Fancy Pants

SuperK has been going to the main clubhouse here in The New City to attend an early meeting 4 or 5 times a week.  The clubhouse is in a very nice area of town and this meeting is well attended by nicely dressed people who show up in their nice cars on the way to work, undoubtedly in nice offices.  Nothing the matter with that just as there's nothing the matter with hanging out at my regular meeting where most of the members have taken the alcoholism elevator down a few more floors.  There was a newly sober woman at the call-the-cops-meeting a few days back who was mightily offended that we asked a disruptive homeless guy who was washing his feet in the church sink to leave the premises.  She showed up at the fancy meeting today and bitched about it, making it sound like a bunch of intolerant bleeding deacons had conspired to deprive a new person of the chance to stay sober.  The fancy people clucked sympathetically.

First of all, there's nothing better than being criticized by people who are fairly drowning in blessings.  That's always appreciated.  And it's really special when you're being criticized for things that didn't happen by people who weren't there.  That's the bomb.  It was actually the church who called the cops, not members of The Fellowship.  This large church downtown has been gracious enough to allow a big group of mostly marginal men to use their meeting hall, kitchen, and bathroom 6 times a week; understandably, they don't want homeless, barefoot guys roaming unsupervised in the building, stopping off to wash their feet in the sink.  Some of the staff are women and they are at work early.  The group had to decide between a little control over the proceedings and finding a new place to meet.

I'd like to see some of the fancy-pants people downtown.  We could use them there.

Break On Through To The Other Side

The church had to call the cops at the morning meeting.  The guy was just too disruptive.  It's not always pretty but we usually get the job done.  

The thing about doing new or scary things is that I learn how to push through stuff that I'm afraid of, break on through to the other side, break on through to the other side, yeah.  The other side usually isn't as bad as I've imagined it to be and I feel like a real bad ass for walking through my fears.

I get what I want so much of the time.  Why don't I listen to The Little Man inside who's always telling me everything's going to be OK.

Ah, my Little Man's an idiot.

Stainless Steel Needles

I there any better topic than powerlessness?  I can't imagine what it would be unless someone wanted to talk about humility.  Most of my problems are the direct result of me trying to seize power over something which isn't me.  Which is everything.  I need to keep my hands off of everything.

I've been trying to get caught up on my medical appointments before I leave town.  My standard technique is to think about making the appointment for a while, worrying about the catastrophic results that will be delivered to me and my grieving family by grim-faced medical professionals.  This, unbelievably, is a big improvement over drinking Seaweed who worried but never made the appointment, worrying, worrying, worrying until he was a big knot of anxiety.

Phlebotomist:  A practitioner of phlebotomy, which is the opening of a vein, either to withdraw blood or for letting blood.  

Worrying about health is one of the most ancient of my ancient-ist riffs.  It's always in play.  I can always come up with some potential crisis that might strike me down in the prime of my life, even though that was about 25 years ago.

I did my eye appointment last week.  All was fine.  I'm not going blind and I don't have any cancers of the eye.   That they could detect.  I spent two years in optometry school before they kicked me out so there's only so much bullshit the optometrist can pull on me.

I did my annual check-up today.  All was fine, except when they tried to draw blood from my skeletal, ropey arms the needle kept "rolling" off my vein - whatever that means - so that they couldn't do anything but make me very, very nauseous.  They wanted the blood to do a cholesterol check-up.  Last year they wanted some of my blood to do a cholesterol check-up AND to quantify my PSA levels.  I didn't know what either of those things are so I opted out.  I would have had to have gone to an outside lab to get the blood drawn, which I did not do, mostly because I get nauseous when people stick very sharp needles into my body.  It's not my thing.  I don't know what my thing is but needles ain't it.  If you want to poke stainless steel under my skin you better provide me with a compelling narrative.

The very apologetic needle lady tried once, and failed.  She asked if she could try again.  I gave her a tepid thumbs up, stomach rolling a bit.  She tried again, and failed.

"OK," I said.  "That's going to be about it for today."  She was very apologetic.  She also stepped back to what I assume was beyond average projectile vomiting distance.  I got up and wobbled out of the clinic.  I was so pleased that they didn't find any horrible cancers or fatal degenerative conditions that I let them throw in the blood test as a good will gesture, but enough was enough.  I didn't do the test last year and lived to tell about it.  If cholesterol starts oozing out of my body I'll go get it checked.  They didn't mention PSAs.

