Prone: Predisposed, liable, inclined.
I'm amused that the primary definition of "prone" is "lying face down," as opposed to "supine," which is "lying face up." Maybe I'm both prone and supine to anxiety. Maybe I'm lying face down to anxiety.
One of my most powerful warriors I use as I combat anxiety is the morning Quiet Time. I'm amused that the adjective "quiet" is connected to the noun "time," and god, I hope that I got those definitions right or I'll look like more of a pompous ass than I really am, and I'm pompous as hell. The point I'm trying to make is that there's rarely any quietude in the Quiet Time. It's like watching a video of a space rocket on the launching pad with the sound turned off. There's smoke and shaking and stuff flying off but it's quiet. You know it's not really quiet. You'd never say: "Wow, that's a quiet launch." You wouldn't want people to think that you're crazy. You wouldn't want people who know you and suspect that you're crazy to have any reason to call The Authorities. We're trying to minimize our contact with The Authorities, who generally don't think much of crazy alcoholics. As a rule.
I pray for three things in my Quiet Time:
1. That I may be the best son, brother, husband, and cousin that I can be, in no particular order. This seems harmless and well-intentioned. I fail to see how this prayer can get me into any trouble so I'm sure it's going to blow up in my face.
2. That I may be of service to my fellow man today. A very noble prayer, in my opinion, although I'm lying when I say that part of the prayer. And I even thought of adding the word maximum to that prayer, as in "maximum service" to my fellow man but I'm trying to keep my lying in check today. Service, OK; maximum service? Yeah.
3. That I have help dealing with whatever anxiety is currently furrowing my brow. I don't specify the help that I want - I leave it open, so that god can deliver the appropriate help even though I'm pretty sure god is an idiot and god is going to mess it the %$!! up.
Then I have a list of affirmations. I remind myself not to drink alcohol or use illegal drugs or legal drugs illegally obtained, smoke 2 packs of cigarettes, drink 17 gallons of coffee, eat 48,000 calories of unrefined white sugar, get a little exercise, and spend some time on my recovery. It's a shame that I have to tell myself to do or not to do these things when they're so clearly in my best interests or bad for me, as the case may be, but there it is. And I try not to be judgmental - I don't care if you do them or not do them, depending on your inclinations, but I know where I need to be.
Finally, I run through a Gratitude List. Simple stuff really: grateful for my health; for my wife's health; that my parents are doing reasonably well; that I have so many wonderful friends, a gift that is hard for me to get my arms around sometimes; for my nice trailer home and my nice Very Expensive Car and for a few dollars in the bank. It's an imposing list. I have a lot to be grateful for.
It's revealing that I have to remind myself that I have it good each day or I forget that I have it good and even start believing that I'm getting screwed by my god who doesn't know what the %$!@! is going on.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Ned! Ned Ryerson!!
Anxiety: (pathology) A state of restlessness and agitation, often accompanied by a distressing sense of oppression or tightness in the stomach.
"Prone to anxiety" may be one of the greatest phrases ever uttered in the English language.
I had a friend many years ago who suffered a series of panic attacks.
"They were profoundly uncomfortable," he said dryly.
Anxiety is such a nancy word. We do a mambo with fear, dressing it up in all kinds of fancy outfits and period costumes. We use anger when we want to be a bad-ass. We use depression when we want some attention. We use stress when we want to seem busy. It's all fear. It's all fear. We are afraid that we won't get something that we want or we're afraid that we're going to lose something that we already have, and that covers everything, my friends.
Isn't it worrisome that one of the definitions of anxiety includes the ominous qualifier: "pathology"?
Pathology: Any deviation from a healthy or normal condition; abnormality.
I had another friend, a heroin addict, who talked about his worry scanner. He flicked it on and watched the little red light blink sequentially through a series of channels until it found something to worry about. It was tireless, this device, always working, always searching for something that was wrong or was going to go wrong.
There's a famous circuit speaker who tells about a high-powered job he had before he lapsed into homelessness. He showed up every day at work, dressed to kill, in a construct of extreme self-confidence meant to convince everyone that he wasn't, you know, insane. Every day his boss asked him how he was doing and every day he said that he was doing great.
"Once, just once," he recalled. "I wanted to say: 'I'm terrified.' "
"What's the matter," he imagined his boss saying.
"Beats the hell out of me," he would have been forced to reply.
While I'm prone to anxiety I have a hell of a toolkit today. I have taken that worry scanner apart many times. That worry scanner is right out of Groundhog Day. I can't kill it. It's alive!
Actually I'm doing well this morning and I do well often. But I'm aware of that proneness, hovering in the sky above my head, like a big carrion-feeding vulture.
"Prone to anxiety" may be one of the greatest phrases ever uttered in the English language.
I had a friend many years ago who suffered a series of panic attacks.
"They were profoundly uncomfortable," he said dryly.
Anxiety is such a nancy word. We do a mambo with fear, dressing it up in all kinds of fancy outfits and period costumes. We use anger when we want to be a bad-ass. We use depression when we want some attention. We use stress when we want to seem busy. It's all fear. It's all fear. We are afraid that we won't get something that we want or we're afraid that we're going to lose something that we already have, and that covers everything, my friends.
Isn't it worrisome that one of the definitions of anxiety includes the ominous qualifier: "pathology"?
Pathology: Any deviation from a healthy or normal condition; abnormality.
I had another friend, a heroin addict, who talked about his worry scanner. He flicked it on and watched the little red light blink sequentially through a series of channels until it found something to worry about. It was tireless, this device, always working, always searching for something that was wrong or was going to go wrong.
There's a famous circuit speaker who tells about a high-powered job he had before he lapsed into homelessness. He showed up every day at work, dressed to kill, in a construct of extreme self-confidence meant to convince everyone that he wasn't, you know, insane. Every day his boss asked him how he was doing and every day he said that he was doing great.
"Once, just once," he recalled. "I wanted to say: 'I'm terrified.' "
"What's the matter," he imagined his boss saying.
"Beats the hell out of me," he would have been forced to reply.
While I'm prone to anxiety I have a hell of a toolkit today. I have taken that worry scanner apart many times. That worry scanner is right out of Groundhog Day. I can't kill it. It's alive!
Actually I'm doing well this morning and I do well often. But I'm aware of that proneness, hovering in the sky above my head, like a big carrion-feeding vulture.
Friday, September 27, 2013
The Rapacious Creditor
Rapacious: Given to taking by force or plundering; voracious; avaricious.
"Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor . . . "
That is a great line. That is a world-class line. The meeting today was on Step One, the "dude, you're not in control of jackshit" Step. How appropriate was that for me as I try to maneuver the world into the off-ramp of my choice. I get the "powerless over alcohol" part - it's the powerless over everything else part that really sticks in my craw sometimes.
That's a great word: craw.
". . . bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and all will to resist its demands."
OK, then. Got it.
"Alcohol, now become the rapacious creditor . . . "
That is a great line. That is a world-class line. The meeting today was on Step One, the "dude, you're not in control of jackshit" Step. How appropriate was that for me as I try to maneuver the world into the off-ramp of my choice. I get the "powerless over alcohol" part - it's the powerless over everything else part that really sticks in my craw sometimes.
That's a great word: craw.
". . . bleeds us of all self-sufficiency and all will to resist its demands."
OK, then. Got it.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Return of The Contractor!
Easygoing: Calm, relaxed, casual and informal.
I wonder what the opposite of "easygoing" is? Hard going? Easy coming? Really not easygoing at all? That would work well for me.
