This video is cracking us up this morning over breakfast.

Things are better today, thanks. Hoofah.

The Evening Birds, The Lion Sleeps Tonight

This would be a good spot for me to put a review of “The Dark Knight,” the new Batman movie. Shaun and I went to see it on our date night (we try to go out every Thursday). I’d love to tell you about it, but I really can’t. It was loud…it was long…and my mind was elsewhere.

The theater was packed when we arrived, and we had to sit towards the front. We were about 8-10 rows back, not bad for arriving on time. We slid in between another couple, and a guy who was by himself.

Drunk.

And eating fried chicken.

Let me see if I can set this up a bit for you. When we first sat down, Shaun dropped his cell phone, and we couldn’t find it without up-ending everyone. We just figured we would get it when the movie was over. Minutes after the lights dim, I realize there are conflicting scents coming from my left. Alcohol, for one. Not a nice cabernet either. SWILL of some kind. And, oddly, fried chicken. It took me another minute to register, in the dark, that the chicken is just in this guy’s lap. No fast food bag, no styrofoam container. Just chicken. Romeo was ripping apart a greasy rooster leg next to me and sippin’ on gin and juice.

The missing cell phone prevented us from leaving early. I didn’t want to leave anyway! I wanted to enjoy my date night (damnit), take in the movie (damnit), and somehow not notice for (what seemed like) three hours that the guy next to me is hammered and hungry. And, he has opinions about the movie which he occasionally spits out at the screen between gulps.

I wondered if I was being tested somehow by the universe. The universe that knows I am a drunk myself and that I have “missed” a movie or two in my time. I couldn’t judge the guy, but rationally, I was glad I wasn’t him. This is where it is so cunning and powerful, though. This disease. I leaned over at some point and whispered to Shaun “next thing you know this guy will shit himself…just to top things off.” Tipsy chicken man poops his pants next to weary sober housewife, film at 11. This poor fella was dissheveled, he needed a shower, he was many drinks in, and who knows where the chicken came from.

I knew all of this. I would have told you I wanted to escape the smell of booze and I did not want a drink myself. But my brain? My brain did a double-take. I was preoccupied with what he might be drinking. Did he buy the large coke and pour it out only to put the alcohol in? Was there a mixed drink in his cup, or just straight whatever? Did he have more somewhere, or had he concocted this mix outside…in the restroom…on his way from wherever he came from?

Halfway through the movie I had to take a break. I went to the ladies’ room, said a quick prayer and burst into tears. By the time the movie ended, I was just furious. So angry. And I’m still mad.

I knew I would have struggles. I was waiting (did I mention this?) for that OHMYGODINEEDADRINK moment. I figured it would be over a nice dinner, when a beautifully deep glass of red wine went by on a tray. Or when the kids pushed my buttons, or the day was a-bit-too long, or something didn’t go my way.

Who knew that, when faced with Colonel Drunko Sanders, instead of thinking “Euw gross,” my limbic system would register “I wanna party with this guy. Bartender!”

After the movie, everyone filed out. We set about feeling around for Shaun’s cell phone under the seats. Sure enough, I came up with the prize. A near empty bottle of MD 20/20 from under my seat. I recoiled from it as if it were a rattler, and couldn’t get out of the theater fast enough.

There is a lot of booze in the world, people. A lot of pain. Lots of drunk folk. And one hoppin’ mad Mama that now just needs a good night’s sleep. I hope that guy’s evening ended up okay, or at least that he kept his chicken down.

I made it through another day sober. Holla!

And Batman? I dunno. I still can’t believe that guy left a bottle that wasn’t all the way empty.

Lou Reed, Take A Walk On The Wild Side

There was a great piece in the New York Times magazine yesterday about addiction, about parenthood, about the truth as each person sees it. I was riveted as I read it. You can also click around and see the author of the piece in little video clips — he’s just as good at speaking as he is at writing. He says,

“To be an addict is to be something of a cognitive acrobat. You spread versions of yourself around, giving each person the truth he or she needs — you need, actually — to keep them at a remove. Let’s stipulate that I do not have a good memory, having recklessly sautéed my brain in fistfuls of pharmaceutical spices. Beyond impairment, there may be no more unreliable narrator than an addict. Recovered or not, I am someone who used my mouth to constantly create one more opportunity to get high.”

