Who’s That Girl?

April 17th, 2006

I’m drinking a lot these days. I hardly noticed, but A. pointed it out the other night as I poured myself my third giant drink of the evening. Mind you, I would have stopped at three, and it was a Saturday night, and “a lot” to me amounts to something close to nothing, and isn’t really a problem because really, two glasses of wine in the evenings isn’t much, so stop laughing. But still. The drinking! There is a glass of chardonnay in my hand as I type this. The NEVERENDING DRINKING!

I mean, I’m kind of joking. But this week, I’m craving alcohol – not its effects, but the look of it, the taste, the surprising, unexpectedly odd beauty of a drink: the viscosity of wine in a glass, that unmistakable color of bourbon as it sloshes around the bottle and my GOD, the wonder of a cloudy, very dirty martini with four plump olives resting on a cute little pick to the side. If I could conjure one right now, I would, and I would keep the wine and drink that, too. Because I can’t get enough.

I’m reading Augusten Burroughs’ Dry, and instead of reading his account of alcoholism and taking heed, and drying out myself, I’m craving it. It’s not that I want to be an alcoholic, but hearing someone talk about alcohol as they would a lover – describing its taste so acutely, and with such affection makes me want to swim in a giant martini glass full of Ketel One.

I’m almost finished with the book, so this, too, shall pass. I did the same thing when I read Fast Food Nation. You’d think that a book about the evils of the fast food industry – including a detailed, multi-chapter tirade on the absolutely abhorrent behavior, hygiene and ethics of the meat packing industry – would turn a girl off of cheeseburgers in waxy paper, but no. I craved them with an intensity that would warm the cockles of Ray Croc’s heart. And even now, just thinking about that book, I could run right out and get a Quarter Pounder with cheese and a large fry and devour it so quickly it would be gone before I even pulled into the driveway.

Truth be told, I’m not even enjoying Dry. I want to like Augusten – I want to feel like we’re friends, and that I’m with him on this odd little journey that I’d never want to experience first-hand, but instead, I’m intensely, irrationally pissed at him in a way that I’m actually embarrassed to admit. I’m oddly jealous of his disastrous life, for lack of a better definition. The books he’s been able to write from it, and the gift of material. Commence stoning at any time.

In my darkest, smallest, hormone-induced moments, I imagine how much easier it must be for him to write from such a background, and I’m actually annoyed at him for it, and then I’m even more annoyed at myself for being such a gigantic, huge asshole. I mean, I am a person who gets jealous of alcoholics for their material. Because I? AM STUNTED when it comes to writing at the moment, and I’m spinning my wheels. And also, drinking. And wishing for Big Macs. And trying to write a book that just isn’t coming to me as easily as it did at first. Because writing isn’t the problem – it’s blanking on things to write about. Give me a topic and I can write TOMES.

This isn’t about being jealous of someone because their big – I don’t begrudge Augusten his success, and I don’t think that just because he’s successful that means that I can’t be successful. There isn’t a limited amount of success in the world, and his success doesn’t take away anything from the available pool. And I don’t want to be an alcoholic, and I’m HAPPY that he’s sober and dry and made an amazing work of it, okay? I AM. I’m not that small. Yet.

But today, I am a little small. Tiny, in fact. And in need of a martini. And also PMSing. And if I keep up on the martini binge, I won’t have much to complain about, because I will be bloated, eating large vats of McDonald’s and drinking heeee0YOOOGE martinis and I’ll be writing a book about how I had to go to rehab and fat camp all in one fell swoop. But the PMS, man. I’m hoping – praying, in fact – explains the pinhead, tiny nature of my incredibly tiny, bitchy, selfish existence on this almost-Tuesday.

*Madonna. And seriously, who is this bitch sitting in my skin? And really, I mean this post somewhat tongue-in-cheek, so if you’re feeling defensive about alcoholism and feel like getting on my case about it? Please don’t.

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