Brand Spanking Shiny New Quit Lit Memoir

Like a Normal Person is on sale today

In this raw and candid memoir, a gray-area drinker embarks on a journey of self-discovery and sobriety. Tired of numbing her emotions with alcohol, she decides to treat sobriety as a creative act rather than a punishment. As she confronts her past and the reasons behind her drinking, she realizes that no one is coming to save her - she must save herself. Through moments of struggle and triumph, she learns to embrace her vulnerabilities and find strength in her sobriety. This is a powerful story of resilience, self-discovery, and the healing power of taking control of one's own life.

Part I: Performance

When we were babies, I would bite my uncle Glenn so hard he bled. From pictures, I see I was twice his size even though I was only two days older. Grandma and Mom had been pregnant at the same time, and so it went that I had the unique experience of being nursed by both. Glenn had one of those Gerber Baby faces with big blue eyes, and I looked like a bald grizzly bear by comparison. He was a skinny, bird-boned kid, well-suited to dance—at least according to eighties principles. My sisters and I were solid. It was not a welcome thing to be a solid girl back then. I remember comparing my substantial limbs to those of other kids, resolute in the idea that I was fat (I was average).

Ever since I watched Glenn perform a tap number to ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown' in front of a packed house at the Oxnard Performing Arts Center, I wanted to be a tapper. Everyone in the number wore bowler hats, black sequins, and bright red lipstick. I imagined myself in one of those studio photos with all my fellow dancers, posing hand on hip in a sparkling costume with a ponytail so tight it was also a facelift. It seemed like a waste that my grandma was putting so much of her family’s resources into taking my uncle to tap, jazz, and ballet when he wasn’t even a girl. We were three daughters of divorced parents, and our parents didn’t sign us up for those kinds of things. We were too many. There wasn’t enough of anything. Grandpa and my uncle Carl used to tease Glenn about the dancing and calling him “Twinkle-toes.” He quit when puberty hit, and now has formidable facial hair and works at the tops of wind turbines in northern Oregon, the dancing an incongruent memory.

Unlike Glenn, I never let the dream of dancing in tulle and patent leather shoes die. At thirty-four, during my first major sober stint, I found that not spending my disposable income on bars and takeout freed up funds for novel experiences. Naturally, instead of starting a 401k or chipping away at student loan debt, I signed up for my first tap class.

Seven years later, my enrollment in tap class this year is significant. Taking my shoes out of the garage means I’m digging into my dreams again. There’s something about quitting drinking that allows for this re-emergence: the freed-up finances, the freed-up time, and the desire to spoil myself.

The day is warm and long and I can still feel the heat even though the sun is on its descent. The studio is only a couple of miles from my house, so I ride my bike with my tap shoes tied together and draped over my shoulder like a purse. I’m in bright red spandex shorts. My body has changed since I started running again. My legs are still substantial, but in a way that feels like others should be envious, like my bones are roped in magic muscle.

I feel strong as I pump the pedals, riding away from the duplex where Henry is about to start his alcohol class. It’s meant to be one of those group things like AA, where people meet in dusty rooms, but the pandemic moved everything to virtual. It’s perfectly timed that I have my tap class on the same nights that he has his Zoom. It protects the privacy of the people sharing. I would want to listen at the bedroom door and find out the sordid details of all their lives – and-to see if Henry lies about his. He is the kind of people-pleaser who collects fake sobriety chips even though he still drinks because he doesn’t want to disappoint the “real” alcoholics.

I arrive at the studio and recognize around half the class from when I joined it seven years ago. I only tapped that one year when I was thirty-four, but many of the dancers have been tapping since they were three. They range in age from sixteen to seventy, and I’m the worst one. It’s one of those things I do that I’m bad at, like surfing or drawing. I want to be better, but I don’t live or die by my performance. I want to come home with that razzle dazzle. I want to choreograph a dance and do a surprise performance that wows my family and friends.

I am shy in tap class in the same way that I’m shy in the group exercise classes at the gym. I don’t do chit chat, so there is no acknowledgement between me and the women that we have met each other before, that we did a performance on the stage of the college where we all wore safari hats and colored scarves and danced around a tent to a song called ‘Trashin’ the Camp.' There’s a new teacher named Cassidy who has red hair, reminds me of my older sister and wears these red wingtip tap shoes that I instantly want. My ankles are a little rusty during warm-ups, but even after so many years away from it, tapping is like riding a bike.

It’s dark when I get home. From the street I can see Henry in our brightly lit bedroom with the window shade up and his laptop in front of him. The framing of him in the illuminated window looks like a sad man show for passersby. Our cats are curled up on the bed in front of him. He looks stern and stressed. I ride up the driveway feeling light, like a kid, knowing that I get to go back to tap class next week. I get to leave this heavy stuff at home and imagine I’m in a dance troupe. I think about the performance that will happen in winter before holiday break. This time I’ll have Henry in the audience. Maybe seeing me dance will make him feel lighter too.

That button up there takes you to the Amazon page where my book is being sold right now. You can order the Like a Normal Person book at Barnes & Noble Amazon or at one of your favorite Ebook retailers. It is on the shelves at Timbre bookstore in Ventura, and you can order it through your local indie bookshop. Indie bookshops and indie authors are cool! I’m also doing an author event On October 20th from 11:00 a.m.to 2:00 p.m. at Three birds in Ojai, California.