I’ve noticed this since being home and talking to folks who didn’t know of my issues with alcohol before I went to Ashley. My acrobatics were legendary, albeit largely unrecognized. I wouldn’t have considered myself a liar about who I was, but lies of omission are still lies in most camps, right? There’s still no real reason to tell people that while they were watching “Grey’s Anatomy” or peeking in on their sleeping children, I was drinking mouthwash in my garage; or that while they were at the pool this summer with their family I was in rehab next to the Chesapeake Bay praying for the strength to come home. If I don’t keep it green, though, I end up back there.

The mental gymnastics became exhausting after a while — why not just come clean to get clean and own it all? I say bravo to David Carr, who accepts both the gritty and the great, and writes the hell out of both.

Emmylou Harris, Deeper Well

In the past week, I have heard of or from friends from Ashley who have returned home and are already struggling again with their drug of choice (alcohol, pills, crack, what-have-you). I heard a particularly difficult tale tonight.

This disease has us by the balls. The balls. When I heard this most recent story, my heart just sank. I imagined my friend being wrestled to the ground by a hard-faced, sweaty demon — like a gazelle in the jaws of a lion. I would kick the crap out of it if I could, but I can’t. I can only keep my own devil at bay, so I can be there for friends, for my family, for myself. It’s around the corner, plotting, drooling…whispering. I can feel it. Before bed tonight, I’ll just pelt the f*cker with prayer and do the same again tomorrow. And the next day. That’s all we can do.

Hang in there, warriors.

Morphine, Cure for Pain

My friend Christina talks about positive parenting and the beauty of saying yes to your child, whenever you reasonably can.

When I got home, I admit that I just wanted the cuddles to last and the mood to be light and I wanted to say yes, yes and yes again. Thankfully, both kids were amazing and patient and just glad to have me home. Beautiful.

The following quote says it better than I could…

“Yes, we can loll here for six more chapters, before — yes,
waffles, yes you can stay naked all day or until you think
you need clothes, yes to butter on the video popcorn today
and me beside you for not just the scary parts, then yes
to a rain-walk, yes, even to the culvert rushing water and
the long way home, yes to candles with dinner, yes to no
lettuce, yes, I’ll save the opera and switch to jazz, yes –
a bath bead? — take two. and yes I will sing the song, yes,
just this once, three times.” — Ellen Dore Watson

I looked at this photo every day I was away…it was taken on Mother’s Day just before I headed off on my…retreat. Can you imagine saying no to these two?

Patsy Cline, The Eyes Of A Child

Hi! Miss me?

I feel a bit like Rip Van Winkle — then again it feels like I left yesterday. Had a fairly profound experience the last 28-odd days. I just wanted to pop in here and say hello, and express my appreciation for all the support, prayers, positive vibes, letters, cards and flowers that I received while I was away. My sister said she thought I would get more mail in 28 days than I had in the last 28 years, and I think that proved to be true. I am spoiled with love — I have soft little fruit-bruises all over me from the places you all touched me. Thank you.

There’s no soft re-entry from such an adventure — so I am back in the thick of it. Forgive me if I don’t get right in touch with you — I am trying to ease in as much as possible. I can’t wait to see and talk to every one of you and squeeze you right back.

If you leave a comment here, that’s a sure way to hear back from me. How’ve you been?

Elton John, Your Song

Hello everyone. This is Amy’s husband Shaun. Amy asked me to post here so that anyone checking would know what’s up with her. She is in a 28 day in-patient rehabilitation program for alcoholism. Basically she got to a point in her struggle that’s like standing in the ocean getting hit by a wave and then as soon as you pick yourself back up, another wave hits. She needed to take a time out and get professional help. The place is called Father Martin’s Ashley. It’s a wonderful and healing place. I spent the past weekend there participating in their family wellness program and it was profoundly helpful. Amy is doing great. She feels better and looks better than I have seen her in years. Amy comes home on July 7th. If you would like to write to her, you can send letters to:

Amy Fanning
c/o Father Martin’s Ashley
P.O. Box 240
Havre de Grace, MD 21078

She asked me to conclude this post with the following poem from W.S. Merwin:

Thanks 

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow for the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions.

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
looking up from tables we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

(post title by Johnny Nash, I Can See Clearly Now)

People, people.

