Last week, I prepared to enter my mother’s walk-in closet. Over the past several months, I’ve been going to her house—my childhood home—a couple of times a week, sifting through piles of papers, plastic containers and desk drawers. Discarding trivial things, such as my school bus form from seventh grade and dried out pens, is a snap. Figuring out what to keep is not.

When I was growing up, my mom kept her closet locked and alarmed—the kind that would alert the police if someone tripped it. She showed me regularly where she kept the key and how to disarm the alarm (there was a small hidden switch in a different closet), meant to protect her precious jewelry inside. There were shelves too, with old Lord & Taylor boxes overflowing with piles of papers—newspaper and magazine articles, old theater Playbills, etc.—and lucite boxes holding an abundance of photo envelopes stacked from front to back. On the highest shelf, there was a row of large round hat boxes, housing those wide-brimmed beauties that my mom sported only at special events, like springtime weddings (mine) and bar mitzvahs (my brother’s).

Born in France, my mother was the epitome of chic. A business executive by day, she dressed for work in a tailored skirt or slacks, with long strands of pearls strewn over a blouse or sweater. She favored dresses for evenings out, particularly those with a plunging neckline to highlight her décolleté. She rarely emerged from the house without her preferred fashion accessory, a silk scarf tied around her neck or the strap of her handbag.

Her closet still contains all of these things—not to mention dozens of Charles Jourdan shoes—and being inside those four walls stirs up childhood souvenirs of my lying on her bed, watching her primp and prepare for a Saturday night on the town with my dad. She’d come out of her closet, looking like a movie star, and make her way to her vanity table to put on her maquillage. There was always red lipstick. And perfume.

Life was in rapid motion for her then—busy with kids, husband, work, a home, a dog, and aging parents. Those hectic and happy days are long gone, and now in her late 70s, my mom suffers from acute anxiety and depression. My father’s death in 2006 voided her of vitality, leaving her lost and sad, and I can’t get her back. My mother has tried therapy and medication, but a different sort of French accessory—wine—became her choice for self-soothing. Eventually it became vodka.

When my father was sick in the hospital, my mother used to lie beside him in his hospital bed. He would talk to me and occasionally rest his eyes; hers were closed too because she was passed out and drunk. During that time, I went to their house and into her closet to move her jewelry out and into a bank safe. When my arm touched the wall, I heard a clank. I reached over to the side of the safe, a beige metal box bolted to the floor, and felt a round piece of glass. It was an empty bottle. I reached back again, further this time, and pulled out a half dozen more. She hid the wine bottles in the safety of her closet, where I imagine she escaped to take a swig or ten, and left the empties behind.

It’s been seven years since I found those bottles. My mom now lives in an assisted living facility just ten minutes away from her house. She no longer has access to alcohol and instead takes a daily cocktail of meds, yet she still suffers from anxiety and depression.

In my effort to clean out her house and ready it for the real estate market, I knew I’d have to spend time in that closet. Fearful of how I may feel in there, even with the comforting presence of my shaggy goldendoodle, I decided to bring a glass of wine along with me. I knew it was bad to drive there with open wine in my car, but I did it anyway, saving those few ounces of liquid courage it for the hours I’d need to sift through her things while enduring the memories they would trigger. I realized the irony—here I was bringing wine into the tiny room where I found my mother’s empty bottles, once replete with the substance in which I was now seeking solace. But I did it anyway.

Cleaning out my mother’s house has been both painful and eye opening. Her photos, keepsakes, and written words remind me of the amazing woman she once was, and highlight the glaring contrast between her then and now. It won’t be much longer until her closet is clean, her clothes donated, her photos digitized. But the next time I go, I’ll leave the wine behind. Because no amount of alcohol can strip away the memories, not hers or mine.

–Caren Osten Gerszberg is a co-editor of Drinking Diaries. You can read a selection of her work at www.carenosten.com

By Kate Robinson

In 19 days I will have a year sober.

In 19 days it will be one year since I was lying on the couch at 4:30 in the afternoon with the two bottles of wine I would mix with diet Ginger Ale and vodka until I would gently pass out around six pm before my boyfriend could even walk through the door to talk me out of it.

It become clear to me now that I was trying to kill myself, but wanted to choose a method that a) wouldn’t hurt, b) wouldn’t take my air and c) would give me plenty of opportunities to back out. Alcohol met all three requirements, with the added benefit of anesthetizing my brain into a white room of quiet equanimity where I was able to simply exist.

That first drink of the evening (or morning) felt as if I had taken a steady slow inhale, the second drink was a warm and gentle yawn, and the third drink was the sweetest exhale I have ever known.

It must be excusable, I must forgive myself.

I had good reason to drink.

Things happened. I was born.

This is where I could undress my pedestrian traumas, and otherwise… but instead choose to trust that human suffering is human suffering.

I had good reason to drink.

I say this again in order to assuage my sense of guilt, my shame, I say this because saying “I drank my medicine” feels self-indulgent. Maybe it isn’t, but still I must take responsibility for all the times I chose oblivion over waking.

In this past year, I have painfully and reluctantly come to believe that my agency is to be preserved and protected, and when I drink I am forfeiting the reins hitched to what sense of self I have. But I do miss being an observer, I miss the quiet-passivity, stillness and warmth of being drunk.

I have given myself brain damage. I do not know if it will heal.

I can’t remember the exact moment I decided not to drink until my breath slowed and my heart gave out. What I do remember is that I prayed to the saints of my childhood for help.

They were bashfully mute.

I have a picture of myself at two years old on my mother’s lap, sharing my complete joy and surprise over the jack-in-the-box I was holding performing its one function, and performing it well. My mother’s face was of a feigned surprise, that sweet half opened mouth with eyebrows vaulted in pride that she had made me, and I was on her lap—safe and round and hers.

A treasured shrink of mine once told me to think of myself as a mother, and imagine how I would treat my two-year-old self. Would I put stale wine and vodka in a bottle and feed this theoretical baby this poison everyday until the child would sweat and tremor in the elixir’s absence? I can say with certainty, No.

Like a hologram, I projected an image into the future, as my present was walking on razors.

It stands to logic then, that I should be able to transfer this sense of protecting and cherishing of a theoretical baby to my actual grown-ass self.

That worked, to a point.

I must pause for a minute to mourn my loss of memory. Not just the memory lost from a blackout, but the brain damage I suffered from long years of binge drinking.

There are holes all over my life, and at times this is a simple mercy, because perhaps my heart could not bare the damage I have done. At this moment it is an albatross, because I cannot conjure moments from my recent past that matter.

My heart fills with what feels like a heated vinegar and I must arm wrestle my tears for sovereignty over my eyes. When I salvage what memories I still have I do remember something–either a yoga teacher, a therapist, a friend, a book, a commercial, a box of tampons. I remember hearing the advice that what decisions you make today will either bring you a step closer, or a step further away from the version of yourself you want to become.

What would that person say to this sick, hurting lady on the couch?

What is her life like? What is she wearing? What does her average day look like? How does she make a living? Get as specific as possible…(This came from the brilliant Ana Forrest’s book “Fierce Medicine.” All that tear grappling for nothing.)

Anyway—I did what she said, and I am slowly crafting myself into the adult woman I would most like to be.

I was surprised at what I saw.

She was roughly my height (thank Jesus) she had long straggly hair (done!) She was near the ocean, with a big rescue dog. She put food on the table with her words and as she walked towards me she folded forward corking her hands into the sand, and lofted her feet into an effortless handstand.

It was as clear as a painless stigmata, that if I intended to be whole I was going to have yoga in my life.

In Fierce Medicine, Ana talks about her sun-salutations being her 12 steps. My relationship with AA is hot and cold. It did me so much good in the beginning, but as time passed I began to find my steadiness in other packages. I have not quit AA, I do not bemoan it, I merely accept that we are in the throes of a constant lover’s quarrel.

One of those land-angels who wears a lot of black.

The reality is less pastel, and surviving long enough to have an opportunity to heal was, in short: rigorous.

My detox was long. My post-acute withdrawal symptoms were many and they were vocal. Getting on the T to get to yoga, or my job, or the facility I attended a day program for addiction took all of my strength.

It took about seven months before I could travel without going pale and feeling nauseous to the point of salivating. When I think of how much heavier I was in both my physical and spiritual body, I shudder.

