by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

Okay, so I’m basing my lofty scientific title treatise purely on myself, but I truly believe this. Some are angry drunks, and for some, liquor brings on a crushing state of grief. You may hate yourself drunk, but personally I think I’m great fun, especially since I let loose so rarely. In fact, I know I’m that troubling kind of great fun. Proof: my three major relationships (including my current marriage) were each launched by my being a non-drinker having too much red wine around a formerly platonic pal.

My husband, an Aussie who (yes I will stereotype him here), because of his nationality can hold his liquor, loves to remind me of the salacious night we crossed the friend line. I had two glasses of red, nestled my head on his best-pal shoulders, kept telling him how fantastic his omelet-making ability was and lip-locked him before he could think straight.

My college ex-boyfriend, who I’m miraculously friends with again due to the magic of Facebook, remembers a pleasant shock that the career-focused School Union President he worked on campus lectures with was secretly such a floozy. Nothing like an empty hotel room and a complimentary bottle of wine meant for a celebrity speaker snowed out of Syracuse University for a whale of a time.

Now, I repeat–I am the textbook opposite of a lush. And when it comes to my marriage, I’ve been a pretty good girl.  If I drank too much of anything over the years it’s been Diet Coke and coffee. Overall, I’m proud to say I’m a boring, doting mom of a seven-year-old. A bender for me is more likely to involve a hunk of cake, or too many slices of rye bread.

Naturally though, especially during the holiday party season when even doting moms imbibe, my husband likes to be around me when there’s wine involved. He’ll sexually benefit then, not some fella who didn’t see it coming. This has worked for us quite well: We’ve been married for 12 years, and together since we were in our early 20’s.

But sometimes, especially when my British friends come to town, I worry all will go bust. Most overseas people visiting me in New York are from the poverty-jetset documentary world–people I met at some film festival. My husband, a musician with an insurance company day job, is bored by poverty-jetset schmoozing, an essential part of the documentary filmmaker job. If English documentarians are coming, he always implores me to leave him out of the plans, despite the risks. And the risks: Brits drink. Hard.

Even though I know damn well I should steer away from the alcohol that sporadically has done me in, like Madonna, I am that pathetic American who desperately wants to impress our friends across the pond. Who wants to be labeled a wuss by a hard-drinking Brit who can tease with such an adorable accent? They’re so fabulous! They gave us Shakespeare! And McVities Hobnobs!

The last time I was out with the Brits, I tried to keep to the addictive nibbles, but the bartender sized up big money from foreigners bent on a good time. He shook each of us up his   “signature” drink with a big splash of Chartreuse liqueur, and then he was doing buybacks because they were asking for more please, and suddenly I felt like someone had cast me loose from a drowning ship on a life raft that only maybe was going to make it. This was followed by me falling into a giant East Village puddle, arriving home to my husband and daughter sludgy as the Loch Ness monster. And that was followed by a completely motionless morning in bed with my smeary eyes scrunched shut. And then a teasing email from a fellow producer about how flirtatious I was with someone I had no memory of.

Getting this now? When I pretend I drink I always get drunk because I don’t drink.

So when I told my husband there was yet another British invasion of documentary friends this weekend, he looked worried, too.

I scanned the bar where we were to meet, anxious to see what poor soul could possibly get a little extra attention from me if I wasn’t careful. There was an attractive man of my pre-marriage “type” stationed on the end. God help him, I whispered to myself.

I did in fact have divine intervention, or at least a stroke of good old-fashioned luck. Ken, an old writer-friend of mine was, by sheer coincidence, on bartending duty. I was there early and could confess to my fellow American that I was a wuss of all drinking wusses, and he said he’d look out for me. He was soon pouring a glass of Merlot for my sexy sassy friend from London, a whip smart partying film producer Austin Powers would have killed to shag. Ah, the deep aroma of red. Such memories! He poured me a small bit to taste and I took a pretentious mouthful, then a swish.

“Brilliant,” I said and Ken smiled, in on the drinking-sophisticate ruse.

My friends looked pleased. Ken slipped me some water to be on the safe side.

A few hours later, although I excused myself to the Ladies with a slightly naughty step to my walk, I swear I made it home with dignity.

