Happy House Hunting Seaweed

Before I left for my happy house hunting I had been doing some research on prospective residences.  The web is an amazing resource - it's possible for a realtor to plug in the answers to a variety of house-related questions so that when a house meeting these criteria comes on the market the listing is sent to you directly.  It's fast!  It's convenient!!  It's not very accurate!!!  

Originally when I listed my preferences nothing came up.  I guess if you want a 5 bedroom house with a large, extensively landscaped lot, swimming pool, and spectacular mountain, ocean, desert, and river views for under $100K that you are moored in a vanishingly small demographic.  Eventually, SuperK and I came up with some real-world selections which resulted in some really crappy looking shack-like structures.

"Is that even a house?" she asked, peering at a murky picture on her PC.  "It looks abandoned." 

Once we threw out the places that didn't exist, were actively on fire, or located in dangerous or distant neighborhoods, we put together a game plan.  For logistical purposes I went to Vacation City by myself, armed with a small list of places to look at, ready to pull the trigger on short notice.  We were fairly sure that this was going to be the end of our marriage because I was going - by myself - to select a new place to live without my wife in the car.  It didn't make any sense to either of us before I left, while I was there, and in retrospect.  However, I was happier with this arrangement than SuperK because I was in a position to pick out something I liked and it is, as you may recall, All About Me.

 When I met with our real estate agent I was informed that a few of the homes were no longer available and that a few more were in areas that she wouldn't recommend.  I found this infuriating.  I had provided her with a list of the places I wanted to see and I would have hoped that she would have eliminated the undesirables before I drove 1000 miles by myself and began burning through money in hotels.  So I went back to my room and began to simmer in my own annoyance.  Then, the real estate agent calls back and tells me that our bestest choice is indeed available.  This pissed me off more than finding out that it wasn't available.

Damned if I do and damned if I don't.  Is it any wonder that I'm in fear so often?  I hate it when I get what I want because I didn't get more or get it faster or get something different and I hate it when I don't get what I want because it's clearly the best thing for me and I really, really want it bad.

This is why I try not to talk.

I Thought It Was Guilt

Guilty:  Responsible for a dishonest act; having a sense of guilt.

Interesting word: guilty.  I would have thought there was some wiggle room there, that guilt was an emotion, rather than a hard, cold fact.  If you're guilty, you're responsible for behaving badly.

I've been analyzing and re-analyzing and re-evaluating and agonizing over the decision to move.  I never let well enough alone.  I'm sure that I'm making the Wrong Decision, selfishly pursuing my own selfish desires at the expense of everyone else.  I'm sure god is luring me on, egging me sealing my own doom.  I'm a guy who will never pass up an opportunity to be miserable.

Guilt.  I love guilt, or I thought I did.  I guess I don't feel guilty.  I guess what I'm feeling is unsure or conflicted.  I guess what I feel is afraid.  It all comes down to fear, to me being afraid that I'm not going to get something that I want or that I'm going to lose something that I already have.

When I walked back into my home group at Vacation Town I got a big, old warm reception.  I got a lot of hugs.  People swarmed around me, if by "swarmed around" you mean "nodded distractedly in my general direction from across the room."  They seemed to remember me - at least they pretended to with some convince-ability, which is all I really care about.  Back in The New City there was a whole lot of Meh, topped off by the occasional "oh, were you out of town?"

I don't mean this to sound critical of one place and not of the other.  They're both wonderful cities and I've made a lot of good friends everywhere I've been.  It's just that Vacation Town is a better fit for my statistics.  I've been a football player in full football regalia sitting in a baseball dugout, wondering why I'm not getting along with all of the other baseball players.  The problem isn't with the baseball part - it's with the Little Stevie Seaweed part.

"What the hell is that linebacker doing in the bullpen?" they're asking each other.  "Is he going to throw long relief in all of that equipment?"

There's a very quiet, very reserved man in my new home group.  He has my schmucky, sarcastic sense of humor but I haven't had the time to develop much of a close relationship with him yet, mostly because of his reticence to be social.  I greeted him warmly, shouldered past his proffered handshake, and gave him a big hug, which is what I do, man or woman or beast of the field, and told him how much I missed him, to no great effect.

Later that day, wondering around my hotel room, battling some mild moving dis-ease, my phone rings.

"Seaweed,"  he said.  "I wanted to call and tell you how much I appreciated those nice things you said.  I didn't want you to take any offense at my reaction - I struggle to be social most of the time."

Made my day.  Made me feel like I had indeed made the right decision.  Made the fear go away . . . er, subside a bit . . . for like 20 minutes, which is 100 years in Seaweed time.

Baffled

Baffle:  To bewilder completely; confuse or perplex.

Intuitively handle things which used to baffle us.   This is one of The Promises that I find especially powerful.  It fits nicely with my understanding of The Serenity Prayer: help me not to be afraid to do what I'm supposed to, help me wait patiently when I'm not supposed to do anything, and let me know which is which.  I believe I'm better today at taking action - I'm not so impressed with my ability to wait patiently, preferring to charge ahead into the future and make things go according to my own wishes.  I'm a fixer.  

You got a problem?  I can fix that.  (Ed. Note: except for a technical glitch in my ability to access my blogger account since July 1st, requiring the assistance of the brilliantly capable SuperK).

