Britney and me: two peas in an alcohol-soaked pod. Vodka... yum.
If you haven’t heard, Britney entered a rehab facility last week and then left 24 hours later... only to enter another rehab facility this week and leave again. Yesterday, she went back to rehab again (if you’re counting, this is number three) and according to the celebrity blogs that I swear I only read as research for this post, she hasn’t left... yet.
As for me, it’s been 13 days since I threw myself into a self-imposed rehabilitation program for one month. But, I—like Britney pre-the latest rehab stint—have decided detox isn’t my style. Let’s see how Brit and I measure up in other areas:
Brit: Once the biggest music star in the world, positioned to overthrow Madonna as the reigning Queen of Pop. Now... well, let’s just put it this way: please bow your heads in a moment of silence for Britney’s career. May it rest in peace.
Lou: PR Maven. Marketing Prodigy. Writer Extraordinaire.
Brit: More like frienemies.
Lou: Hilarious, intelligent, and attractive. Have you read the comments on my blog?
The Men in Our Lives:
Brit: Justin Timberlake, K-Fed, and some guy that looked a whole lot like K-Fed. Hmm…
Lou: Countless exes. More than I care to remember. Far more than I care to list.
On Being Single:
Brit: Single and fabulous?
Lou: Single and fabulous!
Brit: Cigarettes, back up dancers, unprotected sex.
Lou: Crab rangoon, Ben & Jerry's, hummus and pita bread.
Brit: You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.
Lou: I must, I must, I must increase my bust.
Hitting Rock Bottom:
Brit: Pick your poison: marrying K-Fed; sharing “Chaotic” with the world; having K-Fed’s baby; walking into a public restroom barefoot; driving with that kid on her lap; the horrifying interview with Matt Lauer; having another K-Fed baby; partying panty-less with Paris Hilton; shaving her head; checking into and out of rehab; checking into and out of rehab again. I’m going to go with marrying K-Fed, since that seems to be what started it all.
Lou: Probably two weeks ago, when after an undetermined amount of red wine, I told some strange, drunk man in a bar, “Seriously, I will fight you” because he wouldn’t leave my friend and me alone. I’m not proud of what I said, and I would never have actually fought him, but I realized, once sober, the potentially dangerous situation I could have created. I mean, what if he actually wanted to fight me? I don’t know how to fight.
Of course, in reality, I don’t have as much ‘splaining to do since I (a) don’t have children and therefore, no one needs to ask where they are while I’m out falling off of bar stools and trash talking; (b) consistently wear underwear; (c) did not break up with Justin Timberlake, only to marry K-Fed (to be fair, many of us did not expect Justin’s post-boy band rise to god-like status as a solo artist); (d) didn’t shave my head—yet anyway; and finally, (e) all of the above.
The point is, 30 days is way too long to give up drinking if you haven’t had a run in with the law or actually woken up on a plane with a hole in your cheek. Instead, taking a cue from two friends/blog commenters, I am self-imposing a new rule: the three drink maximum. Three drinks when I’m out… no more. I trust that I have the willpower to not binge drink. Even if Britney is there, I don’t want to go back to rehab… actually, especially if Britney is there.