Fudge Factor

In my never-ending pursuit of justification for my bad behavior - "but it's not my fault!" - I offer up this scientific tidbit . . .

There has been a large scale study conducted to test people's perception of their own honesty.  40,000 individuals have participated in this particular test so far, ensuring that there's a pretty good sample and that most bias has been eliminated.  In the study individuals were asked to take a test containing 20 questions and then to grade themselves on how many they got right.  They self-reported this to the proctor and were paid $1 for each correct answer, after which the test was destroyed in a paper shredder.  The catch is that while the shredder makes a lot of great shredding noises it has been altered so that only the edges of the test are destroyed.  The papers and then fished out and the results are compared - how many did each person get right and how many did they say they got right?

As you might expect a few individuals went big in the falsehood department and collected a nice payday.  Mostly, however, people just slightly exaggerated and took home a few extra dollars: 75% of the test takers lied.  You're probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking: "Not me.  I wouldn't have lied."

Go ahead if that makes you feel better.

Here's the interesting catch: if you add up the money that the big liars collected it's a pittance compared to the total amount that all of the little liars stole.

I know that I have a tendency to justify small wrongdoings.  My justification is particularly sweet when I compare my behavior to the really bad people.  Fact of the matter is that far more damage is done by all of us little wrongdoers than by the few big wrongdoers.  So the next time I want to lie just a little or fudge just a touch maybe I can think back on this, see that it's really me that's the problem.

On The Hook For A Ferrari

I was lingering outside the morning meeting today, talking with a friend, when a guy strolls up and asks about the meeting.  He was scruffy, clearly on the streets.  We explained that the meeting had ended but that we were there every day at 7AM.  He launches into his life story, unbidden - he has had enough, he is through, he has had it.  Henry and I both had sport coats on so he mentioned that he was a "professional guy," too.  I'm amazed when someone on the tail end of a bad bender tries to impress us.  It's the beat up drunk looking in a mirror and seeing Brad Pitt.

I told him that there was a noon meeting every day at the downtown clubhouse, about 3 blocks away.  By the park.  Right down the street.

He looked vaguely in the direction of downtown.  

"Oh," he said.  "Way over there?"

I wondered if he had some pressing appointments that day but I kept my mouth shut.  I texted Henry later and told him I'd buy him a Ferrari if that guy showed up the next day.  There's a big, big difference between saying something and doing something.

Big Red-Faced Jean

Cyclical: Recurring at regular intervals.

In The Old City I had nicknames for a few people.  They were sometimes pretty literal, like Golfer John or Doctor Steve.  Often, they were a little snarky, like Big Scary Todd or Little Scary Jeff or Big Red-Faced Jean.  This is the origin of my original nickname: Horseface Steve. As a man obsessed with what other people think about me I've always wondered how someone who doesn't know my last name paints a picture of me: "You know, Steve!  Kind of has a big horseface."  

See why I meditate?  It's a way to avoid judging or categorizing perfectly fine people.

Some odds and ends that have been popping up over and over  . . . 

There is a lot of suggestion that what I find when I meditate should just be left alone.  So often in life I want to change what I find instead of trying to see that these things are as they should be.  I need to try more diligently when I consider something - people, especially - to see what's good there instead of looking at someone as an obstacle to be moved or fixed.  In one of the Buddha (Ed. Note: Buddha = Generic god figure - I'm not trying to convert anyone here) visualizations I sit on a cushion, my mother on my left and my father on my right, looking at the generic god.  In front of me are all the people I find distasteful.  We're all looking at this image of goodness and trying to get lost in the goodness.  We're trying to understand that all sentient beings want to be happy and free from pain and misery.  I see these people as simply trying to get better instead of trying to figure out how to banish them to a damp dungeon hewn out of solid rock.

And how about linear versus cyclical thinking?  I'm a fine product of The West, trained to look at a task as having a start and an end.  Get it done.  Finish it up.  My meditation practices keep suggesting that I see life as a repetition.  There's nothing that I have to get right.

