Sunday, June 22, 2008


                   Mom used to drink.  A lot.  God, she could do the greatest Foster Brooks impression.  But it wasn’t very funny.  Though neither was Foster Brooks come to think of it. 
            I remember she’d tuck me in at night, puke dripping off her chin as she’d kiss me.  Then she’d go out into the living room and hit on my friends.
            Wow, I hated it when I’d find her in the bushes or passed out on the front lawn next to the sprinkler.
            Carpooling was out of the question.  Okay, that’s not entirely true.  By the time school let out around 3:30, she was on that downward slide, sobering up.  So, she was reasonably safe behind the wheel by then.  It was the mornings that were the scariest.
            Her tirades seemed to go on for hours.  Bottle in hand, she’d strike out at any and everyone.  Her most frequent target was my little brother.  I’m not sure why, but taunts like “I never liked you” and “You think you’re so fucking great, don’t you” plagued him from ages 4 to 5.  Once he hit 5 though, it was like he was free and clear until he was at least 32.
          Apart from all that, she was a great parent.  Even all the booze in the world couldn’t take that away.  And believe me, she tried to prove that theory wrong.



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