and we laughed and laughed.

I love my job, but I think I hate millennials.



Where have I been, you ask?  I’ll tell you.  ALL OVER THE DAMN PLACE.

I feel like a joyous jumping Audrey Hepburn on most days

Between a new job, getting and adapting to my first pair of “progressive” lens eyewear, and plotting to, and ultimately catching a raccoon, I’ve been a wee bit tied up.  I’m immersed in my new job up to my pits and tits and I love it.  It’s amazing.  I’m working with some of the smartest and most talented (and hilarious) folks I’ve ever met.  I learn something (usually a whole lot of things) every day.  I laugh every day.  I make someone else laugh every day.  I’ve found my own little trusted tribe and we’re all getting to know each other better and I’m beside myself with gratitude. In short, it completely rocks and I’m still pinching myself at my luck and incredible fortune but I am also going to just go ahead and throw this out there and own it;  I’ve worked my ass off for the last three years, clawing my way to sobriety and back to good health and this situation, this job and place I’m in now, ALMOST makes liver failure worth it.  It’s THAT good.

I find it ironic and just that I’m just now finding out who I am and what I want my life to be, at fifty years old.  I’ve always been a late bloomer, you know, and wow, was it ever worth the wait.

Bravo Raccoon GIF - Bravo Raccoon GIFsIn other news we’ve had a super ballsy raccoon coming into our home thru the dog door for the last few weeks.  Now, I have nothing against raccoons (rabies aside) but I don’t necessarily want one in my kitchen.  We’ve tried to catch the darn thing repeatedly in a big trap with a few variations of peanut butter sandwiches, to no avail.

We’ve caught a possum. Twice.

Of course the night my husband goes outta town I get all Steve Irwin and decide I’m gonna take care of this thing myself.  I made a peanut butter sandwich and set the trap and went back to watching “The Haunting of Hill House” like the rest of America.

And wouldn’t you know it, right before I went to bed I heard the rattle and subsequent crash of the trap and immediately prayed it was the stupid possum but no, it was a very fat and very surprised raccoon. I was pretty damn surprised as well, but now I feel sorry for the flipping thing and it’s quite a chilly evening, so I got a beach towel and covered it up and TRIED to sleep myself knowing it was just out there on my back porch. That was slightly unsettling. In the morning  I gave it a brownie and assured it that everything was going to be just fine.  It’s now living its best life in the woods on the other side of the river and I hope he remembers me fondly, as I him.

As the leaves start to turn gorgeous colors and begin to let go, I feel like doing the same. Letting go of what doesn’t serve me anymore, letting go of that silly self-sabotage talk and criticism, and learning to live each day in the moment I’m in, one breath at a time. It takes practice, I’ll admit. Some days are better than others and most days there’s still an undercurrent of fear and the persistent thought that I’m not good enough, but I continue to fight that negativity and now I have others fighting right alongside of me, assuring me otherwise.

On top of all of that,  I got new eye glasses.  Well, I got REAL glasses, finally. I’ve been getting by with those shitty “readers” from the drug store for the last five years and I was waaaay overdue for an actual Optometrist visit. So, $307 dollars later I now have new “progressive lens” glasses (code word for stealthy bi-focals) and no signs of macular degeneration. Yay, me! Getting used to them has been a bit of a struggle though, and my brain is having a difficult time adjusting. I feel kinda drunk a lot of the time but not in a good way. You should see me trying to navigate the stair case.  You’d think I was being lowered into the fire pits of hell the way I have to hold on to the railings and delicately hover my timid and shaking leg over each descending stair, my head bobbing up and down until I can get my bearings. Jesus, I bet I look ridiculous.

Well, the good news is that I CAN SEE now and my eyesight was way worse than I’d realized. Lord only knows what I’ve eaten by mistake in the last few years. What I do know is that my vision has greatly improved. Things are much clearer now; more vivid and life-like. I can see the fine details I’d missed before. Now I can see the big picture, the entire picture, and I guess I’m not really talking about my eye-glasses anymore, am I? No, I suppose I’m not, but the glasses ARE a nice segue into my closing, which is this. . .