The coup-de-grace was the dentist.  Dentists stick very sharp stainless steel needles into the mucous membranes inside your mouth.  This sounds like some kind of Medieval torture routine.  I don't trust dentists.  I'm sure they're fine people doing fine work but they really have you at a disadvantage.  They look inside my mouth and find stuff - they always find stuff - which is very expensive to fix.  They deliver the news solemnly.  They suggest that if you don't fix the stuff that even worse stuff could happen that would require more needles and high speed drills.

What are you supposed to say?  You're at a disadvantage.  Dentists have almost as much power as auto mechanics.  They always find stuff, too, and I have no frame of reference to challenge them, either .

"Mr. Seaweed," they say.  "Your Johnson Rod is shot.  You really need a new Johnson Rod.  I would feel guilty letting you drive out of here with your Johnson Rod in the condition that it's in."

What am I supposed to do?  I can't even open the hood of my car where the engine thingy is.  I don't know if my car has a Johnson Rod.  I think my mechanics sit around and come up with the most ridiculous things to see if I'll buy them.  If I don't know whether or not my car has a Johnson Rod I sure as shit don't know what a new one costs.

"Give him an estimate for $300," I imagine them whispering.  "I need a new sump pump."

My dentist did come up with about $3500 worth of things to fix.  He came up with them 6 months ago and I didn't fix them then.  I'm sure I'll need a Root Canal Operation.  That was his new technique: if you don't fix this now it'll get worse, not necessarily causing any pain, until you need a Root Canal.

He doesn't know who he's dealing with.  I'm a recovering alcoholic.  I have an almost infinite capacity for pain and a stubbornness that's legendary.

It make me a little queasy even reading the definition of phlebotomy.

And Then There's Me . . .

Humble:  Thinking lowly of one's self; claiming little for one's self; not proud, arrogant, or assuming; modest.

The topic at the meeting today was humility.  I should have been asked to lead the discussion since I'm internationally known for my humility.  Not that I get paid enough for being so fucking humble - apparently it's an honorary position.  Either that or I'm not on the humility payroll.  Maybe I'm more of an unpaid intern.  I'm getting screwed, I know that.  I'm always getting screwed.

Not that I could concentrate very well with all of the animated points being forcefully made by the dude who always shows up in mirror shades and a sock cap - summer or winter, makes no difference - wearing big noise-cancelling headphones.  I can sympathize - I don't always want to hear what's being said myself.  He was very animated today, though.

Humility is best shown by one's behavior - which I pay attention to - and not expressed by words - which are a dime a dozen, especially when a drunk is talking. I've heard the most amazingly arrogant people tell me how humble they are.  Kind of like what I'm doing now.

To wit:

Michael G was at the meeting today as he is every morning.  He has 50 years of continuous sobriety, not that he's ever mentioned it in a meeting.

I used to have coffee a couple of nights a week with a group of guys after meetings.  One of them was the Chief of Staff of the biggest hospital in our mid-sized city.  He never brought it up.  I didn't call him Doctor.  I can't even remember his name he was so unassuming.

Bob S picked me up for meetings when I was getting sober.  He was one of the few people who could stand my presence for more than a few minutes.  I moved away.  I learned after his death that he was dying of cancer the whole time.  He didn't talk about it with me.

The irascible Jack K, who I knew for 10 years, revealed as a three sport star at a major university at his wake.   Not one.  Not two.  Three.  He did not talk about it.

And then there's me: Little Stevie Seaweed.  I repeat the story of anonymously giving a sponsee a subscription to a recovery magazine that cost $1 a month at the time.  He eventually confided to me that he had figured out who the guy was who gave it to him, then mentioned not me.  I nearly bit my tongue it two holding my tongue.

$1 a month.

Little Stevie Seaweed strikes again.

Green Lights

When I made The Big Move from The Old City to The New City I was traumatized as in Tra-Mah-Tized.  I was sick with anxiety before, during, and after the move.  Mostly, this is understandable - I was moving 2500 miles away from a city I had lived in for 20 years to a place I barely knew while simultaneously shedding 50% of my stuff.  It was not unexpected trauma but it was trauma indeed and pretty forceful at that.  As I contemplate my shift from The New City to Vacation Town I feel an eerie calm.  I'm not suggesting that there hasn't been any trauma involved over the last 2 months but rather that I feel like I'm on the right path, that I'm going where I'm meant to be, where I belong.  The New City was the right way point for me.  I think it was a good and appropriate step, just not the final destination. 