I was lucky that the day I was released from detox, I signed up for my first sober yoga class at Back Bay Yoga. I walked into an afternoon Forrest class taught by Nicole Clark. I was scared. I took whatever piece of literary fiction I was attempting, and read until class started. I kept a book, any book near my mat at all times. Nicole became, in short order, one of the people that (if you are lucky) arrive in the landscape of your life and change the backdrop.

What I am clumsily trying to say is, I found a teacher who made me feel safe and welcome, and that in some way I belonged on the mat, that I would not always sweat vodka.

The Gift of My Hand Tremor.

I am not all better.

I still crave getting wasted. I still get weepy when I think of what I have done to myself, and the people around me.

I have started to find some quiet warmth and a touch of oblivion on my mat. The more I practice, the better it gets.

I am only almost sober for a year, and they say the first year is for your body, the second for your mind. I don’t appreciate that breed of algorithm, but it is useful for me to think that it can always get better, that I am not done getting better.

I am not finished healing.

My hands wear a tremor.

Whenever I lift them to my partner’s face, grip a pencil too tightly, or hold a gesticulation too long, it is noticeable. For me the trembling is a gift.

It’s what gives me away to people with vivid imaginations. It’s what keeps me honest, and prevents any cockiness about my sobriety. It is a reminder of what I have done, and where I have been, and how important it is to stop trying to jump off every bridge made of steel, or words that I cross.

I know my addiction hasn’t gone anywhere, that she is just lifting weights in the basement of my brain. I know I still can’t execute a graceful handstand, and that my apartment won’t allow dogs. I know that there is work to be done and mistakes to be made.

I know I do not have to fret about most things. That if I can just be here, now—not forever fleeing—that my future will take care of itself. I know that staying awake is my one function, and I am just beginning to perform it well.

Kate Robinson is a yoga teacher in and around Boston. She received her certification at Back Bay Yoga. She also is the author of the book “Darling Angel Meat” from Shoe Music Press and has her MFA in Poetry and Literature from Bennington. She doesn’t fit in most Lululemon clothes, and frankly could give a damn. You can read more of her musings on Facebook.

 Note: Reprinted with Permission of the author. This piece originally ran online in Elephant Journal

by Ronna Benjamin

My friend Tammy had troubles, but it took me awhile to figure it out. She was a redhead who smoked menthols, loved music, dancing and beer.  Her father was a judge–a real one, but she herself was totally non-judgmental.

Tammy was the friend that held the ice to my ear Freshman year and then pierced a second hole in my left lobe, sterilizing the needle with the alcohol from our sloe gin fizzes.  She would drag me to frat parties,  grab a beer and start dancing, while I stood awkwardly in a corner complaining about the sticky floor.

I was one of the girls who left the party early, but Tammy always stayed and regaled us with great stories the next day. But as we got to be juniors and then seniors, the stories became increasingly uncomfortable to hear. There were times she slept with multiple men in one evening.  There were times when she blacked out.  There were times she woke up in places she did not want to be.

There was the time she came back to the dorm drunk at 3:00 am and burnt half her arm making popcorn.  There was the time she tearily told me she was pregnant, traces of gin on her breath, and pleaded with me to bring her to Planned Parenthood. I had driven halfway there the next day before she told me it wasn’t true–she wasn’t pregnant.  Never was.  It  was just her idea of a joke.  That almost ended our friendship, but I hung in there.

I knew there was something different about what happened when Tammy drank, but I wanted to be non judgmental too.  By day and on weeknights, Tammy was fine.  She studied, went to movies and plays, joined us for dinner, and did really well in her classes.  I thought once we graduated and she got a job, things would be different.  We were in college, after all.

In 1981, Tammy came to visit me at my apartment in Boston where I was in my first year of law school.  We went out on the town, but after a while, I wanted to go home.  She insisted I leave; told me she was having fun and would take a cab home.  Tammy got home safely in the early hours of the morning; but the next day she told me she had shared a bottle of vodka and slept with the cab driver.

And that is when I ended the friendship.

Telling Tammy that I thought she was an alcoholic was the hardest thing I ever did as a young woman, and amongst the hardest things that I have ever had to do.  I didn’t have the balls to tell her in person.  I called her from the safety of my bedroom, reading the words off a legal pad because I was so nervous. “Tammy, I think you have a problem with alcohol.  I think you are an alcoholic, and I cannot be friends with you until you get help.”  I described some of her behaviors that made me think so.  I described the hurt and worry she was causing me.  She said nothing, and hung up.

That was 32 years ago, and that was the last time I talked to Tammy, but it wasn’t the last time I thought about her.  As the years passed, I Googled her name.  Tammy was the first name I searched on Facebook.  One day, about a year ago, she “friended” me.  I barely recognized her picture, she had aged so. We had a brief FB exchange, but neither of us mentioned the alcohol.

A few months later, Tammy started a game with me on Words With Friends.  And I knew from those games that something wasn’t quite right.  She couldn’t get beyond 13 points.  She left spaces for triple words open.

I was waiting for Tammy to take her turn on Words With Friends when I read on Facebook that Tammy had died.  She was 53 and died “unexpectedly.”  I was not in her inner circle, so I don’t know the details of her death, and it was not my place to push. I was saddened, but to be honest, not shocked.

I had an alcoholic friend in college.  I told her the truth, abandoned her, and she died at 53.  I wonder now if I should have done something differently.

*This essay was originally published on Better After 50.com

by Dee Dee Acquisto

We got the phone call around 10:30 pm on a Sunday night.  Our good friend had been in an accident, and his wife–his childhood sweetheart and the mother of his two children–had been killed.  Ted* was  in a hospital in New Jersey, with 10 broken ribs and a concussion. In shock.  No doubt.  He was now a widower.   This had happened as they pulled into their own driveway, after going out to dinner.  They had left their 18-year old son home.  He heard the crash and rushed outside in time to watch in horror as his mother died before his eyes.  The driver who killed Arlene* fell drunkenly out of the car and passed out on the front lawn.   Ted was told that his wife was dead as he was being evacuated by helicopter to the hospital.

The drunk driver, a 40-year-old, bleach-blonde ex-L.A. actress had left a party drunk, and gotten into her car to drive home. Neither her husband, nor anyone else at the two parties she had attended that day had taken away her car keys, or prevailed upon her to drive her home.  Along the way, she rear-ended another car stopped at a red light.  She then sped away from the scene of that accident, careening down dark, two-lane roads at speeds over 50 miles per hour, so as to evade the night’s first victim, who followed in pursuit of her license plate number. Our friends were turning into their own driveway, after a quiet dinner out.  The actress’s SUV jumped the curb and slammed into the passenger side of their small sedan.

The actress and her crackerjack defense team didn’t dispute her nearly .27 blood alcohol content.  Yes, she was drunk, they said.  But she wouldn’t have lost control of the car had she not been pursued.  Yes, she was drunk, they said.  But Ted turned too slowly into his own driveway. The defense team seemed to treat the fact that she was nearly three times the legal limit of .08 as incidental. As if the accident was not her fault at all. As if her irresponsible over-consumption of alcohol was as unimportant as the color of her Tahoe. And the actress seemed to concur. In fact, at no time during the trial did she ever admit culpability. At no time during the trial did she ever say “I am deeply sorry.”

The trial lasted two months, and cost both the state of New Jersey and the actress hundreds of thousands of dollars.  She was convicted on the lesser of two counts, and she spent almost three months in jail awaiting sentencing. In anticipation of the sentencing, those of us who loved Arlene–and watched her family struggle on without her–wrote letters requesting that the actress be given the maximum sentence.

I wrote one of those letters, not without mixed feelings. I am a recovering alcoholic. I wrote one of those letters, requesting that the actress go to prison, to compensate, even if inadequately, for some of the life she drunkenly stole from Arlene.

Now perhaps I should have compassion “for those of us still sick and suffering, both in and out of these rooms” as the 12-Step programs suggest. Perhaps I should remind myself, “there but for the grace of God go I” as is further recommended. Perhaps I need to work on forgiveness.  Perhaps I will get there someday. But for now, this is what  I know and what speaks loudest to me: that until the day of her sentencing, (when, not incidentally, it might favorably  impact the judge’s decision), the actress never publicly  acknowledged her part in Arlene’s death. No admission of responsibility. No acceptance of blame; in fact, she and her defense team tried in every way possible to divert responsibility for Arlene’s death to the victims. (Exactly how fast is a driver supposed to turn into his own driveway?).  That was so wrong.

