Posts filed under ‘Alcoholism’

A Wolf at the Table

A few years ago, I watched the movie Running With Scissors. It was based on the book, a memoir, by Augusten Burroughs. It is about the time he spent with his mother’s psychiatrist, a dysfunctional family. I thought it was funny.

So when I saw Augusten Burroughs’ A Wolf at the Table at McNally Robinson, I got interested in buying and reading it. A Wolf at the Table is Augusten’s memoir about his father, mostly about his life before Running With Scissors, when he was still little.

He wrote about how he couldn’t remember his father at all before he was six years old. He remembers being two years old and living at the farmhouse with his mother and brother and crawling under the neighbor’s bushes, but he couldn’t remember his father. He must have felt his presence on the stairs leading to the basement, but he couldn’t remember his face, him being there.

His first memory of his father was when he and his mother came back home from Mexico. They went away because his mother said that his father was dangerous. Now that they’re reunited, Augusten describes how it was at home. His parents hated each other and they were always fighting. He describes his relationship with his father – how he pushed him away when he wanted to sit on his lap; how he gave him a baseball mitt but wouldn’t play with him and show him how to catch a ball with it; how he terrified him with his tempers and “mind games.” He also tells about his fear of turning out like his father.

I think it was a very honest account of his life as a young boy. This is the first book by Augusten that I’ve read. I haven’t read any of his books yet at that time. But I found out on the internet that he’s known for writing his memoirs with humor, except for this one. Even if this one isn’t funny, I already started to like him as an author. Although he wrote about his sad life, it doesn’t drag you down. But it tugs at your heart. You read sad stories where you feel sympathy for the author or the main character, but it’s not what I felt for Augusten. Rather I felt empathy for him. Maybe it’s just me. I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s just a very honest story that anybody who has longed for a parent’s attention, especially a father’s attention could very well relate too.

In one of the final chapters of the book, Augusten wrote, ”I used to believe I couldn’t grow up right without a father, that I would ever be ‘normal’ without one. But maybe a father is really a luxury after all. Maybe you could grow up without one.

Father – a luxury? So sad but it’s true. And yes, there are lots of kids who grew up without fathers and they turned out alright. (Myself included) But I also want to point out that I think this is changing. I’m seeing a new trend in our current generation of fathers. I think they are now more involved in their children’s lives, even with the higher rates of divorce nowadays, we see ex-couples with joint custody of their children or the fathers regularly visiting their children.


I just want to say that I loved the ending of the book. It is so touching. Augusten ended it with an epilogue. It’s about how he felt this other father’s pride and love for his son who was graduating from Medical School. Augusten has never felt it from his own father and he thought that he would never ever feel it. But this man’s love for his son was so strong and it overpowered him and it leaked into him. And he felt it. He felt that love. And I was like, Wow!


December 1, 2009 at 11:22 pm 1 comment

There is a Season

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” ~ Maya Angelou

I have finally finished reading “There is A Season: A Memoir,” by Patrick Lane. I started reading this book back in October, but I got really busy with work when I was halfway through the book and I sort of abandoned it. Sometime last month, I picked it up again and continued reading from where I left off. I do my reading in the bus while commuting to and from work. There was a time when I thought that I couldn’t read in a moving car or bus because it makes me sick. But on our road trip to Alberta last summer, I figured out a way how to make it work for me. I just have to hold the book upright so I’m not looking down. Because it’s the looking down that’s making me feel sick. Besides, it’s getting more comfortable sitting in the bus now that there’s more room in the seats without our bulky winter jackets.

I first heard about this book on the Vicki Gabereau show when Lane was on. Lane is an award-winning Canadian poet. He was an alcoholic. He went to a treatment centre after the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York and when he came out, he spent a year in his garden writing about his life and his drug and alcohol addiction. As he digs in his garden, he uncovers bottles of vodka everywhere. When I watched that show, I told myself, I want to read that book. I have already read Angela’s Ashes then and I related to Frank McCourt’s story because like his father, mine was an alcoholic, too. And now, I want to read the life of an alcoholic from his own perspective.

Lane is a gifted poet. And reading his prose is like reading a poem without trying to figure out what it means. I don’t have much tolerance for poems. His narration of his past are just as vivid and as colourful as his description of the plants and the interaction of bugs and animals in his garden.

Here are just some of the excerpts in the book to give you a few examples.

I remember the bag of oranges breaking and the bright fruit falling. I can see my brothers running down the path in front of my father as the oranges bounded on ahead. They laughed as they followed the golden balls, picking up one and then another from among the fir cones and needles, desiccated ferns, and stones. I wanted to be with them. I squirmed in his arms and he laughed a great laugh and took me in his two huge hands and held me out in front of him. I wriggled, desperate to be put down. My brothers were far ahead of me on the path. They were stuffing oranges into their ragged shirts.”

The birds ignore me as I cut the fallen leaves of the Japanese iris at the edge of the pond. The leaves splayed outward on the water are like the long hair a woman throws forward to dry in the sun. How beautiful the neck of my woman when the sun touches her hidden flesh. The irises have already begun to push up their first green spears. They’ll bloom in late spring, a spray of startled blue. They have no beard, just a thin stripe of gold on the curved petals.”

Lane writes about how his parents were both alcoholics. His mother gave him sips of whisky or beer when he was a small child and his father let him finish his last inch of beer. As a child, his body already craved alcohol. He also writes about how his brother died of cerebral hemorrhage and how “in his youth and confusion, he had nowhere to put his grief.” His brother’s death was followed by others and he turned to drugs and alcohol to escape the misery of life.

I’ve always wondered how my father became an alcoholic. Did his parents introduce him to alcohol? When did he start drinking? Was it just brought about by going out with his kumpares (friends) to these inuman (drinking) sessions?

There is this period of time that I wish I could go back to. This was the time after my father suffered a stroke. He was paralyzed from the neck down. I had been here in Canada for a little over a year. I came back home to see him, maybe for the last time, I thought. He was sent to his hometown in Atimonan, Quezon to be looked after by a cousin. I was staying in Manila then but I went down to Atimonan to spend a week with him before I flew back to Winnipeg. Only a week, when I was there in the Philippines for two months. I wish I could have spent more time with him, reminisce about the happier times of my childhood, get to know him again. Because I haven’t really spent that much time with him since he and my mother separated when I was 12. And maybe I could have asked him all these questions that were in my head. But I was distracted at that time. I was then struggling with a long distance relationship and I was trying to renew my relationship with a man who also loved his kumpares and his alcohol. But I didn’t realize it then. It was only years later after following the Dr. Phil show that I understood why I was with a man who was like my father.

It’s hard to lift myself out of the past. I find I have to go back with a will toward remembering and so understand not only why I was alcoholic and sick but also who I am now that I am sober.”

When I remember the past it is alive and it is as if it is dreaming me. Without the past I can’t learn to live in the unfolding present. This bit of history called the new millennium wants to forget, but forgetting means having to repeat everything that came before. While the past can be a burden, it is also a gift out of time. The clear moments of memory must be understood. It is only then they can be let go.”

Like Lane, I also find myself remembering the past, for the same reason that he states in his memoir. Yes, the past can be a burden, but at the same time, it helps me understand why things were the way they were, why I am the way that I am.

This morning I found a full mickey of vodka tucked under the corner of the deck in the shade of the overhanging viburnum. My hands shook as I picked it up, doubly so because it was full. The weight of the clear glass bottle, its shape, the colour of its red cap, and the dense swirl of slight oiliness in the liquid made me feel I was holding an old and trusted friend. It was all I could do to carry it into the kitchen, break the seal, and watch the alcohol chug slowly down the drain. It was like watching both ambrosia and poison vanish at the same time. How my body yearned to drink it and how, at the same time, it rebelled against the thought.”

I know my father also tried to give up alcohol at least a couple of times after my mother left him. How hard he tried, I don’t really know. Because as soon as we thought that he’d change, there he was again out with his buddies and he’d come home drunk and wasted. I do understand now that alcoholism is a disease. It’s just too bad that at that time, treatment centres were not available yet back home.

I am withdrawing from the scourge of forty-five years of drinking. Two months ago I stumbled into a treatment centre for alcohol and drug addiction. Now, I am barely detoxed. Standing here among the swordferns my senses seem to be thin glass, so acute at their edges I am afraid I will cut myself simply by touching the silicon edge of a bamboo leaf.

There is something about Lane’s struggles that connects with me deeply. No, I’m not an alcoholic or drug abuser, nor was I ever one of those. The healing process that he went through is so familiar to me. In a way, I am also going through a healing process and I also feel that vulnerability. There are many other things in his life that I can relate to. I wish I could share them all here, but this post is already getting long. Maybe some other time.

Why do I keep writing about my ugly past? Why am I airing my dirty laundry? Yes, I’ve written about it a few times before. Isn’t that enough? But I come across these stories and I find a connection with them. These stories inspire me to also share my own story. I know that there are others who can also connect to my story.

I begin to understand that when things fall apart it doesn’t mean they’re broken, it means they are forming themselves into other things.”

And I guess that is the message that I am trying to get across. Things change, so don’t lose hope.

By the way, gardeners might also enjoy reading this book because Lane describes his garden so beautifully and his gardening in such minutest detail.

June 8, 2008 at 3:06 pm 7 comments

Going anonymous

Is it too late to be anonymous?

When I first started this blog, I was writing anonymously.  I didn’t mention any names, just initials of the people I was talking about.  I didn’t post any pictures, and when I finally did, you could only see my kids’ hands or their faces would be half covered.  But after a few months, I found this blog a good way to share news and pictures with family and friends and so it wasn’t anonymous anymore.

One good thing about being anonymous was that I was able to express myself freely, without worry of what people might think of my opinions and of the way I feel.  But don’t get me wrong.  Whatever I have expressed and related here have always been true and honest.  But I have to admit that there are a lot of things that I still hold back.  Because I know that people I know personally are reading this blog and I feel it’s kind of awkward to reveal everything.  You know what I mean?  I don’t know, but don’t you think that somehow it’s easier to tell the (on-line) world, people you don’t really know personally, your inner thoughts and feelings than it is to tell the people you see and deal with regularly in your personal life?  Or is it just me?

After going through my personal crisis last month, I feel that I am now ready to talk.  My friends have really been very supportive and they listened to me.  And as I talked to them about my struggle, I learned a few things.  That I am not alone in this.  Not just alone, meaning that they are just an email or phone call away if I do need to talk.  I am not alone, also meaning that there are also some of them who have somehow experienced what I have gone through.  We’ve also talked about these Filipino culture of inuman (social drinking event) and barkada (group of friends) and how they sometimes have a negative effect not just on the person but also on their families if they can’t say no to their barkada and allow themselves to drink too much.

I have been hemming and hawing about writing about this personal crisis that I went through.  To hem and haw, btw, means to hesitate.  Yes, you may borrow it if you want.  I also borrowed it from an article that I read somewhere. 🙂  So, I have been going back and forth.  Should I write about it?  Should I start a new blog where I can be anonymous and express myself freely?  (And I’m not even talking about that other blog which some of you have already read.)  Why do I have this need to share this personal struggle?

About going anonymous.  Well, I have already made a few changes in the blog.  The title for one.  I have replaced Journey to Honeyville with just plain niceheart.  I have also removed the My Sites page that listed all the links to my personal pages and albums.  But there are still links buried in my archives.  And I think I’ll just leave them there for now as I don’t have the time to remove all of them. 

The title Journey to Honeyville is actually kind of ironic.  You’d think that a place called Honeyville would be all sweet and lovely.  But Honeyville refers to my childhood.  When I said in my tagline that I sometimes find myself transported back to my childhood, I didn’t only mean that my children remind me of how I was when I was a child.  Yes, they do.  But my childhood was not only filled with wonder and surprises.  It was also filled with a lot of sadness and trauma.  And somehow, because of some of the choices that I made in my life, I am often reminded by all of these sad memories.  

When I shared my story about my father and my childhood in Forgiveness Comes From the Most Unexpected Place and in Don’t TOUCH Me, there were quite a few readers who reached out to me and also shared with me their experiences with their alcoholic loved ones and abusive loved ones.  I was touched as much as you were touched by my story.  Some expressed their concern if it’s all behind me now and if I have gained closure.  To tell you guys the truth, as much as I’d like to say that it’s 100 percent behind me now, there are times that it still haunts me.  One mom even came up to me and asked me if my father’s alcoholism has affected me in a bad light.  Her husband is a recovering alcoholic and she was told that children of alcoholics are affected by the effects of alcoholism somehow and it usually occurs in adulthood.  Right on.  She suggested that I join a support group called the Al-Anon, for families of recovering alcoholics.  I actually thought of joining one.  But with my ever crazy schedules, I just couldn’t fit it in my time.  So I guess, this is one of my reasons for writing this post.  I am reaching to any Al-Anon members out there, or non-members like me.  I’d like to share with you.  I need your support.  Convince me to join an Al-Anon group near my place right now.  You can drop me a line at my Contact page.   Thank you for listening to my story.  

February 18, 2008 at 4:24 pm 15 comments

Don’t TOUCH Me

The words printed on Mama’s T-shirt on the faded photographs caught my eye as I was going through our photo albums.  There were about three pictures in which she was wearing this white V-neck T-shirt with red printed letters.  DON’T TOUCH ME.   

You see, we owned this tailor shop in Noveleta, Cavite.  The name of the shop – TOUCH Casual.  It was located right at the center of town and since my parents were the only tailors in town, they were very well known and people called them Mr. and Mrs. Touch. 

DON’T TOUCH ME.   The word Touch was in bold letters.  I wondered if that was my mother’s cry for help.

Touch Casual 

It was the summer when I turned ten, in the mid-70s.  The lazy days of summer were starting to bore me and I asked my father if I could take baton-twirling lessons.  I must have been fascinated by the majorettes leading the town band as they marched on our street during processions. 

He knew someone who knew the band majorette and he immediately signed me up for lessons.  The majorette was a very pretty young lady with short hair.  The first day we met, she showed me right away how to twirl the baton.  She held that shiny metal rod and spun it so gracefully in her hand. I struggled at first because I’ve always had sweaty palms and I would constantly wipe my hands on my shirt.  My mother bought me my own baton so I could practice at home.   

After just a couple of weeks’ lesson, the band was invited to play at a funeral procession and my majorette trainor said that I was going with them and so is the other girl who was also my age.  “Are you sure I’m ready for this?”  I asked her.  “Yes, you don’t have to twirl your baton anyway,” she said.  We were just going to march in front of the band.

I was so excited.  Mama made me a nice outfit.  It was a white long-sleeved shirt and a red mini skirt with white pipings.  I also wore my white knee long socks and black leather shoes.  Mama bought me my own whistle tied on a thick yellow cord and of course I had my baton in my hand. 

I marched there in front of the band, so did the other girl who was the same age as me and our majorette in the middle leading the band while they played solemn hymns.  I know, my first gig as a majorette was a funeral but it didn’t matter.  People recognized me when the procession passed our street.  I heard people saying, “There’s the daughter of Mr. Touch.”


It was late at night a couple of months later.  My father came home drunk and he was fighting with my mother in the other room.  My younger sister and I huddled on the floor behind the couch.  I could hear my sister clenching her teeth.  She was terrified.  So was I and Ate Flor, our yaya/helper who was also there beside us on the floor.  

I could tell that he was hurting my mother.  She was crying and begging him to stop.  I wanted to stop him and I was sure Ate Flor also wanted to stop him.  But we knew better.  This was not the first time that he beat her.  There were many other times and it happened when he’s had too much to drink. 

I could have hated him for hurting Mama.  But he was my father and I was Papa’s girl.  That is, when he wasn’t drunk.  He was very loving when he was sober.  He would tell us jokes.  He’d help me with homework.  He’d stay up late with me to finish my art projects.  We played scrabble.  We went bowling. We had outings with other families.  People came to the shop and would make friends with them.  We were a happy family, or so people thought.  They didn’t know what happened behind the doors when the shop closed at night. 

Then thump!  He hit her with something really hard.  I could tell from her moaning.  And then there was silence.  The raving stopped.  He must have passed out from his drunkenness. 

After a while, Mama appeared before us.  She was black and blue on the forehead.  She had a cut and she was bleeding.  She summoned me and asked me to go with her to the doctor who lived just a few houses away.  I was frightened as it was already late at night.  But I wanted to be there for her.  As we stepped out of the door, I saw my baton lying on the floor.  He hit her with the baton.  My baton.  I wanted to cry but we were already outside.  I didn’t want people to see me cry.  

Why did I sign up for that baton-twirling lessons?  I felt so guilty.  Had I not wanted to be a majorette, he wouldn’t have hit her with the baton.  Of course now I realize that he would have hit her with something else.  But as a ten-year old child, that was what I thought.   

