Life Is What Happens While You're Busy Making Other Plans

I've had a busy week of appointments, errands, a few utterly joyous events, commitment to my commitments, and precious little time to write for pleasure. This bothered me more than usual, because I had a serendipitous blog post coming along in draft form, but coming too slowly to suit me. Well, actually, I still have that post in draft form, but it will likely have to wait awhile. Here's what I had to say in my first paragraph:

"I have been caught in a downpour of good things, an unpredicted storm that has left a few large gifts in a terrifically truncated period of time. Maybe some would holler "Hallelujah!" and run off to enjoy themselves, but I am a perverse creature. Oh, believe me, I've hoped for some good fortune, but now that a little of that has fallen into my lap, I am unsure how one handles some of it. If I blink, will it go away? Why have some of these things come to me and why now? Will I handle the details differently from my methods in the past? What are the deal-breakers, so I can make certain not to commit any of them? And - oh, the sleep-robber - "am I worthy?"

Jennifer Layne 
Copyright 1994

This afternoon I was showering, blow-drying, seeking out clothes in which I would not roast, pushing the clock just a little, which is unlike me. When the phone rang, I thought, "I have no time for this, whomever it is. Just let it roll to voicemail." But I recognized the telephone number as I've called it a few times in the last few days. "Hi, is this Leslie?" I said it was. "This is Kerry from the clinic." Oh. The Vampire Department just drained me yesterday. This may not be a good phone call. She said that my blood test results were in. There is no anemia. That's great, as I have a chronic problem. My cholesterol is on the "watch list" - for the first time in my life. OK, people deal with that every day. None of the medications I've been prescribed are causing any mischief. Good, good. I thought to myself, "Then why is this woman calling me?" "It's about your white blood cell count. Dr. Q is very concerned. She wants you to see your physician. We have a copy of the lab results for you but we're closed for the holiday weekend until Tuesday morning." I said I'd come Tuesday, then see my doctor. "No. She wants you to see your doctor tomorrow. Tell them it is urgent and what I've just told you about your test results." Well, I didn't scream or faint, but I'm not stupid. I've been down this road before. This call has a sense of deja vu. "Just how bad is the white cell count?" I have .7 when I need 4.0. Oh, that's pretty bad. "We're concerned about your immunity to any infections. It shouldn't be this low. You need to be seen right away." Boy, howdy.

I sat down hard on the bed, forgetting that I was running late. Damn it, what is this? The karmic cost for the good things that have just come along? And how would I deal with it this time, new in sobriety, but a veteran for having gone through it before? "It" is an insidious thing, a precursor to a deadly cancer that few survive for 5 years. The good news: I am not "sick" as it is asymptomatic, almost always revealed in a routine blood test. And many people live with the precursor for years, never developing the end disease. The bad news: This is not my first rodeo. I was closely monitored for 2 years, monitoring including regular bone marrow biopsies. A bone marrow biopsy is not an enjoyable experience. But the physical assault can't hold a candle to what these things do to one's head. And then there is the wait between the biopsy and the appointment to learn the results. And then count 90 more days, with blood testing in between. I can do every every part of that, I feel, tonight. And I must remember to pack all the good things into each and every day that I can. I already have a team in place, just in case one is needed: driver, hand-holder during the procedures, soup maker, prayer givers, well-wishers. OK, I think this will be all right.

At the large AA Club where I attend various meetings, the kudos, grins, hugs, high-fives and questions still flew about the wonderful things so recently fallen upon my head. I've been teased mightily and reminded that such good things happen to those who work their program well and truthfully. I chose not to mention today's news. It's not time. People are joyous for me. There's no good reason to put a damper on the joy others can feel for a fellow. "Hey, meet Les. She is a hard case, but she's worked diligently and after 8 months, good things are happening to her." If the time comes to share information at AA, I have no doubt I'll be fully supported there, too. Given everything I need. I'm no more fully identified by any other disease I may have than I was by alcoholism. A person wants to be both graceful and sturdy. Admirable, like.

In my ears right now, just because:

You Didn't Pass the Audition

You know, at the first, he had me. Yes, I was on his side, even though - on paper - this wasn't an ideal match. I'd now had a little dating experience. I wasn't precisely jaded or cynical, but the words "almost spent" come to mind. And while I'd had a few snickers, maybe one or two actual guffaws, never once had I had even a hint of that slight lift of heart and mood that comes when . . . well, I know it comes sometimes. It's happened to me.

He was responsive to e-mails, something to which I attribute perhaps too much merit. He was literate in those e-mails, something of importance to me. On the other hand, he showed no symptoms of the great sense of humor I value. His look wasn't dead-on, and may I elaborate on that, please? In all my life I've never weighed going out with a man based on his extreme good looks. No male models needed here. I have written about being blown away at age 15 when I met a young man who turned out to be gorgeous. I'd never considered that possibility, but only wanted to get to know him whom I'd met and so enjoyed in conversation on the telephone. "Gorgeous" was an unexpected delight. Following my long and bitter divorce, someone important in my life referred to Ex as an "ugly fuck" and I went off! Oh, yes, an alcoholic who ruined his health and was not an ideal spouse to me - guilty. Ugly? Maybe to you, but not to me. So, while there are some deal-breakers, such as the man who looked identical to Stepfather in his latest years, mostly I accept people as they look, within wide reason. Bald? Not a problem. Large nose? Likely OK. Physique imperfect? Let's talk about that, because I am an imperfect person, too. Generally, if I reject a possibility based on looks, it relates more to attitude projected by the look than actual physical traits.

So, he suggested a coffee house that was located 2 blocks from my office and I thought, "Well, that's pretty easy. I drink coffee, anyway." He looked average in his photos: height, weight, hair, coloring. He was age appropriate and able to converse about a variety of topics. He worked in an industry I knew nothing about and I was going to mark that down as a plus - I could learn something new. He owned a car and had that job (so he said), putting him miles ahead of some Las Vegans who put themselves on the open market. The car claim might be put to partial proof when I arrived at Starbucks, providing he hadn't borrowed one. Yes, I would meet for coffee.

