My aunt posted this article about why diets don't work. I read the whole thing because a) my family is size obsessed and b) I could easily substitute "food" for alcohol or underwear shopping or opiods or caramel apple Sugar Babies.

There are physiological reasons why diets fail: dieting, like drinking a bottle of wine a day or shooting heroin regularly, changes your body's regulators so that you don't know what you need except for MORE MORE MORE. (I am not a scientist or smart even and this is a gross oversimplification.) However, her solution, the one she imparts to clients seeking help for disordered eating, is to start being mindful about eating, helping clients identify if he or she is eating because of hunger or something else. Many clients are so removed from their bodies (and emotions) that they have a hard time knowing what real hunger feels like. I could relate to this idea of being detached. This particular addict/alcoholic couldn't tease out of my white noise of emotions what I was feeling--anxiety? fear? happiness?--just that I needed something RIGHT NOW! to assuage them.

She doesn't ask her clients to stop or alter their eating, just to think. No judgments are attached. (This is where our programs differ; I had to stop with the wine.) Her goal is not to make her clients skinny; in fact, she debunks the "research" that says that Americans are dropping dead from being overweight; that it isn't, as most people believe, a death sentence to be overweight. Her goal is to get her clients to a point of acceptance about their sizes, appetites and emotions. In short, to let go of the outcomes and accept their truths.

In my short time in recovery, this is what I've come to accept: that life for me is pretty much completely about acceptance. I'm not the prettiest or thinnest or smartest girl in the room. (Although I can say that a lot of the time I was the drunkest.) I am not the world's best mother. I am occasionally funny. I married a person who was the right guy for me in 1991, but not the right guy for me in 2008. I am often worried and quick to anger. I'm hugely defensive and have big, ass fears of looking like an idiot. I will get more rejections, guaranteed. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing most of the time. I am human and have no control over anything. Stuff like that. And it's starting to be okay.

Dead pets.

You'd think I'd be good at this by now, having witnessed some major deaths in the last two years, mainly Big Gun's mother and my marriage. But losing our two guinea pigs in the last two weeks also signaled the end of a part of my kids' childhoods: the end of the small rodent era. (Well, those kept as pets, at least. Kitten continues to bring home juicy rats.)

The house is full of phantom Chippy and Giselle chirps and squeaks. When I enter the kitchen in the am, first thing I do is look toward the spot where their cages were. It will take time to get used to living without the little furries. They are under the redwood tree with all their predecessors. The day after Chippy's interment, Kitten and Dylan were hanging out there. According to my pet psychic friend, our redwood tree is a sacred portal. Nice.

On to the next chapter, which will soon include driving and picking out colleges. I gave the older brother of a friend of my big boy's a ride home the other day. He's choosing between Harvard, Dartmouth, Yale and some university in Vancouver. He says the decision hinges on what's the most affordable! Compared to what? Paying off the deficit?

Where do kids come up with this stuff?

A friend's daughter got sent to rehab for, get this, over-the-counter cold medicine! How old am I that I didn't even know about this? Apparently, if you take enough Robitusson--something like 30 pills or a couple of bottles--you get a high akin to LSD. I know because I googled it and Dateline had done a segment on it a six years ago. I asked my teenager if he'd heard of such a thing. "That's old news," he said. Maybe I am as stupid as he thinks I am. Then I asked him where he'd heard of it. He replied, "South Park."

As a teenager, I would have considered South Park educational. Legal, OTC drugs? Yes! I can see myself driving to ten different pharmacies with a fake cough and buying one package of Robitusson at each one, so as not to arouse any suspicions because that's the kind of addict I am: self conscious and shame averse. I think my friend's daughter just stole the stuff and for that she's doing a year in rehab. My teenage addict thinks "poor kid." My adult in recovery thinks "lucky kid." I hope she gets it.

Coffee with ex: a glimpse into how things could be.

I asked ex to meet me for coffee and he agreed. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was excited about it,  like first-date excited, even though I know better and don't want that anyway. I think I was excited about the possibilities of actually having a conversation with him because--another gift to be grateful for--I no longer want him to contract ebola and bleed out in front of me.

I arrive at the Starbucks. (Where would future and former couples be without Starbucks?) I sit down. He stares at me. Silence. My emotional Tourettes kicks in and I start spewing my hopes for the future, that we--me and Big Guns, he and his chia pet--would be comfortable socializing, being in the same room together. Basically, I came out of the gate too fast. He was physically taken back and I had too explain that I didn't mean we'd all go out to dinner that evening, but was talking about the boys' birthdays. At any rate, it took the wind out of my sails. Right, this is ex, after all. Same old, same old. He kept me in check all those years, for good and bad. He was an anchor and a jail. He tempered my impulsivity, but also was a wet blanket. 

I was able to shut up for a few minutes and let him talk, which is difficult for me. I suppose I've always been afraid of what he's going to say, like "I'm gay," or "I don't love you," or "I can't believe you haven't read James Joyce." Overall, it was a good talk and I left feeling freer and more confident that we had made the right decision. Who am I kidding? I felt happy I could have a civil conversation with my boys' father without anger or regret or resentments. It was a miracle! To quote the Big Book, "we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it."

