Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife (30 page)

[Saturday, October 4]

Max wanted a paintball shoot-’em-up party for his birthday, so that’s what he got today. I sent invitations to a handful of his friends and after I dropped them in the mailbox, I called my friend, Fay, who is neurotically overly protective of her son, Walter.

“I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but Max wants a paintball party for his birthday,” I told Fay’s answering machine. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up on the invitation because I just put it in the mail.”

The last time Walter was at our house, Max asked, “Can Walter and I walk around the block with my walkie-talkies?” Max was wearing his police vest and badge. He was holding a note pad and pencil. They wanted to do some surveillance.

“I guess so,” I said. “But just on our street. I want you guys back here in fifteen minutes.”

Max ran upstairs to tell Walter. Minutes later, Walter appeared.

“I can’t go,” Walter said. “My mother would kill me.”

“My mom said we could go,” Max said. “Your mom doesn’t have to know.”

“No,” I said. “If Walter’s mom doesn’t want him walking around the neighborhood, you’re not doing it. I think it’s great that Walter is honest and honoring his mother’s wishes.”

“But you said we could,” Max whined.

“Now I say you can’t,” I said.

“Come on Walter,” Max said disgustedly and stalked off.

In the almost ten years that Walter has been alive, Fay has not spent one night away from him. Walter has never had a babysitter other than Fay’s mother, who is not even allowed to have him overnight. And Fay bailed on an Oktoberfest party one Saturday night because Walter had been stung by a bee that morning and she needed to continue observing him for a possible allergic reaction.

After I left Fay the message about Max’s paintball party, I went out to run errands and pick up Max from school. When I returned home, there was a message from Fay.

“I guess you think I’m a big weenie,” she said. “I’ll have you know there’s a boy over here who is over the moon and can’t wait for Max’s party.”

I was shocked.

“Miss Fay is letting Walter come to my party?” Max asked excitedly. “Yippee!”

I drove Max and a carload of his friends, with the exception of Walter, who is coming with his mother, to an outdoor paintball park. Max and his buddies excitedly pulled on camouflage jumpsuits and protective face masks, and a slump-shouldered pimply teenager handed them paintball guns. After giving them a pep talk about the rules, the teenager stood them in line outside a caged
Mad Max
–inspired industrial wasteland where two teams of boys were already nailing each other with paintballs.

Max and his buddies squirmed with excitement as they watched the boys currently in the cage, except for Kevin. Kevin was standing by himself in a corner swiping at tears, snot dripping from his nose.

“Are you okay, Kevin?” I asked softly.

He nodded.

“Are you sure?”

Kevin nodded again.

“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to, you know.”

“I’m fine, really,” he said, sounding irritated.

“Okay,” I said. “But if you change your mind, you can just shoot at targets. There’s a target range.”

I found a napkin and handed it to Kevin. He blew his nose, dried his tears, and the two of us walked back to the group. The referee inside the cage motioned for Max’s group to enter. Max and his friends gleefully ran in, all except Kevin, who was shaking and shuffled in last. The referee checked their face masks and signaled for them to start shooting. The boys ran for cover and hid. No one fired.

“I think you guys need to move around and try to find each other if you want to shoot some paintballs,” I shouted into the cage. “Time’s ticking. They’re going to kick you out when your time’s up.”

The boys hesitantly began to inch away from their hiding spots and dart behind others. One of the boys tripped over his feet, left the enclosure, and lifted his face mask. It was Kevin. He was hyperventilating. Tears were running down his cheeks and gooey boogers were dangling from his nostrils.

“Hey Kev,” I said. “Let’s just watch for a while. The guys will come out pretty soon, and there’ll be more chances to try it if you want to.”

Kevin nodded.

“Oh,” Fay groaned. “He got hit on the hand.” Fay was staring at Walter through the fence.

I looked at Walter. His arm was held out slightly in front of him and hot-pink paint was dripping from his fingers. A whistle blew and the boys filed out of the cage. I grabbed Walter as he walked by and looked at his hand. A big red welt was rising on the back of it.

“I think we should get some ice,” Fay said, her voice quivering. “You need to put some ice on that Walter. Here, sit down.” She wrapped her arms around him and sat him at a picnic table. Walter squirmed out of her arms.

“Mom, I’m fine,” he shouted angrily. “I’m fine! Just leave me alone!”

“Here,” I said taking Walter’s hand. “My freezing fingers are as good as ice.” I placed my frigid fingers on the back of Walter’s hand and began massaging the welt. After a few minutes, the bruising and swelling went down and Walter walked off to join his friends.

“Mikey got hit in the face,” Fay said, her voice quivering. “He’s bleeding.”

I walked over to Mikey. He had a small spatter-shaped welt on his cheek. A pinprick of blood was next to it.

“You okay?” I asked Mikey.

“I got hit through the mask,” he said.

“You what!” I said. “How did that happen? Did you take your mask off in there?”

The referee had warned the boys repeatedly not to move their masks once they were inside the cage. If they did, they’d get kicked out.

“Some paint went through the part where you breathe,” Mikey said and showed me his mask. His mask had a huge hot-pink paint splat across the eyes.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I just need a new mask.” Mikey sauntered off to the paintball desk to get another mask.

Fay walked over. “You know Kim, Kim the acute-care doctor?” she asked. “She said she sees lots of paintball injuries. A lot of them.”

I pictured Fay agonizing over this party for weeks, complaining to anyone who would listen. I looked at Max and his friends. Everyone, including Kevin, was swaggering, acting tough, and feeling like a big shot.

When it was our group’s turn to enter the cage again, everyone went in except Kevin. Kevin watched his friends play for a while, then pulled down his face mask and ran in. He scurried behind a huge macaroni-shaped metal air duct, ran and dove behind a metal gate, and ran back out.

“You want to shoot at targets?” I asked Kevin nonchalantly. Kevin nodded and I walked with him to the shooting range. I walked back to the cage and saw Walter fiddling with his gun behind a barricade. Ty ran by, saw Walter, and popped Walter in the knee. Walter started crying and shaking his gun in frustration.

Fay looked horrified. The ref blew the whistle and the boys exited the cage.

“I think Walter’s more frustrated at his gun jamming than being hurt,” I told Fay.

“No, he’s really hurt,” Fay said and ran over to Walter. She began pulling up Walter’s pant leg and he wrestled with her and pulled it back down.

“Mom!” Walter growled. “Leave me alone! I’m fine!”

Fay yanked his pant leg up and pointed to a paintball-sized bruise on Walter’s knee. Walter squirmed, yanked his pant leg down, and jumped in line with the rest of his friends for round three. The boys excitedly bantered about their last shooting spree, and Fay looked like she was going to be sick.

“Do you really want to play again?” Fay asked Walter. “You really don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Walter looked at her angrily. “I want to,” he growled.

“How’s your hand?” she asked him.

“It’s fine,” Walter snapped.

“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.”

“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?”