When I pulled into the parking lot and left my car, I glanced around, tidied my shirt and slacks and immediately received a text message. "I'm already inside. Your coffee awaits you." Oh. All right. That's nice, though I felt just a touch odd being watched through the window. But that's what one might get when meeting in public places. As I walked in and aimed for the table, he stood up to greet me - nice. Lots of men don't do that any longer. He'd got my coffee correctly and I sat down to a nice conversation. I knew quickly that there weren't going to be any fireworks on my side, and I didn't know him well enough to know if he would experience any. I hoped not, since I couldn't be reciprocal. But we talked congenially about things the other knew nothing about, each seeming to be interested in what the other had to say. I'm not sure we could have been much less likely matched, but that was OK. If I was west, he was east, I read, he watched TV, etc. We agreed to a second cup of coffee, neither with a gun held to our head.

Over the second cup, he told me something that many people would not easily share, at least not in a first meeting. He suffered from an acute case of genital herpes of longstanding, resistant to drugs and spread beyond the area one might expect. This did not make me run away or start eyeballing the door. You see, just as I don't judge first on any person's appearance, I do not attach stigma to anyone who has an illness or who has suffered some attack or wrong by another person. There are certain medical descriptions that may ultimately cause me some distress, but I knew a little about this condition and it wasn't harrowing for me to hear. I also knew I wasn't ever going to engage in any activity that would put me in harm's way in that respect. It was safe discussion and I rather credited the man with being straightforward about something many sufferers hide from their associates until it is too late for them to make informed decisions. Besides, maybe it helped him to speak openly about a problem and not be censured. This cost me nothing except the price of the second round of coffee. No, I'm not patting myself on the back for my humanity. I'm suggesting that it costs little to be nonjudgmental.

The second coffee was getting low and I was about to say, "Well, thanks, it was really pleasant to meet you." I wouldn't mislead with any complicated comments. Besides, if he was drooling over me, he hid it well. Agreement is a good way to end a meeting, right? And then he said it. I looked up quickly to make eye contact so I could laugh along with him, though he'd made not one original humorous remark the entire time. "You didn't pass the audition. I'd never go with you. Would you like me to tell you the reasons?" Genuinely floored, I began to sputter, "No, oh no, thanks, but no . . .". Not to be rebuffed, Mr. Herpes told me I was a reject because I was well-traveled (true), well-educated (not as true) and had a job I loved (yes, very true). Though I am rarely at a loss for words, I couldn't think of any response, whether appropriate or idiotic. I began to gather my jacket and purse, not kicking over tables, chairs and cups, but decidedly ready to take my leave. Not really as hip, slick and cool as I'd like to be, as I got into my car, I thought, "Damn me for listening to my mother and Granny again! I thought those were the things I was supposed to reveal."

I regret to say it bothered me. I'm a little sensitive. I work rather hard to be well-liked and admired, though I will not be false. Over time, when I have felt myself in a situation safe enough, I've mentioned this put-down episode to friends. I have trouble saying "arrogant idiot" and stomping off. No, I have to analyze it. "What's wrong with me?" Though Mr. Herpes had left little doubt of what was wrong with me, unless he had more on his list that he didn't spew before I got up to leave. I've landed somewhere pretty solid. Likely his take on me was that I was independent and didn't need him (or anyone else) to fulfill me. That threatens some people or turns them off. They feel  extraneous. But wasn't he taught to keep his mouth shut and simply move on? I guess not. Like I was trying out for the lead in the school play!

Every now and then Facebook lands in my Yahoo mailbox attempting to woo me into their evil game. (I don't and, so far, won't Facebook, for reasons that are my own.) In their offering is a yoo-hoo from seemingly everyone I've ever e-mailed with. "Let's be friends!" Yeah. Uh-huh. Mr. Herpes is invariably in the mix, with a new photo since I met him. His face shows no evidence of having recently been smacked by some angry woman. I'm pleased to see his health is holding out. No, really.

It's a Bitch

It was so hot you
could have fried an
egg on the pavement!

I use the word as it might relate to the dog days of summer, as that season has officially arrived. And today was hotter than one of those - 108-degrees on the blacktop when I arrived at AA at nearly 5:00 p.m. I'd been somewhat asleep at the wheel, only vaguely registering its imminent arrival, when my Tao Daily Meditation hit me between the eyes and said, "Hey, solstice is here!" Oh, yeah! Thanks, Tao. The "fun" time of year, though difficult to love in the Mojave Desert. And I'd like to be on record as one who rarely uses that "b" word about another person.

So, a brief quotation from Tao Meditation No. 172 and how it resonates with what I've currently got going on, which is also a bitch. By the way, I do not claim to be a practiced Taoist. When I am that good, I will claim to be so. I read Tao and try to harmonize its teachings with other daily devotionals that are important to me. The best days are the ones when each of my three testaments expresses the same (or a similar) idea in a different voice.  It happens, randomly, on more days than one might expect. In one language or another, sometimes my simple mind can comprehend and integrate more complex truths.

When the true light appears,
The entire planet turns to face it.

The summer solstice is the time of greatest light. It is a day of enormous power . . .

This great culmination is not static or permanent. Indeed, solstice as a time of culmination is only a barely perceptible point. The sun appears to stand still. Its diurnal motions seems to nearly cease. Yesterday it was still reaching this point; tomorrow, it will begin a new phase of its cycle.

Those who follow Tao celebrate this day to remind themselves of the cycles of existence . . . left and right, up and down, zenith and nadir . . . All of life is cycles. All of life is balance.

Ah, OK then, a powerful zenith in the sun's strongest light, maybe all the world pulled up to a visible projection just briefly, and a reminder to seek balance, to recognize nothing will be permanent, that ebb and flow are the only certain things. A message to alcoholics and other addicts: this constant motion thing is OK. It's the way of the world. In our language, this is "accepting life on life's terms."

I've been a member of AA for quite awhile now. I am encouraged to lead meetings and when the right person feels I am a woman who talks the talk and walks the walk and we agree I should be her sponsor, then that will happen. I own and voraciously read many of the recommended books, attempting to incorporate certain principles into my little life. I am progressing through my 12-steps at a slower pace than some because I have to argue about everything. I am made that way. It is not a footrace, luckily for me. But after I've argued something to death, if I ultimately accept it, I am a true believer because I've tried to deflate it and found it can't be mitigated. For myself only. I don't try to tell anyone else what is and isn't right for them. I'm not that good. By every benchmark, I should have bombed out by now for my first time. Those are the odds. That information and $1 will get you a cup of coffee at a really cheap place.