"Wow, that Seaweed is really calm and relaxed." This is not a statement that will be heard in the near future. This is a statement prohibited by law. It's a Class III felony. Up until the 17th century a person could be stoned to death or thrown into debtor's prison or boiled in oil for uttering such a sentiment.
Too quick I was on The Contractor reprieve. I get up this morning and draw a glass of drinking water. It fizzed and foamed like an Alka Seltzer. I was not happy. I wanted a glass of drinking water not a fizzy drink that tasted like the salt water mouth wash my mama made for me when I was sick with a sore throat. I called The Contractor and left a message.
On my way home from the pool I took an incoming call from Willie. He talked about something or the other - I really can't remember.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked. "Do you have a minute?"
"Oh, god, yes," he said.
(Translation, for guys like Willie and me and almost everyone else I've met in The Fellowship: "I am SO tired of living in my head, thinking about myself, blowing little problems up into big problems, would you PLEASE distract me for a minute.)
I started telling him about the fizzy water. He started laughing. Check that: he started roaring, a choking, snorting, stop-so-I-can-catch-my-breath laughing. While I was happy to amuse him - as I knew I would - I was somewhat offended at the level of his mirth. I was pissed about The Contractor.
He tells me a story involving a computer that took him two hours to solve. His son - his 8 year old son - walks in and diagnoses the problem immediately, and then starts to abuse him for being so oblivious.
I'm tellin' ya, I got real problems here, people.
I wonder what the opposite of "easygoing" is? Hard going? Easy coming? Really not easygoing at all? That would work well for me.
"Wow, that Seaweed is really calm and relaxed." This is not a statement that will be heard in the near future. This is a statement prohibited by law. It's a Class III felony. Up until the 17th century a person could be stoned to death or thrown into debtor's prison or boiled in oil for uttering such a sentiment.
Too quick I was on The Contractor reprieve. I get up this morning and draw a glass of drinking water. It fizzed and foamed like an Alka Seltzer. I was not happy. I wanted a glass of drinking water not a fizzy drink that tasted like the salt water mouth wash my mama made for me when I was sick with a sore throat. I called The Contractor and left a message.
On my way home from the pool I took an incoming call from Willie. He talked about something or the other - I really can't remember.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked. "Do you have a minute?"
"Oh, god, yes," he said.
(Translation, for guys like Willie and me and almost everyone else I've met in The Fellowship: "I am SO tired of living in my head, thinking about myself, blowing little problems up into big problems, would you PLEASE distract me for a minute.)
I started telling him about the fizzy water. He started laughing. Check that: he started roaring, a choking, snorting, stop-so-I-can-catch-my-breath laughing. While I was happy to amuse him - as I knew I would - I was somewhat offended at the level of his mirth. I was pissed about The Contractor.
He tells me a story involving a computer that took him two hours to solve. His son - his 8 year old son - walks in and diagnoses the problem immediately, and then starts to abuse him for being so oblivious.
I'm tellin' ya, I got real problems here, people.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Contractors! Are Coming Around the Left Flank!
Little Westside Jonny mildly observed that my terrible, terrible, awful, end-of-the-world contractor problems are not fresh news for those of you who are old FOS (Friends of Seaweed). Here's a thing about having friends in recovery - they actually listen to what you say when you're talking. It's weird. And they often pay close enough attention that they can remember what you've said after you've said it. This is one of the main reasons that I don't lie with the frequency and intensity that I used to - these people remember the details of my lies down to the smallest little manufactured fact. It was a far different situation in my drinking days, when I'd be talking, vaguely aware that I was being offensive or inappropriate, and I'd look at my bar-mate or floormate, depending on my level of inebriation, his eyes glazed or mostly glommed onto the football game trying to escape the static on the shitty TV in the corner of the bar, and know that I could say just about anything I wanted because it was destined to be stored in a mostly inaccessible place.
And then take it up a notch and actually write down your thoughts. There's no hiding from that.
LWSJ is right, of course - I don't have any extra patience with some things if by "some things" you mean "anyone who is trying to liberate some of my money from me." I have worked hard on my perspective every time I'm subjected to an Attack of the Contractors, pretty sure that everything will work out well in the end, but I'm still unable to shake the angst. SuperK and I laugh at the stuff that upsets the other. It seems absurd until it's inside.
A man needs to know his limitations.
The project ended well, of course. The fact that I knew it would didn't stop me from ruining several hours in morbid projection. While we were chatting for a bit before The Contractor left we mentioned that the flue on our fireplace was jammed open. It has a lever on a frame with the markings "Open" and "Closed." I'm not very technical but I thought I could figure this one out. It was clearly marked but inoperable. I tried to fix it myself if by "fixed" you mean "using exponentially increasing force to try to force it to open the $#!! up." I managed only to cover most of my head and face with large amounts of chimney soot. I looked like a character from a Dickens story, except for the Timberlands. The Contractor managed to fix it in under 2 minutes saving me a $100 service call from a different Contractor of some type.
Here's the funny part: the obstruction was some kind of valve or fitting deliberately installed when the fireplace was - apparently - converted from its original wood burning purpose to a gas-only appliance.
Something about the house filling with poisonous, odorless, deadly gas or some shit like that.
And then take it up a notch and actually write down your thoughts. There's no hiding from that.
LWSJ is right, of course - I don't have any extra patience with some things if by "some things" you mean "anyone who is trying to liberate some of my money from me." I have worked hard on my perspective every time I'm subjected to an Attack of the Contractors, pretty sure that everything will work out well in the end, but I'm still unable to shake the angst. SuperK and I laugh at the stuff that upsets the other. It seems absurd until it's inside.
A man needs to know his limitations.
The project ended well, of course. The fact that I knew it would didn't stop me from ruining several hours in morbid projection. While we were chatting for a bit before The Contractor left we mentioned that the flue on our fireplace was jammed open. It has a lever on a frame with the markings "Open" and "Closed." I'm not very technical but I thought I could figure this one out. It was clearly marked but inoperable. I tried to fix it myself if by "fixed" you mean "using exponentially increasing force to try to force it to open the $#!! up." I managed only to cover most of my head and face with large amounts of chimney soot. I looked like a character from a Dickens story, except for the Timberlands. The Contractor managed to fix it in under 2 minutes saving me a $100 service call from a different Contractor of some type.
Here's the funny part: the obstruction was some kind of valve or fitting deliberately installed when the fireplace was - apparently - converted from its original wood burning purpose to a gas-only appliance.
Something about the house filling with poisonous, odorless, deadly gas or some shit like that.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
The Attack of The Contractors!
Contractor: A person or company that performs tasks like electrical or plumbing work in construction projects.
I'm having some work done on my trailer home. I'm having a water softener installed because god forbid I should have to endure the agony, both physical and emotional, of hard water. The psychic tragedy might cause the earth to wobble on its axis. Wars have been waged over hard water. Brilliant minds have postulated and hypothesized over the relative grains of water hardness that the Seaweed household has had to endure. For almost 5 weeks!
We asked a water softener company to come out and give us a quote. The guy talked really, really fast. He sounded roughly like a high speed dentist drill. His solution was the best AND the cheapest. He had some worrisome talking points. I'm ex-sales - I know about these points. They're designed to worry the potential sucker . . . er, customer. I gave him the chance to admit to some weakness. Anything. Bad breath, noisome vapors, slickery surfaces. Nothing - the best AND the cheapest. I moved on. It was: Too Good To Be True!
