Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife (7 page)

“Uh, Liv and I are going out to dinner tonight and we don’t want Pete (Seth’s older brother) to be alone,” he said. “So I’ll pick up Seth.”

This morning, when I took Max to soccer practice, Joel was sitting in the stands hunched over with one elbow on his knee propping up his head with his hand. I sat down next to him.

“You look like you’re hurting,” I said.

“I’m hung over,” Joel said. “Kelly and I went to Gabriel’s last night and drank way too much.”

“Just the two of you tied one on?”

Joel opened his mouth and shut it. After a pregnant pause he said, “Uh, no. We went out with Liv and Reed. Can you believe they’d never been there?”

“Oh,” I said, feeling like I’d been punched. Joel had probably taken Ryan to Liv and Reed’s last night and Pete probably babysat. More than likely, Ryan slept at Liv and Reed’s and Joel had picked the boys up and brought them to soccer this morning.

I thought back to soccer practice last week when Reed and I were sitting together and Reed asked me how the not drinking thing was going. I told him fine and he said, “You know, some people wouldn’t want to go out with a person who doesn’t drink.”

“Fuck ’em,” I said.

[Monday, January 20]

Max and I got home after skiing Granite Peak in Wausau, Wisconsin, this weekend, which was the weekend Emily had her retreat. Max and I drove to Wausau on Friday, and I rented skis for Max. We wanted to be ready to hit the slopes first thing Saturday morning. As we were pulling on our long johns Saturday morning, it became apparent I’d forgotten to pack Max’s ski pants, so we killed half the morning shopping for a pair. It was a blessing in disguise. By the time we hit the chairlift, the temperature had warmed to a balmy fifteen degrees. It was frigid, but it was sunny and windless, and Max and I had the place to ourselves. We got in a lot of runs in a short period of time and hit the hot tub at the hotel before going to dinner. All in all, we had a great day. Sunday, however, was overcast, windy, and hit a high of ten degrees. Max and I got on the chairlift and cryonic winds blasted through our ski wear. We skied two or three runs, hit the lodge, repeated this three more times, and left. We bought sub sandwiches, brought them back to our hotel room, and watched movies. I’m glad I spent the weekend with Max and bailed on the retreat, but I can’t say drinking didn’t cross my mind.

My mother grew up in Wausau. She was number eleven in a family of twelve children who grew up on a dairy farm. My family spent a lot of time in Wausau when I was a kid. We’d get in the car, drive the four-and-a-half, five hours it took to get there, check into the Holiday Inn, and go to my Aunt Theresa’s house. Five minutes later, my cousin Tami, who lived down the road from my aunt, would walk in. Tami and I would ditch my sister Paula, and Tami’s little brother Scott, and hide in her grandmother’s barn or hike in the woods to smoke Kool cigarettes. Once in a while we’d drink warm beer we’d pinch from her dad’s case of Old Style.

As we got older, Tami and I always seemed to pick up where we left off, even though years passed between visits. My family drove up for a family reunion when Tami and I were in our mid-twenties, and she and I went to some hole-in-the-wall tavern and pounded shots of Jägermeister and beer. A jar of homemade pickled eggs sat on the bar and I ordered one.

“You’re going to eat that?” Tami asked making a face.

I took a bite. “It’s actually pretty good,” I said and popped the rest into my mouth. I thought of Pickled Pete, a cadaver from an anatomy/physiology class I took in college.

“I want to be cremated when I die,” I said. “I can’t stand the way our family stuffs our dead relatives and displays them, takes pictures of them. My mom’s got lots of dead snapshots in her photo album. How sick is that?”

Tami nodded and said she wanted to be cremated, too.

“Look at my lifeline,” I said, showing Tami my palm. I’d recently been to a palmist. “It’s pretty short, but if you look closely, there’s a crease that kind of connects it with this one running down my palm. A friend of mine told me it doesn’t count, but I say it does. Let’s see yours.” I took Tami’s left hand in mine and stared at it. “Shit. Yours is way shorter than mine!”

The next time I went to Wausau was for Tami’s funeral. She and I were both thirty. Tami had been killed in a car accident. Her neck had snapped. I walked into her wake and saw Tami lying in a coffin against a far wall. Her face was caked with makeup. Her hair was teased like an old lady’s. Someone was snapping pictures.

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 for 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.