It's that balance thing that threatens my happy summer sunshine, that accepting life on life's terms and making my way forward. I am a person knows how to learn, and once I learn something, I have confidence in it and myself. Why can't I learn this balance deal? Am I an alcoholic because I lack balance or do I lack balance because I am an alcoholic? Regardless, it is the hardest thing I have ever struggled to reach. Most of "us" have a lot of human wreckage to repair once we become sober. I am no different and it is daunting. We are not obliged to undertake this in any particular way. We must not attempt to make direct amends to someone if to do so would further harm them. We are even allowed to not make direct amends to someone if to do so would be harmful to our own sobriety. That is a powerful freedom that must be tempered with "at what point does that become a cop-out?" If necessary, we are even encouraged to write a letter of amends we never intend to mail or send a letter to a dead man or to conduct a ritual of our own design. We may make an amends looking into and speaking to a mirror or a doorknob or we may make a "living amends" which means to let our present and future behavior say all there is to be said. In every case, we must somehow make amends to those we have harmed or whom we have lost in some way, expecting nothing from the other person, but only sweeping our own side of the street. Now we are sober, we hope we are so approachable we may reach some form of resolution with those who have harmed us, even though we may not owe them amends and we have no ability to design any detente. Yow. It is a tall order. But until we do this step properly and thoroughly, we will not have completed our 12 steps or know peace. And we must design our current and future behaviors to minimize resentments which are what cause our alcoholic breakdowns in human relationships. Ugh. Balance. Assertion in place of passivity or aggression. Responsibility for self and no one else and being OK with whatever happens. Wait a minute! It's my inability to do that which got me into trouble in the first place. No, I am not being funny.

Recently my friend and I discussed how we each were so misaligned that, as children, we failed to scream "pervert" in real personal crises, for fear of appearing impolite. Really. I have a long history of failing to holler for the CIA, the SSA, the FBI, a parent, someone's parole officer or a policeman on my own behalf when at least that needed to occur. On the other hand, I have some history of committing reprehensible, unfathomable, aggressive human crimes, of holding grudges, of being very difficult to love or forgive. Yes, I do want to find the sweet spot between the extremes. I think I see it, right there on the razor's edge. Without the assistance of alcohol, here are some things I've been working on. I think I'm doing halfway all right, though in some cases I am not making others very happy. And that's OK, too. I was in the people-pleasing business much too long.

So, would I really expose the shortcomings of an upstanding-looking blighter by publishing essays and badly written poetry (it exists, a suitcase full of it)? Unlikely. How does harming another person help me? Good logic, eh? Or write a letter to one parent on each coast of the U.S. to apologize for being such a difficult, colicky infant? Not going to happen. To my dear friend for whom I always pay and my friend who never, ever thinks of inviting me first: you may expect different behavior from me. Regarding the man who pressed his luck when I said, "I've told you this repeatedly for years." and he replied, "Well, you know, sometimes you don't pay attention to someone.": I was not loud, profane or difficult to understand. It was recommended I send official anger notification to those who "assisted" me in nearly killing myself with booze: already done. "You treated me terribly." Now I can begin my amends to each of them for I certainly have responsibility, too. [This should not be misconstrued as me saying ____ made me drink. This only refers to undeserved bad treatment by others. I dealt with it by choosing to drink.] Can I tell my friend and business associate I can't support the program as it stands? Done, well received and discussion to ensue. And for the friend who tells me what to do with my life before saying hello: get ready, dear!

Those things and similar ones can, did and could make me drink. That's not how I choose to do it today. What do you think? Progress? Old dogs/new tricks? In May and in June I attempted amends, expecting nothing. In both cases that is precisely what I got. These were not the giant roaring monsters like parents or ex-spouses. In one case, I do not believe I harmed the person directly, but I apologized if I had done that and said I'd love to have him/her in my life. In the other case, I had harmed the person but felt our bond had been deep enough for us to find some common ground. I did not get what I hoped for. I did not drink.

Something that charmed me:  It charmed me just now to type "I did not drink". It charmed me to find Ms. Janis singing "Summertime". It charms me to go out 4 feet from the French doors and slide into the pool nekkid under the moon. It charms me that tomorrow is expected to be 110-degrees. It charms me to keep trying as hard as I can try, apologizing when I have been clumsy. I wish everyone a joyful summer.

This does not charm me: I'm invited to a BBQ, a big bing-bang bash hosted by a friend of a friend. "What can I bring?," is always my first utterance. I love to make melon ball baskets and really good potato salad by the bathtubfull and 80 dozen deviled eggs, or whatever the host wants. "Oh, how about a big old bottle of tequila?" Really! "Um, that would be really difficult for me. Terribly difficult, actually. I can maintain balance with all of you and your tequila shots game like you played at Christmas, but I don't know about buying it, supplying it." This brought a smartassed comment which caused further conversation during which I gave no ground. She seems to have kind of dug her feet in. I've used no profanity, nor loud tone of voice. I'm surely not going to drink over it. But it's a bitch, you know?

(With Plenty of Experience Now) I Only Date My Own Species

I may sometimes come across as both articulate and loquacious which is sometimes interpreted to mean "outgoing, sturdy, not thin-skinned". Nothing could be farther from my actuality. I'm highly sensitive and somewhat easily hurt. But I take risks by showing myself and telling truths about me - the person - in almost every relationship I undertake. Why would I take a chance making myself vulnerable to people I don't know well? That's how I relate with other human beings. I'm not so comfortable with casual relationships or fleeting friendships. Relating only on the surface doesn't work for me. I'm curious about others and am willing to show myself, within reason. It is always my hope the other person will eventually show me at least something real about themselves. By nature and by training, that is how I interact with other humans. Does this point out how difficult it is for me to deal with the dating bullshitter, the closed-down and the tight-lipped? Oh, and one last thing: I am pretty scrupulous about not being unnecessarily harsh with others, even when they have sometimes set themselves up for such treatment. Even when . . .

He was literate and he read books on purpose for entertainment. He worked in a field similar to mine, so we understood one another's workday stories. He sought outdoor activities and claimed to be physically fit, liked some of the movies that were my favorites and had a sense of humor. We were age appropriate and had exchanged photos, finding one another attractive, or at least worth continuing to talk with. Until he found out my name. You see, he'd just been hurt by a Leslie and didn't feel he could engage with another so soon. Or that's what he said and I have no supporting information whatsoever to confirm that as truth or untruth. I was gracious. "OK, well, I certainly understand that. Thanks for chatting." I am not 100% certain I do understand that, as a common name never was a deterrent to me, but I felt no need to be nasty to a man who had been pleasant throughout.

Conversely . . . Before I learned to pull the plug at the first, not the seventh, warning sign, I let conversations continue past the date they should have ended. And this man was one waving red flags from the first e-mail. HE WAS ONE OF THOSE "ALL IN CAPS" FELLAS. I didn't know there were any such communicators left, but I now can attest there are. It annoyed me, but I didn't immediately say "Stop it." He said he kept 5 dogs and I felt further disinterested. Not hostile. Just not enthusiastic. "I CAN GET YOU INTO A 3-YEAR-OLD CAR THAT LOOKS BRAND NEW," he virtually screamed. "Oh, well, thanks. Mine is less than a year old and perfectly suited to me." I decided to try the path of least resistance, simply distancing myself by e-mailing less frequently and then not at all. It was my impression that online conversations faded quickly if one party slowed or stopped for 24 hours. He was slow to understand and, in fact, turned up the heat in direct proportion to my cooling. "WELL, AT LEAST LET'S EXCHANGE PICTURES." He attached his to that message. He looked exactly like Stepfather. I cringed, actually recoiled from my computer monitor, but said nothing. This did not satisfy him. "WELL, I KNOW I'M GOOD LOOKING, SO WHY HAVEN'T I HEARD FROM YOU?" I remained quiet and (foolishly) passive. He turned up his aggression, bombarding me with e-mails assaulting both my character and appearance, though he really knew nothing about either of those. I finally had to unload. "You look just exactly like my stepfather. It creeps me out." Never heard from him again.

I cannot say how many times I have been challenged with "Is that really your picture?" "Yes, it is me, taken 10 days ago." "It's not your daughter or your girlfriend or sister?" "Uh, no. It is me." "Ten days ago, you said?" WTF? "Yes, 10 days ago." I gather it is common for both women and men to send pictures that are 10 years old, 100 pounds lighter, or simply not their own photograph while still in the just-talking phase. I never understood that. If I send a misleading image of myself in order to snare a man into meeting me somewhere, will I not be exposed as a fraud the moment I walk into the place? Apparently it is not unusual. OK, so noted. I don't believe I ever met a man who had sent me someone else's photo, but I met several who selected pictures of themselves no longer very recognizable when compared to the reality.

Closely related: age, height and weight claims. "How old did you say you are?" I've told the man several times and it is in my profile. Why am I asked about this continually? Ah, because people pad or whittle these things by many years, inches or pounds. Almost always, I am told. I didn't understand that one, either. What if I flip open my wallet to pay the tip or the bill for coffee and expose my drivers license? What if I'm not good enough in math to adjust my entire life experience to an era 10 years later than my own? What if I just find it easier to tell my real age for simplicity and let him make an assessment of height and weight by looking at me and deciding whether the full package is worth pursuing or not?

The man was educated and brilliant (seemingly) in his field. I know when he went to lunch with a woman, his office called, paged and sent text messages constantly, he was so sorely missed. We engaged in e-mail, text and telephone conversations for quite some time before meeting for a bagel and coffee. We had to, you see, because he was going to have to get something out in the open before showing himself. Though I was not bragging to friends or dreaming about him, I thought this was an OK man. I was interested, not rabid. We discussed the headlines, politics, trade unionism and the ubiquitous "what brought you to Las Vegas?" I remain convinced each of us was truthful about previous marriages. After a month or so, he broke the news: "I am younger than you are." Hmm .  . what constitutes "younger"? I think I'm pretty moderate about that, feeling maybe a 5 year difference in either direction is rarely an issue and more than that should be discussed. I looked at his profile again. Yes, it was true. He didn't reveal his age there, as I had mine. I'd been juggling so many men, I had failed to check my assumptions. "OK, so how old are you?" I asked, pretty bravely. Yow. Significantly younger.

"OK, back to 5 squares negative of Square One: what are you doing? My profile divulges my age. What did you not get from your mother that you want from me?" We talked for another month or 6 weeks. He wasn't looking for money - he made more than I did, owned a nice home, had investments. This was not verified by me. I am repeating what he told me. He claimed no fantasies of parading me on the Strip in granny garb while he sported diapers. He made a strong case for simply being attracted to an older woman both because of appearance and common interests. To support this, he cited some musical favorites that actually fell between my own youth and his, but OK. He wasn't quoting current Top 40. We finally met several times for a meal and I learned some things about myself. I wasn't mortified to be seen "dating" him, though he was clearly quite a bit younger. I was really excellent about taking my turn at buying lunch or coffee. He did not take advantage of that. I began to relax and said I'd consider it when he asked me for a more serious date (as in after dark to a comedy club). He called before I could give my final answer. He was in a panic. He'd been called away to LA on business and he had a huge dilemma. Could I help him out? "Well, what's up? Do you need a ride to the airport?" No. No. His ex-wife, a drug- and gambling-addict who was camped out on his couch because he couldn't bring himself to throw her in the streets (this is not unusual in Las Vegas, either) was in the throes of her addictions and could not be relied upon to take care of Matthew in his absence. Though I'd never heard of Matthew, he was age 7 and his father had full custody. Would I be willing to take care of Matthew for "a few days"? I am sure the sound of my foot being pulled from the sucking mudhole was audible. I never learned whether Matthew was taken to LA and got to visit Disneyland, as I never heard from his father again. Some people look to their (figurative) mothers as problem solvers, caretakers. I probably disappointed, as I delivered a message filled with fiery "you might have mentioned" words.

Oh, I'm on a roll now and rather regret holding back for so long! Yes, I do realize there could be some old dudes out there who may think, speak or write about the goofiest woman they ever encountered and picture my face in so doing. That's OK! My point is not to take anything away from anyone. My point is that human beings are damned complicated, heavily layered things driven by stuff we may not even contemplate. When someone such as I, already feeling a bit challenged by these fascinating animals, is faced with stuff she does not immediately know how to handle . . things can get funny or sparky or mean or frightening. And I haven't even spoken yet of He Who Told Me What Was Wrong With Me (to whom I was never grateful), nor He Who Was Actually Kind of Scary in His Intensity, nor even He Who Would Have Been the One Worth Keeping for Awhile. Talk soon ~ I've got a date. Nah!

Learn From Yesterday

I'm dreamy-like. Kind of moony. In my head a lot. I am focused more on the past, both good and bad, than present. Perhaps this is because I've been actively working on "what's next" in my life. Having the past to retreat to is soft and gentle, or at least familiar, when I need that. I don't feel completely capable of moving myself along.

Apropos of absolutely nothing:

"You aren't very demanding. You don't ask for much."

She didn't reveal she'd given that up in vain long ago.

Last night we went out for Chinese food, a treat because I've had no one with which to share that particular cuisine in awhile. It was good food and I loaded up my plate like a greedy pig. I can only plead, "Yeah, but this will feed me four meals for the cost of one moderately priced dinner." We sat as far as possible across the restaurant from the family with the, ummm . . . , energetic young children, none of whom will have to worry about being heard if they ever have to holler for help in an emergency. As we sat dining, I got rather dreamy, viewing snippets from a past life, and I'm not sure what triggered that. The tastes?  The smells? What, doesn't everyone go into a reverie with the fragrance of Beijing Beef?

Amber was 2 1/2 that summer. We'd learned in the previous February that Ex had ruined himself with drink. He wasn't expected to live until Christmas. He lived, dying, for 18 more years.  There weren't very many pleasant moments during that time for him. I had the job that defied every description - time commitment, stress, pay, health benefits, travel, fulfillment of every sort. Now I was afraid to go to that job. What if Ex fell ill while driving Amber to daycare or passed out while taking care of her at home?  I sometimes left at 5:00 a.m. and didn't get home until midnight. Who would know if they were in trouble?

The finest case of employee representation I ever delivered was spent in getting Ex removed from his job as a union organizer. Oh, I wasn't fighting cruel monsters, even though labor unions can be notoriously evil employers. No, I was still going to work there, and we were valued. They weren't out to cut him off at the knees. When he became so ill he couldn't walk to the car any more, I basically had to quit for him. He couldn't throw in the towel himself, verbally. He was 90 days from being vested in his pension.  The union kept him on the books for 91 days, paying him all salary and benefits, giving us time to apply for state and social security disability. And get him to doctors for tests and medication and heart monitors. He was 38 years old.

I'd always been convinced Ex would ruin us by killing someone in a drunk driving incident or in a round of fisticuffs over the pool table at the bar or that he'd cripple himself and I'd be required to push him around in a wheelchair. Because I'd given up hoping for a child in our lives, I'd never contemplated him getting ill and leaving me alone with that child. In all of my life, through everything, I have never before or since been as sad and frightened as I was that summer. Amber deserved to have 2 parents. I was not capable of taking proper care of her, giving her a good life, taking care of Ex and being the breadwinner. I had other burdens, as well, not yet written about for publication, but soon to come. I began therapy, Ex took his medications, both of us deeply depressed.

Surprise! This post is not going to go down the path of what a great savior I was. I "god-damned" Ex so many times each day, he may have thought that was his name. I was terrified and hugely angry at him. "I told you Budweiser was going to take us down."  "And now we have this beautiful baby who needs every good thing we can give her and I don't have everything it takes to give her by myself." It didn't take me long to lose a little of my edge on the job. I had an enormous early mobile phone that rarely had signal and I listened with one ear constantly for it to ring with the bad news. I was as harsh and unkind as a person can be toward another person. He mostly was not harsh or unkind. It took him 7 years to learn to do something with his time and little stores of energy.  For that first 7, he sat a lot. Watched TV. Visited doctors. Once he got up from the recliner, he was fairly admirable for awhile, taking our little dogs to visit shut-ins, volunteering for sedentary activities.

That summer I allowed something to happen many times over that shames me still. I allowed Amber to get a little bit lost in the shuffle. I hope to god I never said, "Leave Mommy alone." I don't believe I did. But when she fell in love with The Jungle Book video, I just let her go with it. Though she'd never been one to sit for hours in front of the TV, now she did, Mowgli and Baloo and Bagheera and Kaa playing over and over again. She'd nap and snack and call me over to see the best parts, which I tried to do with great cheer. No, she didn't miss bathing or meals. I just couldn't push hard enough to get myself and her up from the damned Jungle Book. It is painful and one of my lowest sins, to have diverted my attention from her or to have allowed Disney to care for her for great blocks of time.

I turned 40 that August. After Labor Day, I bought winter clothes for all of us and my work schedule picked back up because school had started and all my union members were back at work. Ex had fallen into a slow, quiet, predictable daily schedule and wasn't exhibiting any signs of imminent death. It wasn't too soon to start shopping for Christmas gifts. One day, I snapped off The Jungle Book and Little Black Eyes looked at me. "No more, Mommy?"  "Uh-uh. Let's go find something to do.  Maybe Daddy would like to take a ride with us."

So why is this gray little slice of life popping up now? Because I am undertaking change again. I do not care for change, even good change. I do not feel strong or capable in many ways. I think I am reviewing times when I had to take difficult steps, about which I did not feel secure. Oh, in a life as long as mine, there are plenty of face-plant episodes, but there are some glowing successes, too. The little child was not ruined by her summer of The Jungle Book. It gave me time to regroup and devise a new "normal". And then I went on.

We went to a different library branch, larger and farther away. I've pretty much read my local branch dry, at least the books that interest me. I don't love the Library of Congress Cataloging System, mostly because each branch puts up a poster describing it, but one can't find the books in the right places from one location to the next. Finally, I hit a treasure trove, spinning me from a Virginia Woolf study on the effect of her sexual abuse on her writing, to a Tennessee Williams bio, a Violet Trefusis study and Nigel Nicolson's autobiography "Long Life". Not sleeping more than an hour or two, I am holed up with books, dreaming and doing little else. My version of The Jungle Book for just a little while so I can think things through.

No Offense!

Old age and menopause (not always 100% the same thing) have loosened my tongue. No longer am I choked by the harsh words that bubble into my mind when I am assaulted, affronted, annoyed or attacked. They now pop out into the sound waves. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. No longer am I nearly ready to explode with pent-up resentments. But I have had to learn to make a quick getaway. Yes, yes, I do understand that we all go out into the world with our own individual makeup of education, experience, culture and personal sensibilities. I get it that many of the strangers we encounter won't have all that much in common with us. Strangers aren't necessarily friends we simply haven't met yet. They may not speak our language, even if we all appear to be spewing English. I am fascinated by the utterances that get a person's goat. Or don't. I live in a place where people seem, increasingly, compelled to throw words around at high volume. I'm as bad as the next old bag with a surly attitude.

Early in life, I learned how to deal with "Hey, Baby" and later with "Hey, Mama". Those come less frequently now, and most often when he can see my clothes, but not my face - maybe hidden a little by sunglasses or hat. I've yet to hear "Hey, Granny", but that could come. While I do not invite or appreciate those greetings, usually I put an end to the quick exchange with "Not your baby, not your mama!" I've always felt those gents are not looking for an actual dialog and the very sound of another person's voice in reply shuts them up. I believe those comments are made for some show of bravado for the entertainment of other males and really have little to do with me. More recently, the barbs contain the word "bitch" which angers me immediately. "F*#king bitch" or "old bitch" get me going. "Old white bitch" is worse. I feel like that takes unpleasantness to a new plane. I have found that women almost always use only the word "bitch" toward one another. Shame on us.

Replying to the unexpected verbal assault is tricky business. I'm already on record with the reasons I no longer flip strangers off. Nope. Not since July, 1976. So, for me at least, sometimes I censor myself out of concern for my safety and well-being. I'm small, older, possess no martial arts skills or weapons. If I assess that we're going to restrict ourselves to verbal warfare, I'm likely in it to win it. This works well with a pack of not too scary adolescent males who are too afraid to make eye contact. Maybe I decide not to say anything because of security worries, but walk off muttering brilliant bon mots to myself. Observation: the best riposte in the world loses steam if delivered over coffee with friends rather than right in the face of some lexical antagonist. One feels kind of chickenshitly brilliant. "Wish I'd said that right in his face."

It is important to me to explain I don't go looking for trouble, at least not out in the streets among strangers. Mostly, I do not carry a chip on my shoulder. By nature and by training, I am a peacemaker, a mediator. I'd much prefer to converse with a stranger about the 8-inch dog she's walking on a string than get into a mouth fight. But I grapple with the fact that I've also allowed myself to be attacked too much in life, abused, without objection. Turning the other cheek too often can result in sore, chapped skin. Neither aggressive nor timid, I am looking for the middle ground where I can live with myself. I try to weigh whether I'm ever going to see some spouting fool again, whether I think s/he is a threat to myself or others or offensive to people who cannot defend themselves. Then I decide whether to waste my breath. Mostly, I don't. Sometimes I cannot contain myself. Occasionally, I resort to good, strong Anglo-Saxon  words of no ambiguity.

Each of us has our boundaries. I won't tolerate overt sexual epithets, or those that touch on race, gender, creed, disability and more, whether the comment is aimed at me or someone else. I have to bark back about those, unless my safety is in question. I get that men do not wish to be called "boys". I understand that certain descriptors of country-of-origin have changed across time and I try to be aware of the most acceptable, least hate-inciting versions and to use those. Having suffered a few pangs of my own when I pushed my biracial baby in her stroller, I try to walk very, very softly and carry no stick at all. Sometimes, the less said, the better.

I heard the phrase when I was a child and I thought it was hilarious. It contained no terrible individual words but conjured up, in my fertile imagination, contortions and results that I found funny. It packed a lot of sass and told the recipient just exactly what s/he could go do, short of the big guns phrase involving the word "f*#k". It is still hilarious to me and I might pay the price of - oh, say - lunch or a beer to watch an attempt made. I wouldn't attempt it myself.

School is out and there are vehicles everywhere filled with excited young people. I stopped at a red light, cars both in front of me and behind me. I read sign language well, and the gesticulations of the driver behind me indicated he wanted me to pull up a little so he could scoot around me. I guess he and the other 16-year-olds were in a hurry. I didn't intend to move. I didn't have more than 18 inches clearance. He tapped my bumper twice. I didn't care for it and hung my head out to say, "Look, Asshole." I used the appellation "Asshole" as if it were his given name as his mother christened him. He did not care for that and maneuvered his urban assault vehicle alongside mine, using bike lane and gutter/sidewalk. From a pretty sharp tilt, he began to go off on me, his face not 12 inches from my passenger's own countenance. When he stopped for breath, I unleashed it, my smarty phrase. "You go piss up a rope!" The young Turks in Asshole's SUV truly loved my repartee, but it appears Asshole took exception to it. I suspect it was his youthful inexperience that caused him to accelerate his Suburban right into the trunk of a pretty substantial palm tree located on the same sidewalk that had so recently given him a leg up.

So how about you? What gets your goat out in the world of shouted warfare?

Something that charmed me: I've driven past it for years, the Dental Implant Institute with the shaded, rolling green grounds that make me think about the place Simon & Garfunkel's Mrs. Robinson went for her rest cure. Oh, the place clearly uses entirely too much water that we don't have to keep its lawns emerald, and I've never understood about the dolphin statuary here in the desert, but - hey - who am I? Maybe the owners love dolphins or come from an ocean environment or maybe there was a sale on dolphin sculpture. And I've pondered whether, should I decide to get dental implants after my free exam, they'd send their courtesy limo or their "fun van" to pick me up and deliver me safely home. So today, I'm rolling along the road. It's a little warmer than the past several days and soon we'll hit summer heat. WTF? I spun the block. New statuary at the Dental Implant Institute! Great big dental implants, brand new, judging by the condition of the paint. Custom made it would appear. Taller than I.

Nailed

Girlfriend Terri and I determined long ago that we have been profiled in this city. Oh, yes, without question. We are targets. Each of us is a small woman of a particular age, respectable looking. People would likely guess that we pay our bills and our taxes. On time. We each drive a modest, decent, newer model car of a color that defies description - unremarkable in every way. For the most part, each of us drives her car reasonably, abiding by the laws no one else here seems to understand. No police officer would ever spend a moment's thought on the possibility that one of us might be a threat to him or her. We're unlikely to be packing. Our reward for fitting this profile is regular citing for some truly ingenious "traffic violations". We call these events "Metro's (Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department) fundraiser". Hit the little women and add to the city's coffers. We are ticketed for things nearly as silly as going airborne to pass other cars or digging a tunnel to avoid a busy intersection. Really. We pay up, too. While I have a moral twinge about paying for extortion, I also object to the traffic court system which requires multiple appearances downtown, taking time out of one's life repeatedly, just to be required to pay in the end, anyway. Profiled. Sitting ducks.

Most recently, I have had the kind use of a friend's car more often than I have driven my own. I believe the friend sees this as a meaningful way to assist me at a time when I am coming out of some difficulties. He won't take gas money, he won't take no for an answer and he won't move his car so I can my own out of the garage. OK. I an accept a kindness graciously. The trouble is that bright red, V8 Mustang GT embarrasses the living hell out of me. No chastisement, please! I understand it's a classic car, an icon, that many Americans love. I just don't happen to be one of them. The trouble is that the car is so anti-me, so far from anything I represent, so big, so roaring, so heavy, such a gas guzzler . . . I don't care for it at all. When I arrive at AA in it, the bikers sitting outside smoking give me the "Hey, honey" look or make comments that border on unwelcome. Young Turks pull up next to me at stoplights and check out the machine from bumper to bumper, jaws dropping when they see me at the wheel. Recently a friend walked me out to this car and kind of grinned at me. Hey, the windows are tinted so dark, at least it would be difficult for an observer to be certain it was me. And finally, an older man at AA saw me arrive in my Nissan recently and said, "Weren't you driving a much finer car the other night?" Grrr . . None of my friends has any issue jumping in, reclining the seat back to an angle I can't use to drive, and hitting the sound system, so what is it with me?

By the way, I was also mortified in my 20s when I was tapped to move my mother's Cadillac from one location to another, for fear someone might see me in that conveyance which is not reflective of me, either, so I have long-standing issues. Which is not the point of this story. I was driving home feeling clean - cleansed - from my AA meeting. I started up a gentle incline on a street that is residential, quiet, but quite wide, sun-dappled at 6:30 p.m., and notorious for the motorcycle cops who lie in wait under the freeway overpass seemingly 24/7. I saw him there from a couple of blocks back. I made certain my foot was scarcely touching the gas pedal. It occurred to me (again) that that V8 engine roars even when the driver is not gunning it. But I felt I was doing all right. He was starting up the motorcycle and pulling out as I passed him. He hit his lights and I pulled over. I know how to behave. Don't flail my arms around, don't dive for purse or glove compartment, just wait for him to arrive at the window.

We immediately established a grand rapport. "Do you know why I stopped you, M'am?" "Sir, I don't." "Well, this is a 25 mph zone and I clocked you at 39 mph." "Ah," said I. We danced a little. I explained that I needed to get out of the car to get to my purse from the back. I had difficulty locating registration and insurance (hey, it's not my car!), but he was patient and level about all of it. When he gave me the ticket, he said, "You've been really cooperative. I wrote you up for only 5 mph above the speed limit." "Well, I thank you, Sir. Could we list the Ford Motor Company as partly responsible since this car likely goes 50 mph when the ignition is turned on?" Smiles. "Drive safely." I did. And slow. Not to split hairs, but when I got home and examined the ticket more carefully, I noted that it reads "Actual speed: 39, Cited speed: 30." I'm not quite sure I understand this. It's not like anyone else (the Court, DMV) will fail to know I got clocked at 39 mph. I'm required to contact the Court before August 10, so I can't even rely on the Rapture to get me off on this one. And as I drove off, I did not call the man a rat bastard or any other derogatory name, even under my breath.

OK, well it can't be blamed on anyone other than myself. It's not a weird charge - simply "going too fast". It'll cost more than I want to pay and I'll likely moan about that when the time arrives, too. I can't dance and I'm too fat to fly. "Pay the ticket and shut up, Les." "All right I will."

Last night I went a pretty far stretch across the city to listen to an AA speaker. He was an older man, very lively and entertaining to the 300 or so of us who gathered to hear yet the next drunk's tale. Yes, we really do get something good from that. It's part of the AA juju. The reason the program works. I am good at a speaker meeting. I absorb what the presenter has to say and I spend time rehashing it, spending time in the larger and smaller themes. I can't shake this, even though I've had a night's sleep and other distractions . . . this man's "bottom" (the place an alcoholic must reach before he is finally ready to admit that he has a problem) was remarkably bad by the standards of most people. He arose out of the wreckage across many years and regained a truly admirable way of life. His date of continuous sobriety? September, 1958. You should have seen me doing the math on my fingers and toes. I'm in awe.

So, we're going to volunteer at the Henderson Pavilion again through the stewardship of Acts of Kindness, the organization I support with my time and efforts. So this time, it's a local rock band combined with a symphony orchestra doing The Who, Pink Floyd and Led Zep, or so they say. All righty then. But I'm going and I'm scratching my head about why the damned Yellow Brick Road thing keeps popping up in my life. I don't like the yellow brick road reference or any images it conjures up. I know, I know. Dig out the black pants, white shirt, collect the vest at Will Call and listen to the music.

Is That You Rapture? Come, Transport Me!

It has been a crazy few days. Crazy. My bed appears to have been the stage for a major wrestling event. Lying open upon it is a collection of books seemingly half-read, a collection of Bukowski poems, biographies of Mae West and Mary Todd Lincoln, huge volume of Mathew Brady's Civil War photographs dropped, I am sure, because of its size, weight and unsuitability for reading in bed. Before snapping the picture, left, I shamefacedly removed the large collection of empty cucumber water bottles from the headboard. I've become enamored of that beverage and I was told to push fluids. That headboard can shelter a mighty horde of those bottles. And now it is time to lift my head from my surrealistic pillow to rejoin the living. You see, I've been sick for the better part of a week.