I hired A Contractor to do the work. The guy is in The Fellowship and he works a good program. I trust him. He's also A Contractor. He's doing both electrical and plumbing work on my trailer house per the definition of A Contractor. It started well. He called and said that he would arrive on Thursday and might be able to finish the work that very same day. That very same day! If not he'd be able to finish it up the next morning. The next morning!!
There are many tiny little Seaweeds living in the Seaweed brain. One of them - just one! - mumbled that this might be Too Good To Be True! Today is the following Tuesday and The Contractor is still on my property. The job is not finished. He has run into unforeseen obstacles - he has forgotten tools - he has had to pick up kids who may or may not be his own to take them to various practices, recitals, exhibitions, and the occasional wilding. He arrives and he leaves. He sees new situations. He recalculates old situations. He's a nice guy. I like him and I trust him. But he's A Contractor!
Insanity: repeating the same action over and over while expecting different results.
I'm having some work done on my trailer home. I'm having a water softener installed because god forbid I should have to endure the agony, both physical and emotional, of hard water. The psychic tragedy might cause the earth to wobble on its axis. Wars have been waged over hard water. Brilliant minds have postulated and hypothesized over the relative grains of water hardness that the Seaweed household has had to endure. For almost 5 weeks!
We asked a water softener company to come out and give us a quote. The guy talked really, really fast. He sounded roughly like a high speed dentist drill. His solution was the best AND the cheapest. He had some worrisome talking points. I'm ex-sales - I know about these points. They're designed to worry the potential sucker . . . er, customer. I gave him the chance to admit to some weakness. Anything. Bad breath, noisome vapors, slickery surfaces. Nothing - the best AND the cheapest. I moved on. It was: Too Good To Be True!
I hired A Contractor to do the work. The guy is in The Fellowship and he works a good program. I trust him. He's also A Contractor. He's doing both electrical and plumbing work on my trailer house per the definition of A Contractor. It started well. He called and said that he would arrive on Thursday and might be able to finish the work that very same day. That very same day! If not he'd be able to finish it up the next morning. The next morning!!
There are many tiny little Seaweeds living in the Seaweed brain. One of them - just one! - mumbled that this might be Too Good To Be True! Today is the following Tuesday and The Contractor is still on my property. The job is not finished. He has run into unforeseen obstacles - he has forgotten tools - he has had to pick up kids who may or may not be his own to take them to various practices, recitals, exhibitions, and the occasional wilding. He arrives and he leaves. He sees new situations. He recalculates old situations. He's a nice guy. I like him and I trust him. But he's A Contractor!
Insanity: repeating the same action over and over while expecting different results.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Forgive and Forgave
Forgive: To pardon, to waive any negative feeling or desire for punishment.
A group of guys that I played basketball with back in high school got together for a little mini-reunion recently. The name of our coach surfaced during the weekend. His memory was not held in the highest regard. While I stayed above the fray this time it was just a few years ago that I was leading the charge of the Criticism Brigade, being a hyper-sensitive, overly-immature adult.
This is a good group of men. The criticism wasn't mean-spirited or gratuitous, and our coach was a pretty flawed guy. It made me think about our Step 9 amends process and how freeing that can be. When I was getting started with my amends the hardest thing was saying sorry and meaning it. I'm good at saying: "I'm sorry." I'm glad there's no Google translator chip embedded in my skull because the words would come out something like this: "I'm sorry that I'm in pain - I'm sorry that you caught me in bad behavior and I'd like the pain to go away. Not strongly enough to change my bad behavior or to right a wrong but strongly enough that I can loose a few insincere words from my pie hole."
This is assuming I ever got to the "I'm sorry" part. Usually I got bogged down telling you how my bad behavior was really your fault. And god save us all on the rare occasions when someone really had behaved worse than I had. Our literature uses the phrase "triumphantly seized" to describe what we do when we see bad behavior in others as a foil to our own. I personally am a Zen Master of Detecting Defects In Others. I am Blinded At Birth to seeing any of my own.
Specks in your eye, logs in mine.
A group of guys that I played basketball with back in high school got together for a little mini-reunion recently. The name of our coach surfaced during the weekend. His memory was not held in the highest regard. While I stayed above the fray this time it was just a few years ago that I was leading the charge of the Criticism Brigade, being a hyper-sensitive, overly-immature adult.
This is a good group of men. The criticism wasn't mean-spirited or gratuitous, and our coach was a pretty flawed guy. It made me think about our Step 9 amends process and how freeing that can be. When I was getting started with my amends the hardest thing was saying sorry and meaning it. I'm good at saying: "I'm sorry." I'm glad there's no Google translator chip embedded in my skull because the words would come out something like this: "I'm sorry that I'm in pain - I'm sorry that you caught me in bad behavior and I'd like the pain to go away. Not strongly enough to change my bad behavior or to right a wrong but strongly enough that I can loose a few insincere words from my pie hole."
This is assuming I ever got to the "I'm sorry" part. Usually I got bogged down telling you how my bad behavior was really your fault. And god save us all on the rare occasions when someone really had behaved worse than I had. Our literature uses the phrase "triumphantly seized" to describe what we do when we see bad behavior in others as a foil to our own. I personally am a Zen Master of Detecting Defects In Others. I am Blinded At Birth to seeing any of my own.
Specks in your eye, logs in mine.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
For EVER!
Forever: For all time; for all eternity; for an infinite amount of time.
When things happen to me they're never going to change, ever. It will be this way for all time, for an infinite amount of time. Eternal. Changeless. When things are going my way I try to manipulate the system so that they continue to go my way, forever. When things don't go my way . . . well, I'm here to tell you that I have a problem with that. It isn't fair, it isn't right, and it shouldn't happen to me. It's perfectly OK if it happens to someone else - just not me.
This, too, shall pass, or so my sponsor tells me. I love this advice when I'm in pain but he can stick it in his ear when I'm not.
When things happen to me they're never going to change, ever. It will be this way for all time, for an infinite amount of time. Eternal. Changeless. When things are going my way I try to manipulate the system so that they continue to go my way, forever. When things don't go my way . . . well, I'm here to tell you that I have a problem with that. It isn't fair, it isn't right, and it shouldn't happen to me. It's perfectly OK if it happens to someone else - just not me.
This, too, shall pass, or so my sponsor tells me. I love this advice when I'm in pain but he can stick it in his ear when I'm not.
Friday, September 20, 2013
S.O.B.E.R.
SOBER - Son of a Bitch, Everything's Real
The good news about getting sober is that you get to feel everything again. The bad news is that you get to feel everything again. It's a package deal, this reality stuff. Even in sobriety I find myself thinking: "I'd love for this bad feeling to just go away." This is why I drank and took drugs. And ate too much sugar and worked 15 hour days and exercised compulsively - it's easier moving around a lot than feeling bad feelings. All motion is easier than quick reflection.
I love to meditate when I'm in a good mood. It's fun sitting there soaking up the good vibrations. Not so much when I'm in pain.
The other good news is that there is a solution. But the bad news is that it takes a while.
That's all the good news-bad news analogies I have this morning.
A dude at the meeting yesterday offered this up: "Do you know why it can be easier losing a person that a pet? Unconditional love." Might be some truth to that. The cat never pissed me off intentionally. The cat never held a grudge. The cat never hurt my feelings to get back at me although she did bite me from time to time.
