G is for God A- Z Challenge

When I buy my booze every other day, and as I carry the bottle out of the store in a sloppy blue plastic bag at 9 in  the morning, I wonder what God thinks.

My day starts at 4 in the morning. I'm often up at 3 am. All I think about is finishing the few clients I train. Then, getting home in time for the Today Show. By 8 am. With my booze. I love day-drinking. I can be so productive at that time of the morning. When I pay all my bills. Usually high.

I adore getting high in  the morning. So taboo. Nothing better than drinking water, vodka and lime before 9 am. Feels so naughty. No one checking on me. Other alcoholics I know wait until 12 noon. They at least have family -- mothers and fathers. I use my orphan state as an excuse to behave badly.

Fact is, I don't give a shit. My floors are scrubbed, bills are paid, windows washed, dog poop scooped, plants watered... everything done by 12 noon. Then I take a nap. Awake by 3pm, and then I start sipping again. 

God keeps me going. So I tell myself. I have faith.

I dream of Him telling me "keep going." Even though on most days, I'm not satisfied with myself and feel guilty because of my addiction. 

I always insure I've accomplished a to-do list each day while drinking, which, after achieving, justifies my drinking... "Well at least I accomplished this, that, and the other" I tell myself.

I'm not a complete failure.

No one watching over me except myself. I'm quite a bad caretaker. But at least I set daily goals for myself before imbibing.

Wow -- that sounds pathetic. 

But that's who I am for now. God accepts me. I know He does.

F is for Father.... A - Z Challenge

How fitting. 

Blogging about my Dad, the ultimate functional alcoholic. I learned his best practices over the years...how to be an alcoholic, but always keeping it a secret . Never a bum, nor missing a day's work, my Dad provided for us; bro and I never went without. You'd never know that Dad was a binge drinker. Not every day, but when he did drink, he never knew how to stop.

No matter how hung over he was, and the number of times he threw up -- with mom and I caring for him bed side while he vomited at 2am --  he always got up for work at 5 am. 

I came home from a Christmas dance one time in high school. All dressed up --  I was over the moon! Then Dad came home. He passed out in the hallway. Mom and I had to carry him to the bed. I was still in my dress. The evening -- ruined.

With only a ninth grade education and a fire and drive to be an entrepreneur, Dad never missed a day of work running his own business (the laundry mat and cleaners in East St Louis, IL), while working as a respected Teamster in the afternoons and evenings. No wonder he drank. When was his life - his own?

Often times, he'd keep me up on the weekends, drinking in the family room until well after midnight, telling me stories while I tried to stay awake, listening to him. After I went to bed, he'd wake me up a few hours later (3am) and tell me more stories. When all I wanted to do was sleep. Mom laid down and refused to deal with him. 

I was Dad's only audience. So I stayed up and listened to his war stories from Korea...and the friends he lost in the war.

It was always the ***same*** stories....I could repeat them verbatim but still enjoyed the attention he paid me.....always when drunk though. Listening to him, that's how I figured out *why* he drank -- no one to talk to.... no one wanted to listen to his stories anymore. Plus, he suffered from the disease of alcoholism. 

For some reason, I always related to his pain. And would stay up, sometimes until sunrise, when he'd stumble off to his own bed and pass out. Afterwards, there was peace in our family for several hours. Until he woke up.

Here are my tattoos of him. First the neck. With his name : "AL"

Then his initials on my wrists.

Funny, his initials spell AA. 

Maybe it's the Universe telling me something. Just realized that now.

E is for Erlene...A - Z Challenge

This is a hard letter to write about, hence my procrastination in posting. The only topic that comes to mind is my mother, Erlene. The fact is, she's dead. And I miss her every day of my life. 

Drinking soothes the pain and emptiness, although it's killing my soul, my spirit. I know mom would be "on me" about going back to AA and wouldn't approve of my *daily* in-home bar ritual. Passing by her picture on my dresser each morning, I cannot look at her. The guilt of my addition makes me blind to her kind eyes and warm smile. I always look the other way.

