Hi!

What’s new?

What’s new with me? WELL, on April 13th I celebrated two years of sobriety!.. Hold the applause. With much exhaustion, I must confess that I celebrated “two years” one year and three months early. Fo shizzle. Not kidding. I want to throw myself at your feet and apologize for being dishonest about something so serious and for SO long, dear readers.  I’ve spent the past three weeks self-flagellating and coming clean at meetings, by text, phone, instant message, and email – and now blog and Facebook –  to everyone I can think of (and also to strangers in meetings I’ve been to, like, once in my life, in Boston, Watertown, Milwaukee, etc…) who has ever applauded my sobriety, my program. BUT everyone I have told has been so supportive and loving, their reactions so moving and sympathetic… one was actually congratulatory! Not that I recommend AT ALL that anyone relapse to get the reassurance that you’re loved and accepted by your fellows, because now I know that we always will be, no matter what. Emerging alive from my recent experience, I’d like to very humbly suggest that if you have found, or if you may find yourself some day in my position, that you open up and share about it.. like, right away. There is no need to suffer with this secret – telling will not be as bad as you might think, mostly not bad at all. I promise! And I’m no liar!  I’m telling the truth, and at the risk of sounding  I-drank-the-Kool-Aid-ish, the truth has graced me with an unexpected freedom that I am grateful for and excited to go get myself some more of… in real-time this time. No apologies for my relapses*  were requested, needed – offers were not even accepted! – not even a little bit.. No shame. Seriously – no shame. Sincerely. No shame.

*  When people talk about unfortunate occurrences of drinking in recovery, they use different words. When people say ‘slip’ – I think, “Oooops! How on earth did that happen? Silly me!”. ‘Slip’ is too cute a word for something so potentially fatal. On the other hand, when people say ‘relapse’ – I think, “I’m in the gutter dying.  I’m washing people’s windshields at stop-lights, whether they like it or not. How the hell did these traffic cones get in my kitchen?”  (True story, btw). ‘Relapse’ is too terrifying a word for something so completely survivable, and so common. I looked up the word ‘relapse’ in the dictionary just to be clear. Relapse: A return of a disease or illness after partial recovery from it. No wiggling out of this one – ‘relapse’ it is. I just wish ‘momentary’ was in that definition somewhere. Oh well.

 My actual relapses – two total – were pretty boring. The excuses / lies I told myself, shame (shame shame shame), guilt, the stress, self-loathing, sadness, and onus I carried for 13 or so months, and then all the personal horrors and circumstances that eventually saved me from myself are all much more interesting. But the stories are worth telling, too, as cautionary tales in a way… <cue distinctive ‘dun dun’ sound effect  from the “Law and Order” intro> …These Are My Relapses:

Relapse #1 ~

At the beginning of 2012, at about nine months sober (no, really, I honestly did have nine months!), I started seeing CM, and all starry-eyed and mushy, I told “A Hip Fella” about him. Knowing I was new and it being totally against the law to date in your first year, AHF asked how much sober-time I had. I told him nine months (no, really, I honestly did have nine months!), to which he replied, amused and snarky, “Let me know how that works out for you”. The nerve! But annoyingly, somewhere within the next two or so months, “that worked out” with me drinking, crying, screaming into my pillow, so mad at myself, and in the throes of what can only be described as ‘temporary insanity’… and just weeks before my one-year anniversary.

I knew exactly what I had to do – I had to tell Nelissa, and then tell everyone else and re-set my sobriety date. I never thought it was OK – I had every intention of doing the right thing. I told my old therapist right after it happened, and he agreed, of course, that I had to tell Nelissa. But I couldn’t do it. Pre-anniversary party plans were being laid. All my loving supportive friends were asking when the Big Day was. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them. The days turned into weeks, medallions came and went, then Denial swooped in and came to the rescue, as it had so many times in my life. Denial – my low-life hero! I’ve had a lot of other low-life heroes in my life, too, come to think of it.

Denial is quite an evil bitch. I would talk to my old therapist about recovery and often would mention my sobriety date.. the liar-liar-pants-on-fire date, knowing absolutely but still not quite registering that I knew that he knew that I was hopelessly lying to his face. So I started using air quotes and rolling my eyes when I mentioned the date, which I did all the time because I was so genuinely happy and unfathomably grateful for the program and that I made it “one year” (rolls eyes)  without a drink. I was a perfect representative of sobriety. I would catch myself telling him and twist my face with guilt, like maybe if he knew I felt reeeeally bad about lying, the ‘slip’ wouldn’t count. I asked him once if he thought I was a horrible human being for not being honest in a program of honesty, and he said, “I have no judgment. I work with a man who likes having sex with horses, and I don’t judge him either”. I thought, “OMG – it’s sooo much worse than I thought. Lying is on par with having sex with a horse?!? I’m definitely NEVER telling anyone now”. And then I thought, “How does that work? That must be very confusing for the horse (like dressage), not to mention a logistical nightmare for the perverted, degenerate ol’ chap. Hmm – chaps. Are chaps involved?”. Disturbing images from the world’s largest S&M leather event, the Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco, I used to go to for unresolved voyeurism, popped into mind – kindly folks with whips, chained collars, and yup – chaps over bare legs. I still have nightmares about sunburned asses waiting for aloe at the first-aid stations – safety first!

Relapse #2 ~

Not as interesting as but much more dangerous than Relapse #1. I went to Portland and Hawaii last July, and smoked a bunch of weed. I half-confessed at that beach bonfire CK meeting I went to in Waikiki. I raised my hand and told them I smoked weed and that I was anxious about having to tell my friends in Cambridge, but it was the right thing to do, and so do it I would. I left the meeting feeling relieved about telling the truth (rolls eyes) and grateful to be able to practice a trial-truth-run to my new CK friends outside the continental US – then left the meeting and smoked more weed. (Important note to friends on OR and HI: you did NOT, not even a smidge, contribute to my relapse. It was entirely my decision. I love you guys so much!). I celebrated having a marvelous and sober (rolls eyes) vacation by having two drinks on the flight home and taking way more ativan than necessary (which is to say, any ativan at all – it’s an anti-anxiety med and I like flying – never had anxiety about it). I took enough that I didn’t remember much or really any of the 15-or-so-hour trip from Hawaii to Boston. Definitely a ‘relapse’. I came back to Cambridge and a friend asked in jest if I had to change my sobriety date, and I said “Nope!” but I thought, “Nope! I didn’t have to change it last time!”.