The last three years have been life altering and somehow, someway, I have managed to find myself here, now, amongst loved ones with an amazing life and future, and my view is nothing less than spectacular. Now I know it won’t always be this way . . . of course it won’t. Nothing is permanent in this lifetime, except maybe Herpes. For now though, I’m full of gratitude and hope, and that’s more than enough.

I’ll say it again, I can’t wait to see what’s next.


this is the look on my face. . . all day, every day

You may remember that I’ve recently started a job in a field of which I know relatively nothing about, and that’s okay, I have folks (many, many folks with the patience level of Trappist monks) at the ready to help me and I rely on them every single minute of every single day.

Here’s the thing; I’m learning so much, but even so, I am vastly uncomfortable in my new role. Let me remind you that I have worked as a temp frequently within the last ten years and you would think that I would be comfortable in the not knowing, but I am not. I understand there’s a curve and no one is faulting me for my lack of knowledge, as that’s part of the process. They’ve hired me for my borderline dysfunctional  “outgoing” personality and they say that the skill set can be taught.  Well, up until they hired me they certainly thought so.

Let me use an analogy to further explain my situation. Ten years ago I married my husband, who had two young daughters from a previous marriage. I brought with me to our household an older (slightly spoiled) junkyard dog named Mr. Cooper.  Mr. Cooper was used to just living with me and although he became quite attached to my husband, the children were a different matter. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for them, he just hadn’t been exposed to that level of noise and chaos in his entire life and had no reference to base his experience on, so. . . for the first two months of our marriage, I swear to you I could see the entire WHITES of his eyes as he skidded from one drafty room in our farmhouse to another, looking for a hiding place and some silent solitude.

this is not Mr. Cooper but this is an extremely accurate portrayal of his bewilderment/concern

He desperately wanted to be part of things, but he just wasn’t sure how to go about that, and he was terrified. This is how I feel pretty much every day before I punch the time clock. I am also a fifty year old woman who has managed to stay alive thus far (even though 2015 was admittedly a little touch-and-go) and have made some solid decisions in my lifetime.

I posted earlier and used a rope bridge analogy about my feelings then and I’m a wee bit chagrined that not only have they NOT dissipated, they seemingly have taken over more of my bandwidth than I anticipated. Yet, I am coping. I am breathing. I am taking one day (or one shift, more like it) at a time. Each and every time I crawl into my raggedy Jeep at the end of the day, I have to chuckle with an all-encompassing relief that I survived . . . again. Sure, that’s a bit dramatic but feelings aren’t facts, are they? Seriously, I am legit shaky at the beginning of every work day. On the plus side of things I have not gone fetal and locked myself in a bathroom stall yet, so I’d say that’s definitely a win.

Ruth, from Ozark, sums it up eloquently

I’d say that it just all boils down to fear.  Fear of failure, fear of ridicule, and ultimately, fear of not being enough and I know alcoholics don’t have the market cornered on that specific fear. We all know this, thanks to my higher power Oprah. I feel like a fake, an imposter, an actress. I imagine that sooner or later they’re going to realize their mistake and the jig will be up and I’ll be back to wallowing in self-pity during the day while perusing terrible receptionist positions in dirty industrial offices with Trump supporters surrounding me disguised as co-workers. Fuuuuck.

My kick-ass co-workers keep telling me “you got this!” and their encouragement is everything. Every time I make a mistake someone will regale me with a tale of their own misstep that leaves us both laughing and cringing at the same time. They’ve all been here, where I am now.

I find it ironic that when I was boozing it up for decades, my approach to these matters was more, say, ‘wrecking ball’ then my approach now. Younger, drunken Jen would just have steamrolled her way in, with an unapologetic devil-may-care attitude, and never mind her actual knowledge base – she’d figure it out. Finding out how to extract some attributes of the ‘old’ me and fuse them with the better attributes of the ‘new’ me will probably take some time, and I have to allow for that. I’m not the same person, and that is not being dramatic.