It's great having a big group of people to talk to about my difficulties. Many people only have a couple of friends or family members and a lot of people - especially men - don't have anyone. The more I go over what happened the less the sting factor, the more the acceptance factor, the more I see that I did the right thing.
The good news about getting sober is that you get to feel everything again. The bad news is that you get to feel everything again. It's a package deal, this reality stuff. Even in sobriety I find myself thinking: "I'd love for this bad feeling to just go away." This is why I drank and took drugs. And ate too much sugar and worked 15 hour days and exercised compulsively - it's easier moving around a lot than feeling bad feelings. All motion is easier than quick reflection.
I love to meditate when I'm in a good mood. It's fun sitting there soaking up the good vibrations. Not so much when I'm in pain.
The other good news is that there is a solution. But the bad news is that it takes a while.
That's all the good news-bad news analogies I have this morning.
A dude at the meeting yesterday offered this up: "Do you know why it can be easier losing a person that a pet? Unconditional love." Might be some truth to that. The cat never pissed me off intentionally. The cat never held a grudge. The cat never hurt my feelings to get back at me although she did bite me from time to time.
It's great having a big group of people to talk to about my difficulties. Many people only have a couple of friends or family members and a lot of people - especially men - don't have anyone. The more I go over what happened the less the sting factor, the more the acceptance factor, the more I see that I did the right thing.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Catharsis
Catharsis: A release of emotional tension after an overwhelming vicarious experience, resulting in the purging or purification of the emotions.
I have a friend in The New City. By all rights I should stop right now and post this. The fact that I have a friend in The New City should be The News, but I'm not very good at stopping. I'm not very good at starting, either, and I totally suck at the middle parts. What I'm good at is telling you when to start and stop and what to do in between but my small, rapt audience in this endeavor has been drifting away and rapidly diminishing. So I'm left with what follows:
This guy had a dog that he loved with a sharp intensity. In a disaster of Biblical proportions he backed over his animal with a trailer that was attached to his company's moving van. The injury wasn't immediately fatal but his dog was grievously wounded. She lived, her neck broken, long enough for my buddy to drive her to a veterinary hospital, terrified, howling, where she was euthanized.
He shared this story on a social media site. There was a huge outpouring of sympathy. I like Facebook but I like hugs and voices more, so I rang him up using my 1000 lb telephone. He talked non-stop for 20 minutes, pausing only to sob from time to time. This guy is one of those guys who could break me in two with one hand tied behind his back. This doesn't sound as impressive as it should because SuperK can also accomplish this feat, but he is a big man. He moves furniture for a living. Big, heavy pieces of furniture.
I was happy to do this. It wasn't fun but it meant something to both of us. I think friends hang together on sunny days and when it's storming outside. I didn't think this way when I was drinking. I was a sun god. If you couldn't promise me some serious sun I was going to try to have a nice day elsewhere. I was not a fan of the harshed buzz.
When The Wheeze hit the road for the Big Friskies Factory In the Sky I posted a picture of her that he saw. I got, of course, a call almost immediately. I talked non-stop for 20 minutes, etc. etc. It was cathartic to share the story of what happened. It helped me sort it out in my head. It helped me hang on to her memory for a little longer and to get some reassurance that I did the right thing. It's an awesome responsibility to hold the life of an animal in one's hands.
Give a little, get a lot.
I have a friend in The New City. By all rights I should stop right now and post this. The fact that I have a friend in The New City should be The News, but I'm not very good at stopping. I'm not very good at starting, either, and I totally suck at the middle parts. What I'm good at is telling you when to start and stop and what to do in between but my small, rapt audience in this endeavor has been drifting away and rapidly diminishing. So I'm left with what follows:
This guy had a dog that he loved with a sharp intensity. In a disaster of Biblical proportions he backed over his animal with a trailer that was attached to his company's moving van. The injury wasn't immediately fatal but his dog was grievously wounded. She lived, her neck broken, long enough for my buddy to drive her to a veterinary hospital, terrified, howling, where she was euthanized.
He shared this story on a social media site. There was a huge outpouring of sympathy. I like Facebook but I like hugs and voices more, so I rang him up using my 1000 lb telephone. He talked non-stop for 20 minutes, pausing only to sob from time to time. This guy is one of those guys who could break me in two with one hand tied behind his back. This doesn't sound as impressive as it should because SuperK can also accomplish this feat, but he is a big man. He moves furniture for a living. Big, heavy pieces of furniture.
I was happy to do this. It wasn't fun but it meant something to both of us. I think friends hang together on sunny days and when it's storming outside. I didn't think this way when I was drinking. I was a sun god. If you couldn't promise me some serious sun I was going to try to have a nice day elsewhere. I was not a fan of the harshed buzz.
When The Wheeze hit the road for the Big Friskies Factory In the Sky I posted a picture of her that he saw. I got, of course, a call almost immediately. I talked non-stop for 20 minutes, etc. etc. It was cathartic to share the story of what happened. It helped me sort it out in my head. It helped me hang on to her memory for a little longer and to get some reassurance that I did the right thing. It's an awesome responsibility to hold the life of an animal in one's hands.
Give a little, get a lot.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
That's Not How You're Supposed To Do It, You Know
Here's another thing about death - it makes you sit up right straight and ponder your relationships with the non-dead. Not zombie non-dead but those who are still, at this point, technically alive. I get pissy about people not doing exactly what I want them to do exactly when I want them to do it, and I end up irritated. When I'm mad at my friends and family it's usually about the most inane crap. Whatever I'm mad about is not worth it.
Here's another thing about me: I don't learn shit about shit when I'm getting my way. I don't learn anything valuable when I'm on vacation - the best lessons come when I shoulder my way through some unpleasantness. At my Step meeting yesterday we read Number 9 - the direct amends Step - and a lot of people talked about how scary the amends process is and how wonderful the results are. We do it because we need to do it - it's the right thing to do - not because it sounds like a lark. The famous Promises come into play after we're well into saying we're sorry. We get 'em when we do the hard stuff.
After our cat had gone to The Big Sandbox in the Sky we sat with her for a while. I couldn't get past the stark beauty of her corpse. It was like looking at one of the space capsules that had actually been on the surface of the moon, reconciling the stillness with what had gone before. We were able to think: "I know she isn't going anywhere ever again but, man, where she has been."
The vet offered a personalized cremation service which we declined. Neither of us are particularly sentimental so the thought of The Wheeze's ashes on our mantle was unappealing. I have trouble walking through the house without knocking something off a table so we both knew where an urn of ashes was headed. I felt guilty making the decision - I spend a great deal of time worrying about whether or not I'm acting the way I'm supposed to be acting, whatever that is.
I had my camera phone with me.
"Would it be weird to take a couple of pictures?" I asked my wife.
"Oh, god, yes," she said, clutching my arm. "I was hoping you were going to suggest that."
They're our favorite pictures. They're better than shots of our failing cat stumbling around.
So we turn on an old sitcom last night. The episode centers around two brothers - one tasked with delivering the eulogy, the other with disposing of - you guessed it - an urn of ashes from an aunt who had passed away. In the scene that was sent to us from above, the eulogy brother is in the car, discussing his speech with his father, while the ashes guy is in the background, struggling to get the lid off the urn so he can spread the ashes. He twists and turns, he bangs it on a tree and against a rock, he falls into the bushes, and when the lid finally releases with a jerk, the remains fly out and cover both of the brothers.
A message from god delivered by a 20 year old episode of "Frasier." Priceless.
