“He got hit in the hand?” asked a walleyed teenager standing behind us. “If you get hit on the same spot twice, your skin will explode. Happened to me. Hand just busted wide open.”
Fay’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head. She walked off and came back with a pair of bright orange gloves. She walked over to Walter and forced the gloves onto his hands.
“I don’t want to wear these,” Walter complained.
“If you don’t wear them, you’re not playing,” Fay told him. “If you get hit in that same spot your hand will explode!”
The walleyed teen’s head bobbed up and down. “Yup, happened to me,” he said.
Walter removed the glove and stared at his hand.
“Why don’t you just shoot targets?” Fay asked. “Why don’t you do that? See if you can perfect your aim.”
The boys entered for round three and Walter, staring at his hand and envisioning it exploding, walked toward the targets with his mother. Kevin, however, ran into the cage and started shooting like Rambo. He was having the time of his life. Then Mikey lumbered out of the cage.
“What happened?” I asked Mikey.
“That guy’s a jerk,” Mikey said motioning toward the ref. “He kicked me out. I didn’t even do anything. I was just trying to clear my mask so I could see and he kicked me out!”
“He probably freaked that you took your mask off,” I said. “You could have gotten hit in the eye.”
I had had enough. When the boys finished their round, I told them it was time for pizza and cake. The boys, elated, began reminiscing about their bravery and shooting prowess while they devoured food. I breathed a sigh of relief, glad the evening was almost over. Boy, would I love a stiff vodka.
[Tuesday, October 7]
I went to a meeting tonight and the woman who gave the lead said, “Someone who’s not an alcoholic changes his behavior to meet his goals. An alcoholic changes his goals to meet his behavior.”
Everyone except me emitted a knowing “Ah.”
“I didn’t change my goals to meet my behavior,” I said when it was my turn to comment. “My drinking was getting in the way of my goals, so I quit. That just got me thinking, Maybe I’m not an alcoholic.”
Everyone except me let out a concerned “Hmmm.”
[Thursday, October 9]
My mom called to tell me that my dad had blood work done and his liver enzymes are higher than ever, even though he’d quit drinking for a week. The cancer study didn’t want him.
“He’s not doing anything to help himself,” I shouted. “Nothing, no research, no dietary changes, no exercise. And he’s drinking like a fish.”
“I know,” my mother said, sounding disgusted and concerned.
I recalled my father telling his boating buddies at the harbor, “Fuck it. I’m going to go out with a drink in my hand. We’ve all got to go sometime. May as well enjoy myself.”
[Friday, October 10]
I met Sara for dinner and a meeting. Sara was supposed to pick me up at my house, but she called fifteen minutes late to tell me that she’d locked her keys in her office. I drove to Sara’s office, picked her up, and drove her to a second office she shares with another therapist to retrieve a second set of keys. Like I said before, I have my doubts about Sara’s effectiveness as a therapist. She’s insightful and intelligent, but also forgetful, tardy, and routinely in a medicated fog from her bipolar meds. She’s the perfect sponsor for me. After Sara retrieved her first set of keys, we gobbled down dinner, then went to a meeting. Olivia, who was still in danger of getting kicked out of the shelter, was there.
“Instead of reading the Big Book while I was in rehab, I decided to read the classics,” she said. “Can you believe I did that? Another time I was in rehab, I got a dictionary out of the library and thought I’d increase my vocabulary instead of reading recovery material.” Olivia shook her blond head from side to side and laughed. What a card she thought she was.
After the meeting, Olivia cornered Sara. “Can you believe the way my mind works?” she asked Sara. “There I was reading the classics thinking I was so unique.”
“You still think you’re unique,” Sara deadpanned.
Olivia shut up.