“I do a weird thing when I am nervous where I tilt my head back like I am super confident. This is my attempt to fake it until I make it, or at the very least make it easier for someone to slit my throat.”
Amy Poehler, Yes Please


So, I will keep on keeping on. On a scale from one to Beyonce, my confidence level falls somewhere in between, and that’s okay, although one could argue that an electric boa and a glittered codpiece could be what REALLY separates me from the herd in this new role. #careergoals

What do YOU do when met with a challenge?  Rise up to meet it headfirst or cower under your covers in crippling self-doubt and anxiety? Or somewhere in between? Lemme hear it! I never could really grasp that ‘moderation’ thing, obvs. Thanks for reading, y’all.



a little warm-up to my girl’s night IN

Last night my husband was out of town due to travel for his work and I was left home . . . alone.

Many of you can probably appreciate the sweet freedom this allows.  When you live with someone it can be liberating and borderline decadent to have your home all to yourself, especially overnight. My Mom has long exalted the praises of a night spent solo and I wholeheartedly concur. This rarely happens for me and I couldn’t help but giggle at the vast difference in how I spent my evening last night, as opposed to how I may have spent the exact same evening a few years back.


It’s hard to describe, really. We all know what our “single” behavior is like and it’s exactly like that but when you’re a drunk it takes a little bit more of a dark self-destructive turn than one in the direction of healthy self care.  I would love to sit here and tell you that I would use that time to catch up on my feminist and political reading and make myself some sort of wildly colorful salad and apply a charcoal mask while polishing my toenails, but that was never the case.  Not even close.

My nights would always start out innocently enough, with one or two (all right, more like four to six) very crisp martinis and some Gillian Welch on the stereo. Fast forward three hours and I’m blackout drunk; eating a sackful of greasy slider’s while singing “Round and Round” by RATT at the top of my lungs in the living room while Fight Club simultaneously blares from the tv set. Then there would be the inevitable phone-call to my dead friend Ben who always answered and always encouraged me to have yet another stiff drink and we’d be bitchy and judge-y together often until the wee hours of the next morning.  In his defense, he did talk me out of cutting my own bangs for two decades so I owe him solid props for that.

my, how times have changed

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed this rare ritual unabashedly and really, no one but Ben was the wiser, and that’s exactly the type of thinking that can keep a drunk white-knuckling it for an entire evening in sobriety. NO ONE WOULD BE THE WISER. No one would know if I ran to the liquor store and I could totally get white girl wasted and hide/destroy all the evidence before my husband’s return. This type of dilemma can torture a drunk, certainly, but not this drunk, at least not last night.  One could argue that I would know, yes, me – the actual drunk doing the rationalizing but this is where you’ve forgotten that while not all liars are drunks, ALL drunks are liars and lying to ourselves is our speciality.  Sure I would know. But would I care? No, because we don’t care when we think we are getting away with it.  Childish, I know, but so very accurate, in my case anyway. In fact, I’d even congratulate myself on how mature and responsible I was for saving money and not driving.  Practically a role model and a law-abiding citizen, I was. Blurgh.

But I care, now. I care a lot now.

I guess my pain is too darn close in the rear-view mirror for me to even entertain these types of horrid thoughts, and I’m truly grateful for that. Of course the thought crossed my mind, how could it not, given my years of practice and experience? But the thought was fleeting, and laughable, really.

my not-so-distant future

The truth is that I spent my evening with Cortez, our asshole cat, and we shared some chicken fajitas and Mexican street corn. I scrolled through some social media and flipped through the new Rolling Stone. I turned off all the lights and we bundled up under fluffy blankets and watched the Season 2 finale of Ozark while eating chocolate chip ice cream covered in marshmallow fluff (now my guilty pleasure) and chocolate syrup. I was in bed with said cat listening to my meditation app by 10pm, I shit you not. And you know what?  IT WAS HEAVENLY.

It was simply lovely and I remember everything. I awoke this morning before sunrise and went to my bootcamp instead of waking up to the aftermath of a frat party wondering where all those bruises came from and what are tater tots doing in the bathtub?!?  

What do you do with unexpected time to yourself?  I promise I won’t judge. There is absolutely nothing wrong with doing sixteen shots of Fireball and sobbing your way through Steel Magnolias. NOTHING I TELL YOU.


There is no off season

*it’s worth watching this trailer to hear Ryan Bingham’s fantastically creepy version of Bowie’s  The Man who Sold the World.