The important thing is the practice.  One of my meditation apps shows icons for other people who are currently meditating.  It's kind of cool imagining me sitting on my porch here in Vacation City being joined by thousands of other people all over the world.  This is the community I want to be a part of.

I'm re-reading The Big Book of my chosen religion.  For those of us who are followers of the three monotheistic religions - Christianity, Judaism, Islam - there is inevitably a lot of stuff about exactly how and why the main god is the main god.  I wish there was some more editing in this book.  I'm down with the main god being the main god - it's enough already with the reasons and threats, I'm on your side - and would like to see some more positive parables and shit like that. Good stories, you know?  Stories that tell me how to live well.  This is much more interesting to me than the vaguely sinister tone that creeps in from time to time about why I damn well better get on board with who exactly is the main god.

Bruce

There's a guy who often stands at the end of the driveway disgorging people from my local Starbucks - the driveway is disgorging people, not the guy.  He looks somewhat healthy, not too old, capable-ish.  He has a sign proclaiming hunger and a desire to work, a sign festooned with the standard American flags and the words "God Bless," a curse or a command I can't say.  I toss him a buck or a handful of change every now and then.  I don't participate in the endless debate as to whether people like this are lazy scammers or truly in need.  I used to speculate - invariably deciding that I was being screwed -  but it made me more cynical than I normally am, and I'm fucking cynical.  I realize that there are folks that take advantage of the system but I also think that they're in the minority.  If I assume that the particular folk in front of me is a deceiver then I deprive myself of the opportunity to help someone who really needs help.  I don't think I'd sleep very well if I spent all my time looking at people suspiciously.  I've decided to just assume that whoever I'm dealing with is on the up and up.  That doesn't mean I always fork over the change but that I'm going to trend generous.  If I give out a couple of bucks a week and it all goes to bums and reprobates who cares, really?  The peace of mind that $100 would buy me, thinking that most of us are good, decent people would be . . . well, it would be so big I can't at the moment even calculate it.  Just because I spent my pre-recovery life as a big, fat liar on the make doesn't mean that that's SOP.

I started parking my car in the lot that puts this guy in-between me and my coffee.  I started talking to this guy.  Bruce.  First of all, he's mostly there but everyone's not at home.  I don't see too many jobs where he's going to thrive and not because he's lazy, rather that he's struggling with some human interaction issues.  And he does have a part-time job - Tuesday and Thursday with a landscaper - and would like to work there full-time.  I don't feel like some social engineer here, either, or that I'm a huge-hearted dude really making a difference.  I just don't want to be suspicious and paranoid, preferring to assume that we're all doing the best we can rather than ascribe under-handed motives to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.  Moreover, I've opined at length over the theory that the more I try to hold onto my loose change the more power it has over me.

BIS-foh

One of the Big Scary Financial Organizations (or BIS-foh-s) transferred some funds around, following an inner muse, a whim, that I cannot comprehend.  They sent me a piece of paperwork telling me that they had done this, thoughtfully including account numbers and dates and transaction information.  I could not, however, see where the money was AT when I logged into my account. The fact that it was a pitifully small sum didn't relieve me of the responsibility of tracking the machinations.

I made the call.

"Yes," someone told me (I no longer get names as I can't seem to hold anyone accountable).  "The money is in your account - we just transferred it into a different account that you don't have access to.  This is why you can't see the money when you log in to your account."

This stopped me right short.  As much as I love witty repartee I couldn't respond to this coherently.  I got the sense that it was a new account of some sort, even though the old account was working fine, except for the not sending me the money to put into the new account problems I've been having.   I don't remember what I said although the thought crossed my mind to suggest that I would be the person who should logically be able to see what's in my own account. I didn't say this.  These people are absolute masters of circular logic.  They have hired PhDs trained in psychology to devise a never-ending series of semantic traps.  Have you ever talked to someone who is clearly insane?  Talking more slowly or more loudly or at great length doesn't work because the insane person can't grasp simple facts.  

This is what I've been doing.  These people are clearly insane. 