As Sara and I were leaving the meeting, Jane, who runs the recovery group with her girlfriend, Laura, invited me to come to their house for the after-meeting get-together they host every week. Jane has invited me many times and I’ve never gone, so I figured I’d go this time. I dropped Sara off at her office, where her car was still parked, and drove to Jane and Laura’s lovely home on a cul-de-sac. Jane opened the door and her boxer ran up and began sniffing me. He was a cutie and I rubbed his head and back. Jane motioned toward a pile of shoes next to the door.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said. “We do that here. We have slippers for guests if you’d like.”
“No, that’s fine,” I said, taking off my high-heeled black sandals and following Jane into the kitchen, where I found Henry.
“I’m so glad you came,” Henry said and hugged me.
“Everyone take a seat in the dining room,” Laura shouted.
I looked at Henry, puzzled.
“They’re having a meeting to plan the next anniversary party for the group,” Henry said.
“Great. The one time I accept an invitation they’re having a party-planning meeting. I’m going to go.”
“No, don’t,” Henry pouted. “You go to that meeting. You belong here.”
“I don’t really want to stick around for this,” I said.
“Come on, I’m staying, and I’ve been coming around about as long as you have,” Henry wheedled.
“Oh, all right,” I said.
As Henry and I headed for the dining room, I saw Miriam head outside with a cigarette in her hand.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Laura yelled at Miriam. Laura is Miriam’s sponsor.
“Out to have a quick smoke.”
“Not now you’re not,” Laura said. “Sit down at that table.”
Miriam put her cigarette back in her pack and headed toward the table.
I shot Henry a what-the-hell look and Henry frowned and shook his head.
After everyone had gathered at the table, Jane said, “It takes a long time to plan our anniversary party, so we’re going to fill our department chair and cochair positions tonight. Let’s start with the top positions, party chair and cochair. How much sobriety time should the chairs have?” Jane looked around the table.
A few suggestions were thrown out and it was decided that each department chair should be sober at least six months, but it didn’t matter for cochairs.
“I think before anyone is voted in they should announce how long they’ve been sober, what steps they’re working, and how many meetings they attend a week,” Laura said. “Who’s interested in being party chair?”
“I’ll do it,” said Derek, who is Henry’s sponsor. Derek announced that he’s been sober ten months, worked through all the Steps, and goes to meetings almost every day. He smiled at Henry and Henry gave him the thumbs up. Derek was voted in, as was a woman who volunteered to be his cochair.
Next position up for grabs was refreshment committee chair. “Henry can’t chair because he’s got one month of sobriety, but I nominate Henry for cochair,” Derek said. “He’s owned several restaurants and catering businesses, so even though he won’t actually be the ‘chair,’ he could pretty much run things.”
Henry was voted in.
“Okay, who wants to chair the committee?” Jane asked.
Silence. Everyone looked at everyone else at the table.
After a long uncomfortable several minutes, I figured, What the hell, I’ve thrown a lot of dinner parties. Henry was going to run it anyway.
“I could do it,” I said.
“Okay,” Jane said. “Would anybody else like to volunteer before we vote on Brenda?” No one did. “Okay Brenda, tell us about your recovery program.”
&nb
sp; “I’ve been sober nine months, almost ten. I’m working on the Fourth Step.”
Disapproving glances moved around the table. Jane and Laura, the grande dames of the meeting, encouraged their sponsees to finish the Twelve Steps in a month.
“My sponsor is having me go over the Steps with a fine-tooth comb so I get the nuances,” I explained.
“I nominate Brenda to be the refreshment chair,” Derek said.
Henry, who was wiggling in his seat, said, “I second it.”
“Wait,” Laura said, standing up. “I didn’t even know you were coming to our meeting.” She glanced around the table with a panicked look on her face. Laura, an attractive, tall blonde with chiseled features, has that crazy manic-eyed look a lot of women in recovery have. Despite the fact that I’ve attended this meeting off and on for nine months, she never remembers me.
“I started going to your meeting nine months ago,” I said. Laura looked at Jane. Jane nodded her head. “But if you’d rather have someone else chair, fine with me. No one else was offering. I’m just trying to be nice.”
Laura looked around the table hoping someone else would offer, but no one did.