If you’re like me you’re following Marty Byrde and his family, friends, and foes through Season Two of the brilliant Netflix series, OZARK. Holy shit balls, it’s intense, isn’t it? I haven’t finished the season yet and I’m reluctant to because I’m not sure my feeble heart can take it. Binge-watching is my jam but I’m slowly languishing on each episode because I’m horrified to see where it’ll end, but I also don’t want it to. Rumor has it there will be at least one more season, so I don’t have to prepare for withdrawal just yet.

The other night I watched a touching scene between Buddy and Wendy, and Buddy said something that immediately got my attention. And FYI, I’m not giving anything away by relaying this scene to you, in case you yourself are watching and in mid-season.

Buddy is totally the real deal.

Buddy:  “There was a French writer, a long time ago – he was old for those days and very sick, lungs and ticker all going, and he was stuck in bed. Now, this guy’s a loner all his life. But he tells the lady taking care of him that he wants to see his friends, say goodbye. So she sends out word, and all his friends come to his little hovel, gather around his deathbed, telling stories. And you know what happens?

He doesn’t die.  And then after a couple days, the friends, well, they leave. They have lives. And then he dies. Sad, but sweet. Because, when you think you’re gonna die yesterday, today is sweet.

So, hang in, Wendy. Lose your shit tomorrow. Today’s no day to fall apart.”

Lose your shit tomorrow. Is it just me, or is that a way more kick-ass interpretation of ‘one day at a time’?!?  Sure, one day at a time may sound more acceptable and pragmatic, but isn’t that really the gist of the message? Hold your shit together for ONE day, won’t you? Just try to keep it in a pile for today.  Just for today because that is truly all we really have. I know people in recovery that have had to choose sobriety one MINUTE at a time and that’s absolutely the truth. Sometimes that’s what it takes, and when you are holding on like a hair in a biscuit, that’s all you have. Stay sober for this hour, this morning . . . this day. You can lose your shit tomorrow. And if you’re really lucky, tomorrow never comes. Well, you know what I mean.

I hated hearing those adages and cliches when I first found myself in recovery, but the universe adores irony and I hear them bursting forth from my own lips, at least once a day. Because, well, they’re true. One day at a time isn’t the shitty transparent trick I once thought it was. Again, I was one of those folks that found myself to be WAY too intelligent to fall into the traps of alcoholism, but as some folks are quick to point out, my best and smartest thinking is what landed me in liver failure in the first place. That annoying little fact still sticks in my craw a wee bit.

When alcoholism has you in its talons, you can’t imagine (nor do you want to) not drinking for any amount of time. You certainly cannot think of never drinking again because if you did, your head would just pop off its mount on your neck and roll down the street while imploding simultaneously. The mere thought will break your brain, trust me. BUT, if we allow ourselves to believe that it may (and it’s a BIG fucking *may*) be possible to go ONE day without alcohol, well then, that’s a start, isn’t it?

So, in effect, to me, that’s what Buddy is trying to tell Wendy. You have today, and that’s it, and I know that’s a recurring theme in this blog, but again, it’s simply the truth. That’s all any of us have and some days I do better than others, of course. Some days I can almost taste an ice-cold (slightly dirty) martini on my lips, and those are really difficult days because as we all know, no one graduates from alcoholism. You get to keep it for life. You know, like herpes.

And that’s okay, as helps to serve as a constant reminder of how desperately bad things can get, and how beautifully phenomenal they are now.  Another annoying little saying is “this too shall pass” and that’s the hard times, as well as the happy. That’s right, the good times pass just like the bad and sometimes we tend to forget that.

Next time they do, I suggest we all take a page from the Book of Buddy and remind ourselves; Lose your shit tomorrow. Today’s no day to fall apart.


So, tell me – are you watching Ozark? Do you love/hate it? Is it just me that wants to crawl Jason Bateman like a cat pole? Will Laura Linney ever wear mascara that compliments her fair complexion? Where in the hell did they get those baby bobcats? I have a lot of questions.


Leap and the net will appear (in theory)

jesus even this photo gives me angina

I’ve been struggling with unemployment for over a year. I’ve been filling in as a Temp here and there, but nothing has really worked out.

Until now.