Tiny Conical Hats

When we were in Vietnam we took a bike ride through a rural village.  At one point we swerved off of the rutted streets and cruised along a narrow dirt path that snaked along the top of a dike separating the flooded rice fields, sharing the track with cows and people and other bicyclists.  I stood my ground with oncoming humans but the cows were afforded exclusive right of way. They didn't appear too worried about coming out on the losing end of a bike v cow collision. One of the two combatants, I think, would have made an abrupt change of direction, and I didn't like the look of the water standing in the fields.

Anyway, every hundred yards or so there would be a few small temple-looking structures.  We were informed that they were the graves of ancestors, Old Ones from the nearby villages.  I liked the thought that every morning the workers would pause and tip their conical hats to their forebears.  I'm trying to do that in my Quiet Time each morning.  I extend a specific shout-out to mom, dad, and Kenner, and then I tip my pork-pie to everyone who made me who I am today.

Don't dwell in the past but don't forget it, either.

P.S.: Our Vietnam bike ride was with 5 or 6 other people and a Vietnamese guide.  We picked up our bikes at a rental shop and they were pretty much in the kind of shape that you would expect for a third world country.  Moreover, I'm tall and the Vietnamese are not, so even though I took the biggest bike available, I still looked like a brightly colored clown riding a tiny, clown novelty bike, my knees actually extending above my head when I pedaled.  I lost ground quickly to our entourage, a situation that was exacerbated by the fact that my bike was stuck in the highest gear, leaving me to pedal furiously with almost none of the kinetic energy being transferred into forward motion.  I fell further and further behind.  Eventually, the tiny woman leading the tour - Fang - traded bikes with me.  I was a little red-faced about this, thinking she was doing just fine with my shit bike when a motor-scooter scooted by me, a bike propped on the handlebars.  The driver quickly switched out the defective bike for the new one, chattering with our leader, and off he went.

Only in Vietnam.

Avoid The 'Noid

Many years ago Dominoes Pizza unleashed an ad campaign called "Avoid The 'Noid."  The 'Noid was this little figure dressed in a superhero costume who caused all kinds of problems with the pizza delivery process.  He had a machine to smash the pizza box down onto the pizza, techniques to slow the delivery of the pizza, leading to a cold, glutinous product, and other hijinks and bedevilments.  The 'Noid had a high-pitched, staccato voice and he was quite the disruptive imp, lovable, really, in his predicament-making.

Pretty funny, right?

Turns out there was a dude in Georgia whose last name was Noid.  He was not a healthy man.  He believed that the ad campaign was directed at him personally, like Avoid The Seaweed.  Noid loses it, takes some hostages at a Dominoes store (demanding that his prisoners make him a pizza which he eats during the seige) before the standoff ends.

This is me.  This is my world view.  I believe everyone is thinking about me.  I believe I am the center of attention.  I am not a healthy man.

A 'Noid - annoyed.  Get it?

Serenity Now - Insanity Later

There was a great episode of Seinfeld that revolved around the idea that any stress could be mitigated simply by repeating "Serenity Now," although the character ends up shouting the phrase instead of saying it quietly, no doubt lessening the rage-controlling effect of the practice. The episode ends when this guy - who is clearly mentally ill - states, somewhat ominously: "Remember: Serenity now - insanity later."

I try to put this crap into effect in my life.  I don't want to go nuts over unimportant things but I also don't want to pretend that important things can be brushed off with a trite slogan.

Anger is real.

Noel, The Christmas Scrivener

After I got off the phone with Noel, the Christmas scrivener, I felt a little cruddy.  SuperK has been listening in to my conversations as sort of a free-floating moral support apparatus.  I stuck my head into her office and said tentatively: "Did I go over the line there?"  SuperK tells me when I go over the line.  She speaks freely.  I don't have to read between the lines.  While this makes me uncomfortable sometimes I'd have it no other way - if I'm a jerk please tell me so. Usually I know when I'm being a jerk but sometimes . . . well, often . . . OK, most of the time I manage to justify my bad behavior by blaming it on someone else.  You know the drill - "I wouldn't have done that except he/she/it did this or that etc etc etc so it really isn't my fault."

