The last time I went to the Carlyle to toast Tommy, their late bartender, after two sips I was pretty looped.
A red flag if there ever was one.
After swaying home I prayed, please God, don’t let this ignite my drinking.
You’re surprised I pray?
I live in that foxhole Hemingway wrote about, on my knees.
They say in AA, if you pray deeply enough…God, help me not drink anymore…he swoops in like an eagle taking you under his wing. Of course you must do your part like, honing your humility that when drunk goes down several quarts.
Not drinking is like cleaning your windshield. You may not like what you see, but at least it’s truthful.
One of my goals in the new year, is surrendering to truth across the board. I no longer want to pretend to be anything I’m not. Though from Connecticut, I didn’t go to a finishing school. I was raised by alcoholic wolves of Italian/Polish descent which may be too kind, since I’m sure wolves are better parents.
They threw me into a pricey prep school that was nothing but a playground for addicts and rich kids tossed from other schools, so I learned from the best how to stay high on anything from glue to pot to Taittingers.
So Miss Connecticut I was not.
I became a model because, after convincing me I was too stupid to be anything else, it was the only way to get my mother’s approval since looks were all she cared about. She loved telling people I was a Wilhelmina model boogalooing across the globe.
Of course, I was like a feral cat in model’s clothing, missing planes, busy sleeping off blinding benders waking up to some disco boy whose name I didn’t catch. Not too good for business. But my mother, who had sex for lunch, was my first role model, pun intended, teaching me everything I know.
It’s how you get attention, even if it only lasts 10 minutes. Now I want it from my writing I falsely sanitize so you’ll like me. I’m going to stop doing that, and it may not be pretty.
So I advise you to buckle up.
I’m 64 years old with lines on my face and half my hearing gone. I haven’t gotten laid in so long, I’m not even sure my parts still work. I’m alone, and it’s okay, since I’ve had more sex and romance than anyone else I know, including my mother.
But like any athlete, I finally hung up my number.
Everything ends after all. Even love, true or otherwise.
But I have memories and the clarity to write about them.
So you see, despite how it may seem, my blessings are still up a quart.
To thine own self be true, my mantra for 2019.
Happy New Year everyone.
To quote the great Anne Lamott…
And God bless you all good.
SB
Good for you, Susannah. There’s nothing harder than trying to pretend you’re something you’re not. Believe me, I’ve tried, just as most of us have. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a very kind and caring person.
As for the past, I had a heck of a lot of fun partying too; staying single until I met Pookie at age 28. After college I spent time in NY, AZ, CA, and many points in between, mostly in Green Bay and Chicago. You and I (I’m 68) spent our teens and twenties during a pretty turbulent and loose era. Of course I had some low points, but overall I wouldn’t change those years for anything.
I hope your New Year is everything you want it to be.
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Yours too Skinny, and please always know how much your appreciated with your kindness and candor. Regards to Pookie-Pie 🙂
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Love this post, it sets you apart from the bullshit bloggers. Have a happy and healthy new year and think about rekindling your private life.
Best,
Hal
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That means the world Hal…thank you. And my private life is closed for repairs.
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Still love ya. I have skeletons of my own and a bone to pick with them.
Scott
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Who doesn’t.
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🙂
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SB,
There is no God without a damn, and you supply. In a totally human and beautiful way I might add. Because to be human is beautiful, once you get past all the ugliness we tend to collect either by design or ricochet. Both.
Quarts up young lady.
Peace
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Quarts up. I see a T-shirt in the future…:)
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You made me think about the prospect of t-shirts in the time of Oscar Wilde. I mean, the dude would never have gotten any writing down. At least once or several times he’d be stopping dead in his tracks . . .
“That’s a t-shirt! And THAT’S a t-shirt . . . and that’s another fucking t-shirt!”
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I’m a fan of his, and ache when I think of him in jail unable to write. sigh
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Indeed. It took the last and best of him.
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sigh
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We can still toast to his genius. Sparkling water.
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It’s so boring, I know, but my vital organs are so much happier, at least for the moment. My entire family were alcoholics, so when I drink, I’m playing with fire because I like it a little too much. It’s destroyed my social life, and I’m not saying I’ll never have a split of Taits again, but for now, it’s the right thing. sigh
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I used to think my best writing came when I was feeling good, or even better than good. It was a whole lot of Hemingway nonsense, and I should have known better than to mitigate myself like that.
Alcohol does that. It makes us feel so fucking potent in the moment, but the flip side introduces us to a much different picture.
I enjoy my beverage of choice, but the days of a couple well coiffed martinis before writing is in the rear view, and it ain’t coming back.
Thank God.
Happy New Year to you SB!
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To you too. I appreciate our badinage. It’s a nice surprise.
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Ah, love the word! I had to look it up, but I was on the right track with repartee. But that was only because I figured it HAD to be along those lines, so there’s that.
And I agree, it has been a nice surprise.
Peace and Happy 2019
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Humorous or witty conversation. How’s that for a word? Wish we heard it more, but alas, from the mid 17th century: from French, from badiner ‘to joke’, from badin meaning, fool. sigh.
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Great word.
In this day and age? They’d hashtag that puppy into a vine. These kids have no respect for great words, I tell you.
