UGH: My Kids Missed Christmas Because I Was in Rehab

The first time I drank alcohol I got super got drunk and threw up.

Over a movie theater balcony.

Onto the heads of the unsuspecting Chevy Chase fans seated below.

That should've been a clear sign that booze and I were not a match made in heaven but, hey, I was only 14 and it would take another 30 years before I realized I had a capital p Problem. And it sure as hell wasn't with those zany Griswolds. (Although they are pretty freaking annoying.)

I grew up in New York City in the early 80s and partying is what we did. And we did it WELL. Hanging at Studio 54 doing lines with the Rolling Stones is normal 15 year-old behaviors, right? Being way more proficient at "Quarters" than you are at Algebra is something every 9th grader should aspire to, amiright?

Because "FUN" is what I wanted more than anything else, instead of going on to college like the rest of my prep school class, I went to work for Club Med. As I saw it, getting drunk and meeting new people was the whole point of going to college anyway, and, hell, Club Med would pay me to do that and let me live on lush Caribbean islands while I was it. See? My algebra may have been sorely lacking, but my logic was flawless.

The party was on. I hit the aptly named Paradise Island as an 18-year-old whose job, when she wasn't teaching tennis, was to fraternize with vacation goers --to help ensure that they had the trip of a lifetime. So, like a good little worker bee, fraternize I did. At the bar. In various bathroom stalls (this was the Bahamas in the late 80s after all, cocaine was copious, cheap and hella pure.) And elsewhere. (But that's fodder for a different confession.)

 It was all fun and games for nearly 10 years. I traveled the world, drinking, drugging and having "fun" all in the name of "work." Then it all came to a screeching halt when, one day, I met a guy -- a good old straight-laced Catholic boy from Quebec City (!) and married him three months later. [Note: do NOT attempt this course of action.] Au revoir Club Med, how's it going Los Angeles? And a house, and a "real" job and, hey, why not?, let's add some kids to the mix and, just to keep things interesting, let's make 'em twins.

I stopped drinking the second I peed positive on that stick and didn't look back for nearly ten years.

Party girl me had been replaced by SUPERMOMMY me. It was easy; I didn't want to be that drunken mom. I'd shudder at the mere notion of driving my babies around while under the influence.

Nope, I now got high on life; on seeing things anew through the eyes of my little ones, on living new experiences through them, on being PTA president and room mom and baking cutesy cupcakes all that other pink cloud, new mom bullshit you read about ad nauseum in women's mags. But, things were great. Until they weren't.

Quebec and I divorced because, really, you should get to know the person you intend to spend the rest of your life with, money got tight, and basically life just sort of happened so, somehow I started to drink again. Just some wine with dinner. Just a few cocktails at parties. "Normal" drinking like everyone does. Because, of course, I had my shit together, I was SUPERMOMMY, remember? Yeah. Only not so much.

 Keeping your shit together when all you really want to do is be drunk all day, every day, is a tall order. Keeping all your commitments tended to when your alcoholism is fighting to get the upper hand, is a full time job. Getting your real job done becomes a monumental pain in the ass. Then there's the rub that planning your drinking is an exhausting pastime; how many glasses of wine can I have and still be sober enough to drive home? Can we see "Despicable Me" at the theater that has a bar? Why don't liquor stores in California deliver? Dammit!

Then there were the pesky hangovers from hell. The only way I knew to quell them would be to start drinking again. So I did and that's when things got bad. Really, really bad. My kids, then 11, had never seen me "drunk". They'd seen me drink wine, they'd seen me and their friends' parents get loud and laugh-y and all that but they'd never seen me stumbling, out of control shitfaced.

That all changed last Thanksgiving when, saddled with the stress of having to host my family (I love them but, God I require copious amounts of vodka to deal), the pressure of having to get my house ship shape, and feeling that I had to out-Martha Stewart freaking Martha Stewart with the week-long food prep, I lost myself in a bottle of Kim Crawford. OR 20. OVER THE COURSE OF FOUR DAYS. When you're 5' 5" and weigh about 102 lbs. soaking wet, this is not a good thing.

With my entire family having taken up temporary residence at my house, I spent Wednesday before Turkey day "sick" in bed with an increasing stash of empty green glass bottles of sauvignon blanc hidden under my bathroom sink) and, lo and behold by the time that giant inflated Snoopy was winding his way down 34th street, I was in the E.R. with a doc telling me that I was malnourished, dehydrated and should strongly consider going to rehab. He also, thank GOD, told me NOT to stop drinking on my own, that I could have a seizure and die. I made him put that in writing so I could survive the family meal.

The next day, while I sat sipping fermented grapes in an effort to stave off both a horrific hangover and that theoretical life-endangering seizure, I watched my siblings and parents transform my living room into command central as they vetted myriad treatment centers. Ultimately, the onus of rehabbing my wayward ways and me fell on the capable shoulders of the nearby Betty Ford Center. I was willing to go, but frantic at the prospect of missing my kids' parent/teacher conferences, their holiday vacation and, oh yeah, CHRISTMAS. I mean, sure, getting my shit together was of paramount importance and, maybe I'd get lucky and end up with Lindsay Lohan as a roomie but at what price?

What kind of mother abandons her kids -- at freaking Christmas? One who needs help, that's what kind. As I kept telling myself again and again while undergoing the check in process (pretty pedestrian), the detox (pretty gnarly) and the soul-searching (overwhelmingly OUCH-Y), the "best gift I could give my kids for Christmas was a healthy, back-to-normal, me."

