Friday, November 28, 2008

i now draw the line at gravy...

I'll be honest. My Thanksgiving sucked sweet sober ass.
But then again, rehab isn't supposed to be all martinis and cornucopias.
My posse of "peers" all had better things to do with their "families" so I was left here all by my lonesome. After we ate and were done by noon (Did you know cranberry 'sauce' came in jelly packets? Me neither.), I called the folks to check in, pretending not to be completely devastated that they got to go party with wine and Manhattans and cranberry sauce made from, like, cranberries.
After "dinner" my remaining friends seemed to disappear off to be depressed by themselves, so I retreated to my room, which I'll admit, is the best room here. Conveniently, I've mastered the art of feeling sorry for myself. I think I hit my self pity stride in 1990 when I dramatically wept alone, watching the rain and listening to Miles Davis because I was denied a new pair of LA Gears. I have no idea where I got that Miles Davis cassette, but it seemed like something people listened to in movies when staring at the rain and being depressed on purpose. Anyway, as luck would have it, my balcony and thus room, has a stunning view of St. Helena's rolling vineyards, so I curled up on my bed and stared out the window, wishing I had some Miles Davis and utensils made from metal.
I forgot to mention an important part of my Thanksgiving tale of self-imposed sorrow.
I dressed up.
And much like the 5th grade CYO basketball awards ceremony, I was the only one that did so. My fellow holiday-orphaned peers felt no need to change from their pajama pants as I sat on a folding chair in pearls and cashmere, sipping (I shit you not) root beer from a styrofoam cup.
Back to me, laying on my bed, my sweater now covered in the food that didn't make it from the paper plate balanced on my lap to my overly made-up face, I lost it. I cried and I sobbed and I wallowed and I gazed at the lone photo of my family up on my poor little cork board and considered dramatically throwing myself from my fabulous balcony, a la Stockard Channing in The First Wives Club.
I was, as our counselors would say, isolating. And I probably needed a smack in the face and a reality check, which is what finally occurred to me. At least I think it did. I can't be sure. My clarity could have just been delayed withdrawl from latent vodka and Crystal Lite, still worming it's way out of my system.
None the less, I got up, went to the desolate, empty kitchen, got myself a packet of cranberry sauce, some white bread, leftover turkey and stuffing and made myself the best goddamn sandwich on Earth, which I enjoyed with (I shit you not) root beer. I sat on my balcony, slapped myself in the face and instructed myself to get the fuck over myself.
Who knows if it worked. But I'm pretty sure that after 29 years of very blessed holidays, a very blessed family and present circumstances excluded, a very blessed life, I was long overdue some goddamn cranberry sauce from a packet...

2 comments:

kwk said...

This New Yorker article makes Wonderland seem to be the SoCal/Hollywood equivalent of St. Helena.

brittney said...

Woman, you knock me out.