Here's another thing about me: I don't learn shit about shit when I'm getting my way. I don't learn anything valuable when I'm on vacation - the best lessons come when I shoulder my way through some unpleasantness. At my Step meeting yesterday we read Number 9 - the direct amends Step - and a lot of people talked about how scary the amends process is and how wonderful the results are. We do it because we need to do it - it's the right thing to do - not because it sounds like a lark. The famous Promises come into play after we're well into saying we're sorry. We get 'em when we do the hard stuff.
After our cat had gone to The Big Sandbox in the Sky we sat with her for a while. I couldn't get past the stark beauty of her corpse. It was like looking at one of the space capsules that had actually been on the surface of the moon, reconciling the stillness with what had gone before. We were able to think: "I know she isn't going anywhere ever again but, man, where she has been."
The vet offered a personalized cremation service which we declined. Neither of us are particularly sentimental so the thought of The Wheeze's ashes on our mantle was unappealing. I have trouble walking through the house without knocking something off a table so we both knew where an urn of ashes was headed. I felt guilty making the decision - I spend a great deal of time worrying about whether or not I'm acting the way I'm supposed to be acting, whatever that is.
I had my camera phone with me.
"Would it be weird to take a couple of pictures?" I asked my wife.
"Oh, god, yes," she said, clutching my arm. "I was hoping you were going to suggest that."
They're our favorite pictures. They're better than shots of our failing cat stumbling around.
So we turn on an old sitcom last night. The episode centers around two brothers - one tasked with delivering the eulogy, the other with disposing of - you guessed it - an urn of ashes from an aunt who had passed away. In the scene that was sent to us from above, the eulogy brother is in the car, discussing his speech with his father, while the ashes guy is in the background, struggling to get the lid off the urn so he can spread the ashes. He twists and turns, he bangs it on a tree and against a rock, he falls into the bushes, and when the lid finally releases with a jerk, the remains fly out and cover both of the brothers.
A message from god delivered by a 20 year old episode of "Frasier." Priceless.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Godspeed, Little Wheezer
I'm not sure how this story pertains to recovery but I'll wedge it in somehow. I'm a master with a hammer. There is no problem that can't be fixed with a good hammer. There is no hammer that can't be fixed with a big sledgehammer. And don't get me started on jackhammers . . .
I really embrace the idea that pain is part of life, that loss is part of life, that death is part of life. Most people aren't exactly thrilled with the concept of pain but are still understand that it visits everyone from time to time. Alcoholics, however, are on an eternal hunt for a pain-free existence. It's a fallacy that alcoholism and drug addiction center around a pursuit of pleasure. In my mind it's much more about the avoidance of discomfort. I don't care if I feel good as long as I don't feel bad. At the end of our drinking and using most of us weren't having a good time - we were trying to keep the demons outdoors. We were watching TV by ourselves, in a blackout. That isn't fun by anyone's measure.
Anyway, we took our cat to the veterinarian today and the good woman agreed that it was time to set the animal free. She wasn't doing well and the treatment plans weren't providing anything but a temporary fix. Sometimes animals get old. Getting old is different than getting injured or sick. A doctor can set a broken leg or cure an infection - a doctor can't make an old cat young.
Whenever The Wheeze (and you can bet that's the last time I get to name a pet) would falter SuperK would tell her to let us know when she wanted to go. She'd been pretty sick the last few days - not eating, not drinking - and we figured she was getting close to the end. This morning she pushed open the screen door and wandered outside, into the sun and fresh air. She walked down the front steps and started off down the street like she had someplace important to go - not in a hurry but walking with purpose. I followed her all the way to the end of the road. She would stop from time to time and look at me or wander off into a side yard before I corralled her and got her back on track. This was an indoor cat, mostly afraid to be outside so the whole trip had a strong sense of finality. I could hear her say: "You're still here? Go back inside - I've got it now."
I picked her up and took her to a park near our house that has a small pond with a fountain in the middle. She hadn't been drinking anything at all so she walked falteringly to the edge of the pond and lapped up some water. I wasn't all that sure was a good idea but figured it was better than her dying of dehydration. Then, she stepped into the water, front paws first, finally submerging all four feet. She moved into water deep enough that her belly got wet. Every now and then she would pat at something that she saw on the water's surface, or maybe a minnow on the bottom. She never looked back - she looked out into the water. I was transfixed. When she was a kitten I would punish her by flicking water in her fact. I had never seen her get anywhere near water.
"I've got 50 feet high neon lights here," she was saying. "I've got shills with amplified bullhorns screaming at you. You're aware that I can't talk, right? Can you please open your eyes and see what's going on?"
After a while I carried her to the path leading back to the house and set her down - she stopped and laid down in the dirt. I moved her a few yards onto the concrete; again, she flopped down. She was done - she was out of juice. I brought her into the house, dried her feet, and she snuck behind a piece of furniture. I know cats like to hide when they don't feel well. I've heard they like to go someplace to be alone when it's time to die, but I was still resisting the message.
I could almost hear her say: "OK, how about that piece of performance art? Tell me you're going to forget my last day? I went wading in a pond, for chrissake. Now will you PLEASE leave me alone because I feel TERRIBLE."
At the vet's office - once we had made the decision to euthanize - we had about 20 minutes with The Wheeze while the staff prepared the drugs that would anesthetize her and then stop her heart. She sat quietly in my arms. She seemed to know. No fidgeting, no crying, no purring, eyes half-open. She seemed to be letting go a little already. I expected her to say: "Are you guys going to be alright? Because I'm ready to do this thing."
We told her we loved her. We told her she was going to be missed, that she had been a good pet. We thanked her for being with us for almost 19 years.
SuperK was holding her chin as the vet injected the first syringe of anesthesia. Her whole being relaxed almost immediately and her head sank onto the blanket, her eyes widening. She looked . . . like my cat. She no longer appeared to be grimacing in pain. The third syringe held the medicine that stopped her heart, and it worked quickly. I could almost feel her soul being released. There was a spark of life and then there wasn't, just like that, just like flicking a switch.
"OK, mom and dad," the vet said. "Her heart stopped beating. She's gone." The vet called her "little friend," which I thought was a good touch. We appreciated the fact she agreed it was time for our cat to pass into the next dimension. She excused herself and quietly closed the door.
I was struck by the incredible stillness in the room. Death seemed to me to be characterized by a lack of motion so profound that it was hard to understand. It looked like she could get up and move at any time. It was disconcerting. I had to fight back an urge to ask the vet to come back in and make sure that the medicine had indeed worked. We sat there for a while and looked at her lying there, slumped in a beautiful posture of repose. She was beautiful and she was resting comfortably - it was clear then how much pain she had been feeling. We could see, in death, how free she now was. It was a good feeling. It made us feel like we did the right thing. She looked like a sleek, antique racing car, sitting quietly - we could almost hear the engine roaring and the whine as the car flashed by. Her eyes were wide open, but cloudy, opaque. Her fur was flat and she looked groomed. Her ears stood upright. She looked like she was beat and it felt so goddam good to lay down for a while.
Here's the thing about love and companionship: it's wonderful but it's going to end. I'm so afraid of pain that I'm tempted to forgo years of wonderful times.
I WAS tempted to do that. Not any more, my brothers and sisters. Not any more.