This is what I also know:  that until I admitted and accepted what my drinking had done to me, my children and my family, I could not truly recover. Until I could publicly say “I am Dee Dee and I am an alcoholic” –until I could truly acknowledge and accept the consequences of my behavior (what some of us call “wreckage”), I could not and would not recover.

It appears, however, that killing a wife, a mother of two, a daughter, a beloved sister,  a cherished friend, a gifted, beautiful and artistic spirit–seriously injuring her husband, and leaving her sons without their mother–has not been enough to convince the actress that she is responsible.  She seems to believe it really wasn’t her fault.

And apparently the judge agrees.

In the courtroom on March 1st, he pronounced a sentence of three years, the minimum allowed by law. Given the current judicial/penal system, this means that the actress will probably only serve 85 percent of this sentence (30.6 months) minus approximately three months time already served. That calculates to about 2 years and 3 months in jail.  For taking a human life while driving while intoxicated, that sentence is a slap on the wrist. There are individuals doing harder time than that for selling weed.  Paraphrasing Arlene’s distraught son after the sentencing, “She took my mother’s life, not her necklace.”

Of course I realize that no amount of prison time will bring our friend back. But I was hoping that in receiving the maximum sentence allowed by law, the actress might begin to acknowledge and accept her responsibility for this crime, and might use that knowledge to redeem her own life and make it something estimable and worth saving. But no, the message is clear:  the penalties for taking a life while driving drunk in New Jersey are minimal and moderately inconvenient–like being sent  away to a rather spartan community college.  Maybe she can start a theater group there.

Photo credit

By Rachel Kramer Bussel

I stopped drinking, pretty much for good, over two years ago. I don’t tend to stare longingly at people drinking in bars, or feel too wistful, but the times when I’m overwhelmed with temptation for alcohol are usually times when I’m consumed by the desire for…desire–for getting fucked, along with getting fucked up.

To put it simply, I miss drunk sex. Well, one kind of drunk sex. I certainly don’t miss the “I’m going to drink so I get up the courage to put the moves on someone.” I tried that last year and while I got my much-fantasized-about makeout session, it was so not worth it, and was also just a one-time thing (as opposed to the let’s-move-in-together relationship I’d pictured). So now every time I see the person, I feel like an idiot. I also don’t miss waking up in someone’s bed and not knowing their name, or getting drunk just so I could get in the spirit of sex. Nor do I miss drinking in the hopes that it would make me look more attractive to someone I wanted to get with.

But I am a bit nostalgic for the sweet, swoony buzz from a good drink or two–the kind that used to make me feel warm and liquid and a little light-headed. The kind of buzz that made me both ferociously horny and oblivious to who saw me making out (or more) in taxis, restaurants, wherever. I miss the bliss of getting lost in both the alcohol and the person I’m with so that it feels like there is no tomorrow.

It’s hard to get to that place of utter focus on sex and just sex, for me, anyway, with the umpteen thoughts, doubts and uncertainties racing through my head. When I am able to reach that place of body over mind, of sensation over stress, though, sex provides both pleasure and relief, along with a way to feel closer to my partner.

The whole reason I stopped drinking is that it didn’t obliterate my thoughts, doubts and uncertainties; at least, not permanently (if it did, well, maybe I’d return to vodka). As soon as the buzz wore off, my feelings would just return with a vengeance, and no amount of hot sex or even being in love could make them go away.

I remember exactly when I stopped drinking, pretty much for good. I was buying fifteen of my closest friends dinner and martinis to celebrate a book deal (ah, hubris!) and getting increasingly wasted. I told everyone I had to leave at 9 for a podcast interview. About sex, my primary beat. Well, 9 rolled around, and went, and I was getting perilously close to the appointed time. I wound up calling in from my taxi home, then blathering away about orgasms from my bed while the room spun around me.

Some things are fun to do drunk, and maybe it’s just me, but trying to act serious and professionally knowledgeable isn’t one of them. I later became good friends with the host of the show, who said she had no idea, but still. I knew.

(Listen here if you want to determine for yourself whether I sound smashed: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/datingroadkill/2007/02/13/a-surprise-valentines-day-show).

I was never one of those savoring-the-fine-wine types of drinkers. I was more like, “Which drink will get me out of my head fastest?” The drunken podcast was the culmination of one too many mornings waking up feeling like I’d made a fool of myself the night before. That, plus coming from a family of alcoholics, made me decide that the best course of action was to quit cold turkey. I allowed myself the occasional (once or twice a year) drink, but even that–I’ve recently decided–is a bit too much for me to handle.

I don’t know if not drinking makes me a better lover or not. I think it probably makes me a boring date. The other night a really hot girl asked in a way that could only be called overtly flirty what I wanted to drink. “A seltzer?” I said in the hesitant way I still have, knowing that’s about as big a buzzkill of an answer as one can provide, since I’ve also sworn off Diet Coke. “I’m a cheap date,” I tried to joke.

“A seltzer with…” She looked at me so intensely, I truly wished I could add something boozy, if only to let her know that I thought she was hot and that I was potentially interested. I think some people take my non-drinking as an automatic sign that I’m not interested in them, which just isn’t true. I hate that drinking is so often the way we define our sexual interests, as if those of us who don’t booze it up are also celibate.

That being said, the kind of sex I’m most likely to be having right now is with my boyfriend, and it is, with rare exceptions, wild, kinky, rough. There’s spanking and choking and bondage and dirty talk and blowjobs and it all happens really fast and furious. There’s no way I could relax enough to submit sexually to him if I were wasted, and I wouldn’t want to be anything other than fully present. I need to be alert to make sure that what we’re doing is safe, to fully process and enjoy it. If I were drunk (or if he were), I’d fear that we might go too far and do things we might regret. With my thinking faculties intact, I can exult in the enjoyment of pushing boundaries.

Perhaps for some people, being drunk gives them permission to “go wild” in a sexual way, but if I’m with someone I want to be with, I don’t have those qualms at all. I like kinky sex, I like pushing my own personal erotic envelope. I get off on the occasional moments of fear or uncertainty that come with trusting someone else to set the tone, rules, and course of the sexual action. If my senses were dulled by drinking, I’d miss out on all the nuances of our play. I trust my instincts more when I’m sober.

That doesn’t mean every time I have sex it’s perfect and magical. But when it’s not, I deal with it; I figure out a way to either make it better or pause and restart another time. When I drank, I rarely checked in with myself like that. I thought I needed sex, and the feeling of being attractive, to “make” me feel better. Now I know that even the hottest sex isn’t a panacea.

Still, sometimes when my boyfriend orders a drink, I’m tempted to have one of my own. It looks fun, easy, comforting. In some ways, it’s not so much about sex as wanting to fit in, because not drinking makes you stand out in most any bar, and for someone who craves others’ approval, that’s not always easy. It’s not that I’d spiral into nightly drunkenness if I had one drink, but it’s infinitely healthier for my psyche, not to mention my body, if I abstain.

Maybe simply remembering my days of drunken sex, as hazy as they are, is enough, but even if it’s not, it’s the choice I’m making. I’ll leave the hot, drunk sex to someone else. May they enjoy it!

Rachel Kramer Bussel (rachelkramerbussel.com) is a New York-based author, editor and blogger. She’s edited over 25 anthologies, including The Mile High Club, Do Not Disturb, and Best Sex Writing 2009, and is host of the monthly In The Flesh Reading Series (inthefleshreadingseries.com). In her PG life, she blogs at Cupcakes Take the Cake (http://cupcakestakethecake.blogspot.com), for which she’s appeared on The Martha Stewart Show.

I don’t know about you, but my Sundays (and some Saturdays) since September have been filled with football. I have a husband and a son who are fairly smitten with watching overgrown boys run around a field in any type of weather throwing and chasing a ball, and then falling upon one another to retrieve what seems to be as valuable as the Hope diamond, ignoring that they are potentially crushing someone else’s–or their own–skull.

It is commonplace on these long weekend afternoons for my two boys to sit on our family room couch, snacking on thick, extra dark pretzels (paying no attention to the crumbs and salt bits that fall in between the couch cushions), tossing a football and tackling one another or our dog during commercials–and drinking. If my twelve-year-old is feeling really hyped up for the event, he’ll ask if he can have a soda–usually saved only for special occasions in our house–while my husband opts for a cold Saranac Black & Tan, his beer of choice on these special game days.