"I could tell you were frustrated," she said.

The only time she sugar-coats the unwelcome message that I've acted like a jerk is when I'm angry and acting like a jerk.  She's not stupid - when I'm pissed I'm just a big, red-faced, old man yelling irrationally, not thinking clearly.  She's not going to reason with me when I'm like that.

Uh-oh, I thought, I really was a jerk.

I thought about it overnight.  I slept on it.  At my Friday 7AM meeting we read out of the 12 & 12 and I found, ironically, that we were on Step 12, where there is something about "practicing these principles in all our affairs."  Sometimes the message I need to hear is muddled, subtle, requiring some interpretation - sometimes it's delivered by an amplified bullhorn placed right up in my face. 

When I got home I called the financial institution that employs Noel, the Christmas scrivener. This is an act of self-abasement in every sense of the word.  You know the drill with these places - you call an 800 number and are vomited into an automated system that is nearly impossible to exit; when you do manage to navigate to an area where live people exist you are placed on hold, usually with a message along the lines of "Due to unusually high call volume you're going to have to listen to a digitized Muzak version of "The Candy Man" until you're going to want to drill into your skull with a Craftsman electric drill."  The final cherry on the shit sundae was that I needed to talk to a specific person once any person answered.

The woman who finally picked up the call was a little tentative when I said I'd like to speak to Noel, the Christmas scrivener.  She was all "can I help you with something" or "may I tell her what this is in regards to" and the like.  I'm guessing these call centers are kind of a Band of Brothers and Sisters.  I'm guessing people don't call into apologize too often so there's some mutual protection being offered.

Finally, Noel, the Christmas scrivener, picked up.  I reminded her who I was and added: "I'm sorry for my behavior yesterday.  I was boorish and rude and it was totally uncalled for.  You answered all of my questions and I shouldn't have acted the way I did."

She was gracious.  She had to be - it's her job to be gracious.  Still, I think I detected a note of genuine graciousness.  I'm guessing that the percentage of jerks who apologize to jerks who don't is a vanishingly small number.

You know - I did my part.  That's the only part I get to do.

Bye, Rob

LMFAO number two was another bank, a really big one, without the capacity to draw on the quaint, local ineptitude of the smaller bank, lacking the natural piteous understanding that smallness can foster.  It's easier to ascribe bad motives to size.  I called the number on the statement. I spoke to Casey - who was mighty and was not going to strike out - and provided her with account numbers and addresses and stuff.  I tried to waylay her preliminary pursuit of information that I wasn't going to be able to provide by repeatedly stating that I just wanted to know what kinds of documentation they were going to require so that I could close the account. I was wise to the process at this point - these people weren't going to let me do anything until I sent in a lot more stuff.  I didn't actually want them to do anything but tell me what else I needed to do.

"Casey," I said.  "I don't want to close the account - I just want to send in the supporting documentation that your bank undoubtedly requires."

She dithered about, at one point asking me for my social security number "to see if they had that on record" before deciding that she wasn't the right person to handle this matter.  She transferred me to Dan.  Dan was pretty nice, too - I didn't catch what department he worked for - but he decided he wasn't the right person, either, and right quick.  He told me that I would have to contact the branch where my parents originally opened the account and that they would be able to help close the account up.  He gave me the name of the manager and told me all I'd have to do would be to stop in at the bank and they'd be able to help me out.

"Dan," I said.  "I'm calling from Vacation City." 

"Oh," Dan said.  He paused.  "So you aren't coming into town anytime soon?"

This would have been funny if this would have been the first LMFAO that I had dealt with that day.  It was still pretty funny.

"No, Dan," I said kindly.  "I'm not going to fly into town to close this fucking bank account."  I know he could tell I was smiling when I said it.  He was so pleased by my tone that he offered to transfer my call to the local branch so that I wouldn't have to do anything.

"Bye, Dan," I said.

Rob Killinger was next on the hit parade.

"Hi, Rob," I said brightly.  "Could I speak to Stephanie Crawford, please?"

