Situation: The combination of circumstances at any given moment; state of affairs.
Here's an alcoholic primer that can helps me navigate any situation that occurs:
1. Create a problem out of thin air. It amazes me how often I can take something that really isn't a problem and make it a big ole problem. This is why I talk to people a lot about my problems. I'm so dense I can't usually tell the difference between a problem and a blessing. I'm not even close most of the time. I'm not even in the game. No one else seems to be confused.
"Here's what's upsetting me," I'll say to a friend.
I get a lot of blank looks and heavy sighing. Snorting is not uncommon, nor is choking and swearing and a wild waving of the arms. Occasionally someone throws something or tries to strangle me. When people snort there's a derisive tone to it. Dismissive is a word that comes to mind.
This is impressive enough, elevating something small to something big. But creating a problem out of nothing, which I can do easily, is truly impressive. It's magical. It's something a professional magician with years of schooling and professional experience wouldn't be expected to do. I don't bat an eye.
"Problem . . . Appear!" I say, with a theatrical flourish, hidden in a cloud of smoke.
On to step 2 (Ed. note: not the good Step 2, the capital Step 2 found in The Steps but rather the crazy man step 2) . . . Try to solve the problem or enlarged problem or non-problem that has been aggravated into a real problem even though I may not have any skills at all that are applicable. Don't ask for help. Don't use the correct tools. Do it fast, do it right now. Use a hammer. A big hammer. Hammers are great. They solve ALL problems, even when glassware and human flesh is involved.
3. Get angry when things don't go smoothly. Continue to try to solve the problem when you're angry, not taking time to pause or ponder or consider implications. Anger is a great lubricant when there's a problem to be solved. I find that it's irrationality really helps things out.
4. This is crucial. Blame someone else for the problem. Loved ones are particularly attractive targets. They're usually around and they're tied to us by blood or legal contracts or . . . because they love us. I don't treat people I don't know like I treat my loved ones. More irrationality.
I forget what 5 is.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Alright Then
Alright: All right; a spelling much used but still generally considered a substandard usage.
I was in a Starbucks today, enjoying my overpriced specialty coffee drink. Unfortunately, for a man who professes to be pursuing a higher spiritual goal, the cost of this drink often makes it difficult for me to cough up a buck or two to give to someone less fortunate than me (and by "a buck or two" I mean "a buck"). Suddenly, a man came in, looked at the line of other people waiting to get their overpriced specialty drinks, and yelled: "I'm in a hurry."
Must have been a drunk.
I was in a Starbucks not long ago, with an overpriced specialty coffee drink that is sold on the retail coffee market, prices clearly marked on an overhead board, to a consumer (me -- I'm the consumer) who has chosen to pay the amount clearly listed on this board even though there are dozens of other coffee shops in the neighborhood and literally millions of other drink options available, including, I might add, making the same drink at home for what can't be more than ten cents or so, when a woman came into the store and used the bathroom. It wasn't sudden at all. She didn't purchase anything, which irritated me for a minute as I sat there reading a paper that I had taken off the paper rack and intended to put back without paying for when I was done reading it. But then she walked over to the woman at the register and complained about the condition of the room.
There's a comedian who relates the story of taking a temporary holiday job as a department store elf when he was young. He did something to piss off a customer.
"I could report you to your manager," she sniffed.
He leaned in close. "I could have you killed," he replied.
I'm not sure what I would have done with the bathroom complainer but "killed" or "maimed" might have been . . . might have been . . . in the offing. This is why I don't work retail. As a general rule I can't stand people.
"Stevie, could you work in the back storeroom?" My manager would say. "WAY in the back? And close the door behind you."
I was in a Starbucks recently when . . . do you think I spend too much time in Starbucks? You might be right. Anyway, the store is at the intersection of a couple of busy commercial streets and has no parking lot. Folks who are getting drinks to go have to park along the street. There are a lot of parking spots available but not always right, immediately in front of the store, inconveniencing important people who don't want to walk more than eight feet to purchase their overpriced specialty coffee drink. At the corner of this busy intersection is a spot clearly marked with a sign that says: "No Parking. Ever. Not Ever. Even If You're Handicapped Or Just Want To Stop In For A Minute To Get A Cup Of Coffee." It's a pretty unusual sign but it's point is unequivocal.
So Important Guy pulls into the space this morning. It really is a bad place to park. It makes it difficult for people who want to make a right turn from busy street one onto busy street two. He parks right in front of a cop, who follows him into the store.
"Excuse me," the cop says loudly and with authority. "There are plenty of places to park. You might want to move your car."
See, this would have pissed me off when I was drinking. I don't like to be told what to do, whether that's where to park by a sign or where else to park by a cop. I probably would have kept my mouth shut but I would have had a huge resentment all day. I would have felt picked on. I would have rationalized why I should be able to park illegally. I would have felt abused if the cop had given me a ticket. I might have suggested he go catch some bad guys and leave me alone.
I was in this Starbucks not long ago that's in a busy commercial area where parking is tight. This store has a small parking lot. There are several signs that say: "Parking for customers of this store only." It's amazing how Important People pull in, park their car, then tootle off leisurely down the street, to shop elsewhere or to attend an important luncheon.
I was walking home from a Starbucks today. A dude is coming toward me.
"Hey! Can I ask you a question?" he says.
I don't know why people who clearly intend to ask you a question ask if they can ask the question. One time I'm going to say: "No." I bet they ask the question anyway.
"Sure!" I reply, cheerfully. I had already had my cup of coffee. A big one.
"I got a quarter in my pocket and I'm trying to get home. I need like a dollar and ten cents for the bus."
I didn't point out that this is a bad amount to ask for. Who has a dime? You're getting a buck and that's it. Why not ask for a buck eighty? You might bet two. This guy had not done due diligence on his market research.
I fished out a buck and handed it to him.
"Alright then," he said, moving on down the walk.
Alright then.
I was in a Starbucks today, enjoying my overpriced specialty coffee drink. Unfortunately, for a man who professes to be pursuing a higher spiritual goal, the cost of this drink often makes it difficult for me to cough up a buck or two to give to someone less fortunate than me (and by "a buck or two" I mean "a buck"). Suddenly, a man came in, looked at the line of other people waiting to get their overpriced specialty drinks, and yelled: "I'm in a hurry."
Must have been a drunk.
I was in a Starbucks not long ago, with an overpriced specialty coffee drink that is sold on the retail coffee market, prices clearly marked on an overhead board, to a consumer (me -- I'm the consumer) who has chosen to pay the amount clearly listed on this board even though there are dozens of other coffee shops in the neighborhood and literally millions of other drink options available, including, I might add, making the same drink at home for what can't be more than ten cents or so, when a woman came into the store and used the bathroom. It wasn't sudden at all. She didn't purchase anything, which irritated me for a minute as I sat there reading a paper that I had taken off the paper rack and intended to put back without paying for when I was done reading it. But then she walked over to the woman at the register and complained about the condition of the room.
There's a comedian who relates the story of taking a temporary holiday job as a department store elf when he was young. He did something to piss off a customer.
"I could report you to your manager," she sniffed.
He leaned in close. "I could have you killed," he replied.
I'm not sure what I would have done with the bathroom complainer but "killed" or "maimed" might have been . . . might have been . . . in the offing. This is why I don't work retail. As a general rule I can't stand people.
"Stevie, could you work in the back storeroom?" My manager would say. "WAY in the back? And close the door behind you."
I was in a Starbucks recently when . . . do you think I spend too much time in Starbucks? You might be right. Anyway, the store is at the intersection of a couple of busy commercial streets and has no parking lot. Folks who are getting drinks to go have to park along the street. There are a lot of parking spots available but not always right, immediately in front of the store, inconveniencing important people who don't want to walk more than eight feet to purchase their overpriced specialty coffee drink. At the corner of this busy intersection is a spot clearly marked with a sign that says: "No Parking. Ever. Not Ever. Even If You're Handicapped Or Just Want To Stop In For A Minute To Get A Cup Of Coffee." It's a pretty unusual sign but it's point is unequivocal.
So Important Guy pulls into the space this morning. It really is a bad place to park. It makes it difficult for people who want to make a right turn from busy street one onto busy street two. He parks right in front of a cop, who follows him into the store.
"Excuse me," the cop says loudly and with authority. "There are plenty of places to park. You might want to move your car."
See, this would have pissed me off when I was drinking. I don't like to be told what to do, whether that's where to park by a sign or where else to park by a cop. I probably would have kept my mouth shut but I would have had a huge resentment all day. I would have felt picked on. I would have rationalized why I should be able to park illegally. I would have felt abused if the cop had given me a ticket. I might have suggested he go catch some bad guys and leave me alone.
I was in this Starbucks not long ago that's in a busy commercial area where parking is tight. This store has a small parking lot. There are several signs that say: "Parking for customers of this store only." It's amazing how Important People pull in, park their car, then tootle off leisurely down the street, to shop elsewhere or to attend an important luncheon.
I was walking home from a Starbucks today. A dude is coming toward me.
"Hey! Can I ask you a question?" he says.
I don't know why people who clearly intend to ask you a question ask if they can ask the question. One time I'm going to say: "No." I bet they ask the question anyway.
"Sure!" I reply, cheerfully. I had already had my cup of coffee. A big one.
"I got a quarter in my pocket and I'm trying to get home. I need like a dollar and ten cents for the bus."
I didn't point out that this is a bad amount to ask for. Who has a dime? You're getting a buck and that's it. Why not ask for a buck eighty? You might bet two. This guy had not done due diligence on his market research.
I fished out a buck and handed it to him.
"Alright then," he said, moving on down the walk.
Alright then.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Coincidently
Coincidence: An accidental and remarkable occurrence of events, ideas, etc. at the same time, in a way that sometimes suggests a causal relationship.
I spoke on the phone yesterday to a friend in The Program. This is something I try to do every day because, frankly, I'm not all there and if I don't talk to other people, who may or may not be all there either, then I tend to start living in my own head and believing my own crap. It's amazing the stuff that I've been able to convince myself is normal over the years and far, far into sobriety. My capacity for self-justification is beyond belief.
Anyway, he had gotten some good news and immediately began hypothesizing how the good news could fall apart. This makes perfect sense to me. I can find the problem in any situation. I can create problems where no problems have existed before. Earth People are amazed at how I can take a wonderful situation and cast the dark pall of disaster right on over it. They wonder why I would think like that. I have no idea myself so I can't explain it very clearly to them. This is why I don't talk to Earth People unless it's absolutely necessary, like to an ambulance driver or physician about to begin emergency surgery on me.