When game time begins and all players–and viewers–prepare for the coin toss (or on some days the pre-game show needs to be screened first), that’s my clue to take to the living room. I’ll usually curl up on the couch, with either a cup of tea or a glass of wine close by–book, newspaper, and laptop at the ready for at least four hours of quiet time (save for the occasional shrieks coming from the next room).

Once in a while, my husband will gently request (“quick! come fast! hurry up!”) that I come and join them to watch a replay of some player running 40 or 50 yards down the field and then doing some kind of tribal dance in the end zone (that’s actually my favorite part). I oblige for the sake of my son–wouldn’t want him to think that his mom isn’t a woman with varied interests.

And then, I retreat to my corner in the next room. Happy. My husband chugs his beer and my son his soda, and both scream at the TV. I sip my wine (or tea), cozily engaging in my reading and/or writing. So, in truth, it turns out that football days are not so bad. This coming Sunday is the almighty Super Bowl. There will probably be a lot of noise coming from our house as of 6:30 pm EST when the Baltimore Ravens and San Francisco 49ers take to the field (full disclosure: I had to ask a friend who was playing). I may hide out at a neighbor’s house. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll put down my book, opt for a beer, and relocate to sit with the boys, pretending that I actually care.

I don’t know about you, but live music makes me thirsty. Whether it’s the soft acoustic sound of a female vocalist (which may inspire a glass of sauvignon blanc), or the pounding of the bass guitar blaring from stage speakers (definitely a Sam Adams beer or equivalent), music and drinking do not always–but often do–go together for me.

So it seemed the perfect evening when I discovered that the City Winery in NYC, a small restaurant winery/restaurant/music venue where I’d recently sat up close for a Shawn Colvin show (dining on flat bread pizza and sharing a bottle of Malbec with my hubby), was hosting a night of music and wine. Not just any music, but the Top 20 Songs of ALL TIME (voted by listeners of a New York radio sation, 104.3) played by a cover band. With my husband’s nod of approval, I booked us two tickets.

We arrived at the City Winery at about 7:00 and had our choice of tables. Once we were seated, our placemat announced the event: “Top 20 Songs Paired with 20 Wines!” This would be a night to remember. Thankfully, there would also be a smattering of 6 small food courses.

On our right sat a youngish couple–he was a music-lover and chef at nearby restaurant whose family owned the largest chain of head shops on the East Coast (no joke); his wife was a wine-loving bartender. To our left was a table of three 30-something women, all married  but clearly out for a girls’ night of fun.

The band, all the way from Long Island, got on stage and started with the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter,” which was paired with a glass of Cava, a sparkling wine from Spain. From there, musical highlights included Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” The Beatles’ “Let It Be,” Bruce’s “Thunder Road” and of course, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.”

As the music and wine countdown progressed from number 20 to number 1, more and more people–mostly women–got looser and got up to dance. And that’s when it hit me, live music makes people happy. And alcohol makes people less inhibited (or me, anyway) and freer to shake their booty. I watched these women strutting and waving their arms, and I knew exactly how they felt–free of judgement and inspired to move with the beat. It was beautiful. One of them even snuck onto the stage, dancing behind the band members while they played, and waving to her two friends beside me. It was hilarious.

My husband isn’t a big dancer, so I just bounced around (a lot) in my seat, clapping, shouting and waving my arms in between sips of a Cabernet or Pouilly Fume. I contemplated getting up and dancing with the gals who bonded as they boogied, but decided to stay in my seat. Music and wine. It was just pure fun.

by Meg Akabas

Did I have the “drinking” talk with my kids?  No, I did not.

You may find that shocking since I am a mother of four and a parenting consultant. Let me explain.

If we had sat down and talked to our kids when they were age 14 (or 13, or 16) about drinking responsibly, I’m convinced that it wouldn’t have done a bit of good. As with any other topic, if you wait to talk to your kids about something until they are grown, it’s really too late.

Teaching our children about restraint has been a cornerstone of our parenting philosophy since day one. Research shows that fostering self-discipline in age-appropriate ways early and often is the best way to end up with kids (and ultimately grown-ups) who can control their impulses. And, studies show that teaching children self-discipline generally produces better-behaved and more successful kids.

Babies are not born with self-control; cognitive scientists say that practicing restraint from a young age can significantly improve a person’s ability to curb impulses later in life. My husband and I guided this process, giving our children opportunities to develop self-control by having them experience waiting, sharing, and not always getting everything they wanted (yes, disappointment is OK!).

For example, you could foster restraint using our method of resisting demands for toys and other things by creating a gift list for each of your kids.  When your children see something they want, tell them that you will put it on the list of potential gifts for his or her next birthday or for holiday (whichever is coming up sooner).  When you return home, in fact, write the item on his/her gift list.  The list will satisfy their immediate craving. Then, when birthdays and holidays roll around, they will know what to request from grandparents and other relatives when asked what they want.

However, we found with our kids that often, well before the gift-giving occasion did roll around, even on occasion by the next time we looked at the list to add a suggestion, more than half of the items on the list were already out of favor!  The kids could actually see on their own how much their wants were mere whims that changed even before the item could be acquired. This delayed gift plan was one of many strategies we used to foster self-control in our children.

We also tried our best to be models of restraint and moderation ourselves by keeping an appropriate voice volume, choosing our words carefully, conserving materials, exercising, eating well, and being frugal. (I know – it sounds demanding…it is.)  Even though my husband and I are far from perfect, it seems to have made an impression on our kids, who all appear to be quite self-disciplined as teenagers and young adults.

So, instead of the “drinking talk,” we’ve had discussions (not lectures) about restraint in general on an ongoing basis. We’ve helped our kids to develop self-control in all aspects of life, and made our best effort to model moderation ourselves.  All this superseded the need for a discussion about drinking.

Don’t get me wrong; I distinctly remember telling my kids somewhere along the way about the health benefits and risks of drinking, the absolute, hands-down, non-negotiable rule of never getting into a car with someone behind the wheel who has been drinking, and the dangers of excessive drinking (sometimes fatal) associated with hazing. But, these were discussions that came up at various critical times and special situations (before prom night, before leaving for college) as a reminder of what we had already taught them.

“Everything in moderation” is what we have instilled in our children. And, that goes for alcohol as well. It has worked for us for two reasons: the fact that my children have grown up in New York City and don’t drive is a salient factor. The other factor is that there is no history of alcoholism or any sort of addictive behavior in either my family or my husband’s.  So, for us, moderation has been a strong enough warning. Other parents would need to alter their message to suit their particular situation.

Nevertheless, as a parenting skills educator, my advice to other parents is that your attitude and approach to teaching your kids about drinking should be the same as all other things you teach your children. In short, you must start young and it should be a part of overall values you instill in your children. My point is that a “talk” just isn’t going to cut it as they head off to their first party.

What is my own relationship to drinking?  I have a glass of wine at the very end of most days for enjoyment and as a health measure (though the jury is still out on this one). I admit — wine and cheese are actually my two favorite food indulgences (even over chocolate)! Sure, there are times when I have to resist a second or third glass of wine (or piece of cheese); at those times, a little voice thankfully reminds me what I’ve hammered into my kids — you know — restraint….

Meg Akabas is the founder of New York City-based Parenting Solutions, a consultancy designed to help parents discover the joy in parenting, and the author of 52 Weeks of Parenting Wisdom: Effective Strategies for Raising Happy, Responsible Kids.   She regularly provides one-on-one consultations and leads workshops for parents and teachers on infancy through pre-adolescence.   

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by Helene Stapinski

Every year it’s the same drill. Our family and friends ask, “So what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” and we always answer, “Staying in our pajamas.”

It wasn’t always that way.

Years ago, back in the early 90s, we tried to go out. We really did.

There were the parties, where people either threw up or passed out, or both. We tried parties at our place, but people either threw up or passed out, or both.

There was the time I tried to go to Times Square, and had to maneuver through the underground subway tunnels to get by the police barricades and drunken fools lining the streets. There was the year we went for a fancy prix fixe dinner in SoHo. We got dressed up and drank champagne and blew noise makers and had a fun time. But when we got the bill, we felt like patsies.

There was the night we went out with my best friend Sara and had a good time. But on the way home, a belligerent drunk called my husband an asshole.

My husband, who never loses his temper, lost his temper. He grabbed the guy by the lapels and threw him on the hood of a car right there on Sixth Avenue, as I stood there screaming. All the guy really needed was a gentle push and he would have gone down; he was that plastered.