Rob wanted to know why I wanted to speak with her?  Had I been working with her previously?

"Dan suggested I call her," I said vaguely.

Well, Rob told me that he could help me do everything that I wanted to do.  All I had to do to get the process started was send him something called an "Entry Appointing Fiduciary - Letter of Authority."

"Bye, Rob," I said.

LMFAO

Vortex:  A whirlwind, whirlpool, or similarly moving matter in the form of a spiral or column; (figuratively): anything that involves constant violent or chaotic activity around some center.

I was zero for three today.  That's a percentage of roughly . . . let's see . . . carry the three . . . subtract seven . . . nothing.  There is no number associated with that mathematical computation. It is not a definable equation.  You can divide three into zero until the large pulsating, veins on your forehead rupture and you die, and the answer WILL NOT VARY, and this is what I accomplished today.

I got up and had a nice devotion, nursing a lovely cup of coffee; a not-too-agonizing swim, always good for my mental health, helping as it does in burning off nervous energy and the effects of the coffee which I do not need; a nice sit in the park with another cup of coffee - refueling the anxiety of the first cup of coffee that the swim had defeated - and the paper.  I arrived home in fine fettle and high spirits, determined to wade into the Large and Massive Financial Organization (or LMFO - Laughing My Fucking Ass Off - I know, I know, I was too lazy to figure out how to get an 'A' into the acronym) gene pool and emerge victorious on the other side.  Or at least not clearly defeated.

The first LMFO was an immovable object and it was really a small bank.  I ran into a brick wall.  Two weeks ago I had contacted these people and nice guy named Dave, flourishing the unmistakable accent of The Old City, helped me get the proper documentation together to close this particular bank account.  It required, of course, a notarized form that had to be faxed in. This meant a trip to the bank and some wheedling to let them use their fax machine.

These documents were sucked into the vortex as so many of them are.  I imagine a parlor in hell where billions of financial documents are swirling around in tornadic winds.  Most of us imagine hell as being very hot - I see an onslaught of paper cuts.
  
Today I spoke to Noel, the Christmas scrivener.  Noel and I were together for about 45 minutes, including long stretches of time when she disappeared, leaving me to endure a particularly horrific loop of "Strangers in the Night."  She never had good news when she came back.  In fact, the news got worse and worse.  She was always asking me questions about the address on file and the account numbers and beneficiaries and countering my answers, taken right off the account statement in front of me, with: "No, that's not right."  I became increasingly agitated. Finally, she came back and explained that there was now another name on the account - in addition to my father's - and that I couldn't do anything without that person's consent.  This was news to me.  I assumed my dad had put my sister's name on the account so she could help with his bills but Noel couldn't - or wouldn't! - confirm any of this.

"Restraint of tongue and pen," right?  Up to that point I had behaved pretty well although I couldn't help pointing out that Dave didn't tell me any of this two weeks ago when it would have been the best time to tell me.

"So, let me get this right," I said.  "I faxed all this stuff in and you people weren't going to do anything to let me know I had sent in the wrong stuff?"

Noel was sorry.  Noel couldn't address Dave's motives or mindset.

I was toast so I decided to terminate the call.

"OK, Mr. Seaweed," said Noel.  "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

There it was again.  There was that question.  Now I assume that these poor workers have to say that.  They all say it so I guess it's in there script.  It blew me up.

I interrupted her: "Why are you asking me that? You haven't helped me with anything yet so how could you help me with something else?  Else is an adjective which means another."

I didn't go on for very long.  I was vaguely aware that getting into a semantic argument about linguistics with a young person working at a bank, probably making a shit wage, was not going to advance my wage.

LMFAO one - Seaweed zero.

QA For Seaweed

Assurance:  The state of being assured; firm persuasion; full confidence or trust; freedom from doubt; certainty. 