I wouldn't know how to love without her in my life. Having had an alcoholic, unavailable father, and a prick for a brother, without mom, I fear I would have "offed" myself long ago ---the selfish solution. What I love most about myself comes from the gifts that she taught me: Love, compassion, empathy, generosity, selflessness, forgiveness, humility, abject kindness....just to name a few.

Also, how to be a lady. Growing up a rebel, I picked up smoking as my so-called "cool habit." Once, she caught me smoking on the corner, waiting for the school bus. I must've of been all of 14. She waited until I got home to admonish me, saying, "That's not how a lady acts! Flicking cigarette butts on a street corner!" 

Fuck the whole it's-not-healthy argument. Being a lady, first and foremost, trumped all else for her. Discretion, for mom, remained her bullet-proof vest. In other words, what people can't see, they can't gossip about. Hence my secretive drinking life.

She believed in a bright future for me, even when I couldn't envision it. Hence my tattoo of her holding a crystal ball:

The pretty lady on the right...

Thank you mom for adopting me. I cannot imagine never having had you in my life. A blessing from God. You mean the world to me, and I can't wait to see you again one day.

Now excuse me, while I go refill my wine glass.

D is for (The) Divine -- A - Z Challenge

One of my favorite activities while I'm drinking is listening to The Gospel, spoken by the Bishop TD Jakes. I'm often searching for his sermons on youtube weekly. Most inspiring words, he speaks. Another sage who reaches me, when I am unable to be reached by others.

Having been raised by a racist family, I've often found that despite my family's prejudice, people of color possess the most blessed mindsets. I was adopted, not cut from the same cloth as my parents. It's easy to be taught prejudice as a child, but later on, when you discover that hate serves no purpose other than to hurt the hater, one begins to reach out for other beliefs.

I am not about hate. Sure I've harbored opinions about other races....but really, how ridiculous.

All I want to do now is love others. Fuck skin color. These are my bothers and sisters. God sent me here to help them in some way. Prejudice serves no purpose in my life now.

Without God in my life, I'd be lost. Listening to the Bishops sermons (even while I drink) touches me in such a way that I begin to believe there's still hope for me. And others who suffer from addictions.

C is for Choice...A-Z Challenge

Severe storms and tornado warnings today. All day. Perfect drinking weather.

Having children wasn't in my future, apparently. I chose no children with Roscoe; he never got his shit together. But we woulda made beautiful kids. And I would be the only caregiver, since Roscoe would be a 44 year-old drunk man-child. With no money or job. :(

After 13 years of Roscoe's alcoholism, DWIs and what-not, I never got off the pill. Why should I? Smart girl, I tell myself daily.

Having had an alcoholic father, I never wanted to raise my babies in that environment.So I made the choice to wait. And wait. And wait for Roscoe to fulfill his promise -- that he would get his life together. 

Never happened, my friends. Instead, I built my own family. Here they are:

This is my Lydia. She is a the No. 2 Lydia. I had another Lydia who died after 17 years in 2004. Refused to adopt another until I found one who looked exactly like Lydia No. 1. Two years later, I found a replica to her precursor. Gave her the same name. I'm a sicko that way.

My Chango and Spike, brothers from the same litter. Both were rescued from a crack house. Spike, on left was the runt. Chango was first born. It's amazing to see how well they interact like brothers. Chango, the older bro, lets Spike have his way . Albeit begrudgingly. Spike is a thief of food and pushes Chango's buttons. Chango puts up with it. Chango always taking the high road, like mom taught me to do. Sigh.

This is my Emma. Not being a lady in this photo  LOLOL Also rescued. She's my baby girl and bed partner. I always wanted a little doll to call my own. The Universe delivered. She is Chango's girlfriend (little sister). To see them smooch on each other makes me smile like a proud mama. Got Emma for him because his bro Spike has issues playing (bad hips). Chango's a playa and loves to roughhouse, like Emma. Broke my heart he had no one to play with. So I found his doll.

