Drinking Solution

So it’s been over a year since my last blog entry. Why, you ask? Well to put it bluntly, the past year has been a complete and utter gong show. Allow me to explain:

Last August, after four brutal years of fertility treatment we were finally pregnant – and then I miscarried.

Now I can only describe what happened next like this: simply put, after the miscarriage those four years of stress, hormones, pressure, anxiety, frustration, sadness, grief, physical trauma, exhaustion, depression and social isolation finally culminated in a spectacular explosion of a year long, out of control, vodka-induced shit show. It was equal parts midlife crisis/adolescent rebellion/full blown regression/wildly alcoholic nervous breakdown.

I basically went a bit nuts.

And I was mad at BR, more so than I’d realized. And I was hurt. He was supposed to be my partner and teammate through our infertility struggles. He was supposed support and console me. Instead he turned into a cranky drill sergeant who became more emotionally withdrawn with every failed cycle. And worse, he refused to acknowledge or believe that this was singularly the worst thing I had ever gone through. Suck it up Blondie. Stop complaining Blondie. Get back to the doctor and start another cycle Blondie. Get me a cupcake Blondie. I don’t care if you’re delirious on hormones and you can’t walk or think Blondie. I’m hungry Blondie! Blondie!! BLONDIE!!!

The anger slowly and steadily turned to resentment.

So I decided – much to BR’s chagrin – that I was never, ever, ever doing another fertility treatment again. I put a “closed for business” sign on my uterus, went back on the pill for some hormonal stability, and poured myself a giant, Fuck You martini.

I finally felt like I had some control. There was also a part of me that wanted BR to pay for all of the suffering he put me through.

And so it began.

BR: Blondie, why did my business partner’s brother send me a picture of you face down on the lawn after falling out of a taxi?

Me: Are you asking why he sent you the picture? Or are you asking why I fell out of the taxi.

BR: Blondie! That’s not funny!

Me: Wrong. It was very funny.

BR: Blondie, you’re a grown woman! You shouldn’t be getting drunk and falling out of taxis!

Me: Oh reeeally? And what should I be doing instead, delicately stepping out of the cab like a lady and walking to the door like a normal person?

BR: Yes, that’s exactly what you should be doing.

Me: Well that sounds boring.

BR: It’s not boring, it’s… wait a second, are you drinking right now?

Me: (Blinking and staring).

BR: Blondie! It’s not even noon!

Me: What’s your point.

BR: My point is that you clearly have a drinking problem!

Me: Oh really? Well I prefer to call it a drinking solution.

Now I won’t lie, I’ve always enjoyed a little drinkity-drink. Or two. Or seven. Ever since the first syrupy-sweet rum and coke touched my inexperienced yet very curious 15-year old lips. Well hello… what’s this? Oh! Oh I like this… a LOT.

And I must admit I am a TON of fun to have drinks with. I don’t get moody or melancholy or aggressive or surly. I literally light up like a giant fucking Christmas tree and become the life of the fucking party. Until I get sloppy.

It usually starts with me sipping a Kettle One martini up with a twist, while indulging in some friendly banter and a little joking around. Then it quickly moves to “shots for everyone!” followed by many awkward, ill-timed high-fives. Then more shots, then “oh my gaaaad I fucking LOVE this song!” followed by bad air guitar, slightly worse air drumming, many, many more shots, then more high-fives – all of which inevitably lead to some very sloppy, not even remotely sexy, spastic white-girl dancing (always a crowd pleaser). This is usually followed by a deep, completely nonsensical heart-to-heart talk with some random chick in the bathroom, then more shots, then finally ends with me slurring a bunch of incomprehensible compliments to my new best friends – whoever they happen to be that night.

Lishenn na me… I… I luff you… ok? Fuckinnn LUUUFFFF you. Yurrr slush a guh persnn… ok? Now les do a shot.

Now indulging in a few nights of this as a “responsible grownup” is fine. But this was not happening on occasion. This was happening all the time. And I was acting like anything but a responsible grownup.

This was made abundantly clear at the cottage this past summer when I led a pack of teenagers in a series of week-long binge drinking activities. My little sister “Molly” and her friends came to visit and so did my brother-in-law’s nephew and his friend. I mean they were all at least 18, so that makes it sort of ok… right?

Wrong.

We kicked-started the week by playing a game I learned called “shot roulette.”

Skill level: zero.

And how do you partake in this delightful parlor game, you ask? It’s very simple. You place a bunch of different shots on a tray, spin it around, close your eyes and pick one. Then you drink it and try not to barf.

Bottom line: you get very drunk, very fast.

Me: Ok kidsh, les play annther rounna shah roulette! Woooh!

Molly: Oh no, I think we’re ok. We’re all pretty tipsy.

Me: Thass bullshit. We’re doing it.

Molly: No, Blondie, really… we can’t play anymore!

Me: Ok, ok, ok… I’ll make itta lil easier this time. Only one will be vokka, the ress will be water. Ok? Now spin the fffuckin tray.

Molly: Ugh! Crap, I got the vodka shot! I think I might barf!

Molly’s friend: Ugghh, so did I!

Brother-in-law’s nephew: Me too! What the fuck Blondie!

Molly: Blondie, you gave us all vodka shots! None of them are water!

Me: Hah hah… I know. Thah meansh you’re ALLLL winners. Donn tell Daddy.

The next morning, while I was nursing a wicked hangover and trying to piece together what happened the night before, the boys walked into the living room.

Brother-in-law’s nephew: Oh my god… you’re alive?

Me: Ugh, barely. Umm… quick question – I didn’t try to, you know, “rape” either of you last night, did I? Haha.

Brother-in-law’s nephew: Um yeah. You did. A lot.

Me: Oh dear. Sorry about that.

“God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson…”

By the end of the week we were all in trouble. My brother-in-law yelled at the kids for being too rowdy. And I got yelled at for being a “bad influence.”

Brother-in-law: And you! You are the WORST adult supervisor in the history of ADULT SUPERVISORS!

Me: Well I wouldn’t exactly say I’m the worst

Brother-in-law: No, don’t talk. You’re not allowed to talk! Just sit there and listen!

This was followed by a rather long lecture with a series of accusations that I don’t quite remember. Let’s just say I was in trouble.

But I didn’t learn my lesson. And I was in no mood to slow down. By the end of summer I was yelling “get the funnel!” whenever anyone showed up for dinner. My in-laws had had it. So had BR.

But then summer was over. And after a very teary, angry argument, followed by two sessions of awkward couples therapy, things started to turn around a little. BR was finally able to understand why I was so angry with him. And I began to realize that maybe this downward spiral of alcoholic lunacy wasn’t the best way live or cope or maintain a relationship. We were both sorry.

And although I still have my wild moments and crazy nights out (and let’s face it, I always will) they’ve tapered down. A lot. This whole ugly infertility chapter is finally, finally closed and I think we’re both (cautiously) ready to move on. To what exactly I’m not sure, but at least we’re doing it together.

And I’m happy to be back online.

Back online bitches. Lookout.

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