Lupus

I believe that I've reached a new milestone: contracting over 750 different types of cancer, tumors, and auto-immune diseases, including but not limited to malignancies, benign-icies, and every manner, shape, and form of new, terminal, and inoperable versions.

This is something I've very proud of.  I've always wanted to be in the Guinness Book of World Records: "Most Illnesses Contracted."

I want my tombstone to read: "I told you I was sick."

The Ant Man was at the meeting yesterday.  He was sitting comfortably in his wheelchair, chatting with another member when I walked up.  I didn't see any bags of food.  He thanked me again for the ride earlier in the week and I inquired politely as to the outcome of the really pretty difficult things he was trying to resolve.  He started to talk about another ride somewhere else but he wanted to attend the monthly business meeting, held immediately after the regular meeting.  I'm not sure what he was going to be able to add but god bless him for showing up.  In any case I had the Very Expensive Car that morning and that dude and his ant brood weren't getting anywhere near it.

My cousin's wife passed away this week at the not so ripe old age of 63.  While she had been quite ill it still must be a shock to my cousin.  He's a good guy that I don't talk to often if by "often" you mean "ever."  I don't think he ever understood the whole Not Drinking thing.  He drinks and there was always a lot of drinking at the social events he hosted.  Really, that was the gist of things.  Food was an afterthought.  I called once, after a particularly frustrating Memorial Day barbecue, and talked to him about The Program and why we didn't drink and that we weren't coming to any more of the gatherings.  I wasn't trying to be dickish - I simply want to stay out of slippery places.  He was understanding.

And that was pretty much that for the relationship.   We kept getting invited to the drinking parties and we kept declining until we didn't get invited anymore.

"Huh," I thought.  "There isn't too much breadth, depth, and width to that relationship. 

I sent him an email and I signed the on-line guest book and donated $100 to the charity that he suggested.  It seemed to be the right set of things to do.

Sears Redux

Sears got back in touch with me.  It would have been a nice gesture a month ago.  I took the time to respond to the person who reached out to me.  I did this for my own amusement and not because I hope it will change anything in the massive Sears' machinery.

Here's what I wrote:

Hi, there, Rey T!  How is your day going? 

I don’t recall exactly when I filled out the customer complaint form on the Sears web site but it’s been a while ago.  I wrote the letter on June 13th and you probably know today is July 18th.  That’s a pretty long time, Rey, especially for a guy like me who isn’t world famous for his patience.  Just ask my wife – she’ll confirm this fact.

So what happened after we returned our second defective Sears’ patio set is that we drove over to the local Lowe’s and bought one of their patio sets.  They put it together for us which was pretty nice of them although I’m sure they hid the cost of this service in the overall price of their product.  Frankly, we were OK with that – the thought of trying to put together another patio set from any retailer caused us to break out in a cold sweat.  The Lowes’ patio set has been outside on our patio for about a month.  So, as you can see, we don’t have a need for a Sears’ patio set.  The time to convince us that the Sears’ patio set is a fine product that will provide us with years of fine service is long past, Rey.   It has receded in the metaphorical rear view mirror.  We have no need for two patio sets so that leaves Sears in the lurch.

As an aside the offer of a 10% discount on a future Sears’ product is not at all helpful.  Here’s the thing: we’re not happy with Sears, their products, or their customer service so you can probably understand why we don’t want to risk some more heartbreak by buying another Sears’ product.  For instance, I need a new microwave and a new dishwasher right now but have little inclination to try a Sears’ product.  It was one thing to load up a partially assembled Sears’ patio set and return it to the store but a dishwasher?  I don’t think so, Rey, I don’t think so.  

At the risk of repeating myself - since no one seems to be paying much attention to the facts as set forth in my original - letter I would propose that if all of the managers I ran across in our local Sears’ store had offered some type of discount at the time – when we were frustrated and distraught – then the waves might have broken Sears’ way. 

The tide is going out, Rey, not coming in.

Again, nothing personal, old friend.  You tried your best but the summit you faced was insurmountable.

Fondly, 

Little Stevie Seaweed

Ants!

I'm in my morning meeting today.  It was a good meeting.  I shared.  It's always a great meeting when I share.  This Program would really work out well for everyone if we could simply restrict the proceedings to me sharing about myself for the whole hour.

Actually it was a good meeting primarily because I had decided not to share, figuring that listening might be helpful occasionally.  When I make that decision I tend to spend a lot more time hearing what other people have to say instead of preparing my remarks for public consumption.  Unfortunately, my remarks - which take a long time to prepare, mentally - aren't all that interesting.

The chairwoman said after the break: "I'd like to hear from Seaweed."

"I'd like to hear from Seaweed, too," I replied truthfully and a little ruefully. 

Anyway, after the meeting a guy who shows up from time to time - usually announcing that he has less than thirty days clean and sober - asked me for a ride somewhere.  He's a little on the crazy side so I thought of dancing away but went ahead and agreed to the ride - help, after all, is given to those who want the help and not to those I want to help.  It's a fine distinction.  

As we made our way down the steps of the clubhouse he mentions that he has a wheelchair, too. He kind of tossed it out casually.  It reminded me of the cute woman hitchhiking as her hulking boyfriend hides in the bushes.  From my vantage point I can see that the wheelchair is piled with his possessions.  It's just standing in for a shopping cart - the guy is apparently homeless.  I guess these are most of his possessions, stuffed into various plastic bags and backpacks.

When we get to my car he hands me a clear plastic bag containing food - chips, mostly, and god knows what else - that he had left on the seat of the wheelchair while he was in the meeting.  It's swarming with ants.  On the wheelchair itself is thick line of determined ants purposefully making their way up the wheel, across the seat, and to the recently vacated location of the food bag.  I made a comment about all of the ants on the bag and this guy made a really solid effort to get the bag closed so that the ants couldn't get inside.  While this didn't solve the ant problem I could see that he wasn't proud of the fact his shit was covered with ants.

I didn't say anything else.  I furtively tried to knock some of the ants off the chair - not a few of them but big handfuls of them - as he loaded his stuff into the car.  I could only surmise what was in those bags.  I could see a few liberated ants making tracks for various nooks and crannies in my car.  I was annoyed but not freaked - those ants had a short life ahead of them in a hot, food bag-less car but still . . . 

The man was grateful.  I need to remember that he is a person, too.  Maybe a little grimy and a little frayed around the edges, but as deserving as anyone of my kindness and respect.

Fortunately, I wasn't in the Very Expensive Car.  I would have been pissed.

Starbucks Doesn't Have Any Fucking Oatmeal

I took a phone call yesterday from a dude I know from my morning meeting.  I see him fairly often and he would call from time to time.  A few months ago - no dude.  So when he told me yesterday that he had been drinking I didn't fall off of my chair.  I didn't fall off of anything.  I may even have established a more secure position in my chair.

He did tell me, however, that he was drinking a fifth a day and that his psychiatrist told him that hospitalization was indicated.  People who are drinking that much alcohol can . . . you know . . . die if they stop abruptly.  I encouraged him to follow the doctor's advice but did not fall off my chair when he said he was going to gut it out by himself.  I find it uncomfortable to step back, admit my powerlessness, and let someone do something fairly stupid.  He had clearly made up his mind and I wasn't going to change it.  

We made plans to meet at the morning meeting.  I don't go out of my way to meet with people who are still drinking - they're incredibly unreliable.  I gave my dude a 50-50 chance of even showing up but there he was. sober and still alive.  We had coffee afterwards and he said he was heading to the hospital.  See?  Things work out even when I'm not manipulating the shit out of them.

As I left the coffee shop a disheveled looking woman asked me for some change.  Normally, I hand out some coins but I didn't have my man-purse on me so I politely declined.

"How about a dollar, then?" the woman asked, a little aggressively.  

I politely declined this request.

"You can't spare a dollar?" she said, increasingly agitated.  "I'm homeless.  I'm hungry."

"I'll tell you what," I countered.  "I'll buy you a bowl of oatmeal over at Starbucks."  I pointed at the store.  The part of my brain that would normally have counseled against debating with a mentally ill individual must have been out walking the dog.

"Starbucks doesn't have any fucking oatmeal," she posited.

"Yeah, they do," I said.  "C'mon over and I'll buy it for you."  I was curious as to why I was arguing with a mentally ill, angry, homeless person at 9AM on a lovely Saturday morning.  Sometimes my mouth just takes over.

"Fuck you," she said, walking toward me, "getting in your fucking car."

Uh oh.

"You know what?" she said, drawing close and reaching into her pocket.  "I'm not even fucking homeless.  You want to see my debit card?"