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And isn’t that a real shame. Words woo making you swoon, so how can beautiful language be a thing of the past. It’s bewildering alright. 😳
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Yep, I agree. And yet, this beautiful language that we grew up adoring gets short shrift now. And really, words like ‘bewildering’ deserve much better than that.
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Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered…I feel a song coming on…:)
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Please, by all means hit me with a song. I’ve had “Here You Come Again” by Dolly Parton stuck in my head for a couple days now . . .
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I love Frank Sinatra’s version of Bewitched Bothered and Bewildered.
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I love Sinatra’s version of just about anything.
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I grew up with him crooning from the our RCA stereo.
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There is nothing like the sound that comes off a turntable.
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I know. Was raised on album covers that sat majestically in the record cabinet by mother would dust with Pledge. I can still smell it, that oily lemon scent that clung to the air for dear life. 😊
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I remember that smell. And yes, the air spoke lemony wisps for a good long time after. But it was a welcomed reprieve from bleach and Windex.
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And Clorox, my mother’s all time favorite chemical. She even scrubbed the driveway with it. Those old olfactory memories. sigh
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Buahahaha! I actually can smell the stuff right now. Yikes.
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🙂
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It makes you prefer the odor of garlic, paint, and gasoline. She’d be making sauce while it wafted like she was the cook in a hospital kitchen. There are just some things a girl should not ever remember.
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I remember as a young boy going to my grandfather’s apartment in Corona. His scent was Acqua di Selva and cheap whiskey. Of course, as a young boy I thought it was the coolest shit.
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Now I realize who you write like and it’s a huge compliment coming from me. Anthony Bourdain. I just reread Medium Raw, his second memoir, and Nasty Bits, a collection of his magazine pieces. You have the same smart rawness he had open, candid, fuck off if I’m not your cuppa tea. The best attitude any writer can’t buy. 👍
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SB,
I am truly touched to even be mentioned in the same sentence. I know you don’t say it unless you mean it, you told me that.
Thank you.
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Have you ever read his Kitchen Confidential? It put him on the map like a meteor crashing to earth, just in an apron.
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I have not. But Q told me about it. Insisted, rather nicely, that I check it out.
Depending on who I was dating at the time, I would watch his show. Most women I dated absolutely loved him.
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Yes, he was a bad boy, that’s why, who was quietly tormented in between his sass and tattoos. Things are rarely what they seem, ever. We never fully get that. Sigh
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It’s true, and it’s everywhere. Sadly.
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As an aside, and you’ll appreciate this, he dedicated Nasty Bits, to the Ramones, listing them by name.
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They don’t write them like him anymore.
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He loved punk rock especially the Ramones and the Stooges.
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Great taste in music, among many other things.
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I loved how honest he was about everything not caring what you thought of him. And he also had no problem busting himself when he knew he was outta line.
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As it should be. No nonsense. It’s the kind of personality that people either love or loathe. I happen to love it.
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I framed a little picture of him with his name and dates that leans majestically against my kitchen wall. I mourn him. One gets close to a writer, like a brother, as odd as it sounds.
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SB,
Imma have to ruminate inside that one for a while. A writer to a brother . . known and understood that way. That’s pretty great stuff.
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You really do get to know a writer who lets you in, so to speak, like a trusting friend. He did that and after rereading him, more than I realized. His darkness was more evident like flickering lights I apparently didn’t see or more likely ignored. Candor is key to intimacy, even on the page.
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You never see what you don’t want to see. It’s always on the flip side. Candor isn’t something you post in a status. Candor is something you share without consciously knowing you’re doing it. And writing is the perfect vehicle, seeing as how it’s a silent scream of the thoughts in your head.
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Nicely put…!!!
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Thank you kindly. 🙂
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When I was your age I was just starting out on what I hope to be (and is so far) the last and best relationship of my life. I wish you serenity and serendipitous joy now and always. Love, Arthur
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Well thanks Arthur. That’s an awfully nice thing to say.
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I love your writing and your wit, and I’m sticking with you. How I pray 2019 will be an excellent year for you!
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You’re a good egg alright. 🙂
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Wouldn’t want to be rotten.
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Or over easy.
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This is naked writing! We all have stuff. What I like about blogging is that most people are more sincere than they are in person. They are willing to put themselves out in a way they don’t do otherwise. Woohoo!
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I don’t find that true. I’m an example. Holding back.
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A lot comes through in your writing whether you intend it to or not.
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I’m taking that as a good thing.
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It is a good thing.
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Thanks…:)
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Wanted to make sure to wish you a very Happy New Year, Susannah! :O)
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And to you too Paul. Miss ya.
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Coming back soon. Promise! 😀
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Ok. I’m making a note. 🙂
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I’m on the record now. 😀
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Ok. Yay
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Life: it’s a bugger. Catches up with everyone eventually. I am pleased and gratified to hear your philosophy is so pragmatic and well-adjusted. I am sure you will agree, it could have been otherwise.
Happy New Year Susannah. Thank you so much for your incisive submissions in 2018.
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And a happy new year to you too Mick! Here’s to living one day at a time with honesty, gratitude and heart. 😊
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I’ll drink to that!
(apparently, AA considerations don’t count if you brew your own)
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It’s okay that you drink. I was just flirting with a problem so, considering my family’s DNA, I thought it best to switch to sparkling cider, which come to find out, ain’t too bad. 🙂
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I LOVE your mantra and this post.
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