As time and then more time passed after these relapses, the more convinced I was of the humiliation I thought I would have to face by ‘fessing up. The time and then more time just pushed me further into denial and guilt, and further away from the option of coming clean. On April 13th I celebrated two years (rolls eyes) of sobriety, and on April 15th, the day of the Marathon Bombings,  I accepted my two-year medallion. On April 16th, I melted down and told my dear dear top shrink the truth (rolls eyes) that I didn’t deserve the medallion… because I smoked weed on my trip. He kindly pointed out that over these past six months, I’ve had to endure the crushing sadness and emotional, physical, and hormonal devastation of my hysterectomy and the resulting menopause, the degradation (that some part of me thought I deserved) of sexual harassment at work (more on that in a later post), and the worst thing that could possibly happen – my sweet Leroy dying. By pointing this out, he assured me that I have had a legitimately rough time lately, and that I did not cause of all of it with my lies, and that I not only need, but I deserve, to use every resource necessary to carry me through this, and that there’s one thing I can control and that is to release this burden of secrecy about my relapses – that it is actually no biggy to anyone but me, no one will probably change their (nice) opinion of me, and I’ll still be loved. So I left his office on that April 16th, and called Lily and told her the truth (rolls eyes) that I drank before my one-year anniversary and smoked weed on my trip. On April 17th, I got sick of rolling my eyes and told Lily, and later that day my home group, The Entire Truth, which is.. I drank weeks before my one-year anniversary, and smoked weed AND drank on my vacation, and my actual sobriety date is July 13, 2012. I got my 9-month chip a few weeks ago and was over the moon. Hot dog! The truth surely shall set you free!

I drank the first time out of pure heart-breaking anguish. I drank the second time for no reason other than I am an alcoholic – that’s what I do – I drink. The second relapse was much more dangerous because I shut it out almost completely – no one knew about the drinks on the plane but Virgin Atlantic. My logic behind not telling anyone about the second relapse was that if I told about the second one, I’d have to spill the rotten beans about the first one, and if I was going to finally be honest about everything and have to reset my sobriety date, then I may as well go on a holy bender and get tanked one final time.. knowing full well that the one final time could very likely be “final” because it would kill me sooner or later, and with my track second, I’d pray for sooner. And that’s terrifying.

The beauty and grace in all of this is the proof that CK is working, and I am right on track. What stopped me (which truly is a miracle) from collapsing into raging active alcoholism is what I’ve been told so many times – go to meetings meetings meetings. And prayer, by golly! When Leroy was dying, I was desperate – I felt like I was dying with him. I screamed into my pillow (I seem to do that a lot) for the will and strength to live through the heartbreak and helplessness of seeing my sweet boy whither and in pain. I prayed for mercy to help ease my guilt for being dishonest because I started thinking I was the cause of his sickness. I had no notion nor intention of finding relief through telling on myself – no, I was asking for a way around telling the truth at all costs.  So, I prayed, and I screamed, and I never skipped a beat in my meeting schedule. [Actually, that’s not entirely true. Coincidentally (or not?) I got really sick after my relapses. Not hangover sick, but caught a virus, cold, or infection kind of sick. I got the flu (which I passed along to CM.. snicker snicker - oh give me a break! I didn’t mean to! I’m still in my first year of sobriety, remember? I have to be sober, not nice) the first time, and caught a respiratory infection on the plane home from Hawaii the second time]. 

More beauty and grace in all of this is the undeniable evidence of Love – wonderful, comforting, healing, you-go-girl Love Love Love! I’ve known for ages that I am powerless over alcohol, but still I drank in recovery and that can be called nothing but insanity. I continued to go to meetings and be truthful about everything else I could bear – I made a commitment to myself to stay sober when I came into CK on April 13th, 2011. I continued through my shame to keep what I could of that commitment. Keeping those secrets and lying about my sobriety date were agonizing until they became unbearable. I threw in the towel – the monogrammed damp yucky towel of fear and self-will – and asked for forgiveness and help. What was thrown back at me were the gifts of Love and Freedom, the promise of Happiness. But happiness is not just on the horizon, it’s already here.

Slushkitty Lives, indeed! This entire blog, up until today, is peppered with lies about my sobriety date but I’m not going to go back and change anything. That would be dishonest.. and those days are over. Those days of “dishonesty” were never actually really here though. I had to tell the truth – not the truth about me being a big, fat liar – but the truth about me NOT being a big, fat liar. I’m a human alcoholic in recovery, which is not only the best kind of alcoholic to be (human), but the best kind of human to be (an alcoholic in recovery). I mean that! I am seeking (and fighting tooth and nail for) honesty and peace in life, and from that I am finding freedom and Love. I certainly could never do any of this alone – I am doing this with the happiest and most honest people in the world. I heart CK and am honored to be in your numbers.  

Quick notes: This entry has taken me a long while to write because it’s been a painful, stressful time in my life, and I was scared to tell you the truth. A bunch has happened since I started writing this.  And regarding my recent blog subject matter – my last blog was about putting my sweet Leroy to sleep. This one is about my relapse. My next may very well be about losing my job.. but that will be a fun and victorious one – I promise!

UPDATE: I lost my job yesterday! As promised, it was victorious indeed! Stay tuned for details…  they involve a vibrator and unintended revenge!

~ Leroy ~

September 23, 2000 – March 29, 2013

Hi!