So I broke my glasses, and went in for a “Hey, I broke my glasses” STOP BY at the local optometrist this morning. I haven’t had my eyes checked in a long time, but for years my prescription was unchanged, so it always seemed an unnecessary use of my (dwindling) time. This morning, though, when they asked how long it had been, I answered “Too long,” and they were able to get me right in.

I’ve noticed recently that my eyes actually feel heavy if I am tired, or if I have used them too much in a day…they feel a bit sand-baggy and as if I am not seeing as well. I don’t like wearing my contacts, because this seems to happen even more quickly, which is why I need to so immediately replace the broken glasses.

So during my exam, there were lots of “Hms” and “Huhs” and turns of the head and flips of the glass and shines of the lights, etc. Lift the lid, drop the lid, read the line. Lift the lid, drop the lid, read the line. What is going on? “How old are you?” Uhm…almost 40? Well, that’s never a good question, especially when they look surprised that you didn’t answer that you are well into your 70s.

End result of the exam is that, for lack of a better way to put it, I have fat eyelids! All this time I have been perseverating about my ass and my lids have been porking up and sagging down. I was so out of sorts when I came out of the appointment — feeling all woe-is-me and “when is the time going to come when all the physical damage I did to my body with all my addictions going to be over.” The answer to that is, of course, I don’t know, and I can only take this one day at a time. One puffy saggy day at a time.

Over the last ten years, after the 160-pound weight loss, the extra skin (everywhere!) over my eyelids has weighed down the lids enough that is has actually changed the shape of my eyes and made my astigmatism worse — two points in my right eye and four points in my left. And, the degree of droop is different on the two eyes, so it’s actually two separate operations (which can be done at once).

He asked if I had considered plastic surgery to remove excess skin after my weight loss (does anyone hear something? Sort of like the air being let out of a balloon?), and I said “YES, BUT NOT FROM MY EYELIDS.”

He mentioned Lasik, but said that it would be futile if the skin continues to sag and eventually cover the iris, therefore making any 20/20 vision sort of moot.

So now I am considering blepharoplasty (whee!), which, because I NEED it instead of WANT it, it is covered by insurance.

At least, if they remove too much tissue and I end up looking eternally surprised !!! we know where I have some extra to put back in.

Foreigner, Double Vision

There have been lots of folks checking in with me regarding my surgery. That link is one to a site that explains a procedure that I have wanted to get for a long time, one I promised myself that I would undergo if I maintained my 160-pound weight loss for more than ten years. In March of 2008, I had done that, and started researching doctors all over the country to find the most skilled and competent one. I think I found him, and even scheduled my surgery for May 14th (this was more than six weeks ago).

In the meantime, I realized that it was just too soon. While I made myself a promise, there is no hurry to get the surgery done. I really have to be in a great place emotionally and spiritually to go through something so major. I have to have all my ducks in a row regarding support for the kids, recuperation support for me, support for Shaun. I have all those things in spades — it will just take lots of coordination. And, my sobriety and the maintenance of my family’s every-day takes up all of my time and attention right now. That’s as it should be.

So that’s my big-ass news.

Shepherd is walking, and Ruby is still taking names. Somehow a jellybean made its way into the house the other day, and Ruby really wanted it. She said to her dad, “If you give me that jellybean, and I eat it, all of my dreams will come true inside of me.”

Oh that it were that simple, mydear. Mama’s about 1,000,029 jellybeans in!

Peter Murphy, Cuts You Up (or not, as the case may be)

I’m not even going to keep apologizing that I don’t write more often here. I don’t write more often here! Wish I did! Bless you!

Events of note? The political demonstration in my front yard was interesting.

I share a wall with Ben Bernanke, the Chief of the Federal Reserve. Might not have mentioned that, ever, except for that these couple hundred people already knew it, and then we were on the news. My mother called, exclaiming, “Wow, so that’s what it’s like to live in the big city,” having just watched the 11 o’clock report. So, there you have it. I’m fairly sure my little blog won’t garner it any more attention. You can probably read about what these folks wanted/need if you google around enough.

It was all very orderly and American actually. The buses arrived, they shouted and bullhorned and waved their signs, they gathered up their stuff and they left.

All that said, the event birthed another Ruby gem, when she asked “Who are all these bad people?” We explained that they weren’t bad people, they were just passionate about their message for “Mr. Ben,” and they wanted to communicate with him. Her very simple question?

“Why don’t they just call him on the phone? I was playing out there.”

Eagles, Life’s Been Good