So that's what I set my sights on and committed to doing. I worked my ass off at that place; admitting that I had a disease, that I was "powerless over alcohol" but that I didn't have to drink again if I used the tools I was learning to deal with life's stresses (family gatherings, anyone?) instead of the bottle. Was my month in the desert chock-full o' sunshine and unicorn tears? Fuck no. But it was great in a different kind of way. I got my life back. I got my priorities back. I got a second chance. And guess what? Those terrific kids of mine didn't whine, or complain or guilt trip or any of the things I'd feared. They were supportive and loving because, hey, whaddaya know? I'd done an ok job raising empathetic humans. And, this year, with 387 days of sobriety (touch wood) under my belt, we can celebrate the holiday together and I'll even be able to remember it the next day. Talk about a Christmas bonus…

Why Looking Middle Aged Is the New Goal (Or So They Tell Me)

Find out why many professional women are opting not to over plump or perma-freeze their aging faces

"My patients aren’t in here because they’re trying to hold on to their husbands. If they’re trying to hang on to anything, it’s their jobs." So says Dr. Macrene Alexiades-Armenakas a highly sought after Manhattan-based dermatologist in The New York Times.

What the good doctor, who holds not one, but three degrees from Harvard, is alluding to is that, after a certain age, professional women can be dismissed as too old to do the jobs they've worked so hard (and long) to get. As one client put it, "I’m on an airplane to a different continent every other week. There’s no way they’d let me keep up this pace if I looked as exhausted as I am."

But, having the technology to be able to erase the ravages of a (longish) life lived is a double-edged sword. If these high-powered dames lift every sag and iron out every wrinkle they run the risk of looking too young (and perhaps vain/Real Housewife-y). So, as The Times says, "What these women seek is not so much the fountain of youth as its corollary, eternal early middle age. And so Dr. Alexiades-Armenakas strives not to iron out too much of life’s ravages."

One high falutin' vice chairman concurs, saying that she, and others like her, are looking to be "suspended at the 45 to 55 range."

As a result, dermatologists like Alexiades-Armenakas strive to leave some of those hard-earned crows feet and laugh lines in place, the concept being that "If you leave a few wrinkles, it looks more authentic."

While it's amazing that we live in a time when it's possible to (fake) dialing back the hands of time to a precise age range, is it equally amazing (read: sad) that these women feel compelled to do it? Would Warren Buffet or Richard Branson ever have such a notion enter the super-successful minds housed inside their decidedly wrinkly heads? High doubtful. How can we have come so far but still have such a long road to trudge?

WHY I'M FOLLOWING SHARON STONE'S ADVICE ON AGING

A year or so ago, I wrote a column called My Struggle to Age Gracefully: How Keeping Things in Perspective Helps to Keep Me Sane. Well, Sorta. Yeah, yeah, not the world's most succinct headline, but it spoke to how I was feeling at the time.

In the piece, I talked about how I'd once thought my "beauty" had peaked at age 26, and how it wasn't until many years later that I'd realized how idiotic I'd been to think such a thing.

In full indulgent-writer mode, I went on to explain how, at 35, I'd had an "a-ha" moment. I realized I was never going to look any better, or any younger, than I did at the present moment. "The grains of sand were sifting through the hourglass, and I could do absolutely nothing about it. I had to embrace the here and now -- and my looks."

And, before y'all jumped all over me about being too caught up in the superficial, I back-pedaled -- a little. "To read this, it sounds like I'm an incredibly vain, shallow woman who's all-consumed with her beauty quotient. The thing is, I'm really not. I'm more concerned with the lack of youth. Growing old kinda sucks. Plain and simple. As a woman, to the outside world, you become invisible. The glances from men on the street wane to a point where, when some creep whistles at you, you want to run over and thank him. It's when I find myself thinking along these lines that I have to stop and remember that it shouldn't matter how strangers perceive me. That what's important is being a good person on the inside -- being a great mom, thoughtful friend, and as good a person as I can."

Nice sentiment, huh? Thanks.

What made me remember that column today was something I read in some blog this morning. Seems that in January of 2008, Harper's Bazaar published a story on the then 49-year-old Sharon Stone and her "beauty secrets." In the article she talks about being tapped to be the face of Dior in her 40s, eschewing facials because she doesn't "like people to push and pick at my face," the fact that she only washes her hair twice a week, and that she has a weakness for dark chocolate. And, while that's all very well and good, it's not what struck a chord with me.

What she said that really hit home was the following: "Sometimes I literally have to sit down and look at myself and say, 'You are a lot older, and you look completely different.' You can't just keep doing the same hairdo or the same makeup and the same jewelry and the same look. You have to face the face that you have."

Isn't that interesting? It's an incredibly obvious concept of course, yet somehow still murky and hard to grasp. We all poke fun at those who are stuck in a time warp -- you know, the ones who have the same big hair, bright eye makeup, and Levi's 501s as they did in 1982. Yet, guess what? When we insist on seeing who we were in the mirror rather than who we've become, that's what happens.

What I'm gleaning from this latest a-ha moment is that it's not just my attitude about aging that needs to change, but also my perception of myself. To whit, it's time to take a cold hard look in the mirror and adapt my skin care regimens, makeup application, and hairstyling accordingly.

Oh, and it'd also be a good thing to stop judging others by their telltale scrunchies -- 'cause after all, they're struggling just like I am.