by Kate Rockland

I am the mother to a very boisterous 11-month old. Before giving birth to my son, I was pregnant one other time which ended in miscarriage. With that pregnancy, I followed all the rules: I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, stopped getting the light brown highlights I favor, didn’t even use nail polish on my toes lest the chemicals seep into my skin. I used all-natural shampoo and conditioner, stopped jogging, and took up prenatal yoga. I took my prenatal vitamins religiously, and avoided all the reccomended foods such as tuna fish, unpasteurized cheeses, and sliced deli meat. I miscarried at thirteen weeks, and felt devastated. I’d followed every rule my midwife recommended, and still, tragedy struck.

When I got pregnant for the second time with my son, I started out by again following all the rules. But everything changed when I booked a trip with my husband to California. The area surrounding Sonoma is wine country, and I found myself staying in a very quirky b&b by the ocean in the small town of Carmel. I was seven months pregnant, and enchanted by all the local vineyards and small, independent labels I read on the bar menu in our lobby. The name of the bed and breakfast was the Cypress Inn, run by the actress Doris Day. One is allowed to bring one’s dog, and the lobby bar, which has an open patio section with pretty white lights strung in the trees, showcases several of the inn’s dogs, as well as big Great Danes resting on beds by the roaring outdoor fireplace. A surreal, eartheal and beautiful scene, set by the ocean.

I guiltily fingered the bar menu, as my husband smiled at me. There was a quote by Humphrey Bogart on the cover, which read: “The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.” My gaze lingered over a local 2009 Chardonnay from the Heller Estate, a vineyard which we would later visit down the road from the hotel. “Why don’t you order a glass?” my husband asked. “One glass of wine would be fine for the baby, I know women who drink one a day while pregnant!”

“I guess I’ll play a game of hide the belly under the table,” I answered sardonically when the waiter approached our table. I glanced furtively around, sure any moment someone from the Mom Police, aka our society in general would haul me away in handcuffs. My nervousness was unwarranted however, when I spotted a very famous and very pregnant actress three tables over. I gasped. She appeared to be drinking a glass of Pinot Noir, and looked relaxed and happy, laughing with friends. I’d just seen a movie she was in the week before we left on our trip. “Did you see?” I asked my husband. “I did!” he replied. Well. If a woman nominated for an Oscar could enjoy a glass of grape, so could I.

I just had the one glass of Chardonnay, but because it was one glass I enjoyed it more than I’d ever enjoyed wine before. Before the pregnancies, I was known to drink an entire bottle alone. This time, I learned to sip, and my one glass lasted the hour spent in that courtyard, trying not to ogle the actress. I tried a different glass from a different local vineyard each night of our vacation, and it turned out to be one of my favorite trips ever taken in my lifetime. After dealing with the heartache of miscarriage, I realized that I had to stop beating myself up. I’d followed all the rules doctors ask of pregnant women, and ended up without a baby. Part of me feels asking pregnant women not to drink a sip of wine throughout their entire nine months is another way of controlling women, which is what our society likes to do. There is definitely a very scary term called fetal alcohol syndrome, but I don’t believe one glass of wine enjoyed from time to time with dinner results in that sad diagnosis. I think my own miscarriage happened because not every pregnancy is meant to be, and I have to accept that we are human and therefore part of nature.

My son was born on a whip-cold night last winter, and he came out perfectly healthy at 7 pounds, 4 ounces. I’d never seen such a beautiful baby in my life. I hope our society eases up a little on the restraints for pregnant women, and that my fellow sisters no longer feel they have to play “hide the bump under the table” while out enjoying themselves at a restaurant or neighborhood bar. There’s always people who overdo it and I don’t condone that. But a nice, full-bodied glass of Chardonnay after a day filled with backaches, sore breasts, and bloated feet? That surely, we deserve.

Kate Rockland is the author of  150 Pounds, and Falling Is Like This. Kate lives in Hoboken, NJ with her husband, son, and cat, Elizabeth Taylor. She is a frequent contributor to the New York Times. She weighs 150 pounds.

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Okay, I’ll admit it: I watch the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and I love it. I know it’s de rigueur to call reality TV a “guilty pleasure” and feel ashamed for not reading back issues of The New Yorker instead, but it’s actually gotten me thinking about drinking.

Here are some of my thoughts:

The Show Accurately Reflects Our Booze-Soaked Culture: Just as drinking has played a central role in all cultures since the beginning of time, so alcohol is an unacknowledged main character in the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Watch any scene of the ladies staying in or going out, and chardonnay, margaritas or some other kind of booze is most likely involved. Listen to their grateful sighs as someone hands them a glass.

The Beverly Hills Housewives, C’est Moi: It’s easy for me to watch the show and shake my head or roll my eyes, thinking, Thank God I’m nothing like these women. But underneath the boob jobs, botox and Mean Girl smiles, these women are just as vulnerable and damaged as everyone else. Watch for the human moments, like Kyle’s strained relationship with her troubled sister, Kim. She alternates between wanting to protect Kim and wanting to wring her neck.  When Kyle spots Kim walking into the opening of Lisa’s latest restaurant after they’ve had a monstrous fight, she summons the waiter, jokes about “needing a drink” and gives a sly wink. But we all know she’s serious. Many women have troubled relationships with family members, and just like many of us, Kyle sometimes uses alcohol to cope with the stress.