Ironically enough most of the time when I don't know what to do and I can keep my six-shooter in the holster, then things work out just fine.  There's an ebb and flow to life, far out of my control or understanding, and it's all great in the long run.  When I wait patiently, then answers come, problems are solved, veils are lifted, fogs evaporate, all becomes clear.

But, man, is it hard for a talented superstar like me to sit and wait because I have the answers to everything.  I know what everyone else should be doing to make my life more pleasant.  I know what god should be doing to make my life more pleasant.

I also see that I overestimate my ability to rise above the human condition.  I believe that I handle things with greater calm and patience than I used to and that I'm continuing to improve - nonetheless, I get frustrated when I haven't reached perfection.  Don't we say: "Progress, not perfection?"  My time in recovery has been very productive but clearly I have a long way to get somewhere or the other.

Ascription

Ascribe:  To attribute a cause or characteristic to someone or something.  

One of my favorite pastimes is to ascribe bad motives to other people.  I'm sure they're out to Get Me, to do me grievous mental, bodily, and emotional harm.  They're doing it to me.  There's nothing better than waiting a minute or two or hour or day to let things settle down and sort themselves out.  That and talking to other real live human beings to get their take on the matter.

As much as I like flying off the handle.

Peace Frog

While Day Two did not contain any of the drama of Day One it did show me how far I've come, or how far I still have to go; I'm not sure which.  I was blasting along, humming a jaunty, merry tune, traveling about 10% above the speed limit.  I do this as a routine practice because I'm Special Seaweed, a driver of such uncommon talent that normal traffic laws don't apply to me,  so if I happen to be stopped for a traffic violation - such as exceeding the speed limit - you can easily understand that the anger I feel is completely justified.  I grouch and I brainstorm, and I'm permitted to do so. 

I noticed a peace officer parked by the side of the speedway,  shooting video pictures of the cars zipping by.  I tapped my brakes to slow down when I was about 100 from his patrol car, a clever move meant to defeat his radar that I'm sure is effective half a mile away.  Nonetheless, he lets me pass.

I keep my eye on him in the rear view mirror.  I'm a drunk - I have a lot of experience keeping my eye on cops in the rear view mirror because they were there so often.  I watch him pull out and blow by several intervening cars, settle in behind me, and flick on his lights.

"Ah, this takes me back," I thought.

So be it.  I've gotten a few driving certificates in sobriety - none in several years - and I've deserved each and every one of them.    It sure is nice to have car insurance and a valid driver's license, good brakes and tires and working headlights, and a complete lack of empty beer cans, full whiskey bottles, spent joints, and coke residue in the passenger compartment.

The cop comes up and I hand him my license.

"The reason I stopped you, sir," he said.  "Is that you don't have a front license plate on your car.  Why is that? "

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I replied.  "Has my life come to this?  No DUI, no public intoxication, no drunk and disorderly, no felony possession?  A license plate violation?  You fucking stopped me for a license plate violation?"

Frankly, I was a little offended.  I've fallen a long way or I've made a lot of progress, I can't remember which.

He let me off with a warning.  He didn't even do me the courtesy of writing up the ticket.

Whimsical God

Whimsy:  A quaint and fanciful idea; a whim; playfully odd behavior.

Everything goes smoothly until it doesn't.

God should make a better effort at giving me exactly what I want.  God should be by the phone in case I call and if I say I'm going to call and I don't, God should be cool with that.  My needs are very specific and I articulate them clearly - this is why it's so frustrating when God doesn't fill them.  It's not like I'm being vague, for chrissake.  I'd be happy to write the demands down on a piece of paper if that would be helpful.  Sometimes I think God isn't very smart.

Because SuperK and I sold our condo without first securing a place to move to, I had to head in the direction of my new home.  I split the drive from The New City to Vacation Town into two segments: Day One was through the rain and the mountains so I planned on 7 hours and 15 minutes; Day Two was a straight shot through the flatlands so I was clocked in at about 8 hours.  I made it exactly 7 hours into Day One before there was a total stoppage of traffic on the speedway.  I turned off the engine and leaned my seat back, and sat there for 3 hours.  It was pouring so I couldn't even get out of the car and walk around.  I could have walked to the hotel in this time.  I briefly considered abandoning my car.  This did not please me but I was still nice to the hotel staff when I did arrive.

On Day Two I did not flatten a tire or have to stop my car for 3 hours.  

Day Three is a whole another matter.

Hard

Hard:  Severe; harsh; unfriendly; brutal.

My sponsor rang me up on the telephone yesterday.  He was reading a book on spirituality and one of the chapters made him think about me - he told me the name of the book and the specific chapter.

"You should go buy this book and read this," he said.  "You're too hard on yourself."

Man, he should have seen me 20 years ago.  I was positively self-homicidal.  I had a trunk full of whips and chains and that weapon that looks like a bowling ball with spikes on it, and I used these items on my own hide each and every day.  With relish.  I've always said that if someone treated me the way I treat myself I'd pop 'em in the nose, and I've never hit anyone, ever.

You might be tempted to ask:  "Why was your sponsor calling you?"  To which I'd reply: "That's an excellent question," avoiding any good explanation.    But the point is that I need to talk to other people because I can't always see what kind of spot I'm wedged into.  I think I'm doing OK but all I'm doing is bullshitting myself.