More Whining From Seaweed

I made three calls yesterday: my sister, my mother, and Little Westside Johnny, a guy I've irritated probably more than anyone else on earth, and I got one return call.  I'll give you one guess as to who picked up the phone.  Don't you love this program?  Doesn't family drive you insane?  My mother did call back today . . .  to give me the details of her latest foray into the medical profession while not mentioning a word about my trip.  And I purposely timed the visit so that I'd be home during a county fair held annually in my parent's home town that they've almost never missed in the last 80 years or so.  I said I'd be happy to drive them the two hours so that they could attend.  I've got good money that says they don't go.

 

I'm just trying to be of service.  I'm trying not to criticize, to assume I know what's best for everyone else, but goddang it's hard when someone else really IS behaving worse than me, as rare as that may be. 

 

The Foreboding

Terrible:  Dreadful; causing alarm and fear.

Things are going so well that I'm certain that something terrible is going to happen.  I feel guilty when I'm getting my way, when my life is pleasant.  I still hang onto the idea of a pissed, vengeful, bullying god, bouncing thunderbolts of pain and misery off my bloody brow.  Where the hell did I get the idea that god wants me to suffer?  I think that god wants me to quit wailing like I'm being tortured every time the slightest difficulty comes my way.  I think god is all: "C'mon, already.  Would you quit your bitching for like 5 minutes and give me some peace and quiet?"  But I cling to the idea that god is gleefully trying to stick it to me.

I saw a red Ferrari with new tags parked in a handicapped spot yesterday.  It was legal - it displayed a handicapped placard - but still . . . 

The meeting this morning was a Birthday Cake meeting.  This is not a tradition that was followed in the other places I've lived in sobriety so I had forgotten about this.

"Oh, that's why you showed up today," one of my new friends whispered to me.  Yeah.  I showed up because I'm a psychopath, not because I want a piece of cake and some attention; both appreciated by the way.  He was mostly joking, I hope, but I can surely forgive his cynicism, should any exist, given my predilection to seek the limelight for the flimsiest of reasons.

Another Birthday Boy said this: "We're not showing off here - we do this to show new people that it can be done."  That mostly applies to me although I generally need two chairs - one for me and one for my ego.

Part of the point is that it's now fun to share my good fortune with my friends.  I find that I'm genuinely happy when good things happen to them.  I used to hate it, preferring to revel in misfortune of others.

Disaster!

Disaster:  An unforeseen event causing great loss, upset or unpleasantness of whatever kind.  

Things are going so well here in Vacation City that I'm sure something terrible is going to happen.  I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but I have all day to leisurely come up with a whole array of disasters.  I'm good at this.  I'm good at disasters.  They rarely happen but I'm sure today is going to be different, disaster-wise.

When I was down here a few months back I got a call from Willie when I was out looking for places to live.  He was trying to be helpful, trying to make common sense suggestions about the search.  I interrupted him.

"Willie," I said.  "It really doesn't matter for guys like you and  me.  In a few months I'm going to be unhappy with whatever I've got."

We laughed long and hard.  Good laughter, funny laughter, not snarky, cruel, dismissive laughter where we're enjoying the misfortunes of others although he was probably glad it was me and not him who had no place to live.  I was only mildly interested when he went through the same thing a few years back.

"Truer words were never spoken," he said.

This isn't actually totally true for either of us but there's enough truth in it that we have to watch where we tread.

One Times Two Equals Three

On my first day in the trauma ward - moving out day - I got a call from Spandex.  I've known this man a long time so I was able to explain my situation - massive trauma to the head - and blow him off politely.  He was gracious and understanding which helped although I would have blown him off had he been abrupt and self-absorbed, as he so often is.  Wait a minute - that's me.  I forgot.  I got confused.  I'm blind to my many and various defects.

He called again a week later right at the end of my last day in the trauma ward - moving in day.  I was quite tired and needed to stop doing what I was doing because I was overdoing it and I could expect only to break something or hurt myself at that point.  I'm a bad stopper.  I move around, zombie-like, doing more more more while getting nothing productive done.  He graciously excused himself again, but I protested.  I needed to talk to a friend not move more of my crap around in a desultory fashion.

He had two stories to tell me if by "two" you mean "three.  He may have had other stories, and he may have told them, but three is all I can remember.   Three is the biggest number I can handle on a good day.  Anyway, one was about money and one was about family and one was about starting a huge 9 month project the next day.  There I sat -  traumatized by all of the money I had spent moving and traumatized by a family member's behavior and totally traumatized by the huge project facing me, starting a whole new life.

I could barely keep a straight face.  I can't believe how we help each other out. It's eery.

Trauma Ward

Traumatize:  To injure, e.g. tissues, by force or by thermal, chemical or other agents.

Day 1: Load Truck with crap.
Day 2: Drive 8 hours with overloaded car and overstimulated cat and over-everything wife.  Eat Subway sandwich and rest fitfully.
Day 3: Drive 8 hours to hotel in Vacation City.
Day 4: Unload crap from truck.  Pile crap up to crown molding in every room in entire house. (Ed. note: we have no crown molding which is worrisome).
Day 5: Unload crap from boxes.  Take crap from boxes directly to refuse bin.  Make note to self about the stupidity of paying to have crap moved 1000 miles.  (Ed. note: I did not throw away my precious, precious crap).

The phrase "I am never, ever, ever doing this ever again" has been bandied freely about the last few days.

Over, Under, Sideways, Down

Waste:  Extravagant consumption or ineffectual use.

As I stay alive and stay sober one of the most enduring surprises in my life is how rarely things that I worry about come to pass.  I mean . . . it has to be approaching 100%.  I waste vast amounts of time worrying about things that don't happen.  Sometimes I get stuff in my head that gets stuck in there but good for a day or two or three and then doesn't come true.  It's bad enough when I waste a few hours worrying about something stupid but a few days?  The self-knowledge that I'm wasting my time can be helpful but it hasn't relieved me of the tendency.

Making things worse is that when something that I'm worrying about does happen it's almost   never as bad as I imagine it will be.  And I handle it.  When something unpleasant happens I deal with it and I learn from it.  Not always quickly but I get something out of almost everything, good or bad.  I evolve.

I also give myself a break.  I'm a human dude despite my god-like tendencies and supernatural wisdom.  I can't get through this vale of tears without some things happening that I don't like.  It's the fighting it instead of going with the flow that makes me nuts.

Over, under, sideways, down.

The Mouse . . . Is Real

Another saddish day here in The New City, soon to be the Last City.  Honestly, I'm starting to lose track of where I am, exactly.  I feel invisible some of the time, like I'm not Making A Difference.  I know this isn't the case but I enjoy feeling sorry for myself.  Most of us have a tendency to take others for granted.  I do it to you and you do it to me.  I don't mean to do it but I'm just so wrapped up in myself that I can't help it.

My buddy with 50 years was called on to speak this morning.  He passed with this bon mot: "I've been talking to myself in my own head so much that I'm sick of hearing from me."

A guy I know from the meeting stopped his car this morning, yelled out how much he's going to miss me.  Another guy - scary looking dude- never heard him share, came over after the meeting and said how much he has enjoyed what I've had to say.  I don't know his name.  This stuff meant a lot to me.  I never know when I'm making a difference.

I spoke on the phone tonight to Little Westside Johnny who reminded me how nice it's going to be once I land in Vacation City.  I needed to hear that.  I've been spending way too much time concentrating on what I'm going to miss and the stress of the move.  I forget to be happy.

The mouse does not exist.
The mouse does not exist.
The mouse does not exist.