I have decided to screw with the insensate minds of the all of the financial institutions that I can find.  At this point I'm not all that concerned if I even have any business to conduct with any particular institution - I just want to fuck these people up.  I have been trying to parcel out the self-inflicted yet unavoidable pain in small doses, partially because this helps me work on my patience and tolerance, and partially, to be fair, to give an institution some time to process whatever request of mine that they're currently ignoring.

When I was still in the working world my job entailed selling diagnostic equipment used in industrial applications.  Initially, the most important part of the process was asking the right questions to find out exactly what the problem was so that I could figure out if I had a solution and what that solution entailed.  Over the years I saw a lot of different applications so I was pretty good at tailoring my approach.  I'd intuit what the problem was going to be, asking pretty targeted questions.  Still, it was a game - I had to direct the flow of the conversation so that the people I was dealing with would give me the information I needed.  People like to talk and they don't always know the point of the questions being asked - I knew the point and I was the guy who needed to know the point.  I was constantly trying to wrangle wandering engineers back into the fold.

When I call the institutions up I feel like I have to devise a clever line of questioning so that I can find out what they need from me.  They don't often tell me what this is or they talk and talk and talk before getting to the point.  Or they don't have the thing that I've already sent them - this is very popular.  I don't know why these people have fax machines - the faxes never seem to end up where they're supposed to go.  When they say: "You'll need to fax those documents to us" I now realize this is shorthand for: "Why don't you just take that shit, feed it through a paper shredder, and then use it to start the campfire you're going to need to cook the elk you'll be forced to kill so that you can survive because you're not getting any fucking money from us."  
They don't say that, of course, because "this conversation is being recorded for quality assurance purposes."  I want to ask them what they're trying to improve, exactly.

Relaxed Seaweed

Relief:  The feeling associated with the removal of stress or discomfort.

I was mulling over the different reaction that alcoholics and earth people have to alcohol.  It is, ahem, striking.  I love the reaction we get in meetings when we describe what happens when we insert alcohol into our blood stream.  The reaction of our fellows is visceral and universal, and it is foreign to people without a drinking problem.

My schtick about the first time I had a beer goes something like this: "I could feel the alcohol move inch by inch down my throat, warming me as it traveled.  My stomach accepted the delivery - the clouds parted, a beam of bright sunlight struck me in the face, the angels sang.  I knew I had found the solution to all of my problems."

I exaggerate everything but that is the god honest truth.

Earth people have a drink to relax.  I have a visual of someone, weary, plopping down in a comfortable chair set up in a meadow or along the shore of a lake.  You know - relaxing, calm. Mild worries collect themselves and stroll away, chattering quietly among themselves.

And then there's the drunk.  He has been fighting off vicious, blood-thirsty, heavily-armed Mongol hordes from the moment he opened his eyes.  Wave after wave after wave of monsters.  He takes the drink and gains some momentum, fending them off.  He pours a vat of hot acid on the hordes and they bubble away.

That's the way it is.  It's relief is what it is.  It's not fun or pleasant or enjoyable.  It's a victory over misery.

Cash That Check, Boy

Today I'm going to write about my further trials and tribulations - travails, really - with the Large Financial Institutions who seem to hate me so very, very much, who seem to do things deliberately to me.  I'm going to do this to honor my friend Edrom because he seems to take such an out-sized pleasure in the way the financial universe is treating me, a pleasure so extreme that it would threaten to tear at the fabric of a long and dear friendship.

(Ed. Historical Note: {Ed. Note: I'm not sure how a normal note differs from a historical note but there you go}.  Many years ago a bank that Edrom was dealing with - and I'm somewhat fuzzy about the exact details but I think I do have the general jist of the story correct, and if I don't I'll just make up some shit like I usually do, and part of the problem here is that I'm sure I was only half listening to whatever it was he was complaining about at the time, which doesn't sound like an output of a lot of listening power, but trust me, 50% is almost unheard of - sent some of his money to someone who wasn't, in fact, him.  I don't recall if it was someone with the same name or if it went to someone with a completely different name.   A clumsy mistake, to be sure, but not horrific.  Correctable.  L'affaire took a sinister turn when this individual cashed the check.  Maybe he didn't pay any attention or maybe his intentions were evil and perverse - this we'll never know.  The point is that it took Edrom quite a bit of time to get his money back.  I don't think I thought it was funny at the time but I think it's funny now until I remember that I can't get my dad's . . . well, you get the point.

