Breaking Bread, Breaking My Sobriety - Sugar & Satire

December 8, 2017

Heads up: this essay discusses my relationship with alcohol, if you're in recovery or struggling with addiction this is probably not a good essay for you to read.

This fall has been a season of change for me. The universe has been giving me signs for a few months now, that it was time for me to slow down. But in my constant desire to move forward I admittedly forgot how to do that, to stay slow. It happens to the best of us, but it sure feels like it happens to me more than it does for most. As evidenced by basically every other blog post I've written.

One night this summer, deep in the throes of Tennessee, I made pizzas for a few coworkers. In an effort to get back to my roots, and find some semblance of home in the corporate housing I'd been provided with, I decided to make both the dough and sauce from scratch. The recipe I followed for the sauce called for a splash of a dry white wine, something I've been staying away from for the last 3 years. Normally I'd simply go without, but on that day I found myself circling the liquor section at the grocery store. Something was calling me. I made a few trips there and back, before settling on a dry chardonnay that came in what I can only describe as a juice box. I included a few tablespoons into my sauce and put the rest in the fridge. I felt like I had answered the call.

I forgot how much I love the taste of white wine. And the smell lingered in the air even after the alcohol burned off with the heat of the stove. At the end of the night I stared at the wine in the fridge, wondering why I'd kept it. I wasn't planning on cooking anything else with the wine, but for some reason I let it stay there.

If you're new here, or unfamiliar with my journey, about three years ago I decided to stop drinking alcohol. It was a decision born more out of convenience than necessity. I've thankfully never struggled with addiction, but was able to come to the conclusion that I like my life better when I'm not drinking. It's been admittedly easy for me. It's not hard to go without something that you don't even miss.

But I think I was starting to miss it, especially in Tennessee. I missed the ritual of a glass of wine with dinner, or cocktails paired with deep conversation. There's an element of social bonding that comes with drinking, that I've been good at replicating with sparking water. I started to long for that added element after a long work day. I'd watch my coworkers enjoy a beer on their porches or smell the fermentation on their breath as we celebrated our days off on the river.

During my last few nights in Tennessee I kept coming back to the fridge. Staring at the juice carton of wine, daring myself to take a sip. I'd feel the light of the refrigerator illuminate me, a stark contrast to my dark apartment, once again calling me. After the third night I poured the wine down the sink.

"Writer" Goes on Vacation to Write, Doesn't. - Sugar & Satire

April 21, 2017

I figured something out about myself this week. It started after I wrapped my last gig on Tuesday, and then headed out to Santa Barbara for a mini vacation I'd been planning for about a month. When people asked me why I was going away I proudly told them "I just need somewhere the write." Because I had this fantasy that I'd be sitting on a balcony, staring at the ocean and words would flow out of me like earl grey out of a hot teapot. I had this idea that if I was in the right place, the right setting I'd suddenly be filled with inspiration again.

The fantasy was ruined when I realized that I'd booked a room with a shockingly expensive view of the parking lot. I took that as a sign that instead of writing my sure-to-be masterpiece, I was instead supposed to crack open a book. Sylvia Plath's, The Bell Jar to be precise. I read until I felt sick, staying up much later than I normally do, rolling her words around in my mouth like cold stones. No writing was done that day.

The next morning I woke with purpose, called the front desk and requested a room upgrade. A step in the right direction, but when I sat down at my desk I found myself staring at a black computer screen in complete silence, picking at the shift button that had slowly been worn away after years of furiously capitalizing journal entries and text messages. "I've still got time." I thought to myself, and I snapped my laptop shut and headed for the pool, book in hand. I got lost inside the pages, coming up for air only when it was time for my spa appointment. Put your judgments aside about my bougie lifestyle for a moment and remember that I was on vacation.

Afterwards, as I was walking back to my room, with the full intention of sitting down and putting pen to paper, I saw the hotel salon and decided I needed to get my hair blown out. Pure avoidance at this point. I sat in the chair while a blonde woman blew hot air into my head to make the strands smooth and soft, bragging to her about how I was a "writer", here on vacation to write. I didn't tell her that I hadn't actually written anything since my arrival the days before, but instead told her all about the "series of essays" I was working on. That I needed to be near the ocean to find something meaningful enough deep inside of me, worthy of sharing. I also didn't tell her that this mysterious "series of essays" were only to be shared on my shitty blog and hadn't been commissioned by some publishing house or online journal. Semantics.

The Girl Who Fell in Love with the Ocean - Sugar & Satire

January 6, 2017

It started when I was young, growing up in a small town with direct access to the ocean, in the upper left corner of the United States. My family had a small boat, and we'd spend weekends in the summer together out at sea. We'd drop crab traps in the water and head towards our favorite spot on Lummi Island, lovingly referred to in my family as "Magic Island". There, we set up camp. A small fire, paper plates and other picnic supplies. As my father got the fire going, he'd send my sister and I off to explore the island in search of firewood. Sometimes we'd find ourselves up near the cliff that overlooked the ocean, it had a steep drop, but the risk was worth the reward, as the view was so spectacular that I can still remember how it took my breath away. The sheer vastness of the water, as it spread farther than my eyes could see. I can still hear my father warning us not to get too close to the edge, as he pulls us away from the water and closer towards him.

I always noticed how happy my dad was as he looked at the water, and it made me happy too. We'd all sit there quietly, my sister, my father and I, staring out and admiring the ocean. With the implicit understanding that ocean time was quiet time, a moment allowing for a brief pause in conversation. A time for us to all collectively appreciate what nature had provided us with. I don't know what he was thinking about but it doesn't really matter, because he was stoic and silent and strong, just like the ocean. When it was time for lunch we'd roast hot dogs over the open fire and then move on to s'mores. Competing with each other to see who could roast the perfect marshmallow. The goal was a marshmallow just lightly kissed with a golden color. Not too much, so that it was burnt, and not too little, for fear of leaving it cold and flavorless.

We Thought We Were Safe - Sugar & Satire

September 9, 2016

We thought we were safe.

We settled into a foreign place, a tiny island paradise, learning our way around and slowly understanding a new way of living. We ate fresh fruit and played with stray dogs. We drove on the left side of the road and swam in water so blue it almost didn’t feel real. We dug our feet into the soft sand and listened to the warm Caribbean breeze as it blew through the palm trees.

We thought we were safe.

We felt the magic of the island as we became braver and braver. “We’ve been here for a month” we thought, "we’re practically locals.” We adapted quickly, and our names floated around the island faster than we could ever understand. We were filled with confidence and unassuming ignorance.

We thought we were safe.

We did things we’d never do. Driving alone at night, stopping at the bank to withdraw cash after hours. We took long walks on the beaches by ourselves and woke up before the sun to drive around the island and watch it fill with light. We were so overworked, so tired, and we let our guard down. The clean air filled our lungs and our hearts with a newfound courage. We were lulled into a false sense of security slowly but suddenly, like watching the sunset bleed into the night. Bright, overwhelming light, and then instant darkness.

We thought we were safe.

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