Personae, Debate and Mistaken Identity

OK, you've already met me 
as Stamp Girl.

What do you think of the new 
and updated Stamp Woman?
Click for larger image.

A friend at work showed me a picture collage on his iPhone, featuring his young grand - son's face tricked up like stamp images. "Isn't that cool?" he asked. Boy, howdy! My head began to spin. "Hey, Mark, if I e-mailed a couple of pictures, would you mind . . .?" He said he didn't mind. When the picture landed, I chortled a little, being a woman who is pretty easily amused. Then landed another e-mail: "What do you think of this?" Ha! Coin Chick!

"Now you're the Leslie Morgan Silver Dollar," he wrote. Having not
seen this possibility before, I guffawed right out loud. David commented
that my hands resemble claws, as if I were clawing at my face, in the coin
version. "Yes, Sir. Distressed at the economy. Clawing for my life."

The end of the work day neared. Only George and I remained in the office. "Would it be bad form if I took the rest of my birthday cake away rather than leave it here to be enjoyed with coffee tomorrow?" For, despite having served plank sized portions, there was still half of that mammoth cake remaining. "Darlin', it's your birthday cake. You do whatever makes you happy." I decided to take it to AA. Sometimes some people there haven't eaten all day. The free coffee and refreshments might be all they get for awhile. Jenn and I attracted a lot of attention in the parking lot. Typically, when someone appears with cake at AA, it means they're celebrating a sobriety birthday. Everyone applauds that. But the cake, on its own, is appreciated, too. "Whose birthday?" "Mine!" "Oh, do you have a year now?" "Nope, I have 59 years!" Odd looks. We set up for the meeting, answering all the questions: "Leslie's birthday, brought the rest of the cake, etc." A woman who is rather contentious came in. "What's that?" We explained again, though we thought a giant slab o' cake was pretty self explanatory. "We're not supposed to celebrate belly button birthdays at AA," she pronounced.

I don't care for the term. I understood she meant we celebrate sobriety birthdays more than natal days, but her comment made me bristle a little. I looked around the room where are posted the 12 Steps, the 12 Traditions, all the short slogans we live by . . nothing about "celebrate no belly button birthdays here". I said, "We're not celebrating anything. I simply brought refreshments to be shared in fellowship." And, besides, there are no "supposed to's" in AA - it is a system of benevolent anarchy. Everyone does it his or her way. Jenn grinned. "Well done," she mouthed. Some others came along and someone said, "Hey, it's your birthday, why don't you lead the meeting?" I did so, with pleasure. The question of belly button birthdays vs. sobriety birthdays was thoroughly chewed upon, as AAs on both sides of the question munched away at my cake. Since I was leading, I got to observe rather quietly, and it pleased me to watch people rant about what was right and what was not and to tuck absentmindedly into that confection that aroused such passionate conversation.

Up just with the sunrise, I flipped on the coffeemaker and the TV, started the shower, stroked Virginia Woolf's fur for a moment, yawned. It requires a lot of my energy to get myself up and out every morning. Oh, I want to go! It's just been a long time since I kept a work schedule and I have to be disciplined about meeting all my obligations, one such demand being to allow myself rest and relaxation and pleasurable activities. An ad came on announcing a concert at a casino-resort I could walk to. I've walked to a concert before. It's kind of fun to simply stroll through the madness as everyone else tries to maneuver cars through chaos. The streets between the venue and home are well lit and busy around the clock. I'd be safe. Maybe . . I like John Sebastian, coffee-house folkie who fronted the Lovin' Spoonful and a handful of other good groups in the day, as well as having a solo career. He's a great songwriter whose voice remains true and who still looks adorable.  Maybe . . The announcer raved on about the intimacy of the venue, the rare opportunity to see a performer as special as John Sebastian. One of the artist's songs kicked in, fairly loud compared to the spoken part of the ad, and I had a "WTF?" moment. For performing in person is one Joan (pronounced "John", at least in this TV spot) Sebastian. Not at all the man I had in mind. So, maybe not . . . Oh, I'm certain Joan Sebastian is a marvelous singer. Just not what I was expecting.

       

Special thanks to Mark Bubel for indulging my whimsy.

This Isn't a Performance Review, Is It?

If the reader has visited here often, s/he knows I like words. Oh, I fairly consume the morsels, savoring the flavor, masticating them to a new consistency, sieving them through filters of dictionary, thesaurus, synonym, antonym and used-in-a-sentence. I love to take on new (to me) lexeme as my own small badges of personality and I love - love - to engage in wordplay, using phrases that don't seem the right ones to illustrate a point, or taking terms somewhat out of context to infer new meaning. A lot of paper and virtual images cross my desk, some of which please me and some not. I am pretty quick, glancing, digesting, concluding, filing for storage or recycling. My workplace is still new to me in some ways. I don't know all the tricks like "Oh, unplug the laser printer at night or it goes poltergeist." or "That coffeemaker on the left spews water like a pump." "No fooling," thought I as I mopped myself off. So one of the office machines suffered a contretemps and began to regurgitate hundreds of pages of stuff. I clicked on "Cancel", I hit the "End" key, I powered the rascal down by turning it off . . . to no avail. That apparatus was fully intent upon sending forth its spawn and all I could do was clear the output tray for a long time.

I am not one to dawdle. Though I can easily over-agitate, I seek some balance between catatonic and manic. I try to keep busy enough in the head to make life interesting and fun and quirky and droll. As the pages flew, some words and themes began to grab my attention. Originally, I'd deemed this output to be unknowable (by me) computer bullshit - you know - UCBS. But could it possibly be subliminal stimuli, an evaluation of my worth after two weeks of sterling performance? There were some 100,000 words that said absolutely nothing. I was sure of it. But then . . there seemed a suggestion that I am not stacked (true), that I am offensive and commanded to flush. A fairly harsh assessment, likely not deserved. Intentionally null? Oh, I don't think so. I didn't set out purposely to be that. Then came the comment that I needed to clean up my features (which it seemed I was able to begin and end) and was intentionally blank! The coup de grace, however, was that I have no installed memory. What the . . ? David walked by. He takes the temperature of a room by looking at my face. He says he never has to ask me how things are going and we must never enter me in a poker game. "What's wrong?" "Oh, nothing. Just a funky machine. It's been a couple of weeks now, David. Am I doing OK enough?" Big grins all around. All right, I can go back to my work now.

So, I love me some Mike. Mr. Mickey Man has introduced me to more new (to me) music than anyone else I can think of. And he pays attention to what the other music lover enjoys. If I'm not mistaken, his e-mail said nothing. Simply a link. Oh! Oh, my! New. New Lu.

The imagery, tