I think that Sarah Palin has put the icing on my home-made rose-topped sickeningly sweet-strawberry-frooty-tooty angel food cake...the dessert that looks perfectly baked and decorated, but when you take a big bite you pucker, double over, gag, and puke the thing out. She has gotten a face lift, and has now gone Skeletor on Fox News. All smooth forehead and no more eye bags, and cheekbones that stick out a la corpse. This, along with many other dysfunctional social and personal defects I'm facing, has put me near the point of jumping off the bridge, or waking up tomorrow morning in the gutter in front of the Ringside Pub, a soggy cigarette between my lips.
Here is what I sound like when I'm drunk:
"I've worked so HARD! And SACRIFICED! And I got up earlier than everyone else, stayed up longer than everyone else, to get better scores than everyone else, and I get along with people, and they LIKE me, and I give the shirt off my back, and I never make time for myself, and no one UNDERSTANDS me..." You get the drift. Sick stuff, right? Not the classic pity pot that everyone shits in once in a while; it's the everyday experiences that guarantee nights of me feeling resentful, desperate, and alone. Very very alone. I'm singing the same song (to myself only...a kind of melancholy a-capella broody bit) without the "time for myself" part, because I got a mani/pedi yesterday, and I wouldn't want to sound completely ungrateful. I've worked really hard yet I'm unemployed, my last boss is denying my unemployment claim, I'm busting my ass at an internship and I owe them thousands for the pleasure, and I can NOT wait patiently from my latest job application to see if I'll be called back, or not hired at all. I almost wish the guy would send the e-mail that says, "We regret to inform you" to end my misery; only thing is, I really am the most qualified and best person for the job. I was made for it. I can bring new insight and integrity to that office...and that's where I start to sound like Palin, and my self-loathing begins anew. Women who get facelifts just to look less wrinkly should not be taken seriously in politics. And how far away am I from the lipstick-on-a-pig in-over-my-head wink-and-a-nod failed governor-slash-beauty queen? My recovery hides my deep flaws, my academic achievements hide my social phobias, and my resentments grow as others who are less brilliant and more dishonest write million-dollar sellers while I stay safe on a cheap and easy blog. I bet Sarah didn't even write her own book, and with that, I resent her ghostwriter. I could ghostwrite better than anyone, I bet.
Just got a call from the kid I checked into rehab a few months ago. She's sober, struggling, and has had to take herself out of a challenging situation. She needs a place to hang tonight...and that is why I am here. That, thankfully, plants me with the root of who I am. And of who she is. We are not fake or make-believe. We are real, honest, hardworking women who have made a profound change, not just plumped up our breasts or tightened the turkey necks. We keep going, growing, and we never let the rough times bring us down. That's my story to tell, and it's a good one.
I think I'll call my book "Undefeated". Well, maybe not.
Showing posts with label oh no not her again. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oh no not her again. Show all posts
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Just Because You Work for Fox Doesn't Mean You Are One
Crazy busy days. Good, great, gigantic things happening. Not a "baby-steps" kind of week, this one goes down in history as the best that sober life brings. To see the Dalai Lama would be enough, certainly, but it wasn't, not by a long shot.
My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.
The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!
Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.
I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.
My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.
The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!
Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.
I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wait, wait, what was I celebrating?
I celebrated 3 years of continuous sobriety last weekend. My sober date is April 6, but our groups honor all celebrants from the month in its last week. There are those who celebrate in every group every night of the week; that's ok for them, but I can not take that kind of exposure. I prefer a warm-up at Night Owls on Saturday, because it is in the dark and that just rocks. No one can really see me, I share my experience-strength-and-hope and my heart's worth of gratitude and hurry back to my seat. Also, the struggling friend (found below) was there and gifted me with "Candide", and that was a beautiful thing. Really, Night Owls is a stellar part of Saturday, and on celebration, it is all that and a cake with my name on it. Sunday, however, is a very different story.
I have left and returned to the Sunday group more times than any other. It is an intimidating group of who's who in local AA sobriety, with at least a dozen members having 20+ years, and another half-dozen at over 35. All of my closest friends are there. It is also the most publicized, centrally-located open meeting of the week, so new drunks arrive each week and stick close to the back wall. Fortunately, there is a chair for them to sit in. Unfortunately, they don't get the anonymity clause right away, and I've found myself hiding from familiar (albeit swollen and red-faced) faces. I don't shy from admitting I am in recovery if I am in the right setting; a fund-raising function with colleagues and parents of our students is NOT the right setting. So, I guess I am picky about who knows what and when, and that must remain my problem. Those new folks can get me squirmy, but not psychotic. I leave that to the one I call "the red head".
