There has been much ado about Charlie Sheen's latest antics. I, who love a good celebrity meltdown, was glued to my television the other night watching that crazypants interview on 20/20. Exploding babies, grand wizard masters, radical underwear— every quote more jaw-dropping than the next. But the most popular soundbite that has come from Mr. Sheen's fall off the sanity tree appears to be his concept of "WINNING". You know— the drug-feuled, sex-addicted, clearly psychotic variety.
Well, all this got me thinking…what would "WINNING" look like in my world? What would be the over-indulged, reality-challenged, bad-for-the-sake-of-being-bad version of being a mom to a one-year-old? So I tried a dose of Charlie Sheen "the drug" and gave it a shot.
"WINNING" at Motherhood
Out at a Restaurant: You arrive at the restaurant during peak dinner hours. (Just because you have a baby in tow doesn't mean you have to eat at 5pm with the senior citizens and the people seeing Wicked.) You plop the baby in a chair where she sits quietly enamored with a spoon while everyone else orders cocktail after cocktail. When the food arrives, you give the baby a lamb chop to gnaw on. The bone continues to occupy her even as the adults move on to shots. At the end of the meal, you hand the baby your phone and she shows off her newly acquired skill— calling you both a cab.
At Bedtime: You're busy making out with your husband on the couch when your baby taps you on the shoulder and announces "night night" which means she is ready to go to bed. You take her to her room where she reads herself a book, climbs into the crib herself, and then motions for you to shut the door on your way out. Then you shower, shave, put on a slinky black dress and confirm you're on the VIP list at Provocateur. No need to get a sitter. The baby won't be up till morning.
On A Plane: You get wisked past security because a TSA agent takes pity on your inability to carry a carseat, a baby, and two carry-ons yourself. Then a golf cart pulls up and scurries you both to the gate. Once on the plane, you're approached by a flight attendant who offers you a free upgrade. You collect your things and transfer to the big leather seats up front where you are greeted with a glass of champagne, a warm bowl of nuts, a valium, and two shots of whiskey— one for you and one for the baby. By the time the plane takes-off, you've both got your buzz on and are one in-flight movie preview away from the first of many mother-daughter pass-outs.
In The Car: You strap the baby in the carseat and give her a bottle, a blankie, a toy, and a pacifier, all of which keep her busy for the first hour of the trip before she dozes off. Then she sleeps through honking traffic, screeching breaks, the song "I'm Winning" blasting on the radio, and attractive men in fancy cars cat-calling you through the open window. When you stop to bang one of the guys in a rest stop bathroom on the side of Route 90, the baby doesn't mind. In fact, she's got a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee waitng for you when you're finished.
On A Playdate: You arrive at your mom friend's house with the baby in hand. You both deposit the kids in the playroom/basement and say "remember to share" before locking the door behind you. Then you call 1-800-MASSAGE and order a "Four-On-Two-All-Male Special". While your friend pours appletinis, you set the baby monitor up just in case. By the time the doorbell rings, you've downed appletini number six and are busy picking buds off the pot plant that your friend has growing in her closet. Then you, your friend, and four men with very large hands get stoned beyond recognition. And just when you think you couldn't be "winning at motherhood" any harder, Charlie Sheen, himself, shows up with his kids, his girlfriends and their family crack pipe.
To conclude: Taking Charlie Sheen "the drug" could be fun. Unless your child emerges from the basement as a "droopy eyed armless" version of Sinatra. I imagine that would suck. Even if I have no idea what it means.