Lemme back up a sec and mention that although I do enjoy a little mystery here and there, I’m not so good with uncertainty and my life has seemingly been filled with it since being laid off last summer. Turning fifty and starting over (in any capacity) is challenging, of course. It’s a reality check to be sure, and somewhat of a surreal experience. I don’t think it’s inaccurate to say that I’ve worked some pretty shitty assignments and have eaten my share of humble pie. And you know what?  That’s okay. Life is full of highs and lows and this frustrating limbo has become a daily reality for me, albeit a somewhat unpleasant one.  Like most small children, I do better with structure and consistency. And snacks.

So here we are. I have landed a job in seasonal retail sales in a field I know nothing about. Now, while this shouldn’t sound all that daunting, I’m suddenly full of fear and self doubt. The confident accomplished woman inside of me thinks this is ridiculous, but unfortunately, she’s not the one I’ve been listening to.  A wise friend of mine is fond of saying he has two small dudes that stand on each of his shoulders, much like the popular angel/devil scenario.  However in his case, one of the them manufactures and sells bullshit, and the other one buys it. I totally get it.

I have all of the tools and resources to be a success in this role, and I know that once immersed in the position, I will intuitively know how to handle situations and be a solid asset. I’m a people person, and I’ve always found sales to be more about people than products, anyway. I know all of this but yet I’m still letting myself spiral into the unhealthy behavior of predicting and choreographing hypothetical ridiculous situations and disastrous outcomes. Now, some of this is legit, at least in my mind. I am literally decades older than most of my coworkers. This excites and terrifies me at the same time. I have always been lucky to have a vast age span in my friendships and we all know I have the maturity level of a 7th grade boy. However, in this situation I’m letting myself be intimidated by the likelihood that these millennials will know a helluva lot more about everything than I will.


Oh, God. In the immortal words of Charlie Brown, I’m doomed.

some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end.  life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next.  delicious ambiguity . . .

-gilda radner

I lamented this exact thing to my pal Carol yesterday and in typical Carol fashion, she predictably put her own spin on it, and gave me a brilliant analogy. “It’s like you’re on one of those rope bridges,” she said. “You’re mostly supported, but you can’t see the other side and it’s all wobbly and unsure, and your footing feels somewhat unstable. You’re pretty sure you’ll make it to the other side, though, but it’s genuinely scary. You just have to find your solid ground.”

Solid ground.  Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?  Isn’t that the desired end game?  To feel sure of ourselves and steady and supported? Again, I don’t mind mystery, it’s the uncertainty I can do without. Life is uncertain. There’s always a first day of school. No one wakes up knowing exactly what the day holds.

So with that comfort and knowledge I will get in the shower. I will put on my proverbial big girl panties and face my day with a confident smile and willingness.  In my final interview, they told me that they can teach me the skills, that I just have to have the will.  The will to learn, and to be taught. The will to learn from my mistakes and not take things personally. Suit up and show up, folks, and the rest will fall into place. Life is change and if you’re lucky, growth. These are also the promises recovery has taught me, so I feel like I’m in a bit of a full circle moment, you know?

So, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

And if I could do exactly that, without explosive diarrhea, well that would just be great.

Rage against the Dying of the Light

*spoiler alert: I have used images in this post from the HBO series finale of Sharp Objects

you know this face if you’ve ever taken your Mother into a dressing room with you

Like many of you, I got hooked quick and hard on HBO’s series, Sharp Objects. Not only do I now have a girl crush on Amy Adams, I’m also terrified of her.  In a beginning episode, she’s buying liquor at 9:30am on a weekday and another scene shows her flying down the road, windows open, smoking a cigarette with Zeppelin’s What is and What Should Never Be blasting, as she downs a bottle of vodka, and tries to stop the horrific memory montage in her head.

On some level, it was like looking in a mirror. Her character differs from me in that she truly seems to want to do the right thing, and only hurts herself. She suffers less rage than abject pain, but one certainly leads to the other. It hit me dead-on as a disturbing reminder of myself in years past. The freedom of not giving a shit. The liberating abandon of no one caring, including yourself. The sweet but painful release of all of that poison escaping out into the universe, instead of just rotting inside of you. Music so deafening that you cannot process your own deepest thoughts and isn’t that exactly the point? My fists repeatedly striking the steering wheel in uncontrollable anger as I screamed into the night sky. Warm vodka burning like turpentine down my throat as it lit a furnace of anger, fueling more and more absolute black rage.