Things could be worse; I could be Sarah Palin.

Even though I'm an alcoholic and unemployed and have gained five pounds in the last two weeks, at least I'm not Sarah Palin. How self deluded, defensive, greedy and downright annoying can a person be? Of all people, I know how hard it is to admit when you've made a mistake, but, trust me, you'd look a lot better if you'd just admit that using a target, even as a metaphor, for going after political rivals might not have been the best idea. 

At my worst, cross-eyed drunk, angry, mean, and defensive--I can think of one boozy evening at my sister's house where I told my boys what a jerk their dad was and that if we got divorced, it would be his fault--there was still a part of me that knew I was cross-eyed drunk, angry, mean, and defensive. I blame a lot of my inability to say "I'm sorry" on my drinking. Hey, Sarah, what's your excuse?

Movie review: Blue Valentine

Ouch. I recommend this movie to any young (or old) hopefuls excited about marriage, although I suspect that they won't see themselves on the screen. They will think "That will never be us," just like I thought it would never be me, that I'd never be repulsed by the sight/sound/smell of my beloved.

This movie has one of the most horrific, drunk sex scenes I've ever had to witness. I've been the partner in several just like this, but I've never had to sit there and watch the action with a large, greasy bag of popcorn on my lap, stone-cold sober.

It's an up close movie, very tight and introspective. Even the camera shots are all cropped-in and pore observing. In fact, it's so emotionally constricting that after seeing it, you'll want to run out of the movie theater and dance wildly in the street. I felt like walking to Nola's, a bar around the corner, and chasing the last 2 hours out of my head with tequila shots. I ate falafel and hummus instead.

I also saw True Grit this week and it's a fine movie, just as good as the first True Grit (who would have thought that John Wayne's performance could be improved upon? Who would have had the guts to even try? Jeff Bridges, that's who. Bravo, Jeff.)

This is how prayer works.

In the program, we are advised to pray to our higher power (which can be whatever you want: he, she, nature, or a group of drunks--G.O.D. Get it? I'll just refer to it as HP). It takes some of us years to a) accept we are alcoholics, b) accept there is an HP, and c) actually pray to him/her/it. In the past, my prayers have been short and of the desperate variety. They went something like this: "Help. Amen." I was too afraid to ask for anything, fearing I'd look selfish or ask for the wrong thing ("Dear HP, Please hook me up with a new Lexus. Amen and thanks.")

Anyway, the last couple of days after reading Lit, I've been trying something new: instead of asking for anything, I list the things I am thankful for: the health of my children, parents, friends, and bf; Mario's sense of humor; my pets; the fact I have a nice place to live and enough money to eat, turn on the lights, buy new clothes, and go to the movies. I even thanked God for my appetite, that I never starved to death from anorexia like that poor, beautiful 20-something model I recently read about. More than once as I was piously thinking of things to be thankful for, my mind wandered and began constructing the day's outfit or pondering what I'd seen on TV the night before: Why did Dexter do that? It doesn't come naturally to me. Yet. It's only been three days.

After a couple of weeks of emotional dumpster diving, I started to feel better.  And then--with eight years of writing and six months of active submissions under my belt--I get my first acceptance. Coincidence?

What I wore while my children were in Colorado visiting the other grandma.

(I actually made a pie chart but can't figure out how to copy here. I worked on this issue for several hours--Luddite!--while wearing my pajamas (of course). (UPDATE! My friend, N, sent me a pie chart!!! Thank you, N!) By my calculations, the children were gone for 120 hours. Here's a breakdown of what I wore in that time:

If I calculated what I ate, I'm sure my sugar to protein/carb ratio would rival the pajama to street/workout clothes. Maybe I should be like my friend, N, and jump on the pajamas in public trend?

I, the drinker

I'm reading Lit (highly recommend it) by Mary Karr. Here's a quote:

I keep getting drunk. There's no more interesting way to say it. Only drunk does the volume crank down. Liquor no longer lets me bullshit myself that I'm taller, faster, funnier. Instead, it shrinks me to a plodding zombie state where one day smudges into another--it blurs time.

Sing it, Mary. Starting in high school, I used to joke about how I just wanted to hurry up and get this life over and be on to the next one. It wasn't until years later that I enlisted alcohol's help with that and the years flew by in the drink of an eye. I was living with a miserable person who I thought was miserable because of me. I had a few sober hours where I carried a rock of guilt, then cocktail hour came and I had a brief respite and the world seemed sparkly and I was, like Mary says, taller and funnier and, for me, skinnier and happy--I was going to make it to my silver anniversary and we'd dance at our son's weddings. But then I picked up the rock of shame and my load was so heavy there was nothing to do but get drunk again.

Fortunately, the days are clear and long and full of feeling now. Unfortunately, the days are clear and long and full of feeling now.