Like many people who live near me, I am beset with allergy miseries. It's spring. The wind has shrieked, flinging dust, allergens and debris for about 7 years straight. I woke up, knocked around in search of coffee and felt tearful. "What's this?" I wondered, tuning up some mindfulness skills to check in on myself. Hmm - really high fever. The sort I attribute more to children than to adults. Eyes gooey, nose alternately runny and socked in solid, chest rattling like rusty old chains. Could I be sick? Um, yes, that miserable sensation in my ear suggested I was quite sick. Enough so that I broke down and sought medical attention. Antibiotics - check. Antihistamines - yep. Prescription eye drops - sure. Vicodin? "Do you think I'll really need that?" She thought I would. I had a pretty severe ear infection.The pain was going to get worse before it got better.

I do not care for Vicodin. It's effect on me is a not-quite-enough masking of pain. I still know the pain's there, just beyond my fingertips and I know I'll feel it more intensely before it's time to take another pill. Sometimes this medication makes me slightly nauseous or dizzy, and - oh, yeah, best of all - it makes me sidewinder mean after I've had about 3 doses. I once gave my mother 50 years of what-for in one Vicodin-inflamed telephone spew. I know it does nothing good for my personality and I try to avoid it. Also, there is some spirited decades-long debate within AA about whether one is truly "sober" if they're not drinking but are taking certain kinds of medication. I can see the argument in favor of "lost sobriety" if one takes these babies for pleasure and thrills. Pleasure? Reader, I don't understand one's coworkers who descend as soon as the dental surgery is completed, "Did you get any extra Vicodin? I'll pay you $4 a pill." I decided I would take them as prescribed, prescribed only for me, as needed for pain, by my physician who knows I am an alcoholic. If any deviation from that seemed imminent, I knew what to do to find help.

Settling into bed with books, music, cell phone, paper and pen, wireless keyboard, remote control devices, two cats, cucumber water, a bit to eat and the Vicodin, I set forth on a journey of unequalled brilliance and revelation. I read, I wrote, I dozed, I talked to myself and cats. It would be fair to say I meditated, though I am not formally trained for that. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I resolved several of the world's larger problems, wrote a discourse in florid language on a topic about which I heretofore knew nothing, made astounding discoveries of nature from my bedside, thought about whether it was morning or afternoon when the clock read 3:00. I did some AA 4th Step work which I didn't like at all. I did some Grief Recovery work on a couple of issues I'd not resolved within myself, though they happened some time ago. I liked that even less, so I turned over to sleep for awhile. By the third day, I was more than ready to shake a leg, get out of bed and get to an AA meeting. Yep, I felt like hell. No, I likely wasn't contagious. It wasn't that I felt a need to drink. It was that I needed to see the faces. Those faces. The two old men (old, as in my general age group) who are wordsmiths, like me. We love to tear into the AA Big Book with its 75-year-old language, applying our modern-day linguistic sensibilities to the precepts. "Les, did you bring your thesaurus?" "I did, men!" The (very) young man who comes on Thursdays and Fridays to take in a meeting where he might hear me speak. "I like to hear you share. I feel like we may have walked down many of the same paths." I feel the same, young taxi driver! I returned home feeling refreshed, refilled.

So it happened that this morning, I knew I must clean up the artifacts of the few days during which I'd clearly had more than one transcendental experience. Stack the paper, close the books properly with bookmarks, mail the notes and cards and other forms of communication I'd written, brush cat hair from everything, get the sheets into the laundry. Feeling so enlivened, I wanted to review what I'd written, what I'd highlighted in the ultimate books, what I'd digitally recorded as reminders to myself. I envisioned myself a latter-day seeress, gliding down Newland Avenue on paroxysms of deep truth, hair and garb not unlike that of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Um, yeah. To paraphrase an old shibboleth, "A wasted mind is a terrible thing".

So, my great observation of the natural world: Virginia Woolf's claws click like so many tiny high heels on the hardwood floor as she walks. I don't need to have the lights on to tell which cat approaches. Of course, when Bogey approaches, the earth moves, too. It seemed so profound when I observed and internalized it.

I wrote my de profundis epic opus that would make a rock weep. Oh, I struck a blow on page after page, pouring it all out, my entreaties for the peace that beautiful verity would have brought, though I was only to be smote with one pretty prevarication after another. No sestet, couplet, no iambic pentameter here, this was blooded ink run rampant. A sonnet squared or cubed relating pain, becoming anger. I sense my writing style was affected by the Oscar Wilde study I'd just completed a day before. Carly Simon thought her wrongdoer was so vain he'd probably think this song was about him. I'd submit that some blackguards wouldn't recognize themselves in a mirror. We shall see when I send it, embossed and decorated, to the intended recipient. I believe that all of that falls under the Grief Recovery umbrella.

In my recorded messages to myself, I sound like a rummy - there's really no nice way to say it. My missives look like the flying monkeys wrote them. And I'm really, really still unpleasant. Yesterday, I resorted to deep sighing and eyeball rolling, reminiscent of some of my mother's more unpleasant nonverbal expressions of unhappiness. Oh, it wasn't my fellow AA's fault that she's dyslexic and had only been to the speech location once before, in about October of 1998. It's not her fault that when I offered to MapQuest the place, she said, "No need. No problem." When I allowed as how I figured we were now in Arizona, she became distressed and couldn't tell me even which direction to take. Hey - all the landmarks had changed. Once we arrived, late, I was immediately put off by the first speaker for a reason not fit to print. Then he launched into his one-liners about the inadvisability of dating a "broad from AA". Ahem. Not one, but two, women speakers annoyed me by the word they applied to females. "Women" is a word that usually sits well with me. Certain other words don't fly as effectively and I tend to drift in my thoughts. Women speaking arrogantly about other women . . . And so, one can see I'm still not 100%. Still a little grumpy. Tetchy like. However, I hear no wind and the sun has finally come out and the raspy gacking noises of Virginia Woolf hurling really expensive cat food came from outside, not inside. I think this will be a better day. It'd be a hell of a note if the world ended or something.