I took a few minutes to explain my talent in this area to this guy, who is on the new side. He was amazed. He was agog.
"That's exactly what I do!" he exclaimed.
Of course it is. I'm as crazy as I was when I got sober. It's just that I've had some practice in not acting on the crazy. Some of the crazy I even recognize.
"OK, this is crazy Stevie," I think. "Don't touch anything right now."
And I've had the practice of making sure I'm in touch with other drunks. I can see crazy in you more easily than I can see crazy in me, given my great talent in finding and pointing out defects in other people and denying any flaws or wrongdoing in my own thinking or behavior.
I like it when I hear something that I really need to hear at a meeting or on the phone or at coffee with another alcoholic. We have nifty little terms for them in The Program, like "god shots." Coincidences. I always point out that the more active I am the more coincidences I experience. Try lying on the couch watching The TV for the next week and see how many god shots you get. Then go to a meeting every day and tally up those coincidences. Compare the two numbers.
It's not a fair fight.
I spoke on the phone yesterday to a friend in The Program. This is something I try to do every day because, frankly, I'm not all there and if I don't talk to other people, who may or may not be all there either, then I tend to start living in my own head and believing my own crap. It's amazing the stuff that I've been able to convince myself is normal over the years and far, far into sobriety. My capacity for self-justification is beyond belief.
Anyway, he had gotten some good news and immediately began hypothesizing how the good news could fall apart. This makes perfect sense to me. I can find the problem in any situation. I can create problems where no problems have existed before. Earth People are amazed at how I can take a wonderful situation and cast the dark pall of disaster right on over it. They wonder why I would think like that. I have no idea myself so I can't explain it very clearly to them. This is why I don't talk to Earth People unless it's absolutely necessary, like to an ambulance driver or physician about to begin emergency surgery on me.
I took a few minutes to explain my talent in this area to this guy, who is on the new side. He was amazed. He was agog.
"That's exactly what I do!" he exclaimed.
Of course it is. I'm as crazy as I was when I got sober. It's just that I've had some practice in not acting on the crazy. Some of the crazy I even recognize.
"OK, this is crazy Stevie," I think. "Don't touch anything right now."
And I've had the practice of making sure I'm in touch with other drunks. I can see crazy in you more easily than I can see crazy in me, given my great talent in finding and pointing out defects in other people and denying any flaws or wrongdoing in my own thinking or behavior.
I like it when I hear something that I really need to hear at a meeting or on the phone or at coffee with another alcoholic. We have nifty little terms for them in The Program, like "god shots." Coincidences. I always point out that the more active I am the more coincidences I experience. Try lying on the couch watching The TV for the next week and see how many god shots you get. Then go to a meeting every day and tally up those coincidences. Compare the two numbers.
It's not a fair fight.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Moving Away, Moving Along
Relationship: Connection; a being related.
Related: Applied to persons, implies close connection through consanguinity.
Consanguinity: Huh?
I'm trying to sort out my feelings about some lapsed relationships as I prepare for my trip back to the Old City. There have been a few people that I'm actively in touch with, as if we still live a few miles apart; a few more that I talk to regularly but not frequently; and the vast majority of my friends and acquaintances have gone into hibernation as far as regular, casual conversations are concerned. This is as it should be -- I don't live there anymore, after all. A lot of the glue that binds people is a regular sharing of the ordinary occurrences of life -- the weather, sports and politics, places that we both go and people that we both know. I'm OK with this for the most part. It's part of the moving away process and I'm the one that moved, for god's sake. I know that these people stay love me. It's just that we don't interact on a frequent basis anymore. This is the 7th different city that I've lived in -- this happens every time.
But I admit to some surprise and dismay that a few friends have been so distant. I did a pretty dramatic thing and I'm somewhat surprised they haven't called to at least check in. What's even worse, I made the effort to stay in touch with them for a while but still never got a return phone call, or an email, or text, or hand-written note arriving via carrier pigeon or St. Bernard or by a Pony Express rider on a sweating steed. I know people are very busy but that excuse doesn't carry that much weight.
So what is MY problem? I'm angry, which means I'm afraid. So what am I afraid of? My ego is obviously dented. I'm not as important as I think I am. This from a guy who never thinks about anyone else but believes that everyone else is always thinking about me.
The ego.
Related: Applied to persons, implies close connection through consanguinity.
Consanguinity: Huh?
I'm trying to sort out my feelings about some lapsed relationships as I prepare for my trip back to the Old City. There have been a few people that I'm actively in touch with, as if we still live a few miles apart; a few more that I talk to regularly but not frequently; and the vast majority of my friends and acquaintances have gone into hibernation as far as regular, casual conversations are concerned. This is as it should be -- I don't live there anymore, after all. A lot of the glue that binds people is a regular sharing of the ordinary occurrences of life -- the weather, sports and politics, places that we both go and people that we both know. I'm OK with this for the most part. It's part of the moving away process and I'm the one that moved, for god's sake. I know that these people stay love me. It's just that we don't interact on a frequent basis anymore. This is the 7th different city that I've lived in -- this happens every time.
But I admit to some surprise and dismay that a few friends have been so distant. I did a pretty dramatic thing and I'm somewhat surprised they haven't called to at least check in. What's even worse, I made the effort to stay in touch with them for a while but still never got a return phone call, or an email, or text, or hand-written note arriving via carrier pigeon or St. Bernard or by a Pony Express rider on a sweating steed. I know people are very busy but that excuse doesn't carry that much weight.
So what is MY problem? I'm angry, which means I'm afraid. So what am I afraid of? My ego is obviously dented. I'm not as important as I think I am. This from a guy who never thinks about anyone else but believes that everyone else is always thinking about me.
The ego.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Give It Up For Shrapnel!
Accept life for what it is -- a simple, ordinary, undramatic existence.
Drama: The quality of being dramatic; i.e. full of action; highly emotional; vivid, exciting, etc.
Ordinary: Familiar; unexceptional.
A simple life well-lived is so ordinary. Sometimes I can't believe life is so ordinary.
Shrapnel: Shell fragments scattered by any exploding shell.
I don't know how that got in here. I was excited by the thought of starting a hard rock band and calling it "Shrapnel" but I found out the name is already taken. That's a good name. I think "Ordnance" would be a good name, too, but it might be a little obscure.
Drama: The quality of being dramatic; i.e. full of action; highly emotional; vivid, exciting, etc.
Ordinary: Familiar; unexceptional.
A simple life well-lived is so ordinary. Sometimes I can't believe life is so ordinary.
Shrapnel: Shell fragments scattered by any exploding shell.
I don't know how that got in here. I was excited by the thought of starting a hard rock band and calling it "Shrapnel" but I found out the name is already taken. That's a good name. I think "Ordnance" would be a good name, too, but it might be a little obscure.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Parable Wrapped Up in an Allegory
Parable: A short, simple story from which a moral lesson may be drawn: it is usually an allegory.
Allegory: A story in which people, things, and happenings have another meaning, as in a fable or parable: allegories are used for teaching or explaining.
I grew up in a religious home. We attended a church that had a fairly large book that told you what to do and what not to do, overly emphasizing the what not to do part, in my opinion. Whenever I get pissy about the length of our basic recovery text, I grab hold of the big mother from my churchey past. That book is just getting revved up after 164 pages. The Program has pretty much flogged the instructions to death by then.
Anyway, there were a lot of nice parables in the religious book that I've remembered, much to my chagrin. Don't forget that I never, ever do what anyone tells me to do but I have a decent track record of emulating the actions of people I admire. One parable that really stuck in my mind told the tale of a guy who was attending the wedding of a friend. The custom was for each guest to bring a portion of wine. The host would add everyone's contribution to a large central container -- a goat-skin, probably -- and this would serve to fuel the day's hilarity. The guest thought about this for a while. He wanted to get out of the obligation to drain some of his own precious stock. He wanted to drink but he didn't want to contribute, and he wanted everyone else to think he had chipped in. He probably brought a plus size calf-skin -- if he was going to fake it he might as well Go Big.
"I'm going to bring a sheepskin of water," he thought. "I'll add it when no one's looking. There's going to be so much wine in the main cow-skin that no one will be the wiser."
When the host opened the festivities he cracked open the pigskin and filled a goblet. Instead of wine, he got a cup of nice, cold water. Each one of his guests had thought the same selfish thought and slipped in one -- just one -- hog-skin of water. It was all water. Everyone had brought water.
I thought of this parable while I was making the 3rd of 18 illegal driving moves the day before en route to the birthday party. It was a nice party. It wasn't huge but it wasn't small. It wasn't fancy but it wasn't crappy. It was just right. It was some nice people in a nice house hanging out together. It wasn't a big whoop-te-do. It was just nice. Some people weren't able to attend because of work or family obligations and that's OK -- once we sober up we have responsibilities that need to be kept. But I'm sure a few people besides SuperK and I didn't want to go, either, and some of them didn't go.
I think sometimes at a meeting I'm just an ass in a seat. I don't talk and I'm not profound when I do. I don't save a newcomer or comfort the disconsolate. I fill a seat. I'm part of the background, the structure. I have a history of trying to attend meetings when I travel and every now and then I show up some place where a meeting is scheduled but no one is there. I figure the meeting got canceled for some reason or that I was given bad directions, but I wonder how often I had chosen a small meeting that no one had bothered to get off the couch and attend. I'm OK with this now that I've been sober for a while but when I was newer there were times that I didn't get to attend a meeting I really needed to be at.
The birthday girl posted a note saying that it was the best birthday party she had ever attended. I didn't think it was an out-of-the-ordinary party. It was nice but unspectacular in terms of food and drink and all of the superficial stuff that no one cares about. It was the people that made it special. It was the fact that a bunch of folks said: "This woman is important to me and I'm going to show her what I mean." I'm sure some of the attendees had other obligations that they wanted to fulfill, but they went to the party anyway.
I can complicate anything.
Allegory: A story in which people, things, and happenings have another meaning, as in a fable or parable: allegories are used for teaching or explaining.
I grew up in a religious home. We attended a church that had a fairly large book that told you what to do and what not to do, overly emphasizing the what not to do part, in my opinion. Whenever I get pissy about the length of our basic recovery text, I grab hold of the big mother from my churchey past. That book is just getting revved up after 164 pages. The Program has pretty much flogged the instructions to death by then.