I really embrace the idea that pain is part of life, that loss is part of life, that death is part of life. Most people aren't exactly thrilled with the concept of pain but are still understand that it visits everyone from time to time. Alcoholics, however, are on an eternal hunt for a pain-free existence. It's a fallacy that alcoholism and drug addiction center around a pursuit of pleasure. In my mind it's much more about the avoidance of discomfort. I don't care if I feel good as long as I don't feel bad. At the end of our drinking and using most of us weren't having a good time - we were trying to keep the demons outdoors. We were watching TV by ourselves, in a blackout. That isn't fun by anyone's measure.
Anyway, we took our cat to the veterinarian today and the good woman agreed that it was time to set the animal free. She wasn't doing well and the treatment plans weren't providing anything but a temporary fix. Sometimes animals get old. Getting old is different than getting injured or sick. A doctor can set a broken leg or cure an infection - a doctor can't make an old cat young.
Whenever The Wheeze (and you can bet that's the last time I get to name a pet) would falter SuperK would tell her to let us know when she wanted to go. She'd been pretty sick the last few days - not eating, not drinking - and we figured she was getting close to the end. This morning she pushed open the screen door and wandered outside, into the sun and fresh air. She walked down the front steps and started off down the street like she had someplace important to go - not in a hurry but walking with purpose. I followed her all the way to the end of the road. She would stop from time to time and look at me or wander off into a side yard before I corralled her and got her back on track. This was an indoor cat, mostly afraid to be outside so the whole trip had a strong sense of finality. I could hear her say: "You're still here? Go back inside - I've got it now."
I picked her up and took her to a park near our house that has a small pond with a fountain in the middle. She hadn't been drinking anything at all so she walked falteringly to the edge of the pond and lapped up some water. I wasn't all that sure was a good idea but figured it was better than her dying of dehydration. Then, she stepped into the water, front paws first, finally submerging all four feet. She moved into water deep enough that her belly got wet. Every now and then she would pat at something that she saw on the water's surface, or maybe a minnow on the bottom. She never looked back - she looked out into the water. I was transfixed. When she was a kitten I would punish her by flicking water in her fact. I had never seen her get anywhere near water.
"I've got 50 feet high neon lights here," she was saying. "I've got shills with amplified bullhorns screaming at you. You're aware that I can't talk, right? Can you please open your eyes and see what's going on?"
After a while I carried her to the path leading back to the house and set her down - she stopped and laid down in the dirt. I moved her a few yards onto the concrete; again, she flopped down. She was done - she was out of juice. I brought her into the house, dried her feet, and she snuck behind a piece of furniture. I know cats like to hide when they don't feel well. I've heard they like to go someplace to be alone when it's time to die, but I was still resisting the message.
I could almost hear her say: "OK, how about that piece of performance art? Tell me you're going to forget my last day? I went wading in a pond, for chrissake. Now will you PLEASE leave me alone because I feel TERRIBLE."
At the vet's office - once we had made the decision to euthanize - we had about 20 minutes with The Wheeze while the staff prepared the drugs that would anesthetize her and then stop her heart. She sat quietly in my arms. She seemed to know. No fidgeting, no crying, no purring, eyes half-open. She seemed to be letting go a little already. I expected her to say: "Are you guys going to be alright? Because I'm ready to do this thing."
We told her we loved her. We told her she was going to be missed, that she had been a good pet. We thanked her for being with us for almost 19 years.
SuperK was holding her chin as the vet injected the first syringe of anesthesia. Her whole being relaxed almost immediately and her head sank onto the blanket, her eyes widening. She looked . . . like my cat. She no longer appeared to be grimacing in pain. The third syringe held the medicine that stopped her heart, and it worked quickly. I could almost feel her soul being released. There was a spark of life and then there wasn't, just like that, just like flicking a switch.
"OK, mom and dad," the vet said. "Her heart stopped beating. She's gone." The vet called her "little friend," which I thought was a good touch. We appreciated the fact she agreed it was time for our cat to pass into the next dimension. She excused herself and quietly closed the door.
I was struck by the incredible stillness in the room. Death seemed to me to be characterized by a lack of motion so profound that it was hard to understand. It looked like she could get up and move at any time. It was disconcerting. I had to fight back an urge to ask the vet to come back in and make sure that the medicine had indeed worked. We sat there for a while and looked at her lying there, slumped in a beautiful posture of repose. She was beautiful and she was resting comfortably - it was clear then how much pain she had been feeling. We could see, in death, how free she now was. It was a good feeling. It made us feel like we did the right thing. She looked like a sleek, antique racing car, sitting quietly - we could almost hear the engine roaring and the whine as the car flashed by. Her eyes were wide open, but cloudy, opaque. Her fur was flat and she looked groomed. Her ears stood upright. She looked like she was beat and it felt so goddam good to lay down for a while.
Here's the thing about love and companionship: it's wonderful but it's going to end. I'm so afraid of pain that I'm tempted to forgo years of wonderful times.
I WAS tempted to do that. Not any more, my brothers and sisters. Not any more.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Cats Teaching Me Lessons
I feel triangulated in the Bermuda Triangle of service today. I know how important it is to be of service but the Ghost of Seaweed Past is always nudging others out of the way and inserting Seaweed at the head of the line. What is it Frankie of Assisi says? "Better to love than to be loved" or some such crap? What is Seaweed's reply: "I'm calling bullshit on that!"
Thank god for my friends.
Shorty has been taking me to school on the particulars of my visit home. I need remedial training on this matter - I need to be reminded that it's about what I can bring to the table, not what I can take away. People aren't setting the table just for me. People would rather I go eat at some other table. I've been working hard to set up a schedule of my own liking, with the kind of results you might expect. The best thing is to put the word out that I'll be around and then see what transpires. No one likes to be dictated to. I'm still trying to reconcile people I want to see with the fact that not all of them are clearing their schedules for my visit and people who don't exactly fire me up seemingly excited that I'm coming.
Shorty says it will be a good visit. He's right.
I have a much beloved cat who has reached the end of her journey here on earth. She has had a couple of serious setbacks in the last month but has rallied just when we thought the end was nigh. I'm starting to believe in the 9 Lives theory. But she's old and all of the change has been very hard on her. Hell, it's been very hard on me.
The thing is she can't talk. She isn't able to tell us what's going on. We're trying to read the signs - she doesn't seem to be in any serious pain - but it's so easy to interpret them as we see fit. Kind of like what I'm doing with my family and friends - it would be convenient to me for you to do this. It's not pleasant to think of voluntarily asking a vet to inject drugs into her tiny, little collapsing veins but maybe that's the higher calling.
It's funny to think of learning about service from a cat, but this is a pretty special cat.
Thank god for my friends.
Shorty has been taking me to school on the particulars of my visit home. I need remedial training on this matter - I need to be reminded that it's about what I can bring to the table, not what I can take away. People aren't setting the table just for me. People would rather I go eat at some other table. I've been working hard to set up a schedule of my own liking, with the kind of results you might expect. The best thing is to put the word out that I'll be around and then see what transpires. No one likes to be dictated to. I'm still trying to reconcile people I want to see with the fact that not all of them are clearing their schedules for my visit and people who don't exactly fire me up seemingly excited that I'm coming.
Shorty says it will be a good visit. He's right.
I have a much beloved cat who has reached the end of her journey here on earth. She has had a couple of serious setbacks in the last month but has rallied just when we thought the end was nigh. I'm starting to believe in the 9 Lives theory. But she's old and all of the change has been very hard on her. Hell, it's been very hard on me.