That was the last time we ever went out for New Year’s Eve. Sara still hasn’t recovered. And neither have I.

My husband and I like to drink. We consider ourselves professionals. Experts, if you will. We go to the oldest, most sophisticated bars and hotel lounges to sip $15 martinis. We love to make cocktails at home in Brooklyn — complicated creations involving absinthe and orange blossom water and maraschino cherries (not all inthe same drink usually).

But we know how to hold our liquor. We know when we’ve had enough, and we don’t pick fights with people on the street.

New Year’s Eve is amateur night. The streets and bars and restaurants and cabs are filled with people who don’t don’t know what they’re doing, and who don’t usually drink — or drink Schlitz out of a beer bong maybe. They’re the people who wear baseball caps instead of neckties to those sophisticated lounges and talk too loudly at the bar.

These people are not serious drinkers like we are. They don’t appreciate a finely made ice cube or a high-end, meaty olive. New Year’s Eve — much like St. Patrick’s Day — is their night. We leave it to them. Bottoms up. Cin-cin.

For the past two decades, we have refused to leave the house on New Year’s Eve. (Just as I refuse to go into Manhattan on St. Patrick’s Day). We put on our flannels, turn on some cocktail music, then have a couple of Old Fashioneds. We make kid cocktails for our children – orange juice, ginger ale and maraschino cherries in tiki mugs. Then whip up a cheese fondue, followed by a chocolate fondue, then drink a little bit more. Some champagne or an after-dinner snort perhaps.

Dick Clark is too depressing. And Carson Daly? No thanks. We watch Woody’s Allen’s love letter to 1940s New York, “Radio Days,” which ends with a touching New Year’s Eve moment on the roof of one of our favorites, the King Cole Bar. The best scene, though, is when  one of the characters runs out of the house in his boxers, terrorizing the neighborhood with a meat cleaver.

“That’s what Daddy is like when we go out on New Year’s Eve,” I tell the kids. They laugh and laugh.

We don’t wait for the ball to drop, and are in deep REM by midnight.  I go to sleep slightly toasted and listen as the fireworks and horns in the harbor blend into my pleasant dreams, ushering in another new year.

Note: This post originally appeared in 2010.

Helene Stapinski is the author of the bestselling memoir Five-Finger Discount: A Crooked Family History, and Baby Plays Around: A Love Affair, with Music.  She has written articles for The New York Times, New York magazine, Food & Wine, Travel & Leisure and Salon. To read other essays written by Helene Stapinski, click here.

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by Pat 

I remember the day my daughter told me her big secret.  I was holding her forehead and combing her hair through my fingers as she threw up in the downstairs bathroom. Earlier that morning, I had opened the door to Lizzy’s electric blue bedroom and was instantly enveloped in the chaos of her 18-year-old life.

Kurt Cobain hangs askew on the wall opposite her bed. Glossy Smirnoff vodka ads border the walls, and well-posed beauties from her boarding school in Connecticut glisten from her bookshelves and dresser.

Gently rubbing her feet to wake her, I half ask, half say, “You’re not up yet Dolly? You have to be to work in half an hour.”

Lying on top of her covers, half-clothed, exquisitely beautiful, eyes fluttering open and shut, she stretches out her legs and pulls a sheet over her eyes. Slowly nodding her head, licking her lips, she answers, “Hi, Mommy. I know, I’m getting up.”

As I walk back upstairs from her basement bedroom, I begin the mental checklist a mother of three can’t avoid. It’s summer and while the relief from the academic schedule is welcome, the vigilance required overseeing the lives of two teenage girls and one little boy in a free form summer is overwhelming. I get busy with morning chores. But really, I’m just waiting. Waiting to hear the thud of foot-fall from bed to bathroom, the opening of dresser drawers, any subtle auditory sign that signals life is normal, as it should be for a brilliant teenage girl in the summer of her eighteenth year. I drink coffee, unload the dishwasher, and dump laundry from washer to dryer. But what I’m really attuned to is the waiting. I’m waiting for her day to begin.

Ten minutes later, I run downstairs to check that my girl is up. I see the light on underneath her bathroom door. I drum a little song with my fingernails on the door. “Are you okay, honey? It’s getting late.”

She answers in a horse whisper, “Mommy, I’m sick.” I gently push the door open a crack and peak inside. She’s kneeling over the toilet with her head resting on her arms. I kneel down next to her, and scoop up her thick, blonde hair. I hold her sticky forehead in my cool hand.

“You sick, baby girl?” I ask in my old, worn out, baby talk Mama Bear voice.

“Yes, Mommy. I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong, Dolly, did you have too much to drink?” The question is asked in the silly Mama Bear voice. It’s a voice we both recognize as one that asks hard questions. Questions no mother should have to ask. It’s a tender, leftover trinket from a time when problems were very small. A voice invented for queries about a choice of tomato soup or macaroni and cheese.

“Mommy, I think I have a problem.”

“What’s the matter?” I whisper.

“I can’t stop drinking,” my beloved daughter confesses.

With that answer my world changes. With that answer, a piece in a four-year puzzle silently drops into place. There’s a metaphoric exhale in this answer. An answer that is only obvious in hindsight, and one that holds a difficult, frightening, unplanned for, unfair, tragic, humbling, reality. It’s an answer that will shape my future life.

It’s an answer that is perhaps the first honest thing my daughter has uttered in four years. And because it is the truth, the ugly, awful, embarrassing, devastating, life-threatening truth, I can finally exhale.

by Caren Osten Gerszberg

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It’s everything cozy—autumn’s chunky sweaters, deep red wine and warm cider, hearty food, a roaring fire and most of all, close family and friends—jammed into one wonderful day.

I cook for days, mostly alone, and with little stress develop a fairly traditional menu, including an array of dishes that I know most at our table—foreign, health-conscious and kids included—will enjoy. With abandon, I sauté and carmelize, roast and bake and love practically every minute of it. Just like my mother once did.

This year, however, Thanksgiving will be different–a sort of unfortunate transition–as it’ll be the first one without either of my parents present. My father passed away six years ago, and my mother, who is still alive, is not invited. It’s not to say that I don’t want her here, because I do. But I’m choosing not to have her join because her acute anxiety, depression, and alcohol problem have reached such an intense level that I don’t feel like subjecting myself, my family and our friends to her behavior. It may sound cold, but truthfully, I am full of sadness about it and not sure if it’ll feel like a relief or a gaping hole come next Thursday.

This year, I will celebrate a version of Thanksgiving with my mother—one day early. My husband, kids and I will go to the assisted living community where she lives and celebrate with her on Wednesday. I’m not sure that she’ll notice or care that she’s not with us on the actual day. But all I’ll have to do is remember the difficulty of a previous thanksgiving to remind myself that I’m doing the right thing.

This is how it went previously.

Thanksgiving arrived, and although I wondered if my 24-pound turkey, which I’d named Matilda, would ever actually be done (she took about 6 hours), my hopes were high for a lovely day. My husband and kids played basketball out front in our driveway, and my dog trailed me, sensing when I was going to use the turkey baster and hoping she’d get to lick a drip of anything meat-related. Following an urge to blast some loud music, I decided to be a bit zen and put on Mozart instead of Dave Matthews. The day was going without a hitch.

And then, my mother arrived. At 77, she looked good physically, and I was glad to see her. But the predictable was only moments away.

“Can I please have a glass of wine?” she asked.

“You can have one glass, with dinner, so just wait until then,” I answered.

My mother, a French native who has always loved wine, grew to love it too much about ten years ago, and her love morphed into an addiction which continues to plague me at every event—both big and small, mundane and celebratory.

Moments later, a friend chased me through the kitchen, clutching a glass and obviously uncomfortable as my mother followed closely behind her.

“Here, Caren,” she said. “This belongs to your cousin but your mother was drinking it when he got up to go to the bathroom. I thought you may want to know.”

I looked at my mother-turned-child, and like the stern authority I needed to be—lest she get drunk, slur her words, and become an embarrassment to her grandchildren—I told her: “NO! You can have some wine with dinner and you need to wait.”

We sat down at the table. She kicked back a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and without hesitation, asked for more. Her request for more wine was relentless and continued throughout the meal. And dessert. While we talked Thanksgiving trivia and my son told some turkey jokes, friends began passing the bottles to the other end of the table, trying to make the temptation a little less for my mom. She followed me into the kitchen, asking again and again, until finally, I picked up the phone.

