Surprise! She can be taught after all

I’m 39 years old.

Not to paint myself as an alcoholic or anything, but I’ve done my fair share of drinking over the years, though not too often to excess. The first time I was ever hung over was the day in May of my senior year in high school when my mom drove me and my friend Kim out to central New York to tour Utica College.

The night before, there was an incident involving a party, me and a two-liter bottle of raspberry wine coolers. I woke up still drunk, which simply put, is a really terrible way to start the day. Things went down hill from there. Let me assure you – wine coolers are not nearly as sweet or as pretty coming back up as they are going down.

TRUST ME.

But, being all of 17 at the time, I somehow rallied and the trip went fine, the tour was fun and I actually ended up going to Utica College that fall.

Utica, while touted by all the officials as being a “dry campus,” was actually anything but – something I learned within hours of orientation when two fraternity brothers came roaming the halls trying to persuade all the freshman girls to come to a party in another dorm later that night.

My new friends and I went (of course), but I was too terrified on that first night to do much more than sip at my cup of skunky keg beer. My first real drunken college night didn’t come until over a month later – right before a fall break when my friends and I finally screwed up the courage to attend a “bar night” at a notorious dive called Spilka’s. We were assured that we’d all get in with even the most rudimentary fake IDs, and with fraternity brothers at the door, we did.

Fuzzy navels were two for a dollar and I drank my fill. The night ended with me and my friends taking rides in the giant dryers at the all-night laundromat next door, a 2 a.m. visit to “psycho Burger King,” and unprecendented intestinal distress. That was 22 years ago, and I have not touched anything with Peach Schnapps since.

Fortunately, those really bad nights – the ones that resulted in day-long hangovers, popping of fistfuls of aspirin or Tums and late afternoon “breakfasts” of greasy fast food – were far and few between, but there’ve been enough that I really just should know better.

I’m fairly petite and it never took much to push my body from “happily tipsy” to “oh-my-God-what-have-I-done?!” Now? It takes a whole lot less. And I know my new limit. I know it because I’ve flown right over it a few times in recent years.

There was my sister-in-law’s wedding in 2007 when I not only crossed the limit – I punted myself over it like the star kicker attempting to make the final winning field goal in the Superbowl. I spent the entire day after wishing for death. Instead I got to board a plane for a five-hour cross-country flight. Good times. Good times.

But still, I don’t learn.

Two Saturdays ago, we went to a bar in New York for a college reunion of sorts. It was four hours of open bar.

Four. Hours.

Open. Bar.

Someone also bought me a shot, which tasted like death in a glass. I still have no idea what was in it, but given the impact it had on me, I'm guessing grain alcohol.

I should know better by now, right?

I spent the better part of Sunday in the fourth level of hell. Stomach roiling, head pounding. I drank four gallons of water before 11 a.m. and still couldn't bring my dehydrated body to pee.

What was different this time, is that Monday I didn’t feel much better. Part of it was exhaustion (I slept a grand total of 3 hours Saturday night), but it was more than that. My stomach was still shaky. I felt nauseous most of the day.

I hate to say it, but I think I’m just getting way too old for those types of escapades. My body doesn’t bounce back the way it did when I was 17, or 21, or even 35 for that matter.

I’ve also noticed it takes less and less to send me over the edge.

So I’m off alcohol for a while. It’s not worth it to me anymore, especially because it has such a negative effect on my training.

Friday night, I met a group of high school friends for a “Class of 1987 Turns 40” party. And I had two beers.

Just two.

Seems you can teach an old girl new tricks after all.

The fullest of threats

I am not a believer in empty threats. I firmly believe that if you threaten your child with some type of discipline, you have to carry through with it, no matter how inconvenient it may be for you.

Children are wonderful little beings, but you give them an inch and they take a few thousand miles. And you do them no favors by teaching them their actions don’t have consequences.

It was beautiful here Wednesday. The sun was shining, the sky was a gorgeous cobalt blue and the thermometer hovered in the 70s. Relishing the day, I packed up the kids and drove to the local playground.

A few minutes after arriving, we landed in the big sandpit. Peanut started digging a big hole while all Loaf wanted to do was use a sand mold to make herself a sea horse. Upon finishing she proudly declared, “Look Mommy! Look my sea horse!”

Before I could even praise her, Peanut rushed over and stomped on it.

“Don’t do that again,” I warned. “Say you're sorry.”

Peanut apologized with a shit-eating smile on her face and Loaf remade the sea horse. But again, within seconds of finishing it, Peanut rushed over and crushed it.