A pasty-faced, middle-aged guy with a bad comb-over, said, “Brenda needs to do her Fifth Step. Everyone knows you’ll drink a fifth if you don’t do your Fifth.”
“Her sponsor’s got a plan, Reggie,” Jane said in my defense. “She’s doing what she’s supposed to.”
Laura and Reggie looked at each other doubtfully.
“Does this mean you’re going to come to all of our meetings, make a commitment, and come every week?” Laura asked like a drill sergeant.
I nodded my head.
“Really? You’re going to make this commitment to us? You need to be committed to this.”
I was quite sure I didn’t want to make the commitment, but I’d stepped out on the ledge in front of a bunch of people, so I jumped and said, “Yes.”
The people at the table voted me in and I felt queasy. More committee chairs and cochairs were voted in. Jane’s boxer walked up to the table and began whining and barking.
“I think one of us needs to take him out,” Jane told Laura.
“He’s fine,” Laura said irritably. “He’s just mad because I stuck him in the crate earlier.”
Jane shot Laura an unhappy look.
“He chewed up somebody’s shoes,” Laura huffed. “A pair of black heels.”
I pictured the pile of gym shoes and loafers near the door that I’d thrown my sandals on.
“Those would probably be mine,” I said.
Jane groaned.
“They’re nice shoes, too,” Laura said, looking more manic. “We’ll pay for them, of course.”
I loved those shoes. I’d shopped a long time to find a pair that were sexy and comfortable.
When the meeting was over, Henry sidled up to me and whispered, “I’d ask for a lot of money. They’re loaded.”
I walked to the shoe pile and picked up a shoe. The other was missing. Jane walked over, looking miserable.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “How much for the shoes? You’re not leaving until I pay for them.”
I told her how much and she reimbursed me.
“Can I have my other shoe so I can go home?” I asked.
Jane disappeared and came back with a mangled shoe. The heel and back end of the sandal were frayed and disfigured. I slipped the shoe onto my foot and walked to my car. The heel of the mangled shoe gurgled with dog saliva each time I stepped on it.
[Saturday, October 11]
We had Van’s birthday party today since his real birthday is Wednesday. My parents and my sister and her two kids came over for dinner. It was a gorgeous day, summer-like weather, and the kids drove Van’s new motorized Jeep that he got for his third birthday all over the yard. I made vegetarian lasagna and my dad, who thinks he has to have meat at every meal, loved it.
“If you made vegetarian stuff like this, I’d eat it,” my father told my mother. “This is delicious.” My mother bristled and shot him a dirty look.
I brought out the birthday cake and we sang “Happy Birthday.” While I was cutting the cake, there was a loud crash and a loud “Shit!” from the kitchen. I knew Paula had dropped a half-gallon glass milk jug on the floor. I was instantly irritated, even though I’d dropped a jug of milk on the floor and created a huge mess days ago. I reminded myself of this and pushed down my anger before entering the kitchen to help Paula clean up.
“I’m really sorry,” Paula said.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I said. “I did the same thing.” A year ago, I would have thinly veiled my irritation, huffed and puffed while I cleaned up, and insisted that it was no big deal while making my sister feel like shit. I am easily irritated and like to fix blame on others. This I’ve recently recognized. It’s something I’m working on.
[Monday, October 13]
I went to a meeting tonight and saw Darcy.
“I have some bad news,” Darcy told me after the meeting. “Eve had to move out of her town home and she’s living in one of Mel’s rental units. She’s drinking constantly and totally gone to hell. Mel said the place is a mess and she’s sleeping on a mattress on the floor. He went over to check on her and she answered the door naked, completely out of her mind.”
I felt nauseated. I wanted to drive over and help Eve, but I knew there was nothing I could do.
[Tuesday, October 14]
Kelly and I met for lunch. As we were eating our salads, she asked, “So, how’s the not drinking thing going?”
“I haven’t had a drink in almost ten months,” I said. “It’s getting easier.
“I couldn’t quit,” Kelly said.
