7 years? No friggin' way!

I sit here in amazement. SEVEN YEARS!!! How the hell did that happen? One morning I wake up, bushy-tongued and shame-filled, dodging my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the next . . . well, shit! I may still awaken bushy-tongued, but the shame is gone and the only dodging in the bathroom I do these days is of the scale.

It was seven years ago today that I dragged my tail outta bed, trying so hard not to think about the shit I'd pulled the night before. I tried distracting myself with a bike ride, and only felt worse. "What the hell am I doing?!" I'd try to crank it out a little faster, trying to escape that fucking dog on my ass.

The night (and early morning) before, would mark the last time I boozed it up. No big deal to most, but to me? MONKEY MUFFINS!!! At the time, I didn't understand what was happening. My husband and I had been invited to a meet-and-greet at a local doctor's house for the new hospital administrator. Not the kinda place you show up to in jeans and a 'If we all had a bong, we could all get along' t-shirt.

Also, not the kind of event at which to get shit-faced. And I had no intention of doing so, but by the second or third drink, I was double-fisting to ensure adequate supply. And bellying up to the Baby Grand to entertain with my renditions of "Danny Boy" and Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely". (Why oh why, couldn't that have been part of the blackout?)

Unfortunately, the evening plummeted further as we--the hospital administrator and his wife, I and my husband--were the last to leave the meet-and-greet, only to exit straight to the bar. As was so much the case when I drank, I got very social and very personal and very inappropriate. It was at this point when I found myself gripped by some deep, primal urge to tell said administrator and spouse that one of the doctors on his staff gives wonderfully educational pelvic exams. I clearly remember reporting this with a straight face and much conviction, explaining that the doctor would note where one ovary was located and then the other, and so on. (Having never actually written about this, it's only now that I'm truly struck by how abso-fucking-insane I was to think another human being would want to hear EXACTLY where my ovaries are located!!!)

Oh! You think that's bad? Oh no. Ovary discussion wasn't getting me nearly the attention I craved, so I whipped out the party trick to beat all party tricks: Milk and Cookies! See, the saddest thing in this is that while I was whoopin' it up like a crazed wad, my 10-month-old daughter was with a sitter. And her little life had not been the easiest up to that point. And I was still lactating. Lactating. Producing milk . . . from my body. Providing me with the greatest little party trick east of Vegas. At least that's what I thought. Hell, I'd been perfecting this trick for nearly a year. So, out come the jugs and it's treats all around. Don't ask me how the night ended, the twins' bruises indicated 'not good.'

Most of my friends were a little disturbed when, a couple weeks later, I 'came out' to them and shared my decision to stop drinking. Given the distance that separated us, they were largely unaware of the mud I'd been spraying in the eyes of innocent bar flys. So it's no surprise that a few still ask if I'll ever drink again. But for me, when I think about that last night: intending to have a couple glasses of expensive Chardonnay while schlepping with a bunch of doctor-types, ending up hording the free beer and showing off my sick skills? Call me crazy, but this is one bee-ahch who does NOT need a drink. No nevah! But I'll take just for today. . .