Drinking is Like Russian roulette: Thrilling for many, potentially deadly for some. When it comes to drinking, life’s not fair. Some women, like Kyle Richards, can keep up with the best of ‘em, participating in seemingly endless alcohol-soaked “Girls’ Night Outs” without many repercussions. Others, like her sister, Kim, take a bullet when they drink. There’s no use bemoaning the fact that it’s unfair—that’s just the way it is.

There But For the Grace of God Go We All: It’s easy to judge Kim more harshly than the rest of the women—as an out-of-control, weepy mess. But why? They all drink, and sometimes when they do, they behave in strange ways (see Brandi Glanville’s bizarre, loopy behavior on the way to Hawaii, and Taylor Armstrong’s drunken weeping fits). Kim just happens to have a body/mind chemistry not suited to holding her liquor (and whatever else she might have been on).

Drinking Can be a Great Force for Bonding: I’ll admit it: sometimes, when I watch the women sitting around one of their houses, clinking glasses, I wish I were sitting right there with them. Why? Because it reminds me of the ritual fun of Girl’s Night Out, of times when a bottle of wine loosens lips and creates a comfortable space for sharing and/or hilarity. Can you picture the show without the booze? Can you imagine the women, some of them near-strangers at the beginning of the season—opening up to each other as quickly as they do, stirring up so much drama—without the booze?

When It Comes to Addiction, The Show Is a Litmus Test: At times, when I’m watching the show, there’s a voice in my head that nags, Why can’t Kim just quit? Can’t she see how irrational she’s being? How bizarre? How much her behavior (her chronic lateness, for one) is driving everyone crazy? I find myself getting mad at her for her selfishness, her weakness. That’s when I remember why it’s hard for me to have compassion: Like Kyle, I, too, have lived at the effect of addicts. Both my mother and sister have struggled with addiction. I, too, have felt a mixture of anger, pity, guilt and love. I know what it feels like to want to help but not be able to. So when I empathize with Kyle and disparage Kim in my mind, I know that I need to reboot and remind myself of that thing called compassion. It’s a struggle for us children of alcoholics. I have to remind myself that Kim doesn’t want to be “like that.” Her addiction has taken over, and she’s powerless. At the same time, I find myself talking to Kyle when she’s on the screen, saying, “Give yourself a time out. You don’t have to be the fall guy. You have to live your own life, too.”

The show reflects many of the contradictions that we embrace on our Drinking Diaries blog. We live in a drinking world, and there’s got to be a way for drinkers and non-drinkers to peacefully co-exist, to understand each other and be respectful.

On the last episode of this season, as I watched Lisa, Adrienne, Kyle, Camille and even a battle-scarred Taylor gathering for yet another round of champagne, clinking glasses in yet another toast, I found myself worrying about Kim. A sidebar comment revealed that she went to rehab, and all I could think was: How will she re-enter this group, with all the drinking? Will she be able to resist the temptation? Will they adopt different behaviors around her? Will Kyle feel too guilty to drink around her?

Even though the Real Housewives takes place in the surreal world of Beverly Hills, these are issues many of us will face, no matter where we live.

Rumors are going around that Kim won’t return for the next season because she’ll be too fragile, too vulnerable. But perhaps that’s where her real story starts. When she comes back from rehab, if she manages to stay sober, Kim Richards, the butt of many a joke and stolen glance—may turn the tables on everyone. She may actually end up being the sanest housewife of them all—a role model for others who are struggling to stay sober in a sodden land.

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Recently, I wrote a post about the origins of the Drinking Diaries for a new website, Better After 50. When the founder and editor asked me to write an essay about how the Drinking Diaries got started, it provoked me to think about the evolution of this blog and how it morphed from a seed of an idea into a gratifying partnership and a forthcoming book–due out in October 2012!

Here’s the piece that originally ran on Better After 50–a site worth checking out even if you’re not yet the big 5-0 (which I’m not, but will be in a few years…).

Cheers to Us–and the Drinking Diaries

by Caren Osten Gerszberg

Leah & Caren, Drinking Diaries co-editors

Do you really need to check your blackberry again?” I ask repeatedly.

“Any new sales you need to vet on Gilt today?” Leah retorts.

On any given day, sitting and working at my round kitchen table—our computers lined up side by side—these are the kinds of quips that pass between me and my co-editor, friend and neighbor. Minutes later, the bickering behind us, we giggle proudly over our triumphant reworking of a long, twisted phrase we’ve teamed up to unwind.

Together, since June 2008, Leah Odze Epstein and I have been co-editing a blog called the Drinking Diaries—a website covering anything and everything related to women and drinking. From celebration to revelation we like to say. A place where there is no judgment, where the stories we and other women share range from comical and celebratory to sexy and despairing. Where we offer news, profiles, research and opinions—all about women and their relationship with alcohol.