I’ve written before about how I had imaginary boyfriends in super early sobriety, and how I had whirlwind romances with real live guys but unfortunately they were not aware of it. It’s charming, in a pathetic way, to think of it now. I was so aching and desperate to feel attractive and loved and pretty. The only thing I could think of to make that possible, of course, was to find someone who would do that for me. I was single-minded in my pursuit of this someone, but he just kept cheating on me with his wife or was gay or was a gentleman or was a grown-up or some other bullshit. It’s very different now and I understand that this is not the way it works. However, when I was in those brief relationships with CM and then with 24BB, I became delusional despite myself – slipped back into the thinking that my own very real-life love story with a real-live dude would smooth the edges of life in recovery. No! No! Snap out of it, I say to myself!!! We all have needs and I trust in Love that they will be met sooner or fucking later. Needs, wants, desires, etc… all in good time. I want to say that I believe that I already do have everything that I need – because this is what the CKs say and rarely are they wrong. But again, I am not that evolved. I’m trying though. Well, actually, I do believe that – I’m just frustrated and suffering the human condition, and in the meantime, there are websites for such woes. Discuss.

A few days ago right after a meeting, this beauty of a man came up to me and said those four words that can cause any good alcoholic to dry-heave: “Do you remember me?” I flipped frantically through the Rolodex of my Swiss cheese memory and came up with bupkis, zilch, nyet. I couldn’t place him. And the conversation goes something like this…

What he said: Do you remember me?
What I said (nervously): Um. Hmm. From where? I’m sorry! When?
What I thought: Sweet Mother of God, will this EVER end!!! Regardless, I love you! I love you! I love you! How could I forget you, you beauty of a man?! The future father of my children! Doesn’t matter that I have no uterus – we’ll figure out some way, some how we will do this. Love conquers all!

What he said: Oh meetings, but it was a long time ago, so I don’t expect you to. But I had to come over and tell you how great you look! I hardly recognized you! I was like ‘whoa’!
What I said: (nothing. I was speechless. I was planning the wedding).
What I thought: You said ‘whoa’. You said ‘whoa’. You said ‘whoa’ which clearly means you love me. You’ve been waiting (in the shrubbery outside meetings) for me to get better. You’ve been waiting for me all your life. You’ve had a Slushkitty-size hole in your soul. Here I am. I’ve been waiting for you all my life, too.

What he said: I know it’s nice to hear that, and it’s so great to see people getting better.
What I said: Thank you! It’s been a rough few months. I had a hysterectomy. If I wasn’t sober, I’m not sure I’d have lived through it.
What I thought: I’m not sure I am going to live through this conversation. Nothing screams ‘sexy!’ like talking about your gynecologic tragedies during the first conversation with the man of your dreams, the future father of your children.

What he said: Blah blah blah blah blah.
What I said: (nothing. I was speechless. I was planning my escape from Earth).

What he said (when his phone allegedly rang): This is my Dad calling – I gotta run. It was awesome seeing you!
What I said: You, too! We should….
What I thought: The greatest but least talked about gender inequality in America and elsewhere is the fact that vasectomies are reversible, but hysterectomies are not. (That’s where I stopped thinking about that).

Anyway, enormously embarrassed, but undeterred, I thought of “IFFoMC” all night and the whole next morning. I had this sweet and persistent idea that I would write him something, a letter, a limerick, or something. I’d carry it around with me and give it to him the next time I saw him – be it in one week or in one year. I didn’t know what I wanted to say but it would not only not be creepy/stalker-y, but it would sweep him off his feet. He’s too darling and shy to ask me for tea. It would be so romantic, and we are already in love anyway, so I really have nothing to lose. It would be one more delightful story we’d tell our children.

The important thing to note here is that only one time in my entire life have I ever given a boy a love note with my phone number. It was around 1998-99 (I think?) in San Francisco at a Staples store in the Castro. His last name was “Devereaux” as in “Blanche”. He was cute as a button and, unfortunately, also a Jesus freak. I don’t know why he even called me – nice Christian girls don’t come sashaying into a Staples in the middle of the afternoon giving strangers her phone number. He did call me promptly though, and we went out twice. The second time I only went out with him because I liked his name. I guess it was as good a reason as any.

So, back to IFFoMC.. The day after the meeting when I was thinking of writing him a love note, I stalked him on Facebook. I searched his first name figuring we’d have mutual friends, and alas, we do. Found him right away and remembered him right away – he was one of my very first Imaginary Boyfriends! I hadn’t seen him in well over a year and I completely forgot about him! I am surprised by this because I had it sooo baaaad for him. One time, we went to the same meeting – it was in a church and he came in late. Naturally, like all my IBs, he sat next to me even though there were a hundred free seats he could have chosen (that may or may not have been true). We sat in the actual pews at this meeting. The backs of the pews had these built-in magazine racks – ha! – I bet they were meant to hold Bibles and shit, not “People” or “Cosmo”. And they also had little pads of paper with those little pencils you get at mini golf places. I spent half the meeting composing a love note to him – I didn’t know what I wanted to say but it would surely sweep him off his feet. And then half-way through the meeting I noticed that he had picked up a little pencil and a little piece of paper and started writing something, presumably a love note to me! I spent the rest of the meeting in breathless anticipation of his love note. He was The One – I knew it.. finally! All I had to do was get sober and my dreams would come true! It took a long time – five months!!! – but he was worth the wait. He was going to pass me his love note when he held my hand for The Ol’ Prayer at the end of the meeting, I was sure. But when it was time, he walked clear across the church! I couldn’t believe it! He didn’t even say goodbye! WTF?! I was heart-broken but also relieved that I didn’t pass him a note. I hear the fellas like a chase. I’d just slip him my number next time I saw him.. which ended up not being until a few days ago and I’d long forgotten him. I am also relieved that I didn’t do anything drastic the other day when I saw him. Upon further Facebook stalking, it wasn’t hard to tell he had a girlfriend and they were going 2 B 2-gether 4-ever. You know someone is seriously unavailable when their profile picture is them kissing their girlfriend/boyfriend. I know these things. As quickly as I was smitten by IFFoMC this time, I just as quickly shrugged him off as a fun twirl in hasty, misguided love. I think this is a little slice of evidence of recovery. But isn’t it strange that only once in my life have I given someone a love note, but I wanted to give IFFoMC a love note two separate times, not realizing it was him both times? I wonder what that means? Curious.