And for a split, sick and deranged second, I really missed it. I missed my old coping mechanism. I could feel the warm wind in my own hair as I watched her driving, trying not to spiral out of control.  Sweat and mascara dripping from too much booze and the relentless pursuit of release.  Release.  I could feel the pulsating steering wheel beneath her hands while the screeching music swirled through the car, adding to the chaos. The suicide soundtrack, I used to call it.

It pains and shames me to type it, but let’s be honest, there are times when I still want to handle my problems exactly this way.  We may know better, but we obey our pain, don’t we? I sure did and three years into this journey I’m still not sure why I held on to so much hateful and consuming rage, and for so hopelessly long. Almost anyone from my past can recall some sort of snippet of the vehemence of my fury, I’m sure. I was infamous for it, especially in my Hollywood daze days.

I would create a path of ruthless destruction in my wake on a mere whim, channeling vitriol wherever I could. I suppose I wanted everyone around me to feel as hollow and useless as I felt. I was seething beneath the surface because in effect, I was poisoning myself with my own hatred. I was above happiness, if that makes sense. I knew suffering and felt the vacuous void of emptiness all around me. I knew better than to be happy, I thought. If you were happy, I reasoned, you weren’t paying fucking attention. 

As I move forward in this recovery process, I am humbled and sickened by the flashbacks my brain still allows me. Like nightmares, I recall brief but haunting images of the wounded and shocked expressions (how I absolutely reveled in shocking people) of the people I’d hurt and I can hear my own cutting and barbed remarks searching out their targets and the dark satisfaction I’d feel when they’d land and deploy, bullseye.

The real horror is that I enjoyed it.

I truly believe that back then, and unfortunately even in the not-so-distant past, that I took folly in causing pain. I equated it with power, somehow, and I’m ashamed and repulsed to admit it.     I justified my behavior to others by saying that I simply would say what no one else had the courage to say. I would “tell it like it is”.  I was brutally honest, after all. Emphasis on brutal.

It wasn’t courage, it was cruelty.

The truth is that I was vicious and mean, and I was a merciless bully. I put you down to make myself look more accomplished, stronger, more reckless and wild. . . whatever.  It was sick and it was wrong and of all the terrible things I’ve done in my alcoholism, the worst of them came out of my mouth. I’d like to say “it wasn’t me” – it was my sickness and my pain, and my own insecurities spilling out like infectious tendrils, trying to strangle anyone within 6 feet of me.

But I’m not sure I believe that. As Amy Adams’ character quotes Machiavelli, “it’s better to be feared than loved“. There is a part of me where the darkness still resides and as long as I choose not to feed it, it will continue to lie dormant. Some days that’s a tall request, you see, because rage is hunger. A hunger for something missing, something stolen, something that will make you whole and enough and worthy if you could just find it amongst all the carnage, hopelessness and despair.  There are days when I can still feel it.

I have a lot more peace now, and I’ve tried to atone for the wrongs I’ve done. I’d like to think that I’m not the same person anymore, in all the ways that matter, but I know that’s not completely true. However, I try to be better, every day. I’ve certainly been shown more forgiveness than I’ve allowed myself, but I’m working on it.

Most days, the light wins.


put on your roller skates and embrace the orchestra

Last week I had the unexpected, yet exceptionally delightful fortune to tag along with a generous and dear friend to New York City to see ELO in concert at Madison Square Garden.  Um.  Yeah.  ELO IN NYC, y’all. See?  Unemployment DOES have it’s benefits, just not health benefits.  I’m pretty sure I was the only one that she knew that could jet off to Manhattan on a Tuesday morning with no important plans to rearrange unless you count knitting and watching The Talk.

I’ve been to New York before but this was pre-sobriety and almost twenty years ago so suffice to say that things had changed a bit. And indeed it was a blurry trip, but this time, for all the RIGHT reasons.