Drinking Diaries was conceived, sadly, as a result of my own mother’s drinking. Well into her sixties, my mother’s wine habit went from socially acceptable and culturally expected (she’s French) to deeply problematic. A child survivor of the Holocaust, my mother began using alcohol to numb her pain. I watched in fear and bewilderment as her dependence on alcohol—something I’d never before been faced with—accelerated with warp speed.

Leah, also the child of an alcoholic, whose mother has been sober for over 35 years, was the person I turned to. In my spiraling confusion, I would sit on Leah’s front porch, lamenting about my mother’s drinking which worsened when my father was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. Then, over a Friday night dinner with our husbands, Leah and I decided that there was no place for women to share their stories—the sad, happy and everything in between—of drinking and the effect it has on their lives. We would provide that place.

In an effort to discover who the readers—of the future book we hoped to publish—would be, we started the Drinking Diaries blog. We queried women authors to do Q&A interviews, and let out shrieks of jubilation when we got a “yes” from accomplished writers like Joyce Maynard, Jackie Mitchard and Julie Powell. They all had tales to contribute. We went to blogging conferences and writing workshops, asking women along the way to share their stories. Sex and drinking. Parenting and drinking. Work and drinking. Family and drinking. Culture and drinking. Health and drinking. Nearly three years later, it’s all there.

Somewhere along the way, Leah and I were deemed “experts” on the subject of women and drinking. We’ve been interviewed for radio shows and TV-news programs, and featured on various blogs. Recently, I was asked to write an article, “The Art of Mindful Drinking,” and do a related podcast for a national magazine.

Last March, our efforts continued to pay off. We got a book deal from Seal Press (Perseus) and the anthology of essays we are currently working on, Drinking Diaries: Women Serve their Stories Straight Up, will be published in Fall 2012. Our list of writers is impressive, but more importantly covers a fascinating array of experiences, ages, backgrounds, perspectives and cultures.

Both mothers of three children each, Leah and I start our twice-weekly work sessions with a catch-up walk through a beautiful Long Island Sound-lined park before returning to our office—my kitchen. Over mugs of tea and handfuls of almonds, we bicker like an old married couple over grammar, her blackberry addiction, and my roving attention toward shopping websites. Some stories make us laugh hysterically like two teenage girls. Others hit very close to home. And when we “score” an interview or get a response from a high-profile person we never expected to get, we high-five like football players.

When we’re not working together on the forthcoming anthology, we are working independently from home on new posts for the blog, which we update every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. We touch base via email and phone several times a day, basking in glory on a day when the blog has a high number of hits, and sharing frustration when a writer fails to turn in a piece that she swore was coming yesterday.

This journey has grown from seed on Leah’s porch, to stalk with our blog, to blossoming flower next Fall, when the book hits the shelves—both virtual and in bookstores. Leah and my partnership is a labor of love more than a business venture. The stories are there. We are just asking women to scratch the surface and let them out.

Not sure about you, but I’ve been frisked going into concerts and football stadiums and it’s not fun. Why would anyone sneak booze in when you can buy it inside, right?

Well, it seems that enough people would to demand a new sort of product on the market–an alternative route for women–and it’s called the WineRack.

This is no joke–the website selling the WineRack ($30) boasts that that “the advantages are obvious.” It is actually a black sports bra (fits sizes 34C-D, 36A-D and 38A-C) that lets you carryup to 750ml (equal to the contents of one bottle of wine, or 25 oz.) of any beverage. The bra sports a polyurethane  bladder and a drinking tube long enough to route as you wish, along with an easy-to-use on/off valve to control the flow.

The big question: If the frisker feels the tube, what will she ask you to do–spill out its contents or remove your bra?

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Question: Is it okay to serve Coq Au Vin–or other alcohol-soaked dishes–to someone in recovery?

Answer: Not necessarily.

Holiday season is houseguest season, which means cooking for a crowd, which means knowing your guests’ food allergies, aversions and issues.

While most of us understand that it’s important to have a selection of nonalcoholic beverages for those who don’t, or can’t, drink, many of us wouldn’t think twice about serving alcohol-soaked dishes to those same people. “The alcohol’s cooked in!” we say. But is it really?

In a recent post for the Diner’s Journal blog on the New York Times website, Tara Parker-Pope explored the issue. When she asked Dr. Harry Haroutunian, physician director of the Betty Ford Center, he said, “Alcohol’s boiling point is lower than that of water, and many cooks assume that little or none of its potency remains after cooking…that is simply not true and quite dangerous thinking for anyone in recovery.” Cooked food, according to Dr. Haroutunian, can retain from 5 to 85 percent of the original alcohol, depending on the cooking method and how much alcohol was used in the preparation.

You can read Parker-Pope’s entire discussion here.

What has your experience been—have you served dishes prepared with alcohol to people in recovery? Why or why not? If so, what was their reaction?