I said that I only once in my life gave someone a love note, but I confess that I do have the makings of a love note for FH at home and have for quite a while. I don’t know what I am going to say, but it will not only not be creepy/stalker-y, but it will sweep him off his feet… if I ever get up the nerve to write anything, which I probably won’t. But if I do, it surely won’t be hasty, definitely not misguided, and it will always be curious with love to my boyfriend, imaginary or not.

Hi!

I’ve been trying to write this post for about three weeks, but whispers of “restraint of pen and tongue” keep reigning me in. I’m not miserable and angry all the time – it’s just lately these bitter feelings have been sharply pointed at specific people and I am disappointed in myself for that. I am heart-sick and furious. But my sweets Nay-Nay and Heaven have been saying that these feelings are not who I am, that they are what I am feeling, and I have reason and rights to feel my feelings. I have been yelling quite a bit – the hot-blooded Italian in me emerges! But it is better to yell than to bottle this bitterness.. in the bottom.. of so many bottles.

So much has been going on! Beyond my derailment by the hystie and hormones and sadness, I am also experiencing something that I have heard other COOL KIDS talk about but have not experienced myself: sensory memory! I am in the midst of Anniversary Season. My birthday (41 years!) was a couple of weeks ago February 18^th, Slushkitty Lives!’s anniversary (1 year!) is March 20^th, and my sober anniversary (2 years!) is April 13^th. When I think about how different things are now than they were two years ago and how different things were one year ago, I want to drink. Just kidding! Bad joke for this audience. Every single thing is different and I am so grateful for even having feelings, but some things simply hurt so much more. I don’t know where a sensible place to start is, so I’ll dive into the Winter of 2010-2011 when I lost my very last marble and found God. Kidding again! Well, kind of. I found Love.

Tragedy and horror aside, my last days of drinking were a knee-slapping, side-splitting laugh riot. After 20 years of shamefully and violently belly-flopping my way through life as an addict and alcoholic – friendships, boyfriends, roommates, restraining orders, therapists, medications, cities coast-to-coast, naps on busy sidewalks and on strangers’ lawns, jobs, psychiatric wards, etc… – it took only a few relatively minor events within the matter of only a couple of weeks, and a huge mean-spirited shove from my EX-boyfriend “The Prince of Hell”, that made me finally sell out and surrender my glamorous life in exchange for the boredom and gloom of COOL KIDS. I kid. That is what I thought of COOL KIDS then. Now I know it’s the best place on Earth. Kiss kiss and xoxoxo.

The Prince of Hell has starring roles in a couple of these events, so I need to set the stage. I want, and will attempt, to be a graceful, sober-hearted, and sympathetic member of COOL KIDS and try very hard to contain the blinding rage I still have for him. I’m going to stick to the facts. I’ll try to be fair – even monumental assholes deserve a fair shake. (Oh, lighten up).

I mentioned in earlier posts that after my cancer scare a few years ago, I started on-line dating (my face now red) and having no standards, I went out with every chump who believed the sugar-coated life I whipped up for my profile (ha ha! Kind of like the employer chumps who believed the sugar-coated “contract work” I whipped up to fill in the chunks of time on my resume when I was in reality unemployable). TPoH was the last chump that I went out with. So, a couple of glaring clues from Date One with TPoH that could have perhaps spared me some of his emotional brutality down the road completely escaped me. Clue #1: his profile picture was of him and his most recent girlfriend “Saint Kind and Compassionate” with half her face cropped out, presumably the good half. Hissss. He looked so very (and uncharacteristically) happy in that picture. He never looked happy with me and I was Hell-bent on changing that. Clue #2: he was texting St. KAC during our entire date and showing me pictures of her new hair cut, of her cat, of her feeding the hungry and healing the sick in Guatemala, etc…. Later, he would tell me that back in the mid-90s when I had my lips wrapped around a crack-pipe, she was washing the feet of Jesus Christ Himself. I’m exaggerating but only a little – he did compare us all the time and he wasn’t entirely wrong about the speed-freak v. saint comparison. Anyway, I told him he was being sort of rude texting her in front of me, to which he replied, “Jealousy is ugly”. I was ashamed of myself. I agreed – jealousy indeed is ugly. How could I criticize this forthright and honest man, this good man! Slushkitty is catty. He will help me change that. He will save me.

As if Date One wasn’t bad enough, how’s this: I had to skip Date Two we had planned for the following weekend because I was in a psychiatric ward. I couldn’t even call him to cancel because my phone was dead and the psych warden wouldn’t give me a phone charger because I might’ve hanged myself with the cord. I guess there’s a first for everything. I don’t remember why I told him the wicked embarrassing truth about why I couldn’t make the date. It may have been because I wanted to be honest with this forthright, honest, kind man – wanted to open up and surrender that last speck of self-esteem I had left to him. It may have just been because I couldn’t come up with a clever excuse. It may have been because it was a totally normal event in my life – I was due for an involuntary vacation anyway. It may have been because I thought if he could accept me for who I was — former speed freak, current mental patient, do not call me an alcoholic — then maybe this could have been the beginning of a beautiful and healthy relationship. He will save me.

On Date Two, he picked me up at an out-patient program that I had to go to as a condition of the psych hospital releasing me AMA (that’s “Against Medical Advice” to those of you not in-the-know). There are so many things wrong with that.

Date Three lasted about eight dreadful months and ended with me half-dead whimpering in a church basement on April 13^th.

Now, here’s where the “restraint of pen and tongue” law confuses me. The point of describing this relationship is not to disparage TPoH (no! really!), but to illustrate what a sick cookie I was, to illustrate how different things are now, to illustrate that the program works. But I am seeing very little improvement in this area so I am contradicting myself!!! I have dipped my toe in the pool of love twice in sobriety and both times pool sharks chewed my foot off. You know the pool sharks, right? They’re like dented cans. The funniest thing I ever heard at a COOL KIDS meeting was advice someone was given on dating other COOL KIDS. The advice was “don’t shop in the dented can aisle”. That slays me! But despite myself, I fall in love with dented cans allllll the time still. Read “Imaginary Boyfriends” – not much has changed. You can read about the first relationship at the very beginning of Slushkitty – my dear CM. The other relationship was with “BB24” but I am being reigned in by the “restraint of pen and tongue” law again, so I’ll stop before I start. But actually, now that I think about it, there’s a lot of improvement. Neither lasted anywhere near eight months.