The thing is she can't talk. She isn't able to tell us what's going on. We're trying to read the signs - she doesn't seem to be in any serious pain - but it's so easy to interpret them as we see fit. Kind of like what I'm doing with my family and friends - it would be convenient to me for you to do this. It's not pleasant to think of voluntarily asking a vet to inject drugs into her tiny, little collapsing veins but maybe that's the higher calling.
It's funny to think of learning about service from a cat, but this is a pretty special cat.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Future World
Future: The time ahead; those moments yet to be experienced.
I'm heading home - The Old City home - for about a week. I'm getting pre-riled up about the visit. This is what I do - imagine future problems, in the future. I try never to pass up an opportunity to be miserable. I have family to see - painful obligations, to my thinking - and friends to catch up with. My expectations can be found somewhere past the outermost ring of Saturn.
A trap I fall into is deciding how my family should receive me, deciding what they should want me to do, how the visit should proceed. This is a trap of my own making. I'm the guy walking around, howling in pain, my paw caught in a large spring-loaded bear trap marked: "Danger: Property of Little Stevie Seaweed," still clutching the cookie I used to bait a trap to catch myself.
I enjoy imagining how other people should behave. It's not productive. The fact of the matter is that I annoy the hell out of my sister for a whole variety of reasons, most of them things that I can't change or won't. Many of them are very annoying things. And my parents - old and set in their ways, living in a small house - would love for me to stop by for an hour or so twice a week rather than compacting a whole year's worth of visits into 6 days.
It is, I believe that I've mentioned, all about me.
I'm heading home - The Old City home - for about a week. I'm getting pre-riled up about the visit. This is what I do - imagine future problems, in the future. I try never to pass up an opportunity to be miserable. I have family to see - painful obligations, to my thinking - and friends to catch up with. My expectations can be found somewhere past the outermost ring of Saturn.
A trap I fall into is deciding how my family should receive me, deciding what they should want me to do, how the visit should proceed. This is a trap of my own making. I'm the guy walking around, howling in pain, my paw caught in a large spring-loaded bear trap marked: "Danger: Property of Little Stevie Seaweed," still clutching the cookie I used to bait a trap to catch myself.
I enjoy imagining how other people should behave. It's not productive. The fact of the matter is that I annoy the hell out of my sister for a whole variety of reasons, most of them things that I can't change or won't. Many of them are very annoying things. And my parents - old and set in their ways, living in a small house - would love for me to stop by for an hour or so twice a week rather than compacting a whole year's worth of visits into 6 days.
It is, I believe that I've mentioned, all about me.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Too Busy To Die
For several years in The Old City - if by "several" you mean "three" - I attended a jail meeting with my sponsor. This facility catered to non-violent felons convicted of crimes directly related to drug and alcohol offenses, and the protocol was geared heavily to all kinds of educational and social classes, groups, and programs to sober these guys up and keep them on the straight and narrow.
I don't think my use of the word "catered" is appropriate here. It makes it sound like the facility was pretty worried that the residents might not like the protocol and go somewhere else, which they were not going to be able to do.
Protocol is pretty ridiculous, too. It kind of works but it was the first word that came to mind and I'm too lazy today to come up with something more appropriate.
Anyway, the meeting we hosted was entirely voluntary and on a good day we got 15% of the men in our particular cellblock. Mind you, most of them should have been there but you can lead a horse to water, etc, etc, and etc.
What do you think about "hosted?" It sounds like we were throwing a little party with cucumber sandwiches and petit fours, which we were not. No coffee, no cookies, no tap water. The jail had a culinary program as one of its offerings and each year they would invite all of the volunteers for a free banquet. My sponsor went. I did not. He didn't rave about the food.
OK, on occasion our meeting would fall on a holiday, such as Thanksgiving or Super Bowl Thursday or Guy Fawkes Day, and attendance fell to a vanishing point because the guys were given the day off to watch TV or to . . . well, watch TV, I guess. It was a telling fact. These guys literally had to walk 20 feet to get to the meeting and they didn't do it. Now I'm entirely sympathetic - recover is a grind, especially at the start, especially in a jail setting where the authorities are making you jump through a lot of hoops. But it requires some diligence, too. We wondered what would happen on the outside with no one telling them what to do and plenty of pleasant distractions and dangerous enticements available.
I saw a few of them at meetings over the years, but not many. And there was an intense grapevine in the jail so that if someone slipped and got busted it was common knowledge almost immediately.
Kept me sober. Which is the point.
I don't think my use of the word "catered" is appropriate here. It makes it sound like the facility was pretty worried that the residents might not like the protocol and go somewhere else, which they were not going to be able to do.
Protocol is pretty ridiculous, too. It kind of works but it was the first word that came to mind and I'm too lazy today to come up with something more appropriate.
Anyway, the meeting we hosted was entirely voluntary and on a good day we got 15% of the men in our particular cellblock. Mind you, most of them should have been there but you can lead a horse to water, etc, etc, and etc.
What do you think about "hosted?" It sounds like we were throwing a little party with cucumber sandwiches and petit fours, which we were not. No coffee, no cookies, no tap water. The jail had a culinary program as one of its offerings and each year they would invite all of the volunteers for a free banquet. My sponsor went. I did not. He didn't rave about the food.
OK, on occasion our meeting would fall on a holiday, such as Thanksgiving or Super Bowl Thursday or Guy Fawkes Day, and attendance fell to a vanishing point because the guys were given the day off to watch TV or to . . . well, watch TV, I guess. It was a telling fact. These guys literally had to walk 20 feet to get to the meeting and they didn't do it. Now I'm entirely sympathetic - recover is a grind, especially at the start, especially in a jail setting where the authorities are making you jump through a lot of hoops. But it requires some diligence, too. We wondered what would happen on the outside with no one telling them what to do and plenty of pleasant distractions and dangerous enticements available.
I saw a few of them at meetings over the years, but not many. And there was an intense grapevine in the jail so that if someone slipped and got busted it was common knowledge almost immediately.
Kept me sober. Which is the point.
Monday, September 9, 2013
The Closing
Close: To obstruct.
I remember with visionary clarity a conversation I had with EdRo many years ago on the subject of money. A large financial institution - evil by nature and definition - owed him a sum of money that was not insignificant. They cut a check and mailed it to someone who cashed the check. EdRo was not the someone so he objected. So far so good, except that the large financial institution balked at correcting the error. They thought EdRo was some kind of scam artist, I guess - they wanted him to prove that they hadn't made an error, to which EdRo politely replied: "Hey, why don't you #$!!s send me my $#!! money?" Logical to my point of view - the bank was less impressed.
EdRo worked out his frustration with me. He figured that the amount of money he was owed wasn't going to change the outcome of his life. He figured the error was going to be corrected, eventually. He figured that the $#!! large financial institution should be burned in the fiery pits of hell. I'm making that last part up, maybe. I think he got his money back. I don't remember because it wasn't my money so what the hell did I care?
Funny thing happens every time I'm getting screwed, which is often. I think about this incident. I learned a lot watching him work through the situation, with grace and some patience. When we bought our trailer home the title company - whatever the fuck they do - collected the space rent for the upcoming month which they were then supposed to pay the trailer home park. Here's where it gets funny: they didn't pay the trailer home park. They took the money but didn't pay the rent. It's a really good business plan if you can get away with it. The trailer home park people came to the door at the start of the month and said: "Hey, here's something funny - you didn't pay us our %$!! money which isn't a great way to get started here, you %$!! deadbeat."