“I need a taxi. How long will it take?” I inquired, trying to breathe deeply and keep calm.

Ten minutes later, I ushered her into a taxi. She complained that she didn’t want to leave, but I stood firm. I was just trying to cut my losses before it got worse for both of us.

Once she was gone, I could finally relax, but not without feeling brokenhearted. I wanted my mother to be here, to share in a beautiful family tradition that we’d always shared–despite her not being born in this country. For years, she had seamlessly hosted a house full of people, where being grateful went along with a table laden with scrumptious food.

But she’s not the adoring mother I knew. I miss that mother. But I still love Thanksgiving.

Caren Osten Gerszberg, a freelance journalist, is co-editor of Drinking Diaries: Women Serve Their Stories Straight Up, just named one of the “Best Bathroom Books 2012“ by The New York Times.

by Peggy Gennatiempo

“He’s missing!” exclaimed the caller.

“Missing?” I repeated. ” When did you last see him?”

“He went out with a group of students last night, but didn’t show up at class this morning.”

For the caller, the new director of a U.S. university program in Rome, a “no show” for an early morning course put her in a panic. As a Consular officer in the U.S. Embassy, however, such inquiries were routine for me and my staff.

I went through standard procedure with the caller, asking for the missing person’s name, birth date and physical description. I assured her we would check with local authorities and hospitals and then provide an update.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “This is not unusual. These situations happen and your student will probably appear later today.“

“Do you think so? I’m responsible for a group of about thirty students,” she said.

When Americans go overseas to Italy, Spain, Greece and other countries where alcohol is available for minors under 21, they sometimes over indulge. I explained this to her and assured her that in most cases, the missing person would show up.

A few hours later, the university director called.

“You were right,” she said, “he came to class this afternoon, pale and tired. He said he partied hard then overslept. The result of a few drinks too many.”

I told her that a local police chief and I brief US college students attending programs in Rome with a Power Point presentation called “Staying Safe Overseas,” which focuses on safety issues including the dangers of alcohol and drug abuse. She agreed that would be helpful and we set a date for a presentation to her group.

During my 26-year career as a State Department Foreign Service officer assigned to U.S. Embassies and Consulates abroad, I learned to deal with consequences of intoxicated young Americans and adults as well. Most of the time, drinking at clubs resulted in hangovers and calls to the Consular Section for help with “missing” students.

But there were also serious accidents, and even deaths due to alcohol abuse.  After an evening out, a female student fell from a bridge over the Tiber River. Luckily, she landed on the embankment at the river’s edge and escaped with a concussion and broken bones–but was alive.  Not so lucky was a male student in Spain, whose body was discovered in a stream after a drinking binge with friends.

The stories were grim: young Americans plunged to their deaths from balconies in Spain and Mexico; empty bottles were later found in their rooms.  Inebriated college students trespassing on private property for a nighttime view of an Italian town were shot at by a man who thought they were would-be robbers lurking outside his home. One of them was killed.

Adults, too, crossed the line and paid with their lives for a drink too many. A casino winner on a cruise ship who drank one too many returned to his stateroom and decided to sit on the balcony handrail, only to tumble into the Aegean Sea at night. Another drowning death occurred when a woman opted for a jet ski ride after heavy drinking at lunch. The jet ski was found at sea and her body, on the shore of a nearby island.

For a Consular officer notifying the next of kin of the death of a loved one was an emotional challenge each time.  We worked with families and funeral homes on repatriation of remains, possessions and prepared the documentary report of death of a US citizen abroad. I often wondered if the strict drinking age requirement in the US is partially to blame. Why are some of our citizens under 21 so ill prepared to handle the freedom of consuming alcohol legally while studying or traveling abroad? Should our approach to alcohol be so restrictive?  Is there a way to make drinking not such a “forbidden fruit?”

Guiding, teaching and discussing alcohol–its effects on our bodies and judgment–is important. And so is enabling our youth to handle the choice of consumption in a rational way.  The sudden freedom to order a drink in Italy, Spain, Greece, Mexico led to tragedies I observed first hand. The youth of these nations generally did not have the issues ours do with drinking.  Perhaps because many are introduced to wine as teens during family meals.

I hope families and university authorities can better prepare students before semester abroad programs to ensure they return home safely with great memories and cultural experiences, rather than being repatriated in a casket or urn.

Peggy Gennatiempo worked in the U.S. Department of State from 1985 to 2011, serving as a foreign consular officer in Guadalajara, Washington DC, Rome, Mexico, Athens, Caracas and Madrid. Highlights included meeting Presidents Carter, Clinton, Bush 41 and Bush 43, and acting as an interpreter/control officer for Mrs. Barbara Bush.

She is very pleased that her daughter Liza, born in Seattle, experienced living overseas in Mexico and Italy, and visited her at all her other posts from the time she began college.  

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Bartender-in-Training

by Nicole Gerszberg

Clink. The ice cube falls into the Moroccan drinking glass with precision. With another two in its wake, they form a melody noticed only by my 11-year-old ears. I may only be the bartender’s apprentice, aiming to please my dad and his amateur bartending skills, but I take my job seriously as I slide the glass over and fill the next one with three more cubes. Clink. Clink. Clink. After filling four of the seven glasses on the counter, I begin to lose interest and gaze out the window to where my grandmother sets the table. She moves gracefully like the ballerina she once was, sipping her glass of wine, folding napkins, then sipping again. The white wine vanishes from her glass by the time I’m back on task.

There’s something wonderful about being an 11-year-old bartender-in-training. Wine bottles and liquor are not yet a route to rebellion, a thirst quencher or tempting escape from life’s trivial (or not so trivial) problems. For me, the tall, lean bottles are like any other, filling glasses and then thrown in the trash alongside the orange juice container and dirty plastic cups. Clink.

My role as junior bartender offers a tempting reward–a cocktail of my very own consisting primarily of that one ingredient an 11-year-old simply cannot resist: sugar. I pay little attention to the castoff limes strewn across the kitchen counter or the big bottle of cachaça (sugar cane liquor) my father pours generously into each glass except mine.  Instead, I focus intently on the massive sugar container in its utmost glory, filled to the brim with white, granulated specks of heaven. Just looking it at makes me feel buzzed. This is what a caipirinha is all about, right? Making life a little bit sweeter.

My grandmother glides into the kitchen, the smell of musky French perfume pours in after her, oozing over to the counter where she looks closely at our creations. I cannot recall how her face may have looked as she read the label on the cachaça bottle. Thirsty? Maybe.

Clink.  All I have to do is plop a few more ice cubes into the last glass and I can finally claim my prize: the perfect combination of fresh, pulpy lime juice, a dash of water, and several small mounds of sugar. This caipirinha is special, without a doubt. Topped off with a couple extra sugar spoonfuls and a lime slice on the rim, it is served to me in a “grown-up” drinking glass embellished in a deep purple and gold motif. It rests on the tray along with the less sweet, liquor-filled drinks, clinking with the other glasses just the same as during our family toast.

We celebrate life with tiny tastes from Moroccan glasses. I eagerly sip, savoring the sweet aftertaste, enjoying it just as much, if not more, than the adults around the table. Once each ice cube melts away and every last morsel of sugar is avidly slurped, I place my glass down, perfectly content. My sweet tooth fulfilled–all else goes unnoticed, even the sweet smell of my grandmother’s perfume as she returns inside for another drink to satisfy her insatiable thirst. If only sugar were enough to make her life the slightest bit sweeter.

Nicole Gerszberg is a sophomore at Wesleyan University.

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by Nancy Kelly

Last night it was rainy, dark, and windy…the perfect time to get out of my wet clothes and into a dry martini, as Robert Benchley classically observed. Since I was in my mid-twenties, after spending the teething phase of my drinking life dabbling in frozen margaritas, strawberry daiquiris, and fuzzy navels, my libation of choice has been the gin martini…very dry, very cold, with olives. Up or on the rocks, I confess does not matter to me.

The martini is at once stand-offish and seductive. Nothing to my mind better signifies grown-up cool than the iconic stemmed glass, with its crystal-clear liquid and single maiden olive pierced by a well-honed pick. No other beverage beguiles you into gazing across the table as you sip, head cast down as if you were reading the juniper berries, half-lidded eyes turned up, at your drinking partner. Faster than sound across water, a message sent martini-mail reaches its mark before you set down the cocktail glass.