So, the relationship part of Anniversary Season has me in a bad mood. I started making a whole-hearted effort on my 4^th Step several months ago – I dragged my heels and then I unexpectedly got swept away by my gut-wrenching (literally and emotionally) adventures in Hysterectomyland and put it aside. With the relationship season memories, I am reminded of being heart-burned by guys who were at “best” abusive to me, and at least not available to me in the way I need(ed). I am not sad anymore that things didn’t work out, but I am being relentless in beating the shit out of myself for, in sobriety, still not being able to see what was happening in front of me, settling for so much less than I deserve/want/need/blah/blah/blah. With the 4^th Step stuff, I dragged up some recent and ancient and always agonizing relationship memories and heartaches, and I find myself sponsor-less and naked from the ankles down (gasp! So racy!) and the pool sharks are circling.

But alas! If I start getting down about my (lack of) romantical love and my (not) doing 4^th Step work, I need to remember that I certainly do not have a lack of Love in my life. I know this may sound trite, but even though I feel like I am re-living all these rotten relationships, I am NOT. I’m right here and am right where I am supposed to be (I both hate and love when the clichés are appropriate). I can think of at least seven people that not only did not back away from me slowly when I was yelling but circled around me closer. I’ve been full of frustration and hatred for weeks and finally detonated. I know my mostest and closest know how scared I am, but maybe they don’t know how scared I was thinking that if they knew the level of bitterness I harbor, they wouldn’t like me anymore. When I was drinking, I would harbor resentments, for sure. But when I was drinking and would detonate (especially towards the end of my drinking career – this time of year two years ago), I certainly most assuredly would lose “friends”. Now my Friends with a capital F invite me over to watch “Fashion Police” and call and text and IM and cheer me up… because they like me!!! Imagine that! And I like them! I’d go so far as to say we love each-other and we want to see all of us happy! I didn’t have anything like this this time of year two years ago. It’s anniversary time! Happy Anniversary indeed!

xoxox

Hi!

I found a funny (transcribed) conversation I had with a customer last summer. It goes a little something like this….

him: do you sell cable modems?

me: yes.

him: can you tell me information?

me: sure. what information would you like?

him: information about the cable modem.

me: product information? or are you looking to purchase one?

him: yes.

me: what would you like to know?

him: what cable modems do you have?

me: what do you mean?

him: what is the price?

me: we don’t sell them direct. We sell them through retailers and online.

him: what is the price?

me: I can’t give you an exact price since we don’t sell them to end-users. Are you at a computer? All the prices are listed.

him: I want you to tell me.

me: I can’t give you an exact price. I can give you a range.

him: what is the price?

me: the range is about $120-$150.

him: what is 120?

me: what do you mean?

him: you said 120. What is this?

me: it’s a price.

him: is it the speed?

me: it’s a price.

him: tell me about dial-up modems. what do you have?

me: what are you looking for?

him: tell me about them.

etc…

Hi!

I am back at work, so you know what that means…. I can get back to blogging! Being on disability for the last nine weeks kept me terribly busy, terribly terribly busy – mostly watching “Judging Amy” and spending crazy amounts of money on things to help make me feel girly again (i.e. eyelash extensions, massages, a bra fitting and the subsequent fortune spent on new ones, etc…). And I was recovering (and still am and will be for a while) from my hystie, got the flu – like the flu flu – not a cold, there was a death in the family, and my house caught on fire. Terribly busy I was. Yoda I am. Details as follows:

* eyelash extensions – lasted two days, not ten as advertized. But they were a fun two days… even though no one noticed… sheesh!

* massage – so-so.

* new bras – I flashed Celery and her mom this weekend. They asked for it. Really! They did!

* hystie update – physically I am fine, emotionally and mentally a wreck. Menopause, jumbled/absent hormones, psych meds, a constant sadness over the emotional devastation of it all – they collectively suck the big one. I feel like I am going insane – I really do mean that literally. I’ve been agonizing over whether it’s necessary to dissect each feeling and categorize them accordingly, so I can have an understanding of why I, oh, I don’t know, mourn my cats’ deaths from that fire (more on that below) while they’re actually sitting on my head and purring on my lap all safe and sound; get consumed and nearly crippled by a social awkwardness and anxiety that I thought was much further behind me and then destroy myself for realizing it’s right on the surface like it’s always been; am so emotionally vulnerable that I feel like the world is out to get me when in fact the world is embracing me … except for “Baffley” – who you’ll meet in my next post – who challenges and picks apart my every exposed emotional nerve, for better or for worse or for not at all because I’m making it all up and I am in no position/condition to argue or even address it, and this is the world’s longest run-on sentence. More thoughts on the understanding of the chaos in my head, heart, and soul later, when you meet Baffley. It’s a cliff-hanger!

* the flu – my boss is out with the flu today! Booyah! Maybe he’ll be a zombie for the next two weeks like I was. OK – it was more like a week, week and a half.

* death in the family – My great-uncle, my grandmother’s brother “Don”. He was 96. His name was actually John but the Guido Mafioso priest at the burial kept calling him “Don”. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Auntie was yelling from the back, “He’ll never get into Heaven this way!” = laugh. A Navy sailor performed “Taps” while two other sailors ceremoniously folded the American Flag and handed it to his son = cry.

* house on fire – it was the house attached to mine, I live in a row house. I was watching TV in my pajamas on my shiny new couch with my shiny old cats when out of nowhere my apartment was stormed by and swarmed with firefighters! The cats did the “Tom and Jerry” running in place thing then flew under the bed. The firefighters told me to grab my coat and shoes and leave and I freaked the fuck out about my cats. They told me to lock them in the bedroom so they wouldn’t get out of the house. Yeah, right. I stood outside in the rain weeping while the entire population of South Boston, a news crew, and countless firemen scrambled for updates and hoses, respectively. I posted pictures on Facebook. My nerves were shot for days, but everyone was fine.

