Judge Not

Compliment:  An expression of praise, congratulation, encouragement, or respect. 

I was having coffee with my sponsor this morning when a guy that we both know from The Rooms stopped by our table to say hello.  First of all, I would like to point out the factual phrase "having coffee with my sponsor" which I was actually doing instead of just lying about it instead.  I give people so much shit about the state and quality of their Programs that it's nice to be able to report when I do the thing that I don't do all that often while still managing to berate others when they come up lacking.  

Judge not lest ye be judged.  Well, fuck that - I'm a judging machine.

This guy had a friend with him and at some point in the proceedings he characterized Tom and I as two of the most intelligent men he knows in The Program.

"Yeah, just ask us," I quipped.  "We'll tell you about it."

Everyone kind of laughed or at least pretended to.  I know the guy well enough that I felt comfortable brushing off the compliment.  The way I mouth off is not going to surprise him.  We chatted for a bit longer, shook hands, and parted with hearty good cheer.

Still, I need to keep an eye out for this guy and thank him for what he said.  Men, as a general rule, don't give out compliments lightly; what's even more true is that we don't receive them well at all.  It was pointed out to me long ago that the proper response to a sincere compliment is: "Thank you.  That was nice of you to say, you're very kind, I appreciate that, etc., etc."  It devalues the compliment otherwise and the world can use all the compliments it can get.  I still have trouble grasping the concept that it feels good to be nice to someone else.  Never receive a gift freely given by saying "Oh, you shouldn't have."  That's a crappy way of telling the gift-giver that what he has done isn't important.

It IS Me

Whenever someone asks me how I'm doing my response is always a variation on a very small theme: as in, "I'm trying to stay out of my own way" or "whenever I think someone or something else is the problem I go look in the mirror."

It IS me.  It is ALWAYS me.  I get into trouble when I try to take charge of a person, place, or thing which is none of my business, an activity that I do way, way too often.  When I can shut my brain off or at least slow it down then a wonderful vista open up and I see how totally, completely, outrageously blessed I am.

I had SuperK's car again today when I went to the club.  Deciding to avoid unnecessary confrontation, after looking in the mirror, I took my ID with me.  I was not, of course, asked to provide it today.

I did some more research on the type of cancer I'm sure I've contracted or developed or generated through sheer force of will.  Here are the facts: there are 310 million people in this country and about 100,000 cases were diagnosed last year.  This is a really, really small percentage.  I'm a math guy and I'm barely able to figure out how small a percentage this is.  Suffice it to say I have about the same chance of actually getting this disease as I have of getting eaten by a shark.  

Never Made It To The Pool

So there I am heading into my club to swim.  I know you're expecting to hear another Seaweed Acts Like An Asshole In The Pool story but it's not to be today.  I wasn't even able to reach the pool without having to invoke Rule 17UJ: Try Not To Speak.  It seems that I get myself into all kinds of trouble when I try to speak.  I'm not saying the world would be a better place if I never spoke ever again but my world would certainly improve.

The little plastic bar code thingey which grants me club access is on the key ring to my car and I was driving SuperK's vehicle this morning.  For the longest time when this would happen the club would ask for my phone number which is linked to the photograph they took of me when I joined.  A couple of weeks ago the attendant also asked for my name - cheerfully supplied on my part with hearty bon homme - and then requested personal identification as well.  I leave my wallet secured in my car, primarily because there are signs plastered all over the lockers warning me to Absolutely Never Bring Any Valuables Into The Club.  The heading of these threatening signs shrieks: "Stop!"  It hints darkly of recent thefts.  On my first visit I actually came back out to the desk to ask if it was OK to leave valuables in a locker secured with a lock.

"It should be OK," she said.

I never like it when people use "should."  There's no oomph behind should - it's a sloppy concept, should is.  I should have a Ferrari.  I should be a millionaire.  The Cincinnati Reds should win the World Series.  See?  It's a bullshit cop-out word.  

Should: Will likely (become or do something).

I digress.  I'm talking about my assault on the club rules.  The lack of a personal ID card prompted the attendant to tell me that next time it would be required, a remark that infuriated me out of all sense of proportion to the request, but I managed to say Nothing, always my best option, as I've previously pointed out,.

Today, as I made the 20 yard trek from my car to the front door I realized I didn't have my key card again.  Instead of going back to the car to get my license I soldiered grimly on - I was on a mission from god.  The bright idea came to me that I'd simply hand the attendant - the very same attendant who had corrected me before - my wife's plastic ID thingey and hope that she didn't glance at the actual photograph.  I smile, greet the young woman, and hand my key ring across like I knew what the hell I was doing, which I definitely did not.

"This is your grocery rewards card," she said, handing it back with a smile.

I go through the routine for the ID-less.

Phone number - check.  Name - check.  Photograph - check.  ID - D-oh!

I was gearing up for this whole thing about why do you take a fucking picture and then ask for a picture ID?  This is WHY you take the picture.  Either don't take the picture or don't ask for a picture ID.  Don't do both.  There is no reason to do both.

Time in the morning: 7AM.  Serenity: Elsewhere.

"So our troubles, we think, are largely of our own making for the alcoholic is an extreme example of self-will run riot, though he usually doesn't think so." 

Shriek!!

Shriek:  A sharp, shrill outcry or scream; a shrill wild cry such as is caused by extreme terror, pain, or the like.  

I took a walk yesterday around the marina which is ringed with yacht clubs.  The piers out to the boats themselves are protected by locked gates - really fearsome structures, with spikes extending out over the water so that you couldn't clamber over them to get to the boats even if you wanted to, which I do not.  All you would need to do is wade into some pretty shallow water and hoist yourself up on the pier at which you would have free access to wreck all kinds of havoc on the yachts, some of which look barely seaworthy.

At the entrance to one of the piers was a sign: "Marina Access Is For Members and Guests Only!!"  I wondered at the double exclamation point.  A period indicates the spoken word; an exclamation point suggests shouting; but two of them?  What would that be?  Yelling?  Screaming?  Shrieking?  Am I to imagine someone in a Pinkerton uniform standing guard, shrieking at me?

The spiked, locked gate would seem to speak for itself.

I'm going to rethink my inclination to join that club.  That, and the no-boat part.

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.