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Whiskey has been in the press a lot these days, and all stories seem to focus on its increasingly devoted buyer: women.

The liquor industry is seeing a surge in women buying alcoholic drinks traditionally marketed toward men, reported a recent piece on msnbc.com titled, ‘Mad Men’ effect? More women get a taste for whiskey. The whiskey industry acknowledges that “women make 65 to 70 percent of the alcohol-purchasing decisions for at-home consumption,” according to New England Consulting Group, so its now-finally–concentrating on the female buyer. As a result, a number of companies have added different styles and a wide range of flavors and aromas.

In fact, there’s even a non-alcoholic version of whiskey on the market–ideal for those who like the flavor of whiskey and who are either pregnant or prefer to abstain from alcohol. As promoted on its website, ArKay is “the world’s first alcohol-free ,whiskey-flavored drink…a perfect beverage that anyone can consume.”

There is some controversy about Arkay, however–so don’t throw out the O’Doul’s just yet. According to the Scotch Whiskey Association, ArKay is just a “soft drink with artificial flavorings.”

Historically known as a masculine drink, whiskey advertisements have almost exclusively been directed at men (exhibit right). This sparked an interesting debate, addressed in Brooke Carey’s Huffington Post piece, Women and Whiskey Advertising. After researching whiskey’s advertising past, Carey uncovered that the question “isn’t why don’t whiskey makers pay the ladies any attention but, rather, why do women respond to masculine ads while the reverse doesn’t appear to be true?”

It’s an interesting question. So what do you think about the advertising focus? And who buys the booze in your house?

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It seems that the Lehigh University Women’s Center  is taking an important stand, opening up a much-needed conversation about the pressures college-aged women sometimes feel surrounding alcohol, according to an article on the Lehigh Valley Live website.

A part of the university’s Women and Health Speakers & Events Series–and as a follow-up to the screening of the documentary Miss Representation, which addressed the pressures surrounding the ideal of successful women–the event focused on issues such as body image, the prominence of alcohol on campus, and why women are now choosing to consume hard liquor instead of beer.

Rita Jones, the Director of the Women’s Center, said the event was meant to offer a space for conversation, and that it did, as students and faculty in attendance spoke candidly about the pressures and effects of alcohol on women in Lehigh’s community.

Apparently, many women are opting to drink hard liquor because it has fewer calories, validating that body image and calorie counting are affecting women’s choices. Most students at the event agreed that the “loudest social voice on campus is often one advocating partying,” and that alcohol has become a “social crutch since ”there’s there is nothing to do at a party but drink.”

Some students suggested they’d like to see more non-alcohol activities on campus and explained that when libraries closes early, “it practically encourages students to go out and consume alcohol on the weekends.”

For student-athletes, those at the event said that their team’s longest meetings focused on discussions of dry policies, which determine the times athletes cannot consume alcohol before and after sporting events.

Kudos to Lehigh for bringing these issues about women and alcohol to light and offering students a chance to speak out. Let’s hope that other colleges and universities follow suit.

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On November 1, the Journal of the American Medical Association (AMA) released a new study, “Alcohol Consumption Over a Woman’s Lifetime Associated with Risk of Breast Cancer.” The study looked at the cumulative effect of low to moderate alcohol consumption among more than 100,000 women, ages 30 to 55, who were followed for 28 years.

In its aftermath, the study results were all over the press with headlines causing a frenzy among women who consume only a couple of glasses of a wine a week. They read:

“Women who drink three to six glasses of alcohol per week have a 15 percent higher risk of getting breast cancer than women who do not drink”

“A Few Drinks a Week Raises Breast Cancer Risk”

“Women: Even a Little Alcohol Ups Breast Cancer Risk, Research Finds”

“Even Small Amount of Alcohol Increases Risk of Breast Cancer”

Although the headlines are not inaccurate, they may be provoking unnecessary alarm. Ten days after the study results were released, the AARP posted an article titled: “Alcohol and Breast Cancer Link: Is Wine Really Bad for Women?” With a subtitle that reads, “The Risk May Not Be As Bad As You Think–or Fear,” the article calls on readers to take a closer look at the study’s statistics before adopting a lifestyle akin to the days of Prohibition.

Taking a different angle than prior research, this new AMA study looked at the cumulative effect of consuming low to moderate amounts of alcohol. Previous studies linking alcohol and breast cancer risk focused mainly on binge or heavy drinking.

The researchers found that those who drank as few as three to six alcoholic drinks a week during those years had a 15 percent increased risk of breast cancer, compared with those who didn’t drink. And women who regularly drank two or more drinks a day had a 51 percent higher risk than women who never drank.

As the AARP piece explains, “Those numbers — 15 percent increase and 51 percent increase — sound high until you do the math. The average woman’s risk of getting breast cancer in her lifetime is one in eight, or 12 percent. A 15 percent increase over that means her lifetime risk rises to 13.8 percent. For a woman age 50 to 59, whose risk of getting breast cancer while in her 50s is one in 42 or 2.4 percent, according to the National Cancer Institute, her risk rises to 2.76 percent,” the article continues.