The energy of the City was palpable and this time, I wasn’t impervious to it. The concrete, the noises, the sirens and horns. The smells from shops, bodegas and street vendors. People of all ages, races, nationalities and backgrounds converging into one pulsating circus of humanity. The concert itself notwithstanding, it was a trip of a lifetime, and yet, less than 48 hours. We must’ve walked twenty miles a day it seemed, and I may not be far off.  From the Statue of Liberty to Central Park to the 9/11 memorial and the Oculus and to Greenich Village and Times Square – we were gals about town. We ate Peruvian food. We took a rickshaw through Central Park. We went to Strawberry Fields and I sang along with the makeshift band playing “give peace a chance”.

it’s easy if you try

I’ll be honest, there were some powerful feelings happening. My last trip to New York was with my dead friend Ben, who passed away last year. It was bittersweet to skip through Chelsea without him by my side, snarking and giggling, and drinking vodka tonics. My throat almost closed shut when we approached the 9/11 Memorial and I saw the deep peaceful pools engraved with the names of the dead, and heard the ambient sounds of the water that give the area a natural inclination to silence and remembrance. Tears of sheer joy streamed down my face when ELO broke into It’s a living thing as I danced my ass off in the explosions of their ethereal light show.  You guys, I had no idea I was numb, until I wasn’t.

turns out you’re allowed to eat pasta without a carafe (or three) of vino

We also literally stumbled upon this neighborhood and had some delicious Capellini street-side with some gorgeous young ladies next to us actually speaking Italian and it felt like I was an extra in a fabulous movie, save for my smeared mascara and buttcrack sweat from the August summer heat. I just ruined that entire image, didn’t I?

It was magical, pure and simple. My girlfriend’s generosity was rivaled only by her hilarity and I cannot imagine navigating that City without her, we literally laughed and danced our way through New York.  I’m learning slowly to live in the moment and appreciate each day for what it is. My gratitude for my life and the people in it, is enormous and sobriety has given me that appreciation and presence.

I can’t wait to see what’s next.


And still I rise

I swear you guys, this job search is just getting weirder as time goes by. Suffice to say I am still “out there” and still interviewing and filling out online applications, and my ego and self esteem is responding accordingly. Now one can beat us up like we do ourselves, no? As I’ve mentioned before, my high school yearbook predictions had me as pegged as an unemployed alcoholic at fifty, so clearly there were some predispositions in my formative years. Okay, I kid, but seriously, starting over is tough and of course the irony here is I’m a WAAAY better employee now, than I was, say, for the last two decades. Go figure.

I experienced a group interview for the first time recently and I gotta tell ya, it wasn’t nearly as horrific as I had thought it would be.  As soon as they mentioned we’d be interviewed together I stood frozen in terror,  mouth agape at the thought of being compared to these hip and keen millennials, because honestly, I’m just over here hoping my bra is hooked correctly and my shoes are from the same pair.  However, once the interview began, I quickly saw how this was going to work to my advantage.

The gal to my left was really pretty, and really young and earnest, and I immediately liked her and felt a slight kinship with her, maybe because of her trembling.  She confided in me that she had chugged her first ever (!) neon-colored tallboy energy drink about thirty minutes before this interview and that she was fairly certain she could feel her heart beating in her left eye.

This little tidbit was no secret when she was asked her first question. Y’all.  She was about to rocket out of her chair and shoot headfirst across the room.  She was really chatty and there was some awkward nervous laughter sprinkled in that made me cringe for her, but all in all, she seemingly pulled it off. I was thankful that she was setting the stage for me to projectile vomit.

The guy to my right was obviously living the dream, and I also liked him immediately. He was twenty years old, middle eastern, and very handsome. He had only landed a scant few jobs in his life and was just “kicking about” and “seeing what’s out there”. Well, how nice and cavalier for you,  you YOUNG AND SMART AND (let’s be honest) DREAMY TECH-SAVVY LITTLE SHIT. He wasn’t nervous in the least and answered every question with unrehearsed honesty and a little distant part of me wanted to kick over his chair and pounce on him like a howler monkey.