I acted with outrage. Actually, I was out having coffee so SuperK acted with outrage. She fired off some very pointed and witty emails to the title company - the people who are basically responsible for collecting fees from us so that they can stay in business. One of them was called "Hold for Hold for Title Transfer." Another one was simply marked: "Padding." I'm not making this up. I particularly liked "Padding." I was expecting to see one called "Kickback." When you "close" on a house - even a trailer house - you basically stand out on a busy road and fling signed checks into traffic so that people can fill in any amount they think is good and cash the check.
Anyway it all got squared away. But not without a lot of furious witticisms.
I remember with visionary clarity a conversation I had with EdRo many years ago on the subject of money. A large financial institution - evil by nature and definition - owed him a sum of money that was not insignificant. They cut a check and mailed it to someone who cashed the check. EdRo was not the someone so he objected. So far so good, except that the large financial institution balked at correcting the error. They thought EdRo was some kind of scam artist, I guess - they wanted him to prove that they hadn't made an error, to which EdRo politely replied: "Hey, why don't you #$!!s send me my $#!! money?" Logical to my point of view - the bank was less impressed.
EdRo worked out his frustration with me. He figured that the amount of money he was owed wasn't going to change the outcome of his life. He figured the error was going to be corrected, eventually. He figured that the $#!! large financial institution should be burned in the fiery pits of hell. I'm making that last part up, maybe. I think he got his money back. I don't remember because it wasn't my money so what the hell did I care?
Funny thing happens every time I'm getting screwed, which is often. I think about this incident. I learned a lot watching him work through the situation, with grace and some patience. When we bought our trailer home the title company - whatever the fuck they do - collected the space rent for the upcoming month which they were then supposed to pay the trailer home park. Here's where it gets funny: they didn't pay the trailer home park. They took the money but didn't pay the rent. It's a really good business plan if you can get away with it. The trailer home park people came to the door at the start of the month and said: "Hey, here's something funny - you didn't pay us our %$!! money which isn't a great way to get started here, you %$!! deadbeat."
I acted with outrage. Actually, I was out having coffee so SuperK acted with outrage. She fired off some very pointed and witty emails to the title company - the people who are basically responsible for collecting fees from us so that they can stay in business. One of them was called "Hold for Hold for Title Transfer." Another one was simply marked: "Padding." I'm not making this up. I particularly liked "Padding." I was expecting to see one called "Kickback." When you "close" on a house - even a trailer house - you basically stand out on a busy road and fling signed checks into traffic so that people can fill in any amount they think is good and cash the check.
Anyway it all got squared away. But not without a lot of furious witticisms.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Pass It On
Off I went to one of the many excellent fruit and vegetable stands here in Vacation City. I like food and I like to cook, and it's a real treat for me to go to these places stocked with stuff that's harvested daily. My eyes were big. I stuffed two big sacks full of stuff and took it to the counter where the very nice counter lady weighed it and tallied up a sum.
"$24," she said.
I stood there holding my wallet. SuperK and I had discussed the contents of my wallet just this morning and 24 was not a figure that was mentioned. The fruit and vegetable stands are cash on the barrel head.
"I've got $14," I said. A humbler man would have been embarrassed. We started divvying and sorting and came up with a smaller pile.
"$15," she said.
"I've only got $14," I replied. She waved me off, cheerfully, and I picked up my fruit and vegetables and made for the door, forgetting I had brought my own environmentally conscious, locally sourced bags hand-sewn by blind war orphans in a 3rd world country for a fair and sustainable wage.
She was unloading the fruit that I couldn't pay for back into the bins. She handed me my bag and bid me farewell. When I got to my car I saw that there were 4 pieces of fruit in the bag. I'm not sure but I think that she left the fruit in there for me to have. I was too discombobulated at this point to go back in. I drove off. I was not in my Very Expensive Car but I was in SuperK's ride, which is not too shabby in its own right.
This woman doesn't look like me. People like her work in the hot sun picking the fruits and vegetables for terrible pay so that incredibly blessed people like me can eat incredibly tasty, fresh food for a pittance. Maybe she made a mistake and didn't see the last pieces of fruit. Maybe it was a kindness.
I'm going with kindness. Made my day.
"$24," she said.
I stood there holding my wallet. SuperK and I had discussed the contents of my wallet just this morning and 24 was not a figure that was mentioned. The fruit and vegetable stands are cash on the barrel head.
"I've got $14," I said. A humbler man would have been embarrassed. We started divvying and sorting and came up with a smaller pile.
"$15," she said.
"I've only got $14," I replied. She waved me off, cheerfully, and I picked up my fruit and vegetables and made for the door, forgetting I had brought my own environmentally conscious, locally sourced bags hand-sewn by blind war orphans in a 3rd world country for a fair and sustainable wage.
She was unloading the fruit that I couldn't pay for back into the bins. She handed me my bag and bid me farewell. When I got to my car I saw that there were 4 pieces of fruit in the bag. I'm not sure but I think that she left the fruit in there for me to have. I was too discombobulated at this point to go back in. I drove off. I was not in my Very Expensive Car but I was in SuperK's ride, which is not too shabby in its own right.
This woman doesn't look like me. People like her work in the hot sun picking the fruits and vegetables for terrible pay so that incredibly blessed people like me can eat incredibly tasty, fresh food for a pittance. Maybe she made a mistake and didn't see the last pieces of fruit. Maybe it was a kindness.
I'm going with kindness. Made my day.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Not Sure He Gets The Point
A while back a guy I know in recovery asked for help in getting started with his financial amends. I've done this a few times with other people - I'm pretty good with numbers and I love spending someone else's money. I've found the problem most people have with financial amends is that they're simply afraid to look at the numbers. It all starts with the numbers. People don't have a good grasp of where their money is going, so they waste a lot of it.
Anyway, we tallied up this guy's assets and liabilities and came up with a game plan so that he could get free from the money fears. He said it was important to be accountable so he was going to call me every week to let my know how things were progressing. I always careful to tell folks to make use of all available resources when working with money. Just because I'm cheap it doesn't mean I know what I'm talking about.
I was a little dubious about how much effort he was putting into his recovery overall so I was a lot dubious that there was going to be much of a real push with the money problems. He didn't call the first week. He called the second week to tell me he was going to talk to someone else which sounded like a bit of a punt to me.
That was the last call I got from him.
I did note on his Facebook page that he traveled to an expensive city in California for some vacation. I noted he left his city to go to Disneyland. I quit noting things after this. I'm not mad or surprised but I'm not going to waste any more time with his bullshit. I'm sympathetic - I want to right wrongs without doing any work or feeling any discomfort.
Last call for alky-haul.
Anyway, we tallied up this guy's assets and liabilities and came up with a game plan so that he could get free from the money fears. He said it was important to be accountable so he was going to call me every week to let my know how things were progressing. I always careful to tell folks to make use of all available resources when working with money. Just because I'm cheap it doesn't mean I know what I'm talking about.
I was a little dubious about how much effort he was putting into his recovery overall so I was a lot dubious that there was going to be much of a real push with the money problems. He didn't call the first week. He called the second week to tell me he was going to talk to someone else which sounded like a bit of a punt to me.
That was the last call I got from him.
I did note on his Facebook page that he traveled to an expensive city in California for some vacation. I noted he left his city to go to Disneyland. I quit noting things after this. I'm not mad or surprised but I'm not going to waste any more time with his bullshit. I'm sympathetic - I want to right wrongs without doing any work or feeling any discomfort.
Last call for alky-haul.
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