Laurie Gwen Shapiro is a the author of four humorous novels including The Unexpected Salami and The Matzo Ball Heiress and is an award-winning filmmaker. She co-directed the IFC Films documentary Keep the River on Your Right: Modern Cannibal Tale,  for which she shared an Independent Spirit Award. She was co-producer and shares a “Film By” credit on the rip-roaring documentary Finishing Heaven which aired this year on HBO. She is currently at work on a new novel and film. For more info., please visit her website.

by Marika Brussel

The room spun as if I were doing a million pirouettes. My fingers and lips were rubbery and only vaguely recognizable as my own. From the other room came echoes of voices, laughter, the skunky aroma of pot. The floor was cold and dirty. I closed my eyes again to feel the spin.

I started dancing when I was three, and by the time I was thirteen I was dancing at least five hours a day, six days a week. I loved it. I loved the sweat and the blisters and the discipline. I loved the mirror and starvation. What I didn’t love was that the competition made it hard to have real friends. I liked the older kids, the 20-year-olds. They had it all together, I thought. They lived on their own and didn’t have homework. They seemed to be able to be friendly with each other. With me, they acted like I belonged.

In the ballet world, you’re judged on how good you are, not on how pretty or how smart; it’s all about talent and your potential for a successful career. I was good. And because of that, I could be included. I see that now with my own students. If a kid is talented, the older people hang out with her, talk with her, treat her as an equal. The lesser-skilled kids have to hang out with their own. It is a hierarchy based largely on ego.

It was autumn, and the new schedule had just been posted. I was in Advanced, with the older kids, including Frankie, who was about 19 and whose sweat smelled like sandalwood. ”Josh is having a party,” he told me after class, as I uncapped my Diet Pepsi and gulped. “You should come.”

Soda spilled down my chin, leaving sticky tracks on my neck. He wiped it off with one finger. It confused me.

“Okay,” I said, as if it didn’t matter at all, as if I always went to adult parties by myself.

“See you there,” he said, licking his finger and smiling.

Josh lived in the Bronx, a borough of the city I had never been to. I took the subway, creaky and hot, up past Yankee Stadium, a ride that seemed to take forever. I dressed in tight Jordache jeans, and a shirt that reminded me of sugar. The streets in the Bronx were long, wide and empty.

You may be wondering about my parents. Me too. They were pretty hands off.

The apartment was easy to find. Dancers leaned against the railing of the fire escape, smoking cigarettes and drinking from plastic cups. A few people nodded to me as I walked down the hallway looking for Frankie. He wasn’t there, but a tall boy I knew from class put a plastic cup in my hand and smiled.

I sniffed the drink. It smelled kind of like Passover wine, but stronger, less fruity. I dipped my tongue in. Wow! It was just like Manischevitz, but with a kick. Later, I learned that it was Sloe gin, but at the time it was liquid confidence.

With each sip I become enboldened. ”Where’s Frankie?” I asked a girl in the Company.

She laughed. “He and Bethie went into the bathroom about an hour ago.”

I took another sip. And another. And pretty soon it didn’t matter where Frankie was. The room took on a calm echo, and I felt fine, just fine.

“Hey,” the tall boy said. “You okay?”

“Great.” I steadied myself on his arm. Boy, he was tall.

“Wanna go look around?”

Before I knew it we were kissing, hard and deep, in the other room. I didn’t feel anything other than his tongue winding itself around mine. It wasn’t bad. It was fine. Everything was fine. My body felt nothing. Alcohol had made me numb in every way. I kept touching the waist of my jeans to make sure they were still on.

After about a hundred years we pulled away from each other. I squinted. He was older than I thought, maybe 25. I was 13, and my body looked younger.

“Want more?” he asked.

I stared.

He held up a cup.

“Sure,” I said, lowering myself to the floor. The room spun when I closed my eyes, but I was so tired. The tall guy didn’t come back.  The next day I found out that he’d passed out in the living room. I also found out he was gay, but that’s another story. And not mine.

Eventually someone put me in a cab. I remember sitting in the back seat as the city whirled by me. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wished I could stay in the taxi forever, as the city passed me by in a tornado of color and sound, and I was safe, enclosed, and  all alone.

Marika Brussel is a dancer who trained at the Joffrey Ballet School. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Sarah Lawrence College and currently dances with Napales Ballet Theater in San Francisco.

by Laurie Lindeen

I grew up in the 1970′s in Madison, Wisconsin–number one party town in the “If it feels good, do it” state. Being able to drink with the big boys was a cultural expectation:

“So here’s to sister Laurie, sister Laurie, sister Laurie. Here’s to sister Laurie she’s with us right now. So drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker…” At sixteen, I was doing everything within my power not to puke up the Pabst Blue Ribbon I guzzled in front of everyone who was anyone in my high school. The beer tasted like it smelled, and I wasn’t good at drinking yet, so my stomach lurched and my throat constricted. But I couldn’t boot in front of everyone; I’d never live that one down.