I am fine, too, when you think about it, but don’t think about it too hard.

Loveyoumeanitbbiab.. xox

Hi!
I’ve written a Christmas Story for you. It’s about Mary, Mother of God, as told by Mary, Mother of God. 

Hello! My name is Mary and I am a virgin (fingers crossed). This is my true story. What is entirely omitted in the Bible about me is that I was a kid at one point, just like everyone else, and I did have some fun; I was not always a saint. I’ll take it from the top…

I had a regular, uneventful childhood, nice parents, lots of Love and prayer, I had a little lamb. I was sent to a prep school called The Future Saints of the New Testament. We were also known as the Girls Awaiting Halos. One day there was all this chatter and excitement that God has started window shopping for a young girl (creepy?) to carry his child – the Messiah, the Father of Heaven and Earth. It was the All-Time-Most-Holiest-of-Holy coveted position in all of God’s green Earth now and forever AMEN! Being the biggest (and cutest) prude in all of Nazareth, the rumor was that that girl was to be ME! (Not sure how I feel about that reputation, whatevs). But Mother of God!! I could be the mother of God??? And so indeed it was decided that I was to be The Mother of God. Yay! Holy news travels fast and in no time all the land knew of my Divine fate. The fellas, they wept for I’d never marry and soon I’d be the stay-at-home mom of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

One day, I’m chilling at home trying to figure out my Hello Kitty Chastity Belt, and some holy and high priest waltzes in and was like, “I care not of this hullabuloo. Chop chop, kid. You’re getting married – we’re short on girls”. My parents freaked out at this no-notice change of plans for the rest of my life – they gave a vow that I’d bear God’s kid, an immaculate conception for God’s sake! Plus they already had everything monogrammed – S.o.G. (Son of God) bibs and blankets, M.o.G. (Mother of God) linens and towels! So, my mom and dad and this priest argued for days then finally agreed to let a bird decide. Yeah – a bird. Not me. A bird. An oracle instructed that every man of the house of David should bring a rod to my Temple. If one of the rods flowers, then its owner will be engaged to me. Now, I might be 12 and I certainly have never seen a “flowering rod” but it sounds shady. a little Sodom and Gomorrah-ish, sounds a little gay – a bunch of guys taking their rods out while everyone looks at them and waits for a flower? Anyway, reluctantly, this really sweet but really really old dude named Joseph takes out his rod. It flowers, a dove comes to rest on it, and so he is chosen as my fiance. Great. The bird couldn’t have landed on a younger rod? I mean, not a smaller rod, but a younger rod. Joe is crazy old! He’s 90! 90!!! He’s a widower, was married for 49 years, has six kids, poor guy is so old he can’t remember how many grandkids and great-grandkids he has. So, he was born in like 90 BC, and when the kid gets here the year will be, what, zero BC? Zero AD? Whatever – AD, BC, all I know is that all that would be happening in the bedroom of Joe and yours truly is ED, if you know what I mean. He couldn’t deflower this virgin if he even wanted. Indeed if would have to be an immaculate conception! Those guys are sneaky.

I got depressed and told the Girls Awaiting Halos the dealio and they were like, “Whaaaa? Aren’t you supposed to be a virgin forever?”, and I was like, “I know, right?!”, and they were like, “Whatevs – BACHELORETTE PARTY!!! Woooohoooo!!!” They were so excited, and planned this wicked fun girls’ get-away weekend to The Dead Sea. It was fabulous! They dressed up the camels in wedding veils and Bedazzled the saddles, and painted the camels’ toenails hot pink, and our cheery caravan set off for a spa retreat. It was fun! We slept late, floated on the sea all morning, had brunch of olives and figs, milk and honey. We had our hair braided with shells and rosary beads. One night, one wonderfully enchanted night, the Girls and I went to a club to see this pop band called “The Wise Men”. And there he was – the Little Drummer Boy – pa rum pum pum pum indeed… and a hubba hubba, too. (Don’t freak out – we’re totally the same age). I looked at him. And then he smiled at me pa rum pum pum.. and it was all over – I was lovesick. We spent the entire night talking talking talking and laughing, holding hands and making sand angels… and we French-kissed! Sadly, the weekend had to end and I had to go home to Pops (Joe). Little Drummer Boy told me he was on tour with the band, and was scheduled – barring rapture, frogs, locusts, etc… – to be in Nazareth at the end of December. He said this would give me enough time to sort out the marriage/Mother of God/virgin mess so we could be together forever… and forever I would wait for my drumming dream boat.

Back in Nazareth a few months later, I was doodling “Mary n’ Drummer Boy 4-eva” and “Mrs. Mary Drummer Boy”, and the archangel Gabriel barrels through the window and scares the shit out of me – I scream, he laughs. Total jerk. Then he announces to me that I am to be the mother of the promised Messiah and I’ll be conceiving Him through the Holy Spirit. I threw my hands up in holy frustration and asked, “Is this your final answer? You have another lifeline you can use. Do you want to call God and get final confirmation on this because you’re being wicked wishy-washy and I am getting really annoyed!!!” Gabe was like, “The final answer is.. all three! The Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit! You win!” I just walked out of the room – I have to accept the fact that I will never get a straight answer out of these angels and priests. And then a number of months after my conversation with Gabe, Joe also got confirmation of my conception in a dream by yet another angel. Joe was confused (remember he’s 90 and none of this makes any sense anyway) but the angel told him to be unafraid and take me as his wife, which he did, thereby formally completing the wedding rites. Joe was like, “Phew! I dodged a stoning with that one!”.

The wedding reception was supposed to be a small gathering of family and a few close friends, but the paparazzi caught wind of my immaculate conception / marriage to a 90-year-old scandal and it was a mess – there were pterodactyl flying overhead with cameras – it was just awful. We were able to move the party inside and it ended up being a lovely day… except everyone kept pinching my cheeks and telling me I look fat, chubby as a cherub. Someone actually said I look “jolly”! I’m like, “Jolly?! Jolly like Santa Claus!?” They were like, “who?” and I was like, “nevermind”.