I'm in a melancholy mood tonight. Not into much writing. Would rather drink. I miss people.

Trying to stay present.

Maybe I'll watch some Saturday Night Live.

B is for Baron ... A-Z Challenge

(And I'm not talking about the "Red Baron")

My grandmother's last name was Baron. Otherwise known as "Nanny." My mother's mother.

A bad ass and on most days, always an annoyance to me.

I loved her very much. Despite the fact that every Saturday when kids slept in, she woke me at 6am to clean windows. She was Lithuanian. And a great follower of cleaning the house top to bottom. Often times she'd admonish me when I didn't want to clean. Instead, I wanted to watch cartoons and eat cereal.  (like most kids). She'd say in her heavy forgein accent:

"Bad girl. No want to help Mama!" I resented her on most days.

After she finally died in 1995, I drempt about her more than I care to acknowledge. However, she no longer yelled at me in her old fashion. In dreams, she brought me Lilac flowers in a huge bouquet. Or bundles of red and pink Peonies. A great gardener, I often spent time collecting flowers from her garden for dinner time. Her request.

It was the right and proper thing to do as a wife of the household. Preparing me, for marriage, I suppose.

Still single :(

After dinner she would draw me a bath. Opening the medicine cabinet while the hot water ran in the tub, Nanny reached for her Estee Lauder expensive parfume in a small bottle -- the strong stuff, not in a spray bottle. I'd stand naked as she filled the tub and sprinkled the parfume in the steamy bath. This was a regular ritual on Saturday nights when I was left with her by my parents for the weekend. Then she'd bundle me up in fancy satin pajamas, and we'd watch Carol Burrnett and Vincent Price movies before bed.

Still convinced her house was haunted. Scary. But welcoming. That house still haunts my dreams. Roscoe and I lived there for years together.

Despite yelling at me a lot, she treated me like a princess at night, always making sure (after I worked a full day cleaning) that I smelled of expensive parfume before bed. I still wear fancy pajamas when I want to spoil myself, especially on vacation. Nanny always told me to have nice PJs on hand in case you need to be hospitalized. Ah the rituals of Lithuanians.

Here's her bad-ass self:

Wounds three men with two shots. Protecting my Grandfather. Arrested for assault and battery.            That's my girl ;)

Here's my tattoo of her:

A is for Addict.... A - Z Challenge

Bet you didn't see that one coming ;)

Today's word should have been an obvious and immediate selection for me, but I spent over a half hour googling "A" words. When I finally found it on a Scrabble site, I just shook my head and called myself clueless. The one thing I know with 100% certainty is that I *am* an addict. 

Having attended multiple AA and Alanon meetings -- yes I have tried to quit -- I would always flamboyantly announce at every meeting "My name is Ruby...and I'm a selfish alcoholic." Never did anyone shame me, because we were all stating the same thing aloud before our turn to speak. This comforted me; I no longer felt alone.

Speaking of which, bro finally broke down and called me. After 4 months of harboring Roscoe and his bad tattoos (giggle). A little tipsy, I aggressively and angrily listened to his probable excuses. He was apologetic. Very much so. Regretful. This calmed me down a bit, but couldn't help lashing out at him. No name-calling. I felt rather dignified yet pious in my speech. Dropped the F-bomb several times. Then, I apologized. And told him all the angry and ugly texts I sent to him recently were written under the influence. Bro understood, he said. 

It feels good to be forgiven.

In AA, we were encouraged to right all our wrongs we do unto others. The sooner the better. And I am not above apologizing. That's what addicts do when they're in recovery. Out of recovery, we are sour, sad souls. And very selfish. It's all about the booze and drugs. And deep down we despise ourselves for acting in such a cruel way with others.

Hmm - sounds familiar. The above is not who I am - my addictive behaviors though turn me into mini-monster at times. Then I feel bad. Then I drink. No pain. Cowardly. But let's call a spade a spade. 

Admitting I'm an addict keeps me honest.