So in other words, as Steven A. Narod, M.D., director of familial breast cancer research at the Women’s College Research Institute in Toronto, further clarified in an editorial accompanying the study, for women who had one drink per day, “their 10-year risk increased by 0.7 percent (from 2.8 percent to 3.5 percent).”

Although the risk is real and women need to weigh the risks and benefits of drinking, the ensuing panic may be premature. As reported by the AARP, the study’s authors pointed out in their conclusion: “We did find increased risk at low levels of [alcohol consumption], but the risk was quite small.”

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I’ve heard about offering tea, coffee, and bottled water to clients at hair salons. But a glass of wine?

Apparently, regardless of New York City liquor laws, many a salon serves booze to women spending their afternoons getting a cut and color. I’d read about “Girls Nights Out” at Dashing Divas and their complimentary Cosmos during a Thursday and Friday evening mani/pedi, but never knew about the post 3 pm coctkail offerings at hair salons.

After reading “A Blowout Made Me Blotto! The Illegal Scourge of Salon Drinking” on the New York Observer website, I’m wondering if I’ve been getting my hair cut at the wrong salon for all these years. And on the flip side, what if you’d rather not be faced with a drink offer when going to have your hair done. Do the salons keep it discreet?

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By Annabelle Kathryn

“I don’t drink.” It’s a phrase I’ve imagined myself saying for the past two years, especially the morning after a particularly bad night, when I wonder if giving up drinking would ever be something I could actually do. Sometimes, I’d even practice it out loud, trying to get just the right inflection so it conveys just the right combination of aloof nonchalance and hard-earned knowledge. With those few words, I wanted anyone I’d met to know I wasn’t someone who’d never touched alcohol, or had gotten scared straight from just one night spent puking in the communal dorms at college. With that phrase, I wanted people to hear all the inherent subtext: that I wasn’t naïve. I’d had experiences.

But I always just sounded young and dumb, or self-conscious, so I’d shrug and head off to the bar and drink, where I’d usually black out, wonder if I had a problem, practice saying I don’t drink a few times, then start the whole cycle all over again.

It wasn’t until this year that I realized my drinking had moved past “kind of out of control” and towards “seriously fucked up.” I was drinking every night, blacking out at least once a week, and, on a few occasions, sneaking vodka into Sprite at work. And while I tried to justify it by all the mitigating factors that had recently occurred up in my life—in the past six months, I broke up with my boyfriend, had an abortion, sat by my mom’s hospital bed as she died of cancer, and, just two months after that, had to do the same for my grandmother—the fact was, I had a problem.

So I knew that I needed to eventually give up drinking for real, but didn’t feel any impetus from within to stop, which terrified me. If losing my wallet and my shoes and my jewelry and my iPhone all in one night hadn’t stopped me, if spraining my wrist hadn’t stopped me, if having unprotected sex that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy hadn’t stopped me—what would? Every time I’d go out, I’d feel an anticipatory sense of dread. Sometimes I went out almost hoping I’d wake up in a hospital, because then, at least the answer would be obvious.

But I didn’t. And as it was, the night I realized I needed to go to A.A. was pretty tame. I went to a friend’s house and drank a bottle of wine before meeting a guy who I desperately wanted to be my boyfriend for a third date at a bar.

I concentrated on acting sober. But from tripping on the step into the bar to talking too loudly to drinking two and a half vodka sodas before he even finished his first drink, I knew it wasn’t working. I realized he knew I was hammered, but I thought I had a shot with him, especially when he suggested we leave. I assumed that meant he wanted me to come home with him and when he didn’t, saying he had to get up early the next morning, I started sobbing. I felt rejected, alone. Drunk. I cried my way to the subway, took the wrong train and ended up in Queens instead of Brooklyn, where I lived and finally got home at four AM.

The next morning, I woke up, disappointed and exhausted and embarrassed and just done. It wasn’t the specifics so much as the utter, been there done that blaseness I felt from the core of my being. For the first time, I truly realized that this would keep happening and happening and happening unless I did something.

So I decided to go to a meeting, spending more time figuring out what to wear than I usually do when I’m going on a date. I decided I wanted to look very Mary Louise Parker in Weeds—a tough and sexy woman who always ends up in situations just beyond her control. I wore skinny jeans, an oversized white T-shirt with a nautical-striped scarf. Lots of leather bracelets. Leather jacket. Pink sunglasses. Marc Jacobs bag. Extra-large iced latte as a prop. I knew my posturing was both ridiculous and the only thing that would get me out the door.

I chose one that was far away from my neighborhood, arrived 15 minutes early, and froze at the door. I was terrified. I’ve interviewed A-list celebrities, traveled abroad on my own with just a plane ticket and a backpack, and have shown up on strangers doorsteps to exchange sex for coke, but a meeting in a church basement terrified me.