On Sunday, my dearest AA friend and confidante, a man with 41 years, saves me a seat. If I don't sit in it, no one sits in it, even if I don't get to that room for 3 weeks in a row. Now, for 3 years, I have been sitting, on and off but mostly on, in that seat. So can someone please tell me why the fuck the fucking red-head transvestite had to sit in the seat next to the one with my friend's baseball cap on it last Sunday? And when she saw me coming, moved over only ONE seat but stayed where she could turn her head when she does that really fucked up twisty-braidy thing with her hair nonstop to catch a look at me? When last year she was the secretary and fucking took my name off the member list because I said I'd be away for my celebration? When she checks out what I am wearing every time I walk by, so she sat where I had to pass her? And her toes were skanky and I had to say "excuse me" to her so she would pull her nasty jagged toenails under her chair so I could get past? And she checks out my clothes all the time, although she wears the same fucking clothes every week, except last Sunday she wore a cheap see-through too-big dress without a bra and you could see her friggin brownies pointing at you? And then she popped a Lifesaver while my mentor was giving an emotional loving message, and she rolled it around that hole of a mouth against her teeth and chewed with her mouth open? Because her mouth is always fucking open? Seriously, she doesn't shut it. It is open. All the time.
I was told she clapped when I spoke, and that is nice. When she spoke a few months ago I told my mentor how I regretted missing that meeting. There has to be something in her story to which I can identify, some part of her docudrunkary to which I can relate. Any other day, I guess that is who I am and just how I feel; apathy and "live and let live" sharing the same AA umbrella. Tonight, like last Sunday, I am only disgusted with her. (Of course this leads to self-disgustion. Tenth step. Although, if I don't fourth step her soon, I won't have to worry about seeing her, she won't find me in the County Line.) She leaves a bad taste in your mouth like you've licked a frog out of a catfish pond. It takes me a mighty long time to spit her out.
I have left and returned to the Sunday group more times than any other. It is an intimidating group of who's who in local AA sobriety, with at least a dozen members having 20+ years, and another half-dozen at over 35. All of my closest friends are there. It is also the most publicized, centrally-located open meeting of the week, so new drunks arrive each week and stick close to the back wall. Fortunately, there is a chair for them to sit in. Unfortunately, they don't get the anonymity clause right away, and I've found myself hiding from familiar (albeit swollen and red-faced) faces. I don't shy from admitting I am in recovery if I am in the right setting; a fund-raising function with colleagues and parents of our students is NOT the right setting. So, I guess I am picky about who knows what and when, and that must remain my problem. Those new folks can get me squirmy, but not psychotic. I leave that to the one I call "the red head".
On Sunday, my dearest AA friend and confidante, a man with 41 years, saves me a seat. If I don't sit in it, no one sits in it, even if I don't get to that room for 3 weeks in a row. Now, for 3 years, I have been sitting, on and off but mostly on, in that seat. So can someone please tell me why the fuck the fucking red-head transvestite had to sit in the seat next to the one with my friend's baseball cap on it last Sunday? And when she saw me coming, moved over only ONE seat but stayed where she could turn her head when she does that really fucked up twisty-braidy thing with her hair nonstop to catch a look at me? When last year she was the secretary and fucking took my name off the member list because I said I'd be away for my celebration? When she checks out what I am wearing every time I walk by, so she sat where I had to pass her? And her toes were skanky and I had to say "excuse me" to her so she would pull her nasty jagged toenails under her chair so I could get past? And she checks out my clothes all the time, although she wears the same fucking clothes every week, except last Sunday she wore a cheap see-through too-big dress without a bra and you could see her friggin brownies pointing at you? And then she popped a Lifesaver while my mentor was giving an emotional loving message, and she rolled it around that hole of a mouth against her teeth and chewed with her mouth open? Because her mouth is always fucking open? Seriously, she doesn't shut it. It is open. All the time.
I was told she clapped when I spoke, and that is nice. When she spoke a few months ago I told my mentor how I regretted missing that meeting. There has to be something in her story to which I can identify, some part of her docudrunkary to which I can relate. Any other day, I guess that is who I am and just how I feel; apathy and "live and let live" sharing the same AA umbrella. Tonight, like last Sunday, I am only disgusted with her. (Of course this leads to self-disgustion. Tenth step. Although, if I don't fourth step her soon, I won't have to worry about seeing her, she won't find me in the County Line.) She leaves a bad taste in your mouth like you've licked a frog out of a catfish pond. It takes me a mighty long time to spit her out.
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