“If you’re just having a glass or two of wine every night and occasionally getting crazy with your friends, why would you?”
“Yeah,” Kelly said, looking troubled. “You know, if I’m saying I don’t think I can quit, maybe I have a problem.”
“I’m glad I quit. I feel much healthier. But, honestly, I sometimes miss getting buzzed, partying with my friends.”
“I have to tell you, Bren, you were fun to party with. You were the best. You were the most fun person there was to drink with.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling warm and fuzzy and hugely complimented.
“My brother hasn’t had a drink in four years,” Kelly continued. “But he doesn’t mind if anyone else drinks in his home. He’s there pouring wine for us. He’s so cute, such a gracious host.”
I knew this was a dig for having the Bacchanal Dinner Club at Ravinia instead of my house. I’d also just called my book club pals and told them I was serving dessert and coffee and tea instead of wine at the book club I was going to host. Everyone liked the idea except for Kelly, who wasn’t coming anyway because I was hosting book club on Ryan’s birthday.
I went to the women’s meeting I go to every Tuesday night and gave the lead, which I’d signed up for last week. My lead was on acceptance, because I have trouble accepting people and situations as they are. Sara made me read a story about acceptance that claimed that a person’s level of serenity is directly proportional to that person’s level of acceptance. It said that accepting things as they are and having no expectations are the keys to happiness.
“I have a problem with that,” I said. “I think there are things in life you shouldn’t accept. If you’re in an abusive relationship, you shouldn’t accept that. When your kid comes home with an ‘F’ on his report card, you shouldn’t accept that. And this going through life with low expectations, it’s a recipe for failure. My high expectations often leave me disappointed and ticked off, but I don’t want to aim low and never get anywhere.”
I apparently hit a nerve with a lot of women because a lot of commiseration came forth. Then Tanya said, “Accepting a situation doesn’t mean you have to be okay with it. You can take steps to change things, but then you need to detach from the outcome and accept how things turn out. You keep
doing your best and accept reality. If you keep getting upset over things you have no control over, you have no peace.”
I can accept that.
I gave Kat a ride home and told her about my aborted attempt to see Tony Bennett and how I really wanted to drink that night.
“Well no wonder you wanted to drink,” Kat said. “You felt it was your responsibility to make everyone feel happy when Reed was being an asshole. Instead of letting him own it, letting it sit out there, letting him be the bad guy, little people-pleaser you took it upon yourself to diffuse it all. That’s really stressful. And you wonder why you wanted a drink?”
Kat sighed and shook her head. “You and I are pretty much the same. We’re egomaniacs who hang around people who blow sunshine up our asses. We’re people-pleasers to keep the sunshine coming.”
[Thursday, October 16 – Sunday, October 19]
I flew to Miami and spent a long weekend in South Beach with my high school friend Abby. It was great. We relaxed, laid in the sun, talked about everything from politics to God. Amazing bodies shimmering in shiny stretch pants and bikini tops sashayed past.
One afternoon, as Abby and I were sunning ourselves on the beach, I rolled onto my stomach and found myself staring into two enormous dimpled butt cheeks separated by a G-string.
“Abby!” I hissed, and jerked the back of my head in the direction of the three-hundred-pound woman flipping her beach towel behind me. Abby discreetly motioned with her chin that I should look again. The woman was running topless, her gigantic boobs bouncing down to the ocean. When she got knee-deep in the water, the woman dove in and resurfaced at waist level. She cupped her hands and began splashing the undersides of her flapping boobs with water.
“You know what?” I said and turned toward Abby, “Good for her. She’s enjoying herself and not giving a shit that she’s fat and laying next to a couple of skinny bitches.”
Abby nodded. “Yeah.”
That night, after a delicious fish dinner, Abby and I went to the Delano for drinks by the pool, and I ordered a club soda with lime.
“I forgot you quit drinking,” Abby said, looking a little bummed. She and I had a history of getting wasted together as teenagers. “You can’t have just one or two?”
Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife Page 25