For a good many of the years I’ve been sipping, the gin martini was considered a fusty relic of a bygone time, especially by my generation. First the Chablis and chardonnay crowds spurned it; then the single-malt snobs ignored it, and of course the red-wine health nuts regarded it with morally superior contempt. But then it got discovered by hip twenty- and thirty-something’s. Maybe Mad Men revived it. Maybe the Absolut (vile stuff) marketing campaign had something to do with it. I don’t know, and I don’t care.

What I do care about though is that all of a sudden my elegant, high-toned, high-test cocktail starting arriving in birdbath-sized glasses. I suppose to justify the $15-plus price tags the bars began charging, but, really, who needs a six-ounce martini? It won’t stay cold, unless you chug it. It won’t retain that slam, bang, tang that made Sinatra and others believers. No, what it will do is get your 50+-year metabolism drunk… fast. Which isn’t the point. A martini should insinuate itself into your faculties…loosening your judgment and your standards maybe just a little, putting you at the brink of misbehavior but letting you stay in charge. One more thing:  A “very dry martini” is not code for “skip the vermouth.” That drop or two (at most) is essential to the chemistry of the elixir. Without it, you’ve got a drink but you don’t have a martini. Downing a big gulp of gin is not part of martini culture.

And while I’m on the subject, neither is calling any vile concoction you care to dream up a “martini” just because you have poured the stuff into a defenseless cocktail glass. My idea of being outré with a martini is substituting a pickled onion for the olive, and I have the decency and sufficient respect for the mother of all cocktails to call this drink what it is: A Gibson. But instead we find chocolate martinis. Sour apple martinis. Mango martinis. There’s even some ghastly creation called the “breakfast martini” that requires the addition of orange marmalade. If I want breakfast, I’ll have Cheerios; if I want a martini, I’ll wait till 5 p.m. and then have gin and a whisper of vermouth…hold the fruit, all of it.

And then there are the gin snobs. Oh, for the days when Beefeater reigned supreme. Now in addition to the tasty but potent Tanqueray, there’s Tanqueray Ten (premium priced, of course, but not discernibly different from the regular) and Tanqueray Rangpur, flavored with exotic limes (and quite serviceable in a Gimlet, but that’s it), Bombay Sapphire (a higher proof and price) competes with its poor sister in the green bottle, and the liquor shelves are choked with all manner of small-batch, premium-priced infusions, each competing for the discerning drinker’s palate. Don’t get me started on the bubble-gum and whipped-cream flavored vodkas.  Give me plain old Gordon’s any day. Just try ordering Gordon’s in a swanky bar or restaurant and watch the smirks and assurances that “we don’t serve that” begin. Truth is, I used to be a Tanqueray girl, but as I got older I found I didn’t need the extra proof, so clean, crisp Gordon’s does me just fine.

All of this is my longwinded way of saying I can hardly wait for the martini craze to end and for things to get back to normal…me and the ghosts of Nick, Nora, and Mame bellied up to the bar, Dave McKenna at the piano.

Nancy Kelly likes to look at life through the lens of spinsterhood, meaning she proudly asks that people call her “Miss.” She’s lived her entire life without the safety net (financial or social) of a spouse or partner, and at 58, wants folks to know she’s made it…really and truly, “her” way.

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by Marcia DeSanctis

I remember, once, a bourbon phase. With one man, eons gone, it was our drink. He thought I was at my tough and tender best on Maker’s Mark, neat, so I obliged by becoming the person he conjured up. That first swallow burned slowly, like passion should, and each sip wore down the sharp angles of my New England diction like a stream on granite. His many jagged edges were made supple by bourbon, too, and we both enjoyed the transformation into softer version of ourselves. When I saw him – us – through the liquid’s amber lens, everything was bathed in a glow, or at least so I imagined. But it turned out this relationship needed even more artificial lighting than the bourbon could offer, and when he left, I pined not only for him but for me, the girl I was.

One of alcohol’s most beguiling qualities is how it allows us to be shapeshifters, actors taking on complicated roles in the cinematic version of our lives. It can define, or even accessorize a relationship, put the color in it, give it its tagline and make it entirely ours. For anyone who has ever attended alcohol-counseling sessions for or with a loved one, this is precisely what can make it so dangerous, as well. Rituals around drinking, for problem drinkers, become habits that embed in their circadian rhythms. Even those two glasses of white wine for the mother fixing dinner can make the hour of drudgery seem like aperitifs on the Quai d’Orsay. The transformational aspect of that artifice can make the act of giving it up feel like sacrifice.

A specific drink shared with someone can imbue that relationship with personality, gives it its complexion, its temperament. Of course, marketers have been onto this since the dawn of time, or at least since young men discovered that a certain beer can give you the pluck to approach the ice-queen at a party, or that brandy could make a woman loosen up and unleash whatever was bound-up in her corset. I’m not sure what the shadowy Sandeman figure was doing in those old posters, but it was enough to see that he was cloaked in mystery, a quality which could transfer to those who dared to drink port.

In all things alcohol, I’m fickle. I don’t have a drink. I’m not a vodka and tonic girl, or a red wine sipper. I like everything but prefer nothing, and so many of my friendships have their own signature drink. I have my gin and tonic girlfriend. We love to have one in the summer, at the end of steamy days filled with work, carpooling, gardening, or whatever it is that gives us that particular exhaustion on July evenings. The G & T is the punctuation on those days, as they have always been, on colonial verandas, or on porches overlooking a beach somewhere, when the wicker furniture still retains its warmth from all-day sun. We deserve that drink, we say, as I squeeze an extra lime into mine, listening for our kids safe inside. The gin and tonic makes us nostalgic for these evenings, as if we are already twenty years older and looking back. I always think of my grandfather clinking his glass of Beefeaters and Schweppes on summer evenings way back when. With my friend, the cold cocktail connects me to my past, my future, trips I want to take to Pondicherry, or time I spent on a terrace in Singapore watching the sun lower on the Malaccan Straits. Together, we are mothers and dreamers, allowing ourselves a simple, sacred ritual.

Once, a friend arrived at my house on a fall afternoon with a fifth of Grey Goose in one hand and a bottle of Rose’s Lime juice in the other. That day, our gimlet-soaked collusion was born. Sweet, sticky, sour, the citrusy delight makes us adventurous throwbacks. We sidle back a few decades, would light up a Kent if we even smoked, and our lipstick leaves a smudge on the glass, as if we do it on purpose for someone to moon over the next day. With gimlets, we are girly, and we gossip ruthlessly. We joke about the husbands we love while preparing dinner for them. The Rose’s is the candy, and the vodka shatters it with a hammer. Joined in a glass, our gimlet is tough and sweet, like us. Or at least, how we want to be, then and there, together.

A former colleague and I meet once in a blue moon at a bar in New York. I never know what or whom to expect as time moves on. Would he look older this time? Will he think the same of me? We met in Moscow decades ago, so Stoli was our drink, straight-up with a twist of lemon. Our tradition is as comfortable as old boots and as we raise our glasses, we’ve been known to crack up, as in “Here we are again, with our vodka, and look how many years have passed.” We reminisce about the good old days of Gorbachev, boot rations, and getting our phones tapped by the KGB, but mostly we catch up. I’m focused and direct on vodka, a real live adult, but it can be sad at these reunions to feel the intimate drama of time passing. I want him to think I’m tougher than I am, so no midlife drama allowed. Such histrionics wouldn’t represent what we have, or had, in a friendship – two people living parallel lives, raising families, working our tails off, ultimately never changing, or trying our best. Na zdorovye.

I have my champagne friend, too. In my Connecticut kitchen, we are as far as the moon from the grands boulevards, and sometimes, like when tree falls in a storm and cuts off the power on our dirt road, it can be pretty isolating. But I always keep a few good bottles in the basement fridge, and it is our unspoken pact never to drink anything else when we get together. We lift my Baccarat flutes, presents from my wedding in Paris, and though our toast is silent, it is not wordless, since we both are screaming, “We still know how to live.”

My college roommates and I assemble once a year, usually somewhere warm. Even if it’s chilly we order Planters Punch and some of us can still pack them away like spring-break sophomores. I still have no idea what goes in that drink, but it’s pink and fruity and for the group, transporting. When a round arrives on a tray, with the pineapple and the condensation, it seals the occasion, the annual ceremony of our group – all alive, all healthy, another year later. None of us wishes we were twenty again, but we enjoy being reminded of it. One trip, three of us sat with sand in our flip-flops at the outdoor airport waiting for a puddle jumper. We pounded back one last drink, lifting the glass to the people we were, and still are.