So three of my father's six accounts at the most evil of all of the evil institutions have been massaged into a stupor.  That leaves three in active convulsions, dancing a monetary St. Vitus Dance, if my math is correct.  Yesterday I received a letter showing that one of the accounts was closed and the money was transferred.  Somewhere.  I don't know where.  It was there and now it's gone.  There is an account number associated with the place where the money now rests but it doesn't show up in my account and it's gone from my dad's account.  Voila!  It's gone!

I call The Institution.

"I can't see the funds in my account," I said.

"Yes," the guy says.  "That's right.  It has been transferred into your account but it's in a different account that you can't see."

"I just said that," I pointed out.  I didn't throw gasoline on the fire by asking why this is so.  I've learned with these people to keep it as simple as possible.  He offered to mail me the form to fill out so that I could see the money or have it electronically transferred to Mars or to get a check. He could mail me a check right now! but it would go to my dad's address.  My dad doesn't live there any more for obvious reasons.  I was vaguely aware that GWPMO should have done this correctly the first time so I wouldn't have to do it again but that falls under the accelerant category.  

4 out of 6 done.  3 months later.

Soldier On

Soldier:  (V) To continue.

My sponsor talks about soldiering on, moving through a thing, taking the next step to the best of my ability.  We laugh about an old commercial for Fram Oil Filters where a crusty, grizzled grease monkey is trying to sell the concept of a more expensive oil filter.

"You can pay me now," he says.  Pause for dramatic emphasis.  "Or you can pay me later."

Sometimes, of course, it's hard to tell what that means.  I know that I need to take action to get through some unpleasantness or the other but I also know that I can't always banish the unpleasantness in a way that seems timely or efficient.  Step forward - see what happens.  Do I find myself a little further up the slope or do I slip on some gravel and slide right back to where I started or, worse yet, fall off the trail and end up in some sticker bushes?  I guess the idea is to kick the can down the road to the best of my ability.  I guess the idea is that I have no idea what the hell is going on most of the time.

As a mortal enemy of unpleasantness - think mongoose versus cobra - my goal is to get the discomfort away from me ASAP.  Alas, I've learned that this is something that is often out of my control.  All I can do is manage the effort, the work, and see what happens.  I don't even know what's supposed to happen, either.  I think I do, some of the time, but I suspect that I'm fooling myself.  I labor under the illusion that my god wants me to avoid pain and collect pleasure.  My god doesn't even laugh when I say this.  He doesn't even look up from the book he's reading, something trashy with a lot of cuss words.  It just never occurs to me that the pain I occasionally go through is what I'm supposed to be going through.  I was meant to be in those sticker bushes.

Full Deck: A word or phrase used to euphemistically refer to another person's being crazy or deranged.  

As you can see, I'm not working with a full deck.

Paused To Breathe

What can I tell you?  Sometimes I have something to say and sometimes I don't, although in either case I have no trouble running my mouth.

I have some increasing peace of mind.  I am walking through it.  I am soldiering, trudging, slogging.  Sometimes it's a walk in the park and sometimes it's a grim death march.

I did not sign up for the bad shit.  The bad shit is highly overrated.  I could do without the bad shit even though I know I get nowhere without it.

There are no bad things, only growth opportunities.

Why did I surmise I would react to something in a certain way?  I'm lucky if I can find my car keys half the time.  I'm going to parse a complex emotional response to a life-changing event?  

I have spent a week - a holiday week, true 'dat, with only four business days, but still - not prodding and poking at any governmental organizations or large financial concerns.  Part of my reasoning is that I have taken a number of steps toward resolution and I need to wait for a response.  The other part is that I couldn't face the bastards again.  They will not win but they have worn down my resolve.  Temporarily.  My inactivity has been met by a stony silence.

I don't have anything to write about if I'm not outraged at my misfortune.