Confession: I Drink, Swear, Love

Yup. I read Eat, Pray, Love. And, Yup, I was inspired and all that. Blah blah blah.


Actually, I have a major bone to pick with that damn book: it made me hungry. And I don’t like to eat. I resent all those passages rhapsodizing about yummy food: I think I gained four pounds from chapter ten alone!


It did not have the same effect on my spiritual life. I try to pray, really, I do. But my stupid brain doesn’t cooperate and, instead of achieving a nice zen-like state and becoming one with God or Zeus or the Universe, I start reviewing my to-do list. And then I start swearing.


As for Love, well, THAT I didn’t need any inspiration for!  As will be revealed, I am apparently a slut.  At least according to my mom.

Still, the novel did inspire me to write my own super-successful Woman’s Self-Discovery Novel that then becomes an International best-seller and then an Oscar-buzzing movie staring Julia Roberts….OK, that SO is not going to happen. For so many reasons:


1. I don’t much want to discover anything else about myself. I was a psychology major and know for a fact that self-discovery is a pretty darn painful process. I like my current ignorant bliss. I know myself ok—about as well as I know my neighbor, Rob—and just like I don’t want to know why Rob insists upon mowing his lawn in purple speedos and black hi-tops, I also don’t really want to know why I periodically get neurotic and demand tons of emotional reassurance of everyone from my husband to my friends to my butcher.

2. Self-discovery requires Alone Time. Lots of it. I don’t get alone time. Ever. I try to steal some every once in a while by locking myself in the bathroom. If I were ever faced with serious chunks of alone time I know exactly how I’d fill it: with a million books, a cask of wine and Matt Damon to rub my feet while I read and sipped. When I got relaxed enough, I’d take a nap. Then I’d wake up and make use of Matt Damon for more than a foot rub (wink wink). Then I’d repeat. I could probably keep that up for, oh, ever!

3. If I did discover myself, I’d probably discover that I’m a crappy writer (do I HAVE my own agent???) and so I’d stop writing which would never lead to that best-selling adapted for movie-format novel.

4. Besides, I’d rather be played by Angelina Jolie. Julie Roberts is amazing and gorgeous, but she’s just too GOOD to be me. Angie is a lot more my style. Make of that what you will.


The sucky thing about trying to avoid Self-Discovery is that others insist upon enlightening you, whether you desire it or not. Specifically, Mothers delight in this. Being a mother myself, I understand. We love our children and want the best for them. And we often define ‘the best for them’ as ‘whatever conduct we ourselves approve of.” Not surprisingly to those reading this, my own conduct is a bit of a trial to my poor sainted mother.

Recently, she asked me if I was having an affair.

I have no idea where she got this idea. Actually, I do: I was spotted at Costco with a Man-Who-Is-Not-My-Husband. This being a small town, the gossip mill went into hyperdrive and soon my mother was informed by no fewer than 5 ‘friends’ that her slutty daughter had been spotted loading 20 pounds of butter in aisle 10 of Costco with a blonde man. To set the record straight, we were buying food for the Senior Pancake Breakfast. Bulk-quantities of saturated fat would not be what made me horny enough to break my marriage vows.


Besides, when the fuck would I pencil an affair into my busy schedule? Remember, I multi-task my poop-time by also making it my daily alone-time. And that is just WRONG. So, unless my boyfriend wants to get busy in the bathroom, I’m not quite sure when I can fit him in. Sorry, boys.


However, this apparently means my mother thinks I’m a slut. Ok, Ok…I WAS a slut. Had I been born with a penis, I’d have been the kind of legendary collegiate Player all men like to believe they were. But that was long ago, before Stu, crow’s feet, minivans and stretch marks. These days I’m only a femme fatale in my day dreams. And then when I’m all nice and horny from those day dreams I go home and make sweet, sweet love to my husband.

Or naughty love. Or hard, fast, sexy love. Or slow, drawn out love. Or…well, you get the point. My husband is now the focus of all of my slut-like tendencies.

Unless Matt Damon shows up with wine, a book and offers to rub my feet. But back to discovering myself…

The fact that my own mother thinks I'm a whore did not send me running off to the nearest priest or Freudian psychologist.  It just led me to swear.

I didn’t just ‘swear’. No ‘oh, darn’, ‘shoot’, or even, ‘shit’. No, I went for the world’s most PERFECT word. FUCK.


There is no greater word in the English language. I would argue that there is no greater word in ANY language. Any conjugation of the word is immensely satisfying: fuck. Fucker. Fucking. It also functions as the perfect split to any infinitive. As in, ‘to split an infinitive’ just becomes a bit…jazzier…when split with the perfect interjection: ‘to FUCKING split an infinitive!” And yes, that is my split infinitive lecture at my public high school in my conservative small town. Sue me. Or fire me. Whatever.


Fuck you.

Anyway, after indulging in extensive swear-therapy, I turned to my therapy of choice: wine.


This led my poor mom to ask me, ‘honey, do you have a drinking problem?”
Huh. I don’t know. I was too busy enjoying my chardonnay to think about it at the time. Later, I did what all smart women do when asked a self-discovery question they can’t answer: I asked my girl friends at our next Wine Night. The answer was unanimously ‘no’. This was such a reassuring answer that I opened another bottle and toasted all of them.

And yes, I am aware that I am going to Hell. Or Hades. Or am doomed to come back in my next life as a stink-bug with horrible Karma. Whatever. My mother’s prying actually forced me to do some swear-filled, wine-saturated self-discovery after my husband discovered a particularly pleasurable spot on my self. So, without further ado and because ‘brevity is the soul of wit’ here are my drunken and satisfied self-discovery discoveries:



I love: my daughters’ laughter and their father’s eyes. lazy Saturday mornings, consuming books, date nights with friends. being close to my family, being blessed with friends who are like family, the nostalgic longing I feel for those who are far away. long e-mails, any beach, sappy country songs and dancing all night at clubs I am much too old to attend. good food, rich desserts, trashy romance novels and deep philosophical discussions. shoes, earrings, expensive jeans and Coach handbags. my babies, my husband, my dog and the home we’ve all built together.

I enjoy: working in my garden, a smooth whiskey, a glass of wine with girlfriends, action movies where lots of stuff blows up and an excellent spa day. Walking our little white dog in the sunshine while pulling my girls in our big red wagon on the way to the park with the steep blue slide. Watching my big, strong, handsome husband walk our little white dog with her pink leash and collar. Listening to my girls’ delighted giggles as they watch their daddy pretend to be mad at the dog. Teaching my students, a sweaty workout, a well-decorated house. A perfectly planned party with good people.


I don’t particularly enjoy: cleaning up after a good party, the dog, the kids, my husband and any other creature who makes a mess in my house…most especially myself. Laundry. Anything involving me and my baby-blue, old-but-still-running Dodge P.O.S. minivan.



I want: to meet Matt Damon! a new car. definitely a tiled kitchen floor instead of our stained and torn linoleum and new granite countertops instead of ugly tile with geese-stamps on them (they came with the house). a trip to Maui would be nice and I’m always in need of a babysitter… Okay, seriously: I need all the people in my life, even—or especially—those whom I forget to tell; serenity and the chaos I have created; my belief that we, it, the world is GOOD and everyone can learn. Stuart—he’s better than old Matt Damon any day!


I loathe: cultivated ignorance.  Ergo, I embarked on this rather painful little Self-Discovery journey.  Oprah better fucking call!


I need: a night alone with my husband so we can drink good wine and fuck like crazy.