So I left, frantically searching for another meeting on my iPhone. I found one a few blocks down, and the same thing happened. I just couldn’t make myself go in. Which is why finally, on my third try, I ended up at a lesbian, transgender, and bisexual focus meeting. I’m none of those things, but, frustrated with my fear and the fact I’d wasted almost two hours, I forced myself to walk in and sit the fuck down.

And it was fine. It wasn’t earth shattering and it was mostly like how I’d imagined. Some hand-holding. A lot of gratitude. Coffee. I sat in the back and didn’t speak, but did listen.

And then I went to another meeting, and another. And it’s just the first week, only five meetings in—so I know I don’t know anything yet, not really. But the only thing I know is that I’m going to try to keep going—even if at first it takes a few outfit changes to actually get out the door.

This piece originally appeared on The Fix, a website about addiction and recovery. Annabelle Kathryn is the pseudonym for a writer living in New York City.

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A new study published in the June 24 edition of The Journal of the National Cancer Institute revealed that lifestyle changes, such as drinking less alcohol, weight loss, and increased amounts of exercise, could lead to a considerable reduction in breast cancer cases across an entire population, according to a new model that estimates the influence of these variable risk factors.

Often times, breast cancer risk is based on elements that can’t be modified, such as family history. And until now, there have been no models based on ways women can impact their breast cancer risk through lifestyle adjustments.

The findings provide “extremely important information relevant to counseling women on how much risk reduction they can expect by changing behaviors, and also highlights the basic public health concept that small changes in individual risk can translate into a meaningful reduction in disease in a large population,” wrote Dr. Kathy J. Helzlsouer, of Mercy Medical Center in Baltimore, a journal news release.

Using data from an Italian study that included more than 5,000 women, the U.S. National Cancer Institute researchers created the model that included three modifiable risk factors (alcohol consumption, physical activity and body mass index) and five risk factors that are difficult or impossible to modify (family history, education, job activity, reproductive characteristics, and biopsy history).

Benchmarks for some lifestyle factors included getting at least 2 hours of exercise a week (for women 30-39) and having a body mass index (BMI) under 25 (in women 50 and older).

The  authors of the study noted that the predicted changes in lifestyle to achieve significant  changes — such as former and current drinkers becoming non-drinkers — might be overly optimistic.

But the findings, say researchers, may help in designing programs meant to encourage women to make lifestyle changes. For example, a 1.6 percent absolute risk reduction in a general population of one million women amounts to 16,000 fewer cases of cancer.

For information about breast cancer risk, go to the U.S. National Cancer Institute.

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by Patty Nasey

Life is different today/I hear everybody say

Mother needs something today to calm her down.

She goes running for the shelter of a mother’s little helper

And it helps her on her way/Gets her through her busy day.

~Rolling Stones, 1967

Just in time for Mother’s Day, a California-based winery recently filed a lawsuit in federal court asking a judge to declare that its MommyJuice Wine does not infringe on the trademark of rival vitner, Mommy’s Time Out.  When it comes to wine, MommyJuice’s attorneys say, there’s no monopoly on the word ‘mommy.’

Both wines promise harried caregivers a respite from the demands of motherhood.  Mommy’s Time Out offers a “well-deserved break” although, judging by the picture on the label, this “break” involves sitting alone with a bottle in a corner. It looks like more of a punishment than a reward. The MommyJuice imagery is a little more inviting, featuring a cute cartoon of a mom with four arms, sitting in the lotus position while juggling a house, a computer, a spatula and a teddy bear.  The website offers a “gift set” with a bottle of wine and a baby onesie that says: “When I whine, Mommy wines.” And the copy on the label reads: “Being a mom is a constant juggling act, so tuck your kids into bed, sit down and have a glass of MommyJuice.”

“Sexist!!” was my first reaction to this latest development in the Mommy Wars.  I have plenty of male friends who suck on cigars while watching their kids, but I doubt they’d smoke a stogie called Daddy’s Binky or Papa’s Paci. Of course they wouldn’t!  So how is that not one but two vintners are fighting for the right to put Mommy on their label?  Maybe it’s because we really haven’t come such a long way, baby.  Our moms had Valium; we have MommyJuice.  Why not just call it Mother’s Little Helper and end the lawsuit.

“Why are you so angry about this?” a friend asked as I shouted from the top of my feminist soapbox.  Indeed, I had no problem
with National Mom’s Nite Out, a series that took place last night all across the country. But something about those mommy wines got me in a rage.  “You know,” she said, “if it’s hysterical, it’s historical.”

And then I remembered Veronica.*  She and I got married and pregnant around the same time. I watched in awe as Veronica transitioned gracefully and effortlessly into her new role as a wife and mother.  When my daughter was just 10 weeks old, I couldn’t wait to get back to the controlled environment of my office while Veronica stayed home, organized play groups (I used to send my nanny) and breast fed for a year.