By the time I was in college, I had gotten pretty good in the drinking arena. I threw up a lot in the dormitory bathroom in the wee hours after overdrinking, and that probably saved me from alcohol poisoning.

After I dropped out of college for the umpteenth time, the only job that jived with my drinking habit was to play in a rock and roll band (of course there were many other forces driving me toward that career choice).

“You mean you’ve never tried Jagermeister?”  My bandmates and I stared at the British journalist in utter disbelief.  Someone–a drinker, no less–who’d never tried our black gold, our show business enabler, our nightcap du jour, Jagermeister?

That was then, this is now:  I’m the author of the memoir, Petal Pusher, a wife, and the mother of an eleven-year-old boy. I hold an MFA in creative writing, which I now teach.  I don’t get around much any more by choice and have tempered my wayward drinking.

Last spring, I was a literary guest at a charming small town Midwestern university. In the company of two talented writers—one, a poet, the other, a writer of fiction–we read, discussed the writer’s life, and spoke to classes. The college was old enough and the town small enough to inspire that feeling of being immersed in another era–a feeling I love.

After a fun day spent talking shop and fielding questions by on-fire up-and-coming writers, we’d unwind over a beer and cheese fries at said town’s campus watering hole, which also happened to be a sports bar during the ever-popular NCAA basketball tournaments.

As night two came to a close, and we were all scheduled to return to our homelands the following morning, one of our hosts muttered, while looking over our shoulders and rooting for Memphis, “I know this great seedy bar downtown.”

Maybe it was the sports bar thing, or the old rocker in me, or the tired busy mom sprung loose and basking in the glow of professional attention that made the idea of a seedy bar sound appealing. It had been some time since I’d been taken to a good seedy bar; I used to love them for the camaraderie amongst the regulars, as well as for the jukebox and décor.

It should be noted that I adore alcohol and nicotine, and for those reasons, I keep a tight reign on myself a majority of the time.

But that night I told myself, “When I drink, it’s not like I make bad choices that jeopardize my relationships, or anything.” (Never mind my weak justification, all that really needs to be said here is yes indeed, I was game.)

After endless glasses of strong ale and half a pack of American Spirits, our once high-brau/low-brau literary/cultural conversation became increasingly snarky and unintelligent. Fittingly the bar was named after an obscure lit. snob villain — was it Grendel?  And thankfully, it closed.

Safely re-deposited at our “guest” dorm,, I offered a hyper-enunciated “Goodnight” to my colleagues that I hoped said, “Really, I’m not that wasted,” and I closed my door behind me.

I couldn’t make it to the toilet fast enough. A silver pipe attached to the throne jutted out of the wall, my knees dug into institutional bathroom tile, and I heaved and hurled off and on until early morning. When the polite graduate student who would be driving me to the airport knocked on my door, I was still shaky and uncertain as to whether or not I could hold it together for the forty-minute trip.

Ghostly, dizzy, and still churning, I gripped the dashboard. After five minutes I rasped, “Can you please pull over now?” How cute is that: Mrs. Roper ruping on the side of the road after tying one on in a seedy bar with a pretentious name. This scene occurred twice.

The rosy shades of embarrassment and self-disgust brought color back to my face and I apologized and over-joked for the remainder of the ride. Poor guy—my driver was so cute; he actually tried to make me feel better by claiming that he’d been in the same predicament earlier that week.

After checking in for my flight, trembling and pale, I administered to myself a steady stream of Tums, Pepto, a plain McDonald’s cheeseburger and diet Coke, just like I had in the old days.

By boarding time, my crisis was under control, though I looked and smelled like a middle-aged celebrity DUI mug shot minus the celebrity.

Lesson learned: There’s nothing cute, charming, or witty about a middle-aged drunk writer. Sad, yet comforting realization: I don’t still have it in me.

In spite of the fact that I feel like I’m twenty-two on the inside–all wild, enthused, and energetic–I’m not. And I can’t party like I used to. That, I conclude with wary resignation, is a very good thing.

Laurie Lindeen is the author of Petal Pusher, A Rock and Roll Cinderella Story. She was the lead singer of Zuzu’s Petals. Her work has appeared in Rolling Stone’s anthology Altarockorama and the online magazine, The Morning News. Find her on the web at www.laurielindeen.com