I did not want to see her debit card.  I did not have the slightest interest in seeing anything that she might have in any of her pockets.  I started my car and nimbly steered around her.  I could see her yelling at me, red-faced, in my rear view mirror.

I had a lovely walk on the beach.

A Beating Sound

Tinnitus:  The perception of noise, such as a ringing or beating sound, which has no external source.

I've developed kind of this ringing in my ears.  It reminds me of the day after a Black Sabbath concert.  Kind of a hissing, white noise, centered in my brain.  I've noticed it over the last few months when I'm in a quiet spot, like sitting on the can in the morning.  Maybe I should turn on the exhaust fan in the bathroom.  That's exactly what I did when I was drinking and my car would begin to make an unusual clanking or grinding noise, an event that was not at all uncommon given the average quality of the cars I could afford.  I didn't turn the bathroom exhaust fan on per se but I did turn the car radio up.  I figured if I couldn't hear the noise it didn't exist.

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

My research on the internet did not turn up even the possibility of cancer.  This fact threw me into a cold sweat.  I haven't had a good case of cancer in a few weeks.  I'm running out of cancers that I don't have that still manage to afflict me, strangely enough.  Cancer is like a good bowel movement - it's often the highlight of the day.

As an aside on my fifteenth sobriety birthday Little Westside Jonny and I were in the front few rows of a Black Sabbath concert, surrounding by guys my age who never quit smoking weed.  Clearly, my decision to stop drinking and using has been the best for me in the long run if what I saw stumbling around the concert venue was any indication.  But I'll tell you what - my ears were fucking ringing the next day.  I couldn't hear anything and I was wearing ear plugs - not pieces of cotton, either, but those bright orange ear plugs you see stuffed in the earholes of guys working on running jet engines.

It's probably another indication of my encroaching decrepitude.  Every time I go into full cancer research mode I get the note that whatever cancer I'm trying to outrun could also actually be something that occurs as a normal part of aging.  

I've made a doctor's appointment.  That's my indicated action.

Controlled Drinking

"But we must be careful not to drift into worry, remorse or morbid reflection, for that would diminish our usefulness to others."

Worry:  To seize or shake by the throat, especially of a dog or wolf.

That is a GREAT definition.

Remorse:  A feeling of regret for doing wrong or sinning.

I was getting ready to do some writing this morning, drifting into worry, remorse, and morbid reflection, when my phone rang.  It was an old friend from The Program.  I hesitated before answering because I clearly wanted to spend some additional time in worry, remorse, and morbid reflection, three of my Go-To emotional states.  I took the call and had a great conversation.

I had read an article in The New York Times yesterday about an organization that is promoting controlled drinking.  They cited a few studies indicating that the success rate of The Fellowship isn't that spectacular (no shit) and that a combination of aversion therapy, medication (including some pretty spectacular combinations of drugs that I abused with great relish), and cognitive therapy can be just as effective.  My friend visits on-line meetings and apparently the topic is coming up there.  This is a topic that comes up from time to time.  

The article got my blood boiling for a minute.  I hate criticism of an organization that works for me.  I was disappointed that the controlled drinking folks didn't mention that we bend over backwards to suggest that anyone is free to recover or not recover any way that they see fit; moreover, we encourage people to make use of all the wonderful outside sources of support that exist.  But if you aren't thrilled with a 12 Step Program that is based on some kind of spiritual awakening I would suggest that you're going to be disappointed coming to a meeting that uses a spiritual awakening and The 12 Steps to get your life back on track.  To me it would be like going to a yoga institute to get in shape and then bitching that all they do is yoga.  Well, duh.

My buddy and I chatted a bit - an old friend and it was a good talk - and the worry, remorse, and morbid reflection receded in the rear view mirror.

Seaweed - Expert Marksman

Defect:  A fault or malfunction.

I'm an expert marksman when it comes to Fault Finding.  I can see a defect at 1000 yards.  I find that I really have to watch myself when it comes to other people's defects.  I'm a little too capable when it comes to other people's defects.  I can't acknowledge a wonderful quality in someone else - it's a little too much work.

What's funny about this is that I'm very sensitive to criticism from someone else about my character defects.  The hair stands up on the back of my neck and I go into full fight mode.  I deny and then I attack.  I find it very effective in the short term to try to turn the discussion around so that the topic is your defects.