I drink everything with my husband from time to time, which makes sense because any marriage embodies all sorts of friendships. I’m glad that he’s not a martini-man or a micro-brew snob. When we drink alcohol, we both wear disguises. He’s a bit like me, and enjoys letting a drink and the moment define the mood. We’ll share a couple of Coronas out back, when we’re casual, relaxed, with no pressing family business. We’ll pour some red wine on occasion for dinner, very adult-like, and feel like we are running a pretty civilized home. If we go out, we’ll order a Marguerita. It always seems like the festive thing to do, dates being rare and all. I used to wimp out and ditch the salt, but no more, life is brief and Mexico is not getting any closer.

Recently, while out to dinner with him, I thought I might order a finger of bourbon. I always liked the way the dim bar lights pierced the glass with a shot of gold. I gave up the drinks’ languorous charms, because the guy I drank it with found it too easy to resist mine. To hell with him; he was bad news, and it was another lifetime ago. But the person I was, under that caramelized light….well maybe that’s someone my husband ought to know.

Marcia DeSanctis is a journalist and writer whose work has appeared in many publications, including Vogue, Departures, The New York Times Magazine, Recce, Best Women’s Travel Writing 2011, Best Travel Writing 2011 and Town & Country. She is currently working on a memoir about marriage. Formerly, she was a network news producer for ABC, NBC, CBS and Dow Jones. You can visit her at www.marciadesanctis.com.

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by Marcia DeSanctis
I remember, once, a bourbon phase. With one man, eons gone, it was our drink. He thought I was at my tough and tender best on Maker’s Mark, neat, so I obliged by becoming the person he conjured up. That first swallow burned slowly, like passion should, and each sip wore down the sharp angles of my New England diction like a stream on granite. His many jagged edges were made supple by bourbon, too, and we both enjoyed the transformation into softer version of ourselves. When I saw him – us – through the liquid’s amber lens, everything was bathed in a glow, or at least so I imagined. But it turned out this relationship needed even more artificial lighting than the bourbon could offer, and when he left, I pined not only for him but for me, the girl I was.
One of alcohol’s most beguiling qualities is how it allows us to be shapeshifters, actors taking on complicated roles in the cinematic version of our lives. It can define, or even accessorize a relationship, put the color in it, give it its tagline and make it entirely ours. For anyone who has ever attended alcohol-counseling sessions for or with a loved one, this is precisely what can make it so dangerous, as well. Rituals around drinking, for problem drinkers, become habits that embed in their circadian rhythms. Even those two glasses of white wine for the mother fixing dinner can make the hour of drudgery seem like aperitifs on the Quai d’Orsay. The transformational aspect of that artifice can make the act of giving it up feel like sacrifice.
A specific drink shared with someone can imbue that relationship with personality, gives it its complexion, its temperament. Of course, marketers have been onto this since the dawn of time, or at least since young men discovered that a certain beer can give you the pluck to approach the ice-queen at a party, or that brandy could make a woman loosen up and unleash whatever was bound-up in her corset. I’m not sure what the shadowy Sandeman figure was doing in those old posters, but it was enough to see that he was cloaked in mystery, a quality which could transfer to those who dared to drink port.
In all things alcohol, I’m fickle. I don’t have a drink. I’m not a vodka and tonic girl, or a red wine sipper. I like everything but prefer nothing, and so many of my friendships have their own signature drink. I have my gin and tonic girlfriend. We love to have one in the summer, at the end of steamy days filled with work, carpooling, gardening, or whatever it is that gives us that particular exhaustion on July evenings. The G & T is the punctuation on those days, as they have always been, on colonial verandas, or on porches overlooking a beach somewhere, when the wicker furniture still retains its warmth from all-day sun. We deserve that drink, we say, as I squeeze an extra lime into mine, listening for our kids safe inside. The gin and tonic makes us nostalgic for these evenings, as if we are already twenty years older and looking back. I always think of my grandfather clinking his glass of Beefeaters and Schweppes on summer evenings way back when. With my friend, the cold cocktail connects me to my past, my future, trips I want to take to Pondicherry, or time I spent on a terrace in Singapore watching the sun lower on the Malaccan Straits. Together, we are mothers and dreamers, allowing ourselves a simple, sacred ritual.
Once, a friend arrived at my house on a fall afternoon with a fifth of Grey Goose in one hand and a bottle of Rose’s Lime juice in the other. That day, our gimlet-soaked collusion was born. Sweet, sticky, sour, the citrusy delight makes us adventurous throwbacks. We sidle back a few decades, would light up a Kent if we even smoked, and our lipstick leaves a smudge on the glass, as if we do it on purpose for someone to moon over the next day. With gimlets, we are girly, and we gossip ruthlessly. We joke about the husbands we love while preparing dinner for them. The Rose’s is the candy, and the vodka shatters it with a hammer. Joined in a glass, our gimlet is tough and sweet, like us. Or at least, how we want to be, then and there, together.
A former colleague and I meet once in a blue moon at a bar in New York. I never know what or whom to expect as time moves on. Would he look older this time? Will he think the same of me? We met in Moscow decades ago, so Stoli was our drink, straight-up with a twist of lemon. Our tradition is as comfortable as old boots and as we raise our glasses, we’ve been known to crack up, as in “Here we are again, with our vodka, and look how many years have passed.” We reminisce about the good old days of Gorbachev, boot rations, and getting our phones tapped by the KGB, but mostly we catch up. I’m focused and direct on vodka, a real live adult, but it can be sad at these reunions to feel the intimate drama of time passing. I want him to think I’m tougher than I am, so no midlife drama allowed. Such histrionics wouldn’t represent what we have, or had, in a friendship – two people living parallel lives, raising families, working our tails off, ultimately never changing, or trying our best. Na zdorovye.
I have my champagne friend, too. In my Connecticut kitchen, we are as far as the moon from the grands boulevards, and sometimes, like when tree falls in a storm and cuts off the power on our dirt road, it can be pretty isolating. But I always keep a few good bottles in the basement fridge, and it is our unspoken pact never to drink anything else when we get together. We lift my Baccarat flutes, presents from my wedding in Paris, and though our toast is silent, it is not wordless, since we both are screaming, “We still know how to live.”
My college roommates and I assemble once a year, usually somewhere warm. Even if it’s chilly we order Planters Punch and some of us can still pack them away like spring-break sophomores. I still have no idea what goes in that drink, but it’s pink and fruity and for the group, transporting. When a round arrives on a tray, with the pineapple and the condensation, it seals the occasion, the annual ceremony of our group – all alive, all healthy, another year later. None of us wishes we were twenty again, but we enjoy being reminded of it. One trip, three of us sat with sand in our flip-flops at the outdoor airport waiting for a puddle jumper. We pounded back one last drink, lifting the glass to the people we were, and still are.
I drink everything with my husband from time to time, which makes sense because any marriage embodies all sorts of friendships. I’m glad that he’s not a martini-man or a micro-brew snob. When we drink alcohol, we both wear disguises. He’s a bit like me, and enjoys letting a drink and the moment define the mood. We’ll share a couple of Coronas out back, when we’re casual, relaxed, with no pressing family business. We’ll pour some red wine on occasion for dinner, very adult-like, and feel like we are running a pretty civilized home. If we go out, we’ll order a Marguerita. It always seems like the festive thing to do, dates being rare and all. I used to wimp out and ditch the salt, but no more, life is brief and Mexico is not getting any closer.
Recently, while out to dinner with him, I thought I might order a finger of bourbon. I always liked the way the dim bar lights pierced the glass with a shot of gold. I gave up the drinks’ languorous charms, because the guy I drank it with found it too easy to resist mine. To hell with him; he was bad news, and it was another lifetime ago. But the person I was, under that caramelized light….well maybe that’s someone my husband ought to know.
Marcia DeSanctis is a journalist and writer whose work has appeared in many publications, including Vogue, Departures, The New York Times Magazine, Recce, Best Women’s Travel Writing 2011, Best Travel Writing 2011 and Town & Country. She is currently working on a memoir about marriage. Formerly, she was a network news producer for ABC, NBC, CBS and Dow Jones. You can visit her at www.marciadesanctis.com.

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