My desk in said room is covered with letters from my fabulous friends, which I've tacked to the walls leaving permanent holes I plan to fill with toothpaste upon my departure a week from Sunday.
And upon my bed, atop my comforter I dragged all the way from home, lies my favorite item I received in an action packed care package from KG, which they made me open up at the front desk, lest she tried to mail me a bottle of Skyy. I knew what it was immediately! She made me a Gavin doll!!!!! There are regular friends, and then there are the friends that actually make you a doll of the Mayor of San Francisco when you're in rehab. I hope Gavin knows that his likeness currently rests upon my pillow as I struggle through treatment for alcohol dependency. I hope he takes some time to think about that. And then I hope he sends me flowers.
My number one rehab gay, "Ansel" (he made me pick a name, as he refused to select his own) and I spent this evening watching an hour-long MTV documentary about Britney Spears on this lone rehab computer. Occasionaly, we'd have to pause and attend an AA/NA meeting or similar, and by the time we'd returned, someone else would be bogarting the technology.
Pacing up and down the halls and rolling our eyes at someone daring to interupt our screening, something finally occured to us.
"This is what we've been reduced to, Beth. We are standing by a pay phone waiting for someone to get off the computer so we can watch Britney Spears' ruined life and feel better about ourselves."
Ansel is my age and works at a hospital for the criminally insane. Obviously, I love him.
In a recovery related update (I'm saving the high drama, for those of you not on my e-mail update list, for my fabulous memoir), I told my story to the entire group last night at an AA meeting, a relatively big deal as only a handful of us step up and spill.
Afterwards and post-congratulatory hugs, I was told I mask my pain with humor. Please. Those bitches were laughing. Hey, I enjoy seeing someone break into hysterical tears as much as the next drunk, but I don't cry on stage. At least not for free...