HOME ALONE

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.

You card-carrying alcoholics KNOW what I’m talking about. YES YOU DO, AND I CAN SEE THE   NAUGHTY GRIN CREEPING ONTO YOUR FACES RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE.

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.