So all of this to say, it was pretty darn amusing up until the point where dude asked ME to “describe one of your most humbling experiences“.  Jesus Roosevelt Christ, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?  I sat there and blinked. My first thought was to chirp, “Well, here’s a fun fact; I’m an alcoholic . . . so quite frankly my entire LIFE has been one humbling experience, so I’m torn on which horrifying and emotionally scaring experience I can entertain you with, for starters.”  I guess I could have mentioned something in the beginning like when I’d dig a dirty cigarette butt out of someone’s half drunk beer and finish it at a concert?  Not sure that’s as much humbling as it is disgusting, but I also know that it’s not a bragging point. How about when I had to tearfully admit that I seem to only quit shaking after I’ve had some vodka . . . at 7am?  How about my ridiculous attempt at giving myself an enema because that is one humbling experience, lemme tell ya.  You know, because it’s not liver failure, it’s clearly constipation. Ahem. I could go on and on with even more pathetic examples, but none of that is particularly helpful.  There’s a line between humbling and humiliating, and I’m pretty sure I have a surplus of both experiences.

Starting over is incredibly hard.  Feeling inadequate is scary and uncomfortable.  Stepping out of your comfort zone is terrifying, yet exhilarating, and I’m ready for mine to expand.  In fact, I’m ready for everything inside of me to expand; my understanding, my compassion, and my desire to learn. I know I can’t make up for lost time but if there’s one thing I surely have, it’s life experience and if I can offer some assistance and be of service to someone along the way that might need it, all the better. When I help others, it smoothes my road as well, you see.

I’ve recently joined a bootcamp that meets at 5:45 am for a workout and as tough as it is, I absolutely love it.  I feel alive in the morning and that wasn’t always the case, as you can imagine. This morning as we completed our workout and stretches, we were instructed to lie down on our backs and take three deep breaths.  As I did this, I stated up at the morning sky.  It was a faded light blue with streaks of crimson and pink stripes appearing, as the sun slowly peeked from the horizon, starting it’s new day as well.

I can’t really describe the feeling that came over me except to say that it was peace.  I heard nothing but birds chirping and my own breath and felt this overwhelming sense of calm inside of me that *almost* made me weepy.

Wait.  That’s not completely true.  I did hear something. I heard the universe quietly telling me that everything was going to be alright.


*can I also just mention that there was a candidate in the group interview that brought in a service dog?  It was wearing a bow tie. I’m not sure why I bring this up but I feel you should have a full understanding of this group interview situation and just how screwed I was.


edna was an early feminist too so she had her own set of rules, natch

So, here’s something I’ve been wanting to address, but since I haven’t completely found my own voice yet in this matter,  I’ve found someone much smarter and infinitely more eloquent to help me to verbalize my own thoughts and beliefs on this subject.  Well, she verbalizes them and I wholeheartedly concur.

I get asked a lot about what constitutes sobriety and to be sure, this topic can get a lot of folks really heated up. It seems to be a slippery slope with dissenting viewpoints on all sides. From antidepressants to kombucha – people ask me about the particulars that define sobriety.

again, open to interpretation

Here’s the thing; I don’t know.  I only know what works for me.

Hip Sobriety is a kick-ass site run by non-alcoholic (by her definition), Holly Whitaker.  I do not know Holly personally, but I consider all of us sisters in sobriety.  I absolutely dig and admire her work, and her tenacity.  Naturally, she’s covered this on her site/blog and in an effort to save myself a fucking aneurysm and/or stroke the trouble, I’m going to refer you to her words, as I agree genuinely with her synopsis.  Plus, her site is awesome-sauce and a truly helpful resource. There’s even a handy little link to it provided to the right of this page under bookmarks.

Looky here!  Check out this link to read about Holly’s take on sobriety.  And mine, for what it’s worth.

There’s a legitimate “live and let live” vibe in recovery, for which I am grateful.  There’s also a lot of really strong and firm opinions out there and folks love to share their opinions of what is right and wrong, in their book. I try not to bother with everyone else’s right and wrongs, and just focus on mine. Because really, those are the ones that matter to me and I’m already quite familiar with my own unique brand of lunacy, so it all works out.

You know if you’re bullshitting yourself.  You just do.  I could get really deep into this and peel back endless more layers but that’s a rabbit hole I’m not going to go down, nor do I need to.

It’s MY sobriety.  It’s MY recovery.  It’s MY story and I’m the one writing it. And you if you guys think I’m passing up tiramisu because I’m an alcoholic, you’re wrong.

But that’s just me.  You, do you.