I was back at the transitional meeting today.  When it ended I hung around for a few minutes, welcoming a couple new guys and saying hello to a few friends, but mostly I was left along.  I can't emphasize enough how outgoing I am by nature - if you want to get to know someone quickly I'd be a great place to start and a hell of a great place to end.  Still, I felt a little isolated. 

Here I'm in the pool, splashing around by myself - in Vacation Town I'm in the middle of a raucous game of water polo.

I try not to use The Program as a social outlet - I go to meetings to stay sober and to try to repay, in some small part, the debt I owed to the men and women who passed along the message to me.  But I do find a rich social life in my recovery - it's important to me and I've missed it here.  I look forward to it.

Shoot The Bull

A couple of times during the negotiation process for the new home SuperK and I felt our patience being tested.  It's easy to see bad motives in others where money is involved.  Sometimes the testing was courtesy of our real estate agent.  We get along well with her and definitely believe that she's doing a good job.  Still, neither of us want to pass up an opportunity to be annoyed at another.  Our conversations with this woman have been friendly and positive.  At one point during the back and forth we were a little frustrated at the lack of communication. We waited patiently for a bit - aware that anger fuels idiocy - but when the situation didn't resolve itself on its own time frame without my manipulation and micro-management skills, as highly advanced, wise, and effective as they may be, I made a phone call.  I did wait until my anger had subsided so I wouldn't act like a horse's ass, which is my Facebook picture, if that tells you anything.  I was polite but I was formal; I didn't shoot the breeze, chit-chat, or shoot the shit, which is a terrible idiom for who would actually shoot some feces?  The call ended nicely.

This improved the situation.  No more communication breakdown, communication breakdown,  drive me insaaaaaaaaaane!  I've learned there are different ways to express my dissatisfaction than a profane, purple-faced, vein-throbbing-in-my-temple rage.  This is a business transaction with money involved - MY money - and I expect a certain amount of competence.  I'm happy to forgive the occasional error or oversight as well, as long as they don't come at me too frequently and are eventually corrected.

I'm just a horse's ass shooting the shit.

Oh, Were You Out of Town?

Analyze:  To examine in such a manner as to ascertain the elements or nature of the thing examined: as to analyze an action to ascertain its morality.

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 I'm making the wrong decision, selfishly pursuing my own selfish desires at the expense of everyone else.  I never pass up an opportunity to be miserable.

Guilt.  I love guilt.

When I walked back into my home group at Vacation Town I got a big old warm reception.  I got a lot of hugs.  One guy said I made his day.  People swarmed around me if by "swarmed" you mean "waved vaguely from across the room, not bothering to get up."  They seemed to remember me - at least they pretended to with some convinceability.  Back in The New City there was a whole lot of "meh" with the occasional "were you out of town?" mixed in.  I don't mean this to sound critical of one place and not the other.  They're both wonderful cities and I've enjoyed my time in both; it's just that Vacation Town has been a better fit.  I feel like I've been a football player in full football regalia sitting in a baseball dugout.  The problem isn't with the baseball part - it's with the Little Stevie Seaweed, outside linebacker part.  I've been walking around the 4th green in my spikes trying to line up putts, wondering why no one was nodding warmly in my direction.

There's a very quiet, very reserved man in my home group in Vacation City.  He has my snarky, sarcastic sense of humor - making him a big star in my eyes - but I haven't developed much of a close relationship with him yet, mostly because of his unwillingness to extend himself socially.  I greeted him warmly on my return, shouldered past his outstretched hand, and gave him a big hug, which is what I do, and told him how much I missed him, to no great effect.  This was all OK with me - I take what people can give for the most part.

Later that day I was fretting in my room, worrying about something in the future that I had no control over.  My phone rang.  It was my friend.

"I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated what you said this morning," he said.  "I struggle with my social skills.  I didn't want you to be put off by my manner."

This, of course, made my day.  This made my anxiety evaporate for a few seconds.  This was one of the signs that helped confirm that I'm walking in god's path.  I understand that it doesn't mean that I'm going to groove on the every little outcome - god isn't in the business of satisfying my desires - but it does help me feel confident that I'm making good decisions.  I feel like I'm trying to do god's will.

Soldier on.