My apartment looked like a war zone; Veronica’s was spotless. I bought Gerber’s baby food; Veronica mashed her own.  I was still carrying a few pounds of baby weight when I got pregnant with my second child; Veronica did Strollercize in Central Park every morning and looked better than before she was pregnant.  She was my go-to mom who could juggle it all like the lady on the MommyJuice label, while I felt like balls were dropping all around me.  And then her second child was born.  She started smoking again, the apartment got a little messier, the food took longer to make, it was harder for her to find time to exercise. After she weaned the baby, she started having a glass of wine once the kids went to sleep. Within two years, the glass at night had turned into a bottle; the cigarettes had become marijuana. The “I deserve a break” message she had told herself had insidiously evolved into “I can’t do this without a drink.”  And Mommy’s “time out” became an all-the-time habit.

When her kids were only 3 and 5, Veronica went to her first rehab. When her husband came alone to social events or playdates, he covered for her saying she was home taking a nap or feeling sick. I just assumed she was exhausted like the rest of us. She returned from rehab only to relapse within the year. She tried a second rehab where she met a recovering Crystal Meth addict. She relapsed again only this time she got hooked on Meth. After several failed attempts to get clean, she ended up leaving the country, granting her husband a divorce and giving up custody of her kids.

I bumped into her just before she moved away. She was almost unrecognizable — a fragile, hollow shell of her former beautiful self.  I had been so angry at her when I learned what had happened, but that day I  just hugged her as we stood on the sidewalk sobbing. Six years later, I still can’t look at her kids without breaking down and crying.

Of course, there are plenty of moms who can safely enjoy a “time out” with a glass or two of wine. and will celebrate on Sunday with a well-deserved drink. But seeing the word “Mommy” on not one, but two wine labels reminds me of my friend — and of the millions of women who won’t be spending Mother’s Day with their children as they battle the powerful disease of addiction. These mothers don’t need another “little helper.”  They need help. And on Mother’s Day and everyday, I hope and pray that they may find it.

*Names and minor details have been changed.

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We are thrilled to introduce you to author Amy Hatvany. Her novel, Best Kept Secret, which will be out in June, 2011, is a deeply personal, emotionally resonant portrait of an alcoholic mother who desperately loves her child. Below, Amy introduces a sneak preview of the book.

When I was drinking, I thought I was the only woman who had ever poured red wine into a coffee mug first thing in the morning, sipping at it to ward off the shakes as I cut up toaster waffles for my kids. I believed I was the only woman who lied to supermarket checkers about the dinner party I was having that night as an explanation for the numerous bottles of alcohol in my cart. I thought I was the only woman to stare in the mirror, not recognizing what I’d become, hating how far I’d fallen, and feeling a shame so intense I wanted to die.

After getting sober in 2005, I began writing the novel, Best Kept Secret, as a direct result of my own emotional experiences around being a mother and a recovering alcoholic. I wanted to write a story that would illuminate how this descent can happen to anyone. I wanted to show how quickly a seemingly innocent glass of wine can destroy an otherwise successful, strong woman while she attempts to keep the balls in her life in the air so no one will suspect what’s really going on.

Although the plot and characters are fictional, the emotions behind this story were incredibly personal, because in revealing the main character’s secret, I was revealing my own. There were dark memories I had to revisit, and it took time to build up the courage to get the emotional side of those experiences fully onto the page. I worried about being judged for my alcoholism, but the idea that if I told the truth, it might help even one woman who is still suffering alone in silence made it worth the risk of what others might choose to think of me personally.

The following excerpt from the novel is the beginning of Cadence Sutton’s story – a woman struggling to come to terms with her alcoholism while she fights to regain custody of her son. My biggest hope for the book is that it starts a conversation about the secrets we keep. I hope that the story widens readers’ understanding and compassion, and perhaps makes them re-evaluate any preconceptions they might hold about women who suffer from alcoholism. Most of all, I hope that anyone in the throes of active addiction sees themselves in the pages and realizes that there is a way out. No matter what, they don’t have to face any of their problems alone.

From Best Kept Secret:

Being drunk in front of your child is right up there on the Big Bad No-no List of Motherhood. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I knew it with every glass, every swallow, every empty bottle thrown into the recycle bin. I hated drinking. I hated it…and I couldn’t stop. The anesthetic effect of alcohol ran thick in my blood: the Great Barrier Reef built between me and my feelings. I watched myself do it in an out-of-body experience: Oh, isn’t this interesting? Look at me, the sloppy drunk. It snuck up on me, every time. It took me by surprise.

I tried to stop. Of course I tried. I went a day, maybe two, before the urge burned strong enough, it rose in my throat like a gnarled hand reaching for a drink. My body ached. My brain sloshed against the inside of my skull. The more I loathed drinking, the more I needed it to find that sweet spot between awareness and agony. Even now, even though it has been sixty-four days since I have taken a drink, the shame clings to me. It sickens my senses worse than any hangover I’ve ever suffered.

It’s early April, and I drive down a street lined with tall, sturdy maples. Gauzelike clouds stretch across the icy blue sky. A few earnest men stand in front of their houses appraising the state of their lawns. My own yard went to hell while I was away and I have not found time nor inclination to be its savior.

