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Tag Archives: growing up in an alcoholic home
I’m spending Thanksgiving with Carrie, rereading all her books, making it one of the best ever. Let’s hear it for great writing that peels off the page like a good yam, or ham, in Carrie’s case. She writes a lot … Continue reading
My mother was sassy, well-dressed, charming and mean, and boy, could she cook. Why I attract these traits (minus the cooking) in the women I meet is a mystery, but I do over and over again. Fashion plates totin Uzis. … Continue reading
I have stopped drinking, for how long, I don’t know. But having that alcoholic gene passed down from my parents, those yield signs are flashing. Dave Attell, a comic I love says, he drinks to quiet the voices. My father … Continue reading
My dear, sweet, late mother would always say, how unlovable I am. It was an awful thing to tell a child. I grew up thinking this was true, and that’s why men cheated, lied and eventually left. After years of … Continue reading
Both my parents were drinkers, and not of the modest variety. My father died of cirrhosis of the liver at forty, while my mother, with ice tinkling in her glass, terrorized everyone and everything in her path. Even the goldfish … Continue reading