Anyway, there were a lot of nice parables in the religious book that I've remembered, much to my chagrin. Don't forget that I never, ever do what anyone tells me to do but I have a decent track record of emulating the actions of people I admire. One parable that really stuck in my mind told the tale of a guy who was attending the wedding of a friend. The custom was for each guest to bring a portion of wine. The host would add everyone's contribution to a large central container -- a goat-skin, probably -- and this would serve to fuel the day's hilarity. The guest thought about this for a while. He wanted to get out of the obligation to drain some of his own precious stock. He wanted to drink but he didn't want to contribute, and he wanted everyone else to think he had chipped in. He probably brought a plus size calf-skin -- if he was going to fake it he might as well Go Big.
"I'm going to bring a sheepskin of water," he thought. "I'll add it when no one's looking. There's going to be so much wine in the main cow-skin that no one will be the wiser."
When the host opened the festivities he cracked open the pigskin and filled a goblet. Instead of wine, he got a cup of nice, cold water. Each one of his guests had thought the same selfish thought and slipped in one -- just one -- hog-skin of water. It was all water. Everyone had brought water.
I thought of this parable while I was making the 3rd of 18 illegal driving moves the day before en route to the birthday party. It was a nice party. It wasn't huge but it wasn't small. It wasn't fancy but it wasn't crappy. It was just right. It was some nice people in a nice house hanging out together. It wasn't a big whoop-te-do. It was just nice. Some people weren't able to attend because of work or family obligations and that's OK -- once we sober up we have responsibilities that need to be kept. But I'm sure a few people besides SuperK and I didn't want to go, either, and some of them didn't go.
I think sometimes at a meeting I'm just an ass in a seat. I don't talk and I'm not profound when I do. I don't save a newcomer or comfort the disconsolate. I fill a seat. I'm part of the background, the structure. I have a history of trying to attend meetings when I travel and every now and then I show up some place where a meeting is scheduled but no one is there. I figure the meeting got canceled for some reason or that I was given bad directions, but I wonder how often I had chosen a small meeting that no one had bothered to get off the couch and attend. I'm OK with this now that I've been sober for a while but when I was newer there were times that I didn't get to attend a meeting I really needed to be at.
The birthday girl posted a note saying that it was the best birthday party she had ever attended. I didn't think it was an out-of-the-ordinary party. It was nice but unspectacular in terms of food and drink and all of the superficial stuff that no one cares about. It was the people that made it special. It was the fact that a bunch of folks said: "This woman is important to me and I'm going to show her what I mean." I'm sure some of the attendees had other obligations that they wanted to fulfill, but they went to the party anyway.
I can complicate anything.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Illegal U-Turn
Illegal: Prohibited by law; against the law; unlawful; illicit; not authorized or sanctioned.
Last night SuperK and I went to a small birthday party for one of our friends in The Program. We dithered and hemmed and hawed, trying to decide whether or not to go in the first place without hurting our friend's feelings. This despite the fact that we almost always have a good time when we do social things, especially with friends in recovery. But we almost never want to go and this feeling intensifies as we get closer to the time that we need to leave. We call this time of the experience the introvert-being-forced-to-deal-with-other-people-who-are-the-worst phase.
SuperK: "I don't want to go."
Stevie Seaweed: "Then why did you say that we'd go?"
SuperK: "Hey, it's your friend, you dumb ass."
Stevie S: "Ah, I don't want to go either. Let's not go. Can you come up with a good excuse? Can you come up with a good lie?"
SuperK: "You're the good liar."
Etc. Etc. Etc.
(Editor's note: Please substitute Stevie Seaweed for SuperK whenever you want, and vice-versa. There are no saints in the Seaweed family in these exchanges).
This exchange of dialogue goes on for a while longer so I'm going to put on some soothing elevator music so that everyone can relax for a minute and think good thoughts. Maybe a instrumental version of "The Girl From Ipanema."
Anyway, we leave right at rush hour and our route takes us by default right through downtown New City. It's raining. We make it a few blocks, heading for a bottleneck bridge, before the gridlock begins. We sit for a while and watch red taillights flicker through the blurry windshield, wondering at the drivers who make it half-way through an intersection and then sit there, blocking everyone's progress while getting no further themselves, before I lose my temper and decide to forsake the highway route for surface streets. By the way, I like the concept of a "surface street." It implies that a viable option are streets below the surface of the earth or maybe floating up in the air, tantalizingly out of reach, unless you have a hovercraft.
The route I chose at random puts us on a 3-lane, 1-way street. The right 2 lanes are clearly marked "Bus Only" and the cross street that I need to take to get us back on track has one of those venomous graphical signs: Right turn arrow, in black, inside a circle, also in black, with a large angled slash, in ominous red, overriding the whole thing. The words "Except Bus" were at the bottom of the sign. The buses, against whom I rarely hold a grudge, were clearly top dog on this particular street. I'm going to assume that all of the "Bus Only" signs were meant to discourage cars like the one I was driving. I didn't see any other cars on the street.
I look left. I look right. I check the rear view mirror, then make a big sweeping right hand turn from the far left lane, across the two bus lanes, nearly clipping the No Right Turn sign in the process. There were people on the sidewalk holding up signs: 9.1, 9.0, a couple of perfect 10s!, a lousy 7.7 from the Russian judge. A few of them threw roses in front of the Subaru.
"There's a cop one car in front of us," I casually remarked, immediately after The Move. I figured that once the officer tallied up all of the fines associated with the spectacularly illegal move I had just made the total would have been in the $1700 range. He began driving very, veeerrry slowly, so I pulled in to the next lane to get around him, and his lights went on. Believe it or not, SuperK and I were laughing pretty hard at this point. I believe this would have been an perfect example of Getting What I Deserved.
He must have been making a donut run. He made a spectacularly illegal U-turn in heavy traffic, turned off his lights, and went elsewhere.
We continued on our gruesome mission, through the rain and homeward bound drivers. Not being very accomplished in the Adult business we had purchased no card, no present, and no party hats so we offered to stop and pick up a few pizzas on the way. We stopped at one promising place that didn't have pizza, then drove around the busy commercial area for a while before throwing in the towel. Normally you can't walk down the block without running into a pizza place. We could find no pizza, although I was able to indulge my love of illegal U-turns a few more times. I figured that I was wearing a halo that night after being given a pass on the initial monster illegal move.
We had a good time with our friends. There was plenty of food. The hostess had suggested a money tree for anyone who wanted to help the birthday girl meet some unexpected expenses so no one had brought a present or party hats or pizza, for that matter, although one guy made some unbelievable bacon wrapped dates that were salty and sweet and I ate about 1700 of them so I was really cursing this guy at 3AM when I was trying to find the Rolaids.
As usual, nothing bad that happens is ever my fault.
I should have gotten that $1700 ticket. It would have made a great story. Maybe I'll just lie and pretend I got it anyhow.
Last night SuperK and I went to a small birthday party for one of our friends in The Program. We dithered and hemmed and hawed, trying to decide whether or not to go in the first place without hurting our friend's feelings. This despite the fact that we almost always have a good time when we do social things, especially with friends in recovery. But we almost never want to go and this feeling intensifies as we get closer to the time that we need to leave. We call this time of the experience the introvert-being-forced-to-deal-with-other-people-who-are-the-worst phase.
SuperK: "I don't want to go."
Stevie Seaweed: "Then why did you say that we'd go?"
SuperK: "Hey, it's your friend, you dumb ass."
Stevie S: "Ah, I don't want to go either. Let's not go. Can you come up with a good excuse? Can you come up with a good lie?"
SuperK: "You're the good liar."
Etc. Etc. Etc.
(Editor's note: Please substitute Stevie Seaweed for SuperK whenever you want, and vice-versa. There are no saints in the Seaweed family in these exchanges).
This exchange of dialogue goes on for a while longer so I'm going to put on some soothing elevator music so that everyone can relax for a minute and think good thoughts. Maybe a instrumental version of "The Girl From Ipanema."
Anyway, we leave right at rush hour and our route takes us by default right through downtown New City. It's raining. We make it a few blocks, heading for a bottleneck bridge, before the gridlock begins. We sit for a while and watch red taillights flicker through the blurry windshield, wondering at the drivers who make it half-way through an intersection and then sit there, blocking everyone's progress while getting no further themselves, before I lose my temper and decide to forsake the highway route for surface streets. By the way, I like the concept of a "surface street." It implies that a viable option are streets below the surface of the earth or maybe floating up in the air, tantalizingly out of reach, unless you have a hovercraft.
The route I chose at random puts us on a 3-lane, 1-way street. The right 2 lanes are clearly marked "Bus Only" and the cross street that I need to take to get us back on track has one of those venomous graphical signs: Right turn arrow, in black, inside a circle, also in black, with a large angled slash, in ominous red, overriding the whole thing. The words "Except Bus" were at the bottom of the sign. The buses, against whom I rarely hold a grudge, were clearly top dog on this particular street. I'm going to assume that all of the "Bus Only" signs were meant to discourage cars like the one I was driving. I didn't see any other cars on the street.
I look left. I look right. I check the rear view mirror, then make a big sweeping right hand turn from the far left lane, across the two bus lanes, nearly clipping the No Right Turn sign in the process. There were people on the sidewalk holding up signs: 9.1, 9.0, a couple of perfect 10s!, a lousy 7.7 from the Russian judge. A few of them threw roses in front of the Subaru.
"There's a cop one car in front of us," I casually remarked, immediately after The Move. I figured that once the officer tallied up all of the fines associated with the spectacularly illegal move I had just made the total would have been in the $1700 range. He began driving very, veeerrry slowly, so I pulled in to the next lane to get around him, and his lights went on. Believe it or not, SuperK and I were laughing pretty hard at this point. I believe this would have been an perfect example of Getting What I Deserved.
He must have been making a donut run. He made a spectacularly illegal U-turn in heavy traffic, turned off his lights, and went elsewhere.
We continued on our gruesome mission, through the rain and homeward bound drivers. Not being very accomplished in the Adult business we had purchased no card, no present, and no party hats so we offered to stop and pick up a few pizzas on the way. We stopped at one promising place that didn't have pizza, then drove around the busy commercial area for a while before throwing in the towel. Normally you can't walk down the block without running into a pizza place. We could find no pizza, although I was able to indulge my love of illegal U-turns a few more times. I figured that I was wearing a halo that night after being given a pass on the initial monster illegal move.