But then later that night it occurred to me – I put my hands on my belly – OMG – I have a Baby Jesus Bump! But who’s the Father?!!! I was warned about this in school. Mother Superior told us that if we French-kissed a boy, we’d get pregnant.. and here I am – pregnant!!! But all these angels are fluttering around telling everyone that I was chosen to carry the Messiah! (You’d think if the Holy Spirit knocked me up already, I’d know about it, right? Like, sparklers would shoot out of my belly button or something). How can I be sure who the father is! O! And My Little Drummer Boy will be here anyday! How the hell (make sign of cross on belly) am I going to explain this one??? I threw a tizzy of Biblical proportions and I can’t even ask God for guidance, given the circumstances. I’d have Hell to pay.

Anxiety-ridden, distraught, and puffy, I moped around the house dreaming of Little Drummer Boy. Joe didn’t want to see me unhappy, and thought a trip to the mall in Bethlehem might cheer me up. I should have known from the start that the trip was going to be a fiasco when the first thing we had to figure out was how to get me on an ass. I had to sit side-saddle, for obvious reasons, and it was murder on my own ass. Then halfway there.. my Holy Water broke! By my calculation, this is when Little Drummer Boy and his band The Wise Men showed up at my place and no one was home. They asked the neighbors if they knew where we went and they thought maybe the Star of Bethlehem Mall. The band had picked up a choir of angels along their travels, and the choir kept singing to them “oh come ye oh come ye to Bethlehem. Come and behold him, born the king of us angels. Oh come let us adore him! We think we see a light! Do you see what we see?”.

I seriously could not go another step – I had to get off that ass STAT and give birth to the Savior of the World. We stopped at a barn and asked the owner if he minded if I gave birth to the Overseer of his Soul in his barn, and he was like, “go for it”. And so I did and what a magical experience! Jesus Christ was SO cute – he looked like a be-haloed Glow-worm! I couldn’t really tell if he looked like the Little Drummer Boy and I have no idea what the Holy Spirit looks like (does anyone?), so I kept my trap shut. We were all pretty speechless actually. And then my Little Drummer Boy showed up with The Wise Men and the choir of angels and some of the things they picked up in the gift shops of the various kingdoms they had gigs in – gold, frankincense, myrrh – and they had just stopped off at Starbucks and brought me and Joe hot chocolate. The Baby Jesus slept, and the rest of us stayed up all night laughing softly about who our favorite reindeer was and why, and telling stories of how we’d each been naughty and nice that year. Little Drummer Boy and I just smiled longingly and lovingly at each other knowing we had a beautiful secret about JC’s dad. We’d never know… and even if we did, we’d certainly never tell….

Merry Christmas, my darlings!

xoxox
Mary (M.o.G.)

Hi!

oh.
** “Indians” = “Native Americans”. I have a funny story of my very first days in San Francisco. I was sitting in a bar (go figure) with my friends one afternoon, and this dude walked by with nothing on but a loincloth, war paint, a Mohawk, and a spear. Just walking down the street. No one turned around. Nothing to see here, people. I was like “WHOA! DID YOU GUYS SEE HIM?!?!?!?” And they were like, “Yup! Welcome to Haight Street!”.. and I knew I was home. WELL, I told that story the first time I shared at a meeting and I referred to the guy as an “Indian”. It was the FIRST time I had ever shared and was shaking and terrified. Some PC dickhead in the meeting CORRECTED ME!!!! “Your story about the man dressed as a Native American…”. WHATever! Now I am all self-conscious and worried I am going to offend someone by not being PC. He loses though. Now I am deliberately offensive. Fag.

Hi!

“The Girl with the Uterus Tattoo” hosted a Going-Away Party for my Uterus last night! Perfect, huh? Thank you to those of you who came – it meant a lot to me.  “Cassie” wasn’t able to make it, so instead sent me The.Best.Email.Ever. Here it is!:

“I’ve compiled a brief, not at all comprehensive list of things you can do without a uterus, for inspiration during and after your recovery:

*learn how to pole dance

*marathon America’s Next Top Model/What Not to Wear/trashy TV show of choice

*run an actual marathon, if that’s your idea of fun (it is not mine.)

*build a canoe

*visit the zoo that’s somewhere around here

*become a phone sex person

*continue to have the best sense of personal style I’ve ever seen

*get more tattoos. get a tattoo of a uterus!

*sync Pink Floyd with Wizard of Oz

*be a good cat mamma

*learn French

*learn Elvish

*learn how to swear fluently in sign language

*move to Cambridge

*continue writing your hilarious-but-poignent blog

*become a standup comedian

*write a bestselling humor book. become rich and famous.

*grow tomatoes

*create artwork from items you find in dumpsters

*become a stunt double

*marry a longshoreman

*balance the US budget, eliminate our national debt

*build ships in bottles

*start to build ships in bottles, get frustrated, throw ship-in-bottle kit out of a fifth-story window

*watch Community #sixseasonsandamovie

*create eye-gougingly cheery collages from women’s health magazines

*run naked through the streets

*go to lots of AA meetings!

*run naked through lots of AA meetings!

*start your own business making handmade but affordable cat treats

*go to Disneyland

*go to Disneyworld

*learn the ukulele

*bake a loaf of banana bread

*learn CPR. use CPR skills to save random person on the subway

*laugh at the misfortune of people menstruating

*save tons of money on tampons

*repaint your apartment

*go see a movie

*sponsor someone and relish the power of making someone else make a gratitude list for once!

*start a gang of ovary-less women. get matching t-shirts and leather jackets. roam the streets.

*win the lottery

*lose the lottery

*chair Live and Let Live

*start a new meeting in Davis Square. I am a very lazy woman.