Any other day I would have found this morning beautiful. Any other day I might have stopped to stare at the sky, to enjoy the fragile warmth of the sun on my skin. Today is not any other day. Today marks two months and four days since I have seen my son. Each corner I turn takes me closer and closer to picking him up from his grandmother’s house. For now, it was decided this arrangement was better than my coming face-to-face with Martin, his father.

“What do they think will happen?” I’d asked my treatment counselor, Andi, when the rules of visitation came down. My voice was barely above a whisper. “What do they think I’d do?”

“Think of how many times you were drunk around Charlie,” she said. “There’s reason for concern.”

I sat a moment, contemplating this dangerous little bomb, vacillating between an attempt to absorb the truth behind her words and the desire to find a way to hide from it. I kept my eyes on the floor, too afraid of what I’d see if I looked into hers. Two weeks in the psych ward rendered me incapable of pulling off my usually dazzling impersonation of a happy, successful, single mother. Andi knew I was drunk in front of Charlie every day for over a year. She’d heard me describe the misery etched across my child’s face each time I pulled the cork on yet another bottle of wine. She knew the damage I’d done. Copyright c 2011 by Amy Hatvany

Amy Hatvany lives in Seattle with her family. Best Kept Secret is her third novel and her fourth will be released in February, 2012. You can also find Amy on Facebook and Twitter.

“One Step at a Time” is a series of original essays by writer and mom Patty N.  who has been chronicling her first year of sobriety.

by Patty N.

The day after tomorrow, my handy 12-Step iPhone app – the one with the sobriety calculator that I compulsively check every day – will finally read, “You’ve been sober for one year / 12 months / 365 days / 8,760 hours.”  Yes!

Needless to say, I will not be celebrating with champagne, like I did after drying out in 2008.  That was the year I set out to prove to myself that I wasn’t an alcoholic. So I quit drinking – except at my 25th high school reunion when, in my whiskey-impaired state, I got into a car driven by an inebriated classmate and, thankfully, didn’t die on the way to Denny’s.  I also drank on New Year’s Eve and blacked out after only a few glasses of champagne.  Then there were the prescription drugs – which I took not exactly as prescribed but, hey, at least they weren’t alcohol.

After my year “on the wagon,” I bought myself a big bottle of bubbly and picked up where I left off.  But it became very clear, very fast, that I shouldn’t drink and that I couldn’t stop.  Embarrassed and ashamed, I started counting days in AA.  At first, I felt like I was being punished. I’m the good kid, the hard worker, the hands-on mom, I thought to myself.  How did I end up here?  And, every time I said, “My name is Patty and I’m an alcoholic,” I would think to myself, But I quit for a year! I didn’t drink everyday! I was high-functioning! I can’t be an alcoholic!”

Slowly, though, the veil of self-criticism and harsh judgement receded and a gentle, clear-headed, self-compassion took its place.  I started wondering:  Would I hate myself for having asthma?  Would I attack myself if I had diabetes? Would I be terrified of running into someone I knew at the dentist office if I had gingivitis?  No!!  So why didn’t I view my alcoholism in the same, straightforward manner?  As Dr. Drew says (I can’t help it, I love him), alcoholism is about chemistry, not character. So why would I be ashamed about a condition over which I have no control?

Looking back, I’ve spent a lot of time this year regretting the past and, oftentimes, wishing to shut the door on it.  I realize that’s part of the process. But as I mark this significant milestone, I’d like to quit mourning my old life and start celebrating my new one.  On Sunday, I will go to my regular AA meeting and announce that I have one year of continuous sobriety.  I’ll collect my special anniversary coin and an amazing group of people, whose last names I may never know, will greet me with applause and hugs and flowers from the corner deli.  And I will call myself an alcoholic, without reservation, without judgement, without shame, and with enough strength to finally bust through that cocoon of self-hatred and fly like a beautiful liberated butterfly.

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We always knew who wore the pants in the relationship, and now alcohol producers and entrepreneurs have come to the same realization. As a result, they are finally trying to deliver what they think women want.

According to recent articles in the Chicago Tribune and the Los Angeles Times, women are closing the drinking gap, consuming more alcohol at restaurants and making most of the purchasing decisions for home.

Last week, Deerfield-based Beam Global Spirits & Wine, a unit of Fortune Brands, announced that it acquired Skinnygirl Margarita, a low-calorie, ready-to-drink cocktail sweetened with agave syrup.

“Women tend to be smarter customers in general,” said Michael Binstein, owner of Binny’s Beverage Depot. “They understand value, and they’re adventurous in terms of what they like to try and experiment with.”

Adult Chocolate Milk–a sweet, vodka-infused drink–and another fast-selling product, said Binstein, is developed by Tracy Reinhardt and Nikki Halbur in a home kitchen and sold in 28 states.

“The fact of the matter is that women in this country constitute the majority of vodka consumers, and they’ve been ignored,” said Adam Kamenstein, chief executive of privately-held Voli Spirits LLC, which a year ago rolled out Voli Light vodkas with the tagline “stay sexy.”

So, who chooses what alcohol to buy in your world?

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