We got to the doctor’s house and he asked Mama what had happened.  She told him that she hit her head on a pole really hard.  She didn’t tell him that my father beat her up.  Nobody was to know.  It was our dirty little secret.  

 dont touch me

Last week, I read two posts, one by Toe and the other one by Manilenya.  Both mentioned the campaign against violence against women.  I didn’t know about the White Ribbon Campaign wherein you wear a white ribbon to protest against violence against women for 16 days (November 25 – December 10).  I also didn’t know that there is an International Human Rights Day.  But I thought that it was wonderful that these two women were writing about this very important topic, a topic that hits very close to home.  And I thought that I should do my part in giving you a picture of what domestic violence really looks like.  For as Toe has mentioned, she has been ignorant most of her life with issues like this because she has lived with wonderful men.  And as Manilenya has cited, “Domestic violence happens everywhere.  It affects someone near you.  At least 1 in 3 women has been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused in her lifetime.  Usually, the abuser is a member of her own family or someone known to her.” 

I have reason to believe that that statistic may be quite accurate.  Abused women don’t usually talk about the abuse with anyone.  They are ashamed and embarrassed so they suffer in silence. 

Toe has mentioned in her post that a lot of women who deal with physical and emotional abuse are poor and uneducated.  My mother finished only the sixth grade when the abuse happened.  Looking back now, I think her lack of education and the concerns of how she would provide for me and my sister was what held her back and stayed in the relationship for as long as she did.  And of course, the Philippines being a Catholic country, women were brought up to serve and stay with her husband.  And she didn’t seek help for my father’s alcoholism because of the stigma attached to it. 

But she eventually was able to muster up all her courage to leave my father, for fear of her life.  And she raised me and my sister by herself. 

If there is anybody out there dealing with domestic abuse, I just want you to know that you can stop this.  YOU have the power to stop this, not your abuser.  The abuser won’t change.  YOU have to be the change.  And I just want to assure you that things do get better.  Just don’t be afraid to ask for help. 

Related posts:

Forgiveness Comes From the Most Unexpected Place

Reconnecting and Healing

December 4, 2006 at 11:10 pm 41 comments

Forgiveness Comes From the Most Unexpected Place

“If you want to see Papa before he passes away, you better come home now.”  That was my sister, Lina, on the other end of the line, on a cloudy winter day of March, 1991.  Papa had a stroke two months earlier and was paralyzed from the neck down.  Years of smoking and drinking finally took a toll on him. 

With my 16-month old son in tow, I went back home to the Philippines for a two-month visit.  Papa’s medical insurance had run out and he needed to get out of the hospital.  But where would he go?  He didn’t have a permanent home.  His life had become aimless since Mama separated from him.  He had been living with one relative to the next.  Lina and I discussed where to place him.   

Should he stay with my husband and my in-laws? My husband was still in the Philippines back then waiting for his sponsorship papers.  But I would be going back to Canada after two months.  I didn’t feel that Papa would be taken care of properly there when I left.   

Should he stay with Lina?  She was a stay-at-home mom and her husband was a nurse.  He would feel more at home and he would be given better care there.

We decided to leave him at Lina’s place.  Although it was the logical decision, I felt like I was turning Papa away.

Ever since I could remember I have always been fond of Papa.  I was Papa’s girl while Lina was a self-proclaimed Mama’s girl.

My parents owned a tailor shop in Noveleta, Cavite.   They were very well known in town.  They garnered a lot of friends.  It was the custom then among men to serve friends a few drinks of beer, whiskey or rum when they visit each other.  Papa developed a drinking problem.  He started beating up Mama when he’d had too much to drink.  I was about eight and Lina was six when Papa came home drunk one night.  He grabbed my majorette baton and struck Mama on the forehead.  Lina and I huddled on the floor behind the couch, terrified.  We couldn’t do anything to help Mama.  We were frightened that he would hit us, too.  He never did, though.  Except for one incident that made me feel terribly guilty. 

Lina and I were fighting one night.  Papa overheard her answering back at me.  He got really mad, led her outside, and made her stand still beside the banana tree.  She stood there and whimpered while ants crawled and bit her legs.

I was in sixth grade when Mama left and didn’t come home.  After a few days, she came to school to pick up Lina and me.  She said, “I’m not going back home.  I’m going to Manila to live with my sister.  Do you, girls, want to come with me?”  Lina threw her arms around Mama’s waist and said, “Yes, Mama!  I want to come with you.”

Mama wanted Lina and me to stay together.  “Either you both go back home to your father or come live with me in Manila,” she continued.  But no matter what, she was leaving Papa.  I was torn.  I missed her terribly and yet I felt that we were betraying Papa if we left him.  I loved Papa dearly despite his faults, but I understood that it was time for my parents to separate.  It was no longer safe for Mama and it was emotionally traumatizing for all of us.