We had a good time with our friends. There was plenty of food. The hostess had suggested a money tree for anyone who wanted to help the birthday girl meet some unexpected expenses so no one had brought a present or party hats or pizza, for that matter, although one guy made some unbelievable bacon wrapped dates that were salty and sweet and I ate about 1700 of them so I was really cursing this guy at 3AM when I was trying to find the Rolaids.
As usual, nothing bad that happens is ever my fault.
I should have gotten that $1700 ticket. It would have made a great story. Maybe I'll just lie and pretend I got it anyhow.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Clung. Or Clinged, At Least
Clung: Adhere or stick firmly or closely to; be hard to part or remove from.
I've been pondering the tendency of alcoholics to blow everything up and then think we can simply rebuild our lives on the rubble and ruined foundations. I know I didn't want to do the work to clean up the rubble. There was a lot of rubble there. It looked like a lot of work to clean it up. I just wanted my old life back -- the life I had been building before the alcohol and drugs took me down, that is -- not the life I was left with at the end of my drinking. That life had morphed into a tiresome chore. I had actually taken that life out to the curb with a "Free" sign stuck on top, but nobody picked it up. The garbage guys wouldn't even touch it. It was crawling with bugs and disease.
Like most drunks I had a lot of promise and was well on my way to a successful life, at least on the surface. I was going to have some financial security and some ego prestige so it was hard to walk in The Rooms tattered and lost, with the bugs and disease and everything. I didn't want to give up the vision I still carried around of who I was going to be.
I know that I never got most of that back. I know that I clung onto the mental image of what I was going to be far too long. And I really know what I got was much, much better. But at the start I just didn't trust the process.
The kind of work I ended up doing didn't have anywhere near the cachet of the career that I was trying to construct during my Age of Promise. But I can see that I was ill suited for that kind of work and that what I ended up doing fit my personality very well and that I enjoyed doing it. It worked out quite well.
But clungI don't remember any of the other kids in my 3rd grade class saying, when asked what they wanted to be when they grew up: "I want to sell electronic test equipment to heavy industry in the Rust Belt."
I've been pondering the tendency of alcoholics to blow everything up and then think we can simply rebuild our lives on the rubble and ruined foundations. I know I didn't want to do the work to clean up the rubble. There was a lot of rubble there. It looked like a lot of work to clean it up. I just wanted my old life back -- the life I had been building before the alcohol and drugs took me down, that is -- not the life I was left with at the end of my drinking. That life had morphed into a tiresome chore. I had actually taken that life out to the curb with a "Free" sign stuck on top, but nobody picked it up. The garbage guys wouldn't even touch it. It was crawling with bugs and disease.
Like most drunks I had a lot of promise and was well on my way to a successful life, at least on the surface. I was going to have some financial security and some ego prestige so it was hard to walk in The Rooms tattered and lost, with the bugs and disease and everything. I didn't want to give up the vision I still carried around of who I was going to be.
I know that I never got most of that back. I know that I clung onto the mental image of what I was going to be far too long. And I really know what I got was much, much better. But at the start I just didn't trust the process.
The kind of work I ended up doing didn't have anywhere near the cachet of the career that I was trying to construct during my Age of Promise. But I can see that I was ill suited for that kind of work and that what I ended up doing fit my personality very well and that I enjoyed doing it. It worked out quite well.
But clungI don't remember any of the other kids in my 3rd grade class saying, when asked what they wanted to be when they grew up: "I want to sell electronic test equipment to heavy industry in the Rust Belt."
Saturday, March 17, 2012
An Irritating Example
Set an example: To behave so as to be a pattern or model for others to imitate.
One of the things that helped me when I was getting sober and receiving incredibly irritating advice from guys who had been sober longer than me was the fact that these guys were following their own incredibly irritating advice. Today I try to pass that incredibly irritating advice along when I tell any newer guys who I'm currently irritating what they should do. The fact that they don't want to do these things is what makes the advice so irritating; that and the fact that it's coming from me and it's not delivered gently, by and large. Nobody wants to be told what to do by someone who doesn't feel that they have to do the exact same thing -- it seems insincere and hypocritical. Me personally, I don't want to hear any advice from anyone, irregardless of the person giving it to me.
"Yeah, YOU have to do this thing, but not me. I'm special," they say, or that's what I hear, anyway.
But if someone is doing something hard and irritating themselves it's less likely that it's going to stick in my extraordinarily narrow craw. The fact of the matter is that when I'm giving someone advice -- which I may or may not be doing myself -- I try to listen to what I'm saying and apply it to my own life.
"Do me a favor," I'll say, putting a warm and supportive arm around the slumped shoulders of someone who is telling me how much trouble they're in over an argument they've had about an unimportant matter with someone who is smarter than they are. "Try not to talk today. At all. Try not to open your mouth at all. Your day will go better. Whatever you think you need to say you definitely do not need to say." I know they'll go ahead and run their mouths anyway. Nobody listens to me. They have to suffer the consequences of their mouth running themselves, repeatedly, before they'll learn the lesson, if my experience is any guide.
The point is that when I tell someone what to do I'm telling myself what to do. When it comes right down to it, really, what do I care if someone else continues to talk when they shouldn't be talking and this causes problems for them? Frankly, if it's not about me I could care less. I know that I need to keep MY mouth shut most of the time. It's amazing to me how often I ignore the intuition that I shouldn't say anything and that I should stop talking after I've started to say the thing that I shouldn't have said in the first place and then continue to press my point even after I've suffered the consequences of saying the very same thing.
Try not to talk.
One of the things that helped me when I was getting sober and receiving incredibly irritating advice from guys who had been sober longer than me was the fact that these guys were following their own incredibly irritating advice. Today I try to pass that incredibly irritating advice along when I tell any newer guys who I'm currently irritating what they should do. The fact that they don't want to do these things is what makes the advice so irritating; that and the fact that it's coming from me and it's not delivered gently, by and large. Nobody wants to be told what to do by someone who doesn't feel that they have to do the exact same thing -- it seems insincere and hypocritical. Me personally, I don't want to hear any advice from anyone, irregardless of the person giving it to me.
"Yeah, YOU have to do this thing, but not me. I'm special," they say, or that's what I hear, anyway.
But if someone is doing something hard and irritating themselves it's less likely that it's going to stick in my extraordinarily narrow craw. The fact of the matter is that when I'm giving someone advice -- which I may or may not be doing myself -- I try to listen to what I'm saying and apply it to my own life.
"Do me a favor," I'll say, putting a warm and supportive arm around the slumped shoulders of someone who is telling me how much trouble they're in over an argument they've had about an unimportant matter with someone who is smarter than they are. "Try not to talk today. At all. Try not to open your mouth at all. Your day will go better. Whatever you think you need to say you definitely do not need to say." I know they'll go ahead and run their mouths anyway. Nobody listens to me. They have to suffer the consequences of their mouth running themselves, repeatedly, before they'll learn the lesson, if my experience is any guide.
The point is that when I tell someone what to do I'm telling myself what to do. When it comes right down to it, really, what do I care if someone else continues to talk when they shouldn't be talking and this causes problems for them? Frankly, if it's not about me I could care less. I know that I need to keep MY mouth shut most of the time. It's amazing to me how often I ignore the intuition that I shouldn't say anything and that I should stop talking after I've started to say the thing that I shouldn't have said in the first place and then continue to press my point even after I've suffered the consequences of saying the very same thing.
Try not to talk.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
15 Items or Less
Less: Not so much; to a smaller extent.
Fewer: Not many; a smaller number.
I nearly had a bit of an incident in a supermarket check out lane today. Supermarket check-out behavior runs a close second to swimming pool etiquette when it comes to Things That Shouldn't Annoy Me But Do. I don't mean to suggest that they're the only thing on this list. Oh, no, far from it. This list is so long that it approaches infinity. Brilliant mathematicians write theses that are published in arcane mathematical journals about the size of my list. It's not hard to get on the list, either. Almost everyone and everything qualifies. I should place a sign in the rear window of my car that explains how one can get on the list should one be interested, as if I'm selling nutritional supplements or weird cosmetics: "Ask me how YOU can get on my Irritation List!" Then I'd put SuperK's phone number there. She'd be the one to give excellent and timely advice.
Anyway, I was in a bad mood. I probably don't even need to state that as a fact. It would probably make more sense to qualify my mood when it isn't lousy, foul, or under-performing. I looked in my cart, which had approximately 20 items, and seriously pondered avoiding the long lines in the aisles generously marked "Any Size Order" and queuing up in the much shorter "Express" lines. These lines, which are rarely occupied except for a bored teenage clerk, have a sign that says "15 Items or Less." I made the calculation that since 10 of my items were identical cups of yogurt that the check-out girl could add up all of the yogurts, swipe one cup, multiply it by 10, then just jet through the remaining items in the cart. I figured that my 10 + 10X1 items actually came to 11 items, putting me safely under the limit of 20.
I do this a lot. I don't think the rules apply to me because I'm a special, special guy. I'm not that different than serious criminals when it comes to my ability to justify bad behavior. I paused a minute, when agitated, and took the advice I so liberally dispense to others about keeping one's mouth closed. I could see the conversation play out if I dumped my illegally large order on the restricted conveyor.
"You know, this aisle if for 15 items or less," the check out girl would say, eyeing the guy behind me who would be fixing a malevolent eye on me, with a single carton of milk, well under the legal limit.
"You mean 15 items or fewer," I would say as I continued to unload all of my items.
She would look at me blankly, then point to the sign again: "It says 15 items or less."
"I don't know what that means," I'd said. "Less refers to extent, not quantity. You can be less intelligent than someone. You can't be fewer intelligent. It therefore stands to reason that you can't have less items. You can have fewer items which the sign plainly does not prohibit."
Then someone would call security . . .
Fewer: Not many; a smaller number.
I nearly had a bit of an incident in a supermarket check out lane today. Supermarket check-out behavior runs a close second to swimming pool etiquette when it comes to Things That Shouldn't Annoy Me But Do. I don't mean to suggest that they're the only thing on this list. Oh, no, far from it. This list is so long that it approaches infinity. Brilliant mathematicians write theses that are published in arcane mathematical journals about the size of my list. It's not hard to get on the list, either. Almost everyone and everything qualifies. I should place a sign in the rear window of my car that explains how one can get on the list should one be interested, as if I'm selling nutritional supplements or weird cosmetics: "Ask me how YOU can get on my Irritation List!" Then I'd put SuperK's phone number there. She'd be the one to give excellent and timely advice.