While Loaf shrieked, I grabbed Peanut by the arm. “I’m serious. Don’t do that again. If you do, we’re leaving. We’ll go right home.”

As soon as the threat left my lips, I regretted it. I should have instead put up “no treat tonight,” or an on-the-spot time out. I really did not want to leave the park on such a beautiful day, and this was a punishment that affected the very well behaving Loaf as well.

On the other hand, I figured the threat was weighty enough that she’d take it to heart. I knew she didn’t want to leave.

I. Was. Wrong.

The third sea horse was instantly destroyed and all the worse, she looked right at me while she did it, daring me to act.

“OK we’re going. Right now. Get your shoes.”

“NOOOOO!” she bellowed as she ran from me. A couple of nearby moms looked over and I instantly felt the shame of being judged for not being able to control my own kid. I caught her by the arm and pulled her to me, but she leaned forward and sunk her teeth into my shoulder.

From this point on, the situation became the proverbial runaway train.

“DON’T YOU EVER BITE ME OR ANYONE ELSE,” I screamed, no longer caring about the other mothers at the park.

I turned to Loaf. “We have to go honey. I’m sorry, but Peanut is misbehaving and we all have to go.”

Well, Loaf did not want to go. She simply shook her head while continuing to scoop sand into her bucket. It became clear I was going to have to carry her out and the only way I could do that was to let go of Peanut.

As I reached down to pick up Loaf, Peanut grabbed two fistfuls of sand and dumped them on my head. Sand ran through my hair, down my face, landed in my eyes and gathered in my bra.

This kid is going to drive me drink, I thought.

Furious, I picked up Loaf, stood and grabbed Peanut by the arm once again. “Now, in addition to leaving, you’re going to get a nice long time out when we get home.”

The sandpit is in the back of a very big park. I still had to maneuver past all the swings, slides, other equipment and about a dozen benches filled with happy, chatting mothers.

I had Loaf balanced on one hip and Peanut by the arm. Both were shrieking. Neither was wearing shoes nor socks, so I had those cupped in the hand at the end of the arm that was supporting Loaf. Every now and then, I’d drop a shoe or sock and had to stoop to pick it up.

It was the longest walk ever and I felt every single eye on us as we passed.

As we approached the parking lot, I sat them both on a bench and slipped on their shoes, but Peanut kept kicking hers off. So I asked Loaf to walk and picked up Peanut, who proceeded to pinch me – hard – on the back of my arm. She then drove her index finger forcefully into my collarbone. (Seriously, are they teaching self-defense at her preschool? Where the hell is she learning this stuff?)

When we got to the car, I set the barefoot Peanut down on the rough gravel, no longer really caring if the stones hurt her feet.

“You stand here and you don’t move one inch. Got it? Not one inch or you won’t see a minute of TV for the rest of the week.”

She was either totally worn out or she finally realized I was serious, because she stood exactly in that spot while I buckled the very unhappy Loaf (”Want to stay! Want to stay at park!” ) into her car seat.

Both girls screamed and cried all the way home. Peanut was sent straight to her room and Loaf sat on the front step and pouted for several minutes.

Me? I poured myself a big, tall glass of cold lemonade. Then dumped a shot of vodka in it for good measure.

Sometimes, even the threats you make in your own head need to be acted upon.

10 things I learned at date night

1. Italian tapas make a damn fine meal. Especially when accompanied by 10-year-old Italian wine.
2. You will feel like a rock star getting VIP treatment at the Gotham Comedy Club until you realize that entails being seated at the exact geometric center of the stage (where every comedian of the night will find some reason to poke you) and being given complimentary champagne on top of the two other drinks you must consume during the 90-minute show.
3. When you get junk mail from a bank or credit card with a postage-paid return envelope, you should send it back empty, or better yet with a note reading, “fuck you, I’m not buying anything ever.”* Hee. I am so doing that.
*As told by Lenny Marcus.
4.This guy? Hysterical!
5. Only in New York can you find a place like this where you can walk up to a counter, order a chocolate shake, then go to the back lounge and get a shot of vanilla vodka poured into it. Mmmmm.
6. I can still hold my own dancing on the bar at Hogs & Heifers.
7. Late night shots? Still not a good idea.
8. Puking is the body’s defense mechanism. If you are feeling the urge after a night of drinking, purge, baby, purge. Not doing so will cause you enormous regret later.
9. Waking up still drunk is still as unpleasant as the last time I remember, but waking up still drunk when your mother in law is staying with you and wants to discuss Thanksgiving details? Sheer. Hell.
10. There are times in life when having a hangover is totally worth the night that got you there. This counts as one of those times!