Lina wouldn’t see Papa when he visited us in Manila.  Auntie didn’t let him inside the house.  Mama allowed me to see him outside and we went to a nearby ice cream parlour.  I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions.  I was crying from the moment I saw him until he left that balmy afternoon.  The pain was more than I could endure at my age.  I missed him so much.

Mama and Lina felt a great deal of anger towards him.  I realized that he hurt Mama and that it was not acceptable at all, yet I couldn’t get myself to hate him.  How could I?  He was my father.  He taught me things that I didn’t know.  He stayed up late with me to finish my school homework and projects.  Mama never told us to hate him, and yet I knew that she was hurt knowing that I was still loyal to Papa.

Mama did the best she could to provide for us but making a living was hard.  When Lina and I were teenagers, Mama decided to apply for a job in Canada.  Lina and I went to live with Auntie.  We tried our best to get along with Auntie’s family.  After three trying years and feeling of remorse, I run away from Auntie’s home and went to live with Papa, much to Mama’s chagrin.

Lina and I gave Papa a second chance, hoping that he would change and get his life back on track.  But he could not resist the call of alcohol.   One night, he came home drunk, passed out on the couch, wet his pants, and was so embarrassed when he woke up the next morning.  There was no beating that time and yet I understood what Mama went through during those nights when Lina and I were little girls.

We never told anybody about what went on at home in our childhood.  We never even talked about it amongst ourselves.  And I didn’t realize the impact of all of these on Lina until our early adulthood. 

She was deeply involved in the Student Catholic Action and I was taken by surprise when she entered the convent.  After only a few months of her stay there, I noticed the remarkable improvement in her personality.  She couldn’t tolerate being in the presence of Papa before but she allowed him to visit her every month at the convent.  I was amazed at how she had forgiven him after years of resentment and hatred.

After a year, Lina left the convent.  She was young, confused, and thought that she wanted to serve God.  I thought that it was God’s plan to make Lina’s experience in the convent to be her instrument to forgive Papa.

When Papa was out of the hospital and settled at Lina’s place, I went to visit him.  I was humbled at the sight I saw.  There was my sister, feeding my father and cleaning him up.  At one point, she asked me, “Do you want to see his bed sores?”  I shook my head and looked away.  Why did I?  I, who was always at his side?  The roles were reversed.  Lina was now looking after him.

I was not at Papa’s side when he passed away in June 1991, two months after I came back to Canada.  I was told that minutes just before his last breath, he yelled, “God, please forgive me for all my sins.”  I will never forget that.  Just as I won’t forget how my sister forgave my father.

June 17, 2006 at 6:02 pm 33 comments

We miss him

On Vicki Gabereau, Patrick Lane was on. He was the author of the bestseller, “There is a Season: A Memoir in a Garden.” He spent a year in his garden writing about his alcoholism. I want to read that book. My father was an alcoholic and I want to read the life of an alcoholic from his own perspective.

When sis came back from the Philippines, Mama confirmed with her if she really wanted to bring Papa’s remains (bones) here in Winnipeg. My aunt has mentioned it to Mama on the phone. Mama told sis that it would be better if we left his remains in the Philippines because that’s his hometown. I also added that all his brothers, sister and relatives are there. We sure all miss him. Sis and I missed out on having a father. And I’m sure Mama misses him too.

On the last weekend of every month, Brother Jorge always asks those celebrating wedding anniversaries to stand up after mass and he blesses every couple that would. I think it was about a year and a half ago, in June, when Mama wanted to get up. I whispered to her, “But ma, patay na si Pa. You’re no longer married.”

December 20, 2004 at 9:51 pm 2 comments

On drinking and punishments

When I came down at lunch, I heard birds chirping. I saw some on our deck in the backyard. It was warm outside. I wondered where they came from. You’d think that they have all flown south by now. We have hit a plus 4 C today.My friend E called and asked me if I was attending our Christmas party with the tropa tomorrow. Marie was wondering because I hadn’t asked for directions yet. I told her that I knew where that place was. I hinted that Mama doesn’t like driving in that area because it’s very confusing there, very busy and the cars go very fast.

On the news: The rules will be changing regarding driving when you had too much to drink. If they catch you and there’s a child in the vehicle, they will take the child to Social Services. I have a mixed reaction to this. I’m all for punishing the drinker, but not the child. That could be traumatic for an innocent child. Oh, I know about being traumatized as a child. I’ve been through that.

December 17, 2004 at 9:54 pm Leave a comment