Anyway, I was in a bad mood. I probably don't even need to state that as a fact. It would probably make more sense to qualify my mood when it isn't lousy, foul, or under-performing. I looked in my cart, which had approximately 20 items, and seriously pondered avoiding the long lines in the aisles generously marked "Any Size Order" and queuing up in the much shorter "Express" lines. These lines, which are rarely occupied except for a bored teenage clerk, have a sign that says "15 Items or Less." I made the calculation that since 10 of my items were identical cups of yogurt that the check-out girl could add up all of the yogurts, swipe one cup, multiply it by 10, then just jet through the remaining items in the cart. I figured that my 10 + 10X1 items actually came to 11 items, putting me safely under the limit of 20.
I do this a lot. I don't think the rules apply to me because I'm a special, special guy. I'm not that different than serious criminals when it comes to my ability to justify bad behavior. I paused a minute, when agitated, and took the advice I so liberally dispense to others about keeping one's mouth closed. I could see the conversation play out if I dumped my illegally large order on the restricted conveyor.
"You know, this aisle if for 15 items or less," the check out girl would say, eyeing the guy behind me who would be fixing a malevolent eye on me, with a single carton of milk, well under the legal limit.
"You mean 15 items or fewer," I would say as I continued to unload all of my items.
She would look at me blankly, then point to the sign again: "It says 15 items or less."
"I don't know what that means," I'd said. "Less refers to extent, not quantity. You can be less intelligent than someone. You can't be fewer intelligent. It therefore stands to reason that you can't have less items. You can have fewer items which the sign plainly does not prohibit."
Then someone would call security . . .
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Again With the Pool? It's Enough With the Pool, Already.
I show up at the pool today, a Tuesday. I show up, put on my bathing suit, shower off or up -- I take a shower - and sink into the hot tub for a couple of minutes to ensure that nothing important falls off when I start to swim. It's 8:50. I swim on Tuesday because there's an Aqua Fit class on Monday and Wednesday and Friday, and also on Saturday. On Sunday the non-church-going heathens run wild in the pool from 9 until 10. They run wild at other times during the day as well, but the 9 to 10 time slot is when they're particularly heathenish. On Tuesday and Thursday it's a fucking free for all the entire morning.
I don't appreciate the presence of the Aqua Fit ladies. Most of them are not too young so I'm impressed that they're in the pool doing some vigor-ish exercise but wish they would do it elsewhere. There usually aren't too many of them, either, and they take up the entire pool, which seems to me to be unfair and somewhat hoggish. My choices to avoid all of this tonnage are to get up damned early so I can get to the pool with enough time to swim before the flabby arms and legs begin churning up the water. Or I can swim afterwards, which I don't want to do for reasons that really aren't any of your business. See, here's the problem: if I get there early I have to get there really early because there's a lot of competition for a lane from other people who also aren't doing anything productive with their time but want to get their swim in before The Invasion of The Aqua Fitters. And afterwards there's a lot of pent up demand for a lane from everyone else who also doesn't have anything productive to do but can't even get up before 9AM or so. It's very possible to get shut out for another half hour, which is beyond infuriating. This leads to the unmitigated-ish disaster of having to have a late lunch and an even later nap with all of the waiting for the other swimmers to finish before I can get in the pool. My schedule is totally detonated, making a sound like a champagne cork being released.
I quickly entered the pool, figuring 10 minutes of swimming is better than no swimming at all. It's quite difficult to change course once I'm in my bathing suit. It's not like I can go out to the lobby and read for an hour, not comfortably anyhow, dripping wet and nearly naked. As I was plowing ahead I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I decided, between swallows of pool water, to let the instructor, who I was pretty sure had absolutely no part in the decision to schedule the class at the last minute, feel the force of my wrath. This lasted for a couple of laps before my ballooning anger convinced me that I would be behaving perfectly reasonably if I didn't get out of the pool until I had completed my workout, long after the ladies had also entered the pool.
"I'm not getting out," I was going to say. "Call the manager if this is a problem." I could see the nice lady backing off, not eager to engage an obviously deranged individual who weighed 50 pounds more than she did. I could see a whole gaggle of ladies milling around uncomfortably, also not eager to get in the pool with some red-faced, spluttering man. I could see all of this.
My mind was made up. Firmly made up.
I don't appreciate the presence of the Aqua Fit ladies. Most of them are not too young so I'm impressed that they're in the pool doing some vigor-ish exercise but wish they would do it elsewhere. There usually aren't too many of them, either, and they take up the entire pool, which seems to me to be unfair and somewhat hoggish. My choices to avoid all of this tonnage are to get up damned early so I can get to the pool with enough time to swim before the flabby arms and legs begin churning up the water. Or I can swim afterwards, which I don't want to do for reasons that really aren't any of your business. See, here's the problem: if I get there early I have to get there really early because there's a lot of competition for a lane from other people who also aren't doing anything productive with their time but want to get their swim in before The Invasion of The Aqua Fitters. And afterwards there's a lot of pent up demand for a lane from everyone else who also doesn't have anything productive to do but can't even get up before 9AM or so. It's very possible to get shut out for another half hour, which is beyond infuriating. This leads to the unmitigated-ish disaster of having to have a late lunch and an even later nap with all of the waiting for the other swimmers to finish before I can get in the pool. My schedule is totally detonated, making a sound like a champagne cork being released.
I quickly entered the pool, figuring 10 minutes of swimming is better than no swimming at all. It's quite difficult to change course once I'm in my bathing suit. It's not like I can go out to the lobby and read for an hour, not comfortably anyhow, dripping wet and nearly naked. As I was plowing ahead I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier. I decided, between swallows of pool water, to let the instructor, who I was pretty sure had absolutely no part in the decision to schedule the class at the last minute, feel the force of my wrath. This lasted for a couple of laps before my ballooning anger convinced me that I would be behaving perfectly reasonably if I didn't get out of the pool until I had completed my workout, long after the ladies had also entered the pool.
"I'm not getting out," I was going to say. "Call the manager if this is a problem." I could see the nice lady backing off, not eager to engage an obviously deranged individual who weighed 50 pounds more than she did. I could see a whole gaggle of ladies milling around uncomfortably, also not eager to get in the pool with some red-faced, spluttering man. I could see all of this.
My mind was made up. Firmly made up.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Methinks I'm Plagarizing
Methinks: Me thinks, as in "Me thinks I am SO good looking."
I am heading back to The Old City to visit my family in the not too distant future. It's not going to go that well. I don't mean to suggest that it's going to be an unmitigated disaster but rather that it's going to be unsatisfying and awkward for everyone; mildly stressful, so to speak, like a social gathering where everyone is being polite as they silently calculate just how much time is left before they can leave and go do something that they want to do with whom they want to do it.
I suspect that my ego is telling me that I'm doing this for the benefit of my family, that I'm being a good son and brother, and that it's my duty to do these things. And I suspect that my family would protest vigorously if I suggested that it would be more comfortable for everyone if I simply stayed put here in The New City. Methinks thou doth protest too much. Methinks their actions speak louder than their words. I love the section in our literature that implies that a lot of my discomfort with the world is a direct result of the fact that I judge myself by my intentions while all the rest of you difficult people judge me by my actions. This hard fact helps me evaluate my relationships with all people, not only my family.
My lovely wife has been telling me for years that I try too hard with these people. It's not that I don't listen to her or value her judgement but rather that this is one of those difficult lessons that I have to learn by repeating a mistake over and over until I'm good and miserable, then changing my behavior. This is how I learn everything. Sometimes I see how we have to learn lessons the hard way in her interaction with some of her family and friends. I try not to give advice. I was told early on that family can be difficult. And there are some people who don't behave particularly well and never will, despite our efforts to be conciliatory and understanding and patient.
I have been here 14 months. My sister has never called me. My parents almost never call me, and often don't return my phone calls. I have spoken to my father on the phone exactly one time, on my birthday, and the call didn't last a minute. I will assume you can speculate on the likelihood that anyone would make the 2500 mile trip to visit me, at a not inconsiderable expense. There is no hyperbole in what I have just written. These are naked facts.
I don't mean for these words to sound overly harsh; my emotional reaction to things can come across a little too clinically sterile on the written page. There are a lot of extenuating circumstances here, for sure, and I'm usually not upset at their very consistent actions. God knows I don't make relationships all that easy. I do know by experience that writing things down and re-reading them help me get perspective on how I'm thinking and feeling. I can justify some pretty outrageous stuff in my head that appears laughably convoluted in writing. But this is a pretty good body of work on the part of my family. There's some precedence here. These actions show quite clearly where I stand.
So why am I going back? I'm not sure I know the answer to that. I guess I have some more lesson to learn.
I am heading back to The Old City to visit my family in the not too distant future. It's not going to go that well. I don't mean to suggest that it's going to be an unmitigated disaster but rather that it's going to be unsatisfying and awkward for everyone; mildly stressful, so to speak, like a social gathering where everyone is being polite as they silently calculate just how much time is left before they can leave and go do something that they want to do with whom they want to do it.
I suspect that my ego is telling me that I'm doing this for the benefit of my family, that I'm being a good son and brother, and that it's my duty to do these things. And I suspect that my family would protest vigorously if I suggested that it would be more comfortable for everyone if I simply stayed put here in The New City. Methinks thou doth protest too much. Methinks their actions speak louder than their words. I love the section in our literature that implies that a lot of my discomfort with the world is a direct result of the fact that I judge myself by my intentions while all the rest of you difficult people judge me by my actions. This hard fact helps me evaluate my relationships with all people, not only my family.
My lovely wife has been telling me for years that I try too hard with these people. It's not that I don't listen to her or value her judgement but rather that this is one of those difficult lessons that I have to learn by repeating a mistake over and over until I'm good and miserable, then changing my behavior. This is how I learn everything. Sometimes I see how we have to learn lessons the hard way in her interaction with some of her family and friends. I try not to give advice. I was told early on that family can be difficult. And there are some people who don't behave particularly well and never will, despite our efforts to be conciliatory and understanding and patient.