*write, direct, produce, and star in your own dramedy about sobriety

*learn bird calls

*learn whale calls

*learn catcalls

*get coffee with me before a meeting, when we’re both back on our respective feet

*go up the down escalator

*do the gangnam style dance

*floss twice a day.”.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Below is the Second Best Email I have ever received. It is an unfortunate snag in the mild and sublime language barrier:

_____________________________________________________________

From: ”Kara”

Sent: Thursday, December 29, 2011 6:05 AM

To: ”Pim”; “Eliza”
Subject: SKU: DQ1617, MFG#: 4597-00-00F status

Hi, Pim and Eliza!

Our SKU: DQ1617, MFG#: 4597-00-00F has a status of “special order”. This is incorrect – it’s a current product. Can you change this on the site?

Thank you!

Kara

______________________________________________________

From: Eliza

Sent: Thursday, December 29, 2011 10:36 AM
To: Kara; Pim
Subject: RE: SKU: DQ1617, MFG#: 4597-00-00F status

Sure Kara, just give me a moment. I just came on my desk.

Thanks

Best Regards,

Eliza

______________________________________________________

No, no. Thank YOU, Eliza!

Hi!

I intended to have my 2-part then-and-now tragicomical little blog post be about the 2008 presidential election season and my 2008 ovarian cyst – what it was like 4 years ago and how different things are now. But then shit got real: a couple of things stayed the same. The good “same” is that my honest and trustworthy boyfriends got re-elected. The bad “same” is that the gross ovarian blob (now more varieties for the same great price!) of 2008 slithered back into my body. That was totally unexpected. That totally harshed my boner. This past May I was told that there was a 95% chance my cysts would not return. This past Thursday I was told they did and I have to have a hysterectomy. What a mind-fuck!! Well hell, crown me “Miss 5%” and tell the Bearded Lady she’s about to get some competition!

Then – October / November 2008

So, my last blog and my last blob, where was I? Yes, launching republican Aquarians into outer space, returning from the emergency room to watch Joe and Sarah debate, languishing miserably (but oh so high) at home alone with my big twisty cysty. I had surgery a few days later – they had to take out my poor little right ovary, too, because the cyst was so obnoxious. My recovery from surgery was the happiest time I had had in so so so many years – being all bandaged and balloony, alone, my only job – the only thing I could do – was whimper, stare blankly at the TV, and heal. No one expected anything else from me – I couldn’t let anyone down. And things got even better! I’m not kidding. I got called in early for my follow-up appointment and got the news that my cyst was malignant. WINNING! Seriously, it was as if I won the lottery. God finally threw me a bone, a meaty bone. I’ve written before about my drinking life and the suicidal ideation, and fantasies of martyrdom. Cancer = perfect. Tumors from Heaven! It would be an innocent death! I wouldn’t have to do anything, again, not let anyone down, just hang on and be brave, be brave… be patient – it’ll all be over soon.

I am very lucky that I have never had anyone close to me suffer and die from cancer, but I have seen “Dying Young” a hundred times, so I get the gist, and still that seemed a more appealing fate than carrying on with life the way I was. Quitting drinking was not an option – duh – it wasn’t a problem so why would I stop? Anyway, when my GYN gave me the news, she followed it by saying, “You’re going to die.. but not for a long long time and it’s not going to be from this”.  DISAPPOINTED! So, I got a second opinion. He said the same. DISAPPOINTED! He said I am going to be fine, and I just need to have ultrasounds and blood tests every six months for the rest of my long life. GROSSED OUT AND DISAPPOINTED!

Now, you might think I’d have taken an honest look at things and considered making some changes, like with my health (wanted to die = non-issue), or my lifestyle (why? What’s the problem?). No. I started panicking about my age. I was 36. If I wanted to have kids, which I certainly most assuredly without a doubt did indeed, I’d have to get that party started. “Screen Name: Slushkitty. Likes: Long walks on the beach and dating assholes”. Let on-line dating begin! The on-line dating lasted about 2.5 years until I got sober 1.56 years ago. I got a couple of catastrophic relationships out of it… and a trip to Mexico to play with spider monkeys.. with a closet alcoholic. Despite the infuriation and humiliation, I do believe I had to go through the on-line dating experience, it was on my path. I did after all have a couple of dates with an angel “Bed” – I’ve mentioned him before – who I asked to take me to my first meeting after I hit my bottom with “&^%$#@” who bullied and pushed me screaming over the edge and straight into my moment of grace, into sobriety.

Now – November 2012

For the past four years, quite remarkably, I have been keeping the appointments and having those delightful ultrasounds and blood tests. A couple of times I was hoping for bad (good) news, but mostly I was apathetic. In sobriety, I really haven’t had any emotions around them at all – they’re just routine and everything always comes back pretty and pink. The malignancy I had four years ago was non-invasive and the whole ordeal was over before it started. It was no big whoop. As I mentioned, I went in May for my routine check-up, and my oncologist said everything was just fantastic and there was only a 5% chance of it coming back. Well, I found out Thursday the bitch came back and brought a couple of friends. My Little Ovary That Could can’t anymore, so I have to have a hysterectomy next Saturday. These are my lady parts being bid adieu: ovary, simple appearing ovarian cyst, complex ovarian cyst, endometrioma cyst, uterus, fallopian tube, and cervix. GROSSED OUT AND TERRIFIED!

The shock has sort of worn off, and the nearly paralyzing fear comes and goes in waves. There are so many things to worry about and I’m having more emotions than I can identify. I knew that I would probably get a bucketful of kindness and compassion from my loved ones but Holy Shit, Batman!  I don’t want to get too sappy because I kind of feel like I need to save some material for my speech at my living memorial service (I’m 50% kidding – I’m 100% terrified). The Love that I have been overwhelmed with makes my lady parts want to throw a hoedown, square-dance, and scream “Yeeehaw!” to celebrate their last week on earth! On behalf of my lady parts, I would like to say, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for making these past 1.56 years possible and almost impossibly lovely”.

My friend suggested a throw a Going Away Party for my uterus and I think that’s the most brilliant idea I’ve heard in recent memory. What do you say, guys! If I throw it (at someone else’s house), will you come? I think it should be egg-themed. Yeeehaw! (I’m totally serious about the party).

xoxox