I have been here 14 months. My sister has never called me. My parents almost never call me, and often don't return my phone calls. I have spoken to my father on the phone exactly one time, on my birthday, and the call didn't last a minute. I will assume you can speculate on the likelihood that anyone would make the 2500 mile trip to visit me, at a not inconsiderable expense. There is no hyperbole in what I have just written. These are naked facts.
I don't mean for these words to sound overly harsh; my emotional reaction to things can come across a little too clinically sterile on the written page. There are a lot of extenuating circumstances here, for sure, and I'm usually not upset at their very consistent actions. God knows I don't make relationships all that easy. I do know by experience that writing things down and re-reading them help me get perspective on how I'm thinking and feeling. I can justify some pretty outrageous stuff in my head that appears laughably convoluted in writing. But this is a pretty good body of work on the part of my family. There's some precedence here. These actions show quite clearly where I stand.
So why am I going back? I'm not sure I know the answer to that. I guess I have some more lesson to learn.
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Middle Ground
Middle: A point or part halfway between extremes; central point, part, time, etc.
I took a call from a friend in The Program yesterday and eventually steered the conversation around to the concept of The Middle Ground because, frankly, I only have two or three things that I can talk about with any expertise when it comes to recovery. I've become my sponsor. If I can't fit my advice into a couple of simple, easy-to-understand bromides then I'm better off not touching it with a ten foot pole. I can complicate anything. This is why our meeting spaces are festooned with plaques urging us to do things in language of 4 words or less. Once we get to 5 words then we start to analyze analyze analyze.
It is still surprising to me how easily I move to the extreme position of everything. I'm the greatest guy who ever lived or I'm a piece of garbage. Something is going to work out exactly how I want it to or it's going to be an unmitigated disaster. I want to feel fantastic or I might as well shoot myself.
I like the idea that things are going to work out very well for me in the long run. I can hang my hat on that. I don't want to get too tangled up in the implications of how I feel at this very minute, although I do want to get very tangled up in the minute itself. It's where I need to be if I want to be content. But if I take a hike and spend all of my time looking down at my feet as I navigate hills and step over rocks and into mud I have a miserable time, so I try to keep one eye on the horizon. I try to look up and away from myself, try to get some perspective. I don't want to look at a particularly sharp and fearsome rock and think: "Damn. It's going to be nothing but a steady diet of sharp and fearsome rocks for me." I want to balance my very reasonable concern with my footing with the thought that the view at the end is going to be wonderful. I need to keep an eye on the rocks, of course, lest I go cascading down into a gully of some sort, but I don't want to stare at them without blinking. I don't want to become obsessed with the rocks but I don't want to pretend that they're not there, either.
OK.
I took a call from a friend in The Program yesterday and eventually steered the conversation around to the concept of The Middle Ground because, frankly, I only have two or three things that I can talk about with any expertise when it comes to recovery. I've become my sponsor. If I can't fit my advice into a couple of simple, easy-to-understand bromides then I'm better off not touching it with a ten foot pole. I can complicate anything. This is why our meeting spaces are festooned with plaques urging us to do things in language of 4 words or less. Once we get to 5 words then we start to analyze analyze analyze.
It is still surprising to me how easily I move to the extreme position of everything. I'm the greatest guy who ever lived or I'm a piece of garbage. Something is going to work out exactly how I want it to or it's going to be an unmitigated disaster. I want to feel fantastic or I might as well shoot myself.
I like the idea that things are going to work out very well for me in the long run. I can hang my hat on that. I don't want to get too tangled up in the implications of how I feel at this very minute, although I do want to get very tangled up in the minute itself. It's where I need to be if I want to be content. But if I take a hike and spend all of my time looking down at my feet as I navigate hills and step over rocks and into mud I have a miserable time, so I try to keep one eye on the horizon. I try to look up and away from myself, try to get some perspective. I don't want to look at a particularly sharp and fearsome rock and think: "Damn. It's going to be nothing but a steady diet of sharp and fearsome rocks for me." I want to balance my very reasonable concern with my footing with the thought that the view at the end is going to be wonderful. I need to keep an eye on the rocks, of course, lest I go cascading down into a gully of some sort, but I don't want to stare at them without blinking. I don't want to become obsessed with the rocks but I don't want to pretend that they're not there, either.
OK.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
A Coffee Pot and A Resentment
I must be settling in with The Program in the New City -- I was at a meeting yesterday that really frosted my ass.
"What did they do?" asked Doctor Death, retired.
"Well, they're not doing it the way I want them to," I replied, quite reasonably, I thought.
"Oh," he said. "Of course. The bastards."
I started going to a Thursday meeting where they read the 12 Steps every week. I like the meeting which means it's a great group. The group decided to add a second meeting on Tuesday. So far, so good -- I supported this move so it must be a great decision. We had a group conscience to make this official, which is what a good group will do. I approved of the group conscience so - you got it - another stellar decision. Very few people stayed for the group conscience, of course, as is the norm, and the meeting was disorganized and random, as they all are, everyone talking at once and no one really in charge.
I suggested in the low level chaos that each group should remain separate, rather than combining the two groups. I pointed out that for any members that could not (or would not) be able to attend both meetings (me, the only one I care about) combining the two meetings would mean that on Tuesday the group would read even numbered Steps and on Thursday odd numbered ones. I have enough trouble working a good Program without skipping half the Steps, and some of the Steps are very logically paired with a Step that follows. Hard to give the 4th Step a good whirl without pondering the ramifications to the 5th Step, for instance.
In the noise someone misinterpreted my comment, believing, I believe, that I thought I needed to be there for each Step, or some such nonsense, even though that's not far from the truth. I suspect that the world can't run without me engaged. One of the old timers there, bleeding a bit, deacon-wise, made a disparaging comment meant to dismiss my objection. It wasn't even that disparaging -- I have taken much more egregious abuse with great good humor from people who know me even a little. In fact, I think I took it with pretty good humor yesterday. But because the group conscience was a bit disorganized the other people there picked up on the jokey tone of the initial disparagement and started piling on.
"I think we can probably read The Steps without you there."
"If you miss a Step you can come back next time. The Steps aren't going anywhere."
"Maybe you should make an effort to come to each meeting."
Stuff like that. I don't think anyone was being mean-spirited or even knew at whom the comments were being directed. In my opinion I've come to believe that I'm not cursed with an over- over-abundance of the Ego part of the instincts. I don't need to be in charge, by and large, and I don't much care what other people think of me. Feel free to yuck it up at my expense -- it has nothing to do with me and god knows I need it and deserve it, considering how I treat my friends. But as I stood there, with a smile on my face, trying to appreciate the humor and get a word in edge-wise, I felt my hackles begin to rise. I felt like they were piling it on a little thick. Enough already, I thought.
"Well, we had a second meeting before and that's how we did it then," said the bleeding guy, dismissively. And that was that. I didn't catch the circumstances of any particular vote actually being taken which I thought was the whole idea of the group conscience. I left after that remark, grateful that I did actually have to leave to have my cracked tooth repair completed, another personal rampage that will be the topic of tomorrow's thoughts.
I'm free to quit attending that meeting. I hope that I let this ebb and digest for a couple of days and gain some perspective. And I need to remember that many meetings are begun with a coffee pot and a resentment. Maybe everyone else there but me really thinks this is a good idea. Probably they didn't think about it at all.
"What did they do?" asked Doctor Death, retired.
"Well, they're not doing it the way I want them to," I replied, quite reasonably, I thought.
"Oh," he said. "Of course. The bastards."
I started going to a Thursday meeting where they read the 12 Steps every week. I like the meeting which means it's a great group. The group decided to add a second meeting on Tuesday. So far, so good -- I supported this move so it must be a great decision. We had a group conscience to make this official, which is what a good group will do. I approved of the group conscience so - you got it - another stellar decision. Very few people stayed for the group conscience, of course, as is the norm, and the meeting was disorganized and random, as they all are, everyone talking at once and no one really in charge.
I suggested in the low level chaos that each group should remain separate, rather than combining the two groups. I pointed out that for any members that could not (or would not) be able to attend both meetings (me, the only one I care about) combining the two meetings would mean that on Tuesday the group would read even numbered Steps and on Thursday odd numbered ones. I have enough trouble working a good Program without skipping half the Steps, and some of the Steps are very logically paired with a Step that follows. Hard to give the 4th Step a good whirl without pondering the ramifications to the 5th Step, for instance.
In the noise someone misinterpreted my comment, believing, I believe, that I thought I needed to be there for each Step, or some such nonsense, even though that's not far from the truth. I suspect that the world can't run without me engaged. One of the old timers there, bleeding a bit, deacon-wise, made a disparaging comment meant to dismiss my objection. It wasn't even that disparaging -- I have taken much more egregious abuse with great good humor from people who know me even a little. In fact, I think I took it with pretty good humor yesterday. But because the group conscience was a bit disorganized the other people there picked up on the jokey tone of the initial disparagement and started piling on.
"I think we can probably read The Steps without you there."
"If you miss a Step you can come back next time. The Steps aren't going anywhere."
"Maybe you should make an effort to come to each meeting."
Stuff like that. I don't think anyone was being mean-spirited or even knew at whom the comments were being directed. In my opinion I've come to believe that I'm not cursed with an over- over-abundance of the Ego part of the instincts. I don't need to be in charge, by and large, and I don't much care what other people think of me. Feel free to yuck it up at my expense -- it has nothing to do with me and god knows I need it and deserve it, considering how I treat my friends. But as I stood there, with a smile on my face, trying to appreciate the humor and get a word in edge-wise, I felt my hackles begin to rise. I felt like they were piling it on a little thick. Enough already, I thought.
"Well, we had a second meeting before and that's how we did it then," said the bleeding guy, dismissively. And that was that. I didn't catch the circumstances of any particular vote actually being taken which I thought was the whole idea of the group conscience. I left after that remark, grateful that I did actually have to leave to have my cracked tooth repair completed, another personal rampage that will be the topic of tomorrow's thoughts.
I'm free to quit attending that meeting. I hope that I let this ebb and digest for a couple of days and gain some perspective. And I need to remember that many meetings are begun with a coffee pot and a resentment. Maybe everyone else there but me really thinks this is a good idea. Probably they didn't think about it at all.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Community Chest
Community: A group of people living together and having interests, work, etc. in common, as a college community.
When I was drinking I didn't give a hoot about the interests of anyone besides my self. This is pretty much the definition of selfish. I did what I wanted because it was my right and I didn't care how it affected anyone else. If I wanted to play my stereo at 2AM I did so and at whatever volume pleased me at the time. I didn't do anything I didn't want to even if it affected the larger community as a whole.
The Program taught me -- slowly, slowly -- to try to imagine how my actions might affect other people. It was weird at first because I don't really care all that much about other people, except for the instances where their actions affect me. If I want to crank Black Sabbath when you're asleep I'm good to go with that action; if I want to sleep and you do the same? Well that's plain rude. THAT gets my attention. But how my actions affect others? Meh.
Anyway, I have found it somewhat satisfying, sometimes, to behave in a respectable and socially appropriate fashion. And I don't mean how I dress or what I do with my hair; rather how my actions affect the world around me. I find that I am attracted to people like this as well. I try to be a good citizen and a good person. I don't litter and I take care of my property. I don't cheat on my spouse. I try to pay my taxes correctly, more or less, not getting carried away with the whole good citizen thing, and keep my hands off the store merchandise except for the situations where I intend to pay for said merchandise.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Everybody Samsung Tonight
Mistake: A fault in understanding, perception, interpretation, etc.; blunder; error; misunderstanding.
I lost my cell phone yesterday. Is there a worse feeling in the world than the one you get when you realize that you've lost your phone? Is there a question more full of arrogance and self-entitlement than the one that suggests that losing a cell phone is some kind of big, existential crisis? Jesus H. Christ, do I live a privileged life or what?
I was already in bed last night with the lights out when I realized I hadn't set the alarm on my phone so that I could wake up early the next morning for no particular reason that I'm aware of. I got up as quietly as I could -- there is nothing I fear more than a snoring SuperK awakened -- and started fumbling around the apartment in the dark. I was disturbed to find that the phone wasn't in one of the few places I try to put it. I have a lot of trouble remembering anything so I restrict myself to as few choices as possible when it comes to the location of important things, like cell phones, wallets, and car keys. In the old days I would put the phone in the freezer or inside a pair of shoes at the back of the top shelf in a storage closet in the basement. Don't ask my why. I would be doing something, I would get distracted by something else, something sparkly, and set the phone down, then wander off to do a third even sparklier thing, with all these things, sparkly or not, relatively unimportant.
Several hours later I'd wonder aloud: "Where's my phone?"
"When did you last use it?" SuperK would ask.
I'd look at her blankly, then check out my hand hoping that the phone would magically appear there in the manner than my misplaced sunglasses magically appear on my head. I could see the thing in my hand. I could visualize it clearly. It was the thing leaving the hand that baffled me. SuperK used to laugh at me when I lost things but doesn't do that anymore. She knows I feel bad enough about the destruction of all my short-term memory circuitry without piling on. It's really quite sweet.
I cursed a bit then went back to bed, thoroughly awake at this point. I assumed that the phone was out in the car, parked across the street, in the cold, cold night. I lay there for a few moments, letting the agitation build, nurturing it even, then got up again. I put a coat on over my jammie tops and stepped into a pair of shoes. I left the jammie bottoms in place. Jammie bottoms can speak for themselves. There's only so much in the way of propriety that I can be expected to endure, and out into the cold, cold night I went.
I dug around the car for a good 5 minutes, finding nothing in the way of a cell phone although there was a lot of interesting stuff under the seats. I came back into the apartment and looked for another 20 minutes, the flashlight beam probing every dark corner, trying to be quiet. Nothing again. Incredulous that the phone wasn't in the car that I had just searched like a motivated DEA agent, back out into the cold, cold night I went. I tore the #$!! car apart this time. Less than nothing. No cell phone.
It took me a while to get back to sleep. It took me longer than that to #$!! warm up again.
This morning I woke up pissed off about the phone. I have a lot of trouble accepting the fact that I make mistakes, this in spite of the fact that my unofficial nickname is Little Stevie MistakeFace. I feel less than, incompetent, a failure when I make a mistake when the fact of the matter is that it's a miracle that I don't lose something important every other day. I called my athletic club and a coffee shop that I frequent, which were the only two places that I had been the day before, and was disappointed that my black Nokia cell phone had not been turned in. This confirmed my suspicion that every one else in the world is a thieving piece of #$!!. I would have turned it in, without a shadow of a doubt.
"Did you say Nokia?" SuperK said from the other room where she had obviously been eavesdropping, obviously as fascinated by me as I am. Actually, she was probably in there muffling giggling. "You have a Samsung."
"I have a Samsung?" I said. "I don't think so. I really think you're mistaken."
"And it's blue," she added.
"It's blue?" I said. "I don't think so. I really think you're mistaken."
She showed me the picture of my phone that she had called up on line. She is acutely aware of the fact that I don't admit that I'm wrong about anything, ever so she doesn't point out where I'm wrong without doing some research. The research doesn't take too long because I'm often wrong, and clearly so.
I call back. The club had my phone. My black Samsung phone.
"Can you tell me what picture you have as a screen saver?" the woman asked.
"A little kitty that's asleep," I said.
"Yep, we have it here. We'll hold it for you," she replied.
I had forgotten about the little kitty, too.
I lost my cell phone yesterday. Is there a worse feeling in the world than the one you get when you realize that you've lost your phone? Is there a question more full of arrogance and self-entitlement than the one that suggests that losing a cell phone is some kind of big, existential crisis? Jesus H. Christ, do I live a privileged life or what?
I was already in bed last night with the lights out when I realized I hadn't set the alarm on my phone so that I could wake up early the next morning for no particular reason that I'm aware of. I got up as quietly as I could -- there is nothing I fear more than a snoring SuperK awakened -- and started fumbling around the apartment in the dark. I was disturbed to find that the phone wasn't in one of the few places I try to put it. I have a lot of trouble remembering anything so I restrict myself to as few choices as possible when it comes to the location of important things, like cell phones, wallets, and car keys. In the old days I would put the phone in the freezer or inside a pair of shoes at the back of the top shelf in a storage closet in the basement. Don't ask my why. I would be doing something, I would get distracted by something else, something sparkly, and set the phone down, then wander off to do a third even sparklier thing, with all these things, sparkly or not, relatively unimportant.
Several hours later I'd wonder aloud: "Where's my phone?"
"When did you last use it?" SuperK would ask.
I'd look at her blankly, then check out my hand hoping that the phone would magically appear there in the manner than my misplaced sunglasses magically appear on my head. I could see the thing in my hand. I could visualize it clearly. It was the thing leaving the hand that baffled me. SuperK used to laugh at me when I lost things but doesn't do that anymore. She knows I feel bad enough about the destruction of all my short-term memory circuitry without piling on. It's really quite sweet.
I cursed a bit then went back to bed, thoroughly awake at this point. I assumed that the phone was out in the car, parked across the street, in the cold, cold night. I lay there for a few moments, letting the agitation build, nurturing it even, then got up again. I put a coat on over my jammie tops and stepped into a pair of shoes. I left the jammie bottoms in place. Jammie bottoms can speak for themselves. There's only so much in the way of propriety that I can be expected to endure, and out into the cold, cold night I went.
I dug around the car for a good 5 minutes, finding nothing in the way of a cell phone although there was a lot of interesting stuff under the seats. I came back into the apartment and looked for another 20 minutes, the flashlight beam probing every dark corner, trying to be quiet. Nothing again. Incredulous that the phone wasn't in the car that I had just searched like a motivated DEA agent, back out into the cold, cold night I went. I tore the #$!! car apart this time. Less than nothing. No cell phone.
It took me a while to get back to sleep. It took me longer than that to #$!! warm up again.
This morning I woke up pissed off about the phone. I have a lot of trouble accepting the fact that I make mistakes, this in spite of the fact that my unofficial nickname is Little Stevie MistakeFace. I feel less than, incompetent, a failure when I make a mistake when the fact of the matter is that it's a miracle that I don't lose something important every other day. I called my athletic club and a coffee shop that I frequent, which were the only two places that I had been the day before, and was disappointed that my black Nokia cell phone had not been turned in. This confirmed my suspicion that every one else in the world is a thieving piece of #$!!. I would have turned it in, without a shadow of a doubt.
"Did you say Nokia?" SuperK said from the other room where she had obviously been eavesdropping, obviously as fascinated by me as I am. Actually, she was probably in there muffling giggling. "You have a Samsung."
"I have a Samsung?" I said. "I don't think so. I really think you're mistaken."
"And it's blue," she added.
"It's blue?" I said. "I don't think so. I really think you're mistaken."
She showed me the picture of my phone that she had called up on line. She is acutely aware of the fact that I don't admit that I'm wrong about anything, ever so she doesn't point out where I'm wrong without doing some research. The research doesn't take too long because I'm often wrong, and clearly so.
I call back. The club had my phone. My black Samsung phone.
"Can you tell me what picture you have as a screen saver?" the woman asked.
"A little kitty that's asleep," I said.
"Yep, we have it here. We'll hold it for you," she replied.
I had forgotten about the little kitty, too.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
An Undisciplined Lot
Discipline: Training that develops self-control, character, or orderliness and efficiency.
Part of the discussion concerning the practice of meditation centered on the chairman's frustration with the mundane. He had just gotten back from a long motorcycle road trip across the country. He mumbled a few things about making amends and seeing old friends but I suspect this was mostly an adventure, and I don't say that disparagingly. A good vacation in the offing for me is indicated when I feel like throwing up on the plane because of the stress of the unknown. Anyway, making time for a methodical, disciplined period of meditation doesn't always match up with our desire for over-stimulus. But that's how it works, like most things in The Program. We are encouraged not to over-think while being encouraged to over-act.
"Just sit down in a chair with a cup of coffee for 10 minutes in the morning. That's your quiet time. Quit bitching about it," my sponsor said. (Ed. note: I don't think my sponsor said much of what I attribute to him. I didn't call him enough to get all of this pithy advice.)
More reflection on gratitude for the routine.
Part of the discussion concerning the practice of meditation centered on the chairman's frustration with the mundane. He had just gotten back from a long motorcycle road trip across the country. He mumbled a few things about making amends and seeing old friends but I suspect this was mostly an adventure, and I don't say that disparagingly. A good vacation in the offing for me is indicated when I feel like throwing up on the plane because of the stress of the unknown. Anyway, making time for a methodical, disciplined period of meditation doesn't always match up with our desire for over-stimulus. But that's how it works, like most things in The Program. We are encouraged not to over-think while being encouraged to over-act.
"Just sit down in a chair with a cup of coffee for 10 minutes in the morning. That's your quiet time. Quit bitching about it," my sponsor said. (Ed. note: I don't think my sponsor said much of what I attribute to him. I didn't call him enough to get all of this pithy advice.)
More reflection on gratitude for the routine.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
The Practice of Meditation
Practice: To do repeatedly in order to learn or become proficient; exercise oneself in: as, he practices medicine.
The featured text in today's meeting focused on prayer and meditation; specifically, how to do it. Members shared all of the different techniques and practices that made up their individual meditations. The over-all theme was all-over the place. Man, do we try a lot of stuff. And, man, do we struggle with the practice, especially the meditation, which I think is one of the hardest things that we try to do. My own personal mind is very, very active. It's not easy to tell it to calm down for even a few minutes. It doesn't want to and I don't often have the skill to make it.
What I learned from the discussion is that successful meditators find something that works and they stick to it. The important thing is the repeated practice of the practice. I want to be good at something by Papal Decree or Presidential Order. I don't want to do the work. I want to run a marathon but I don't want to train.
"How did you DO that?" I ask the guy crossing the finishing line. I think that he just gets up one morning and runs 26.2 miles. "Oh, you trained for 3 months?"
I never would have thought of that.
The featured text in today's meeting focused on prayer and meditation; specifically, how to do it. Members shared all of the different techniques and practices that made up their individual meditations. The over-all theme was all-over the place. Man, do we try a lot of stuff. And, man, do we struggle with the practice, especially the meditation, which I think is one of the hardest things that we try to do. My own personal mind is very, very active. It's not easy to tell it to calm down for even a few minutes. It doesn't want to and I don't often have the skill to make it.
What I learned from the discussion is that successful meditators find something that works and they stick to it. The important thing is the repeated practice of the practice. I want to be good at something by Papal Decree or Presidential Order. I don't want to do the work. I want to run a marathon but I don't want to train.
"How did you DO that?" I ask the guy crossing the finishing line. I think that he just gets up one morning and runs 26.2 miles. "Oh, you trained for 3 months?"
I never would have thought of that.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The Coldening
Cold: Of a temperature much lower than that of the human body; very chilly; frigid; lacking heat; having lost heat; of less heat than is required: as, Stevie Seaweed is cold.
Now that my tooth is almost fixed I have been able to concentrate on how much I hate cold weather. I didn't for a minute think that I could get more than a minute of worry free time under my belt. I have a fully functional, state of the art, latest model, 2013 Worry Scanner. If I can't come up with anything to worry about I flick that bad mother on and see what's out there. There's always something to obsess about in my large, well-stocked, constantly expanding worry list, and the Worry Scanner can find it. I figure it would be a total waste to allow calm gratitude to fill any of my free time when there's so much excellent worrying to be done. It never ceases to astound me how much time I can spend obsessing about something I don't like -- a bad tooth -- and so little time expressing gratitude for some small blessing received -- a bad tooth repaired.
So I need to do some work on this. I do need to do some work on this.
I live someplace that's cold in the winter -- like most places in the world -- and if there is something I have less power over than the weather I'd like to know what it is. Wait, no I don't really want to know; I'd just worry that to death, too. This knowledge of my powerlessness has not stopped me from fighting the weather diligently and with great focus. The cold has an unbelievable power to irritate the hell out of me.
I find it wonderful therapy to do this kind of writing. I keep my little notebook handy so that I can quickly write down the mostly ridiculous, inconsequential things that are upsetting me and, more importantly, the solutions to these problems, which I mostly ignore until the problem worsens significantly and I'm completely miserable. I really do try to work on the solutions but the problems are so compelling for me. I find that when I look at what my problems were just a few weeks ago, I can't believe how trivial they seem. And problems from a few months ago? I can scarcely remember that they existed, let alone were a source of angst.
My sponsor always reminds me that "This, too, shall pass." I get this advice when times are good and when times are bad. I always hear it from him. It reminds me not to get too attached to the good feelings and not to get too discouraged about the bad ones.
Last summer here in The New City was quite honestly the most spectacular summer I had ever spent. The weather was glorious, the area is beautiful, and the city vibrates with activity. But because that experience is in the past I'm convinced it will never be repeated, and the cold that is seeping into my bones will be with me always.
Today I wrote under the heading of "Solutions" the comment "Take control of the weather." I'm a little uneasy about them.
Now that my tooth is almost fixed I have been able to concentrate on how much I hate cold weather. I didn't for a minute think that I could get more than a minute of worry free time under my belt. I have a fully functional, state of the art, latest model, 2013 Worry Scanner. If I can't come up with anything to worry about I flick that bad mother on and see what's out there. There's always something to obsess about in my large, well-stocked, constantly expanding worry list, and the Worry Scanner can find it. I figure it would be a total waste to allow calm gratitude to fill any of my free time when there's so much excellent worrying to be done. It never ceases to astound me how much time I can spend obsessing about something I don't like -- a bad tooth -- and so little time expressing gratitude for some small blessing received -- a bad tooth repaired.
So I need to do some work on this. I do need to do some work on this.
I live someplace that's cold in the winter -- like most places in the world -- and if there is something I have less power over than the weather I'd like to know what it is. Wait, no I don't really want to know; I'd just worry that to death, too. This knowledge of my powerlessness has not stopped me from fighting the weather diligently and with great focus. The cold has an unbelievable power to irritate the hell out of me.
I find it wonderful therapy to do this kind of writing. I keep my little notebook handy so that I can quickly write down the mostly ridiculous, inconsequential things that are upsetting me and, more importantly, the solutions to these problems, which I mostly ignore until the problem worsens significantly and I'm completely miserable. I really do try to work on the solutions but the problems are so compelling for me. I find that when I look at what my problems were just a few weeks ago, I can't believe how trivial they seem. And problems from a few months ago? I can scarcely remember that they existed, let alone were a source of angst.
My sponsor always reminds me that "This, too, shall pass." I get this advice when times are good and when times are bad. I always hear it from him. It reminds me not to get too attached to the good feelings and not to get too discouraged about the bad ones.
Last summer here in The New City was quite honestly the most spectacular summer I had ever spent. The weather was glorious, the area is beautiful, and the city vibrates with activity. But because that experience is in the past I'm convinced it will never be repeated, and the cold that is seeping into my bones will be with me always.
Today I wrote under the heading of "Solutions" the comment "Take control of the weather." I'm a little uneasy about them.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Leap Year Dental Work
Leap Year: A year of 366 days, occurring every fourth year: the additional day, given to February, makes up for the time lost annually when the approximate 365 1/4-day cycle is computed as 365 days. (Ed. note: talk about lazy? The most brilliant astrophysicists in the world can't come up with anything better than slopping an extra day on every 4 years?).
So I went to the dentist today, on the last day of February in a Leap Year. This day may not exist, if you ask me, so I'm a little anxious that the work I had done today is going to vanish in an ephemeral cloud of partially suspended tooth dust. Fake work on a temporary day, accompanied by real pain. Actually, I have found in sobriety that properly administered, legally prescribed drugs DO have a real purpose in the world above and beyond my need to get stoned. The Novocaine worked perfectly and I was as comfortable as I could be while someone was using a drill whirring at extremely high revolutions to grind off a living tooth.
I had a cracked tooth which needed to be replaced by a temporary fake tooth while I wait for the real fake tooth to arrive from the lab. The 5 year old who pointed out to me a couple of days ago that teeth do not proceed from a state of angry pain to a state of painless health spontaneously was actually helping the dentist today. He climbed up on a little step stool, peered into my mouth, and said: "Yeah, you have a cracked tooth. Can I have a red sucker?"
The guy who did the work seemed to know his way around the room which was surprising since he had only been at this for like 35 years or so. He charged too much, of course, so I'm a little ticked about that. And he rooted around in other areas of my mouth that were giving me no problems whatsoever and found some other suspect teeth. I HATE it when they start rooting around in there. It's like going to your mechanic to get a flat tire fixed and having him open the hood and start looking around. Of course he's going to find something.
So I'm still in The Problem. I'm working on the solution, though. I'm trying not to concentrate on the money and the pain and the rooting around. I'm glad I can afford this and that I think enough of myself to get my body worked on, not the case when I was drinking. I'm glad my overall health is good. I'm happy with the dentist and the job he did.
Several hours later. I just bit into a piece of apple on the afflicted side. Ah, I was surprised at how pleasant it was to be pain free. Now I remember what a pain in the ass it was wincing to steel myself against the pain that was sure to come.
Pain free.
So I went to the dentist today, on the last day of February in a Leap Year. This day may not exist, if you ask me, so I'm a little anxious that the work I had done today is going to vanish in an ephemeral cloud of partially suspended tooth dust. Fake work on a temporary day, accompanied by real pain. Actually, I have found in sobriety that properly administered, legally prescribed drugs DO have a real purpose in the world above and beyond my need to get stoned. The Novocaine worked perfectly and I was as comfortable as I could be while someone was using a drill whirring at extremely high revolutions to grind off a living tooth.
I had a cracked tooth which needed to be replaced by a temporary fake tooth while I wait for the real fake tooth to arrive from the lab. The 5 year old who pointed out to me a couple of days ago that teeth do not proceed from a state of angry pain to a state of painless health spontaneously was actually helping the dentist today. He climbed up on a little step stool, peered into my mouth, and said: "Yeah, you have a cracked tooth. Can I have a red sucker?"
The guy who did the work seemed to know his way around the room which was surprising since he had only been at this for like 35 years or so. He charged too much, of course, so I'm a little ticked about that. And he rooted around in other areas of my mouth that were giving me no problems whatsoever and found some other suspect teeth. I HATE it when they start rooting around in there. It's like going to your mechanic to get a flat tire fixed and having him open the hood and start looking around. Of course he's going to find something.
So I'm still in The Problem. I'm working on the solution, though. I'm trying not to concentrate on the money and the pain and the rooting around. I'm glad I can afford this and that I think enough of myself to get my body worked on, not the case when I was drinking. I'm glad my overall health is good. I'm happy with the dentist and the job he did.
Several hours later. I just bit into a piece of apple on the afflicted side. Ah, I was surprised at how pleasant it was to be pain free. Now I remember what a pain in the ass it was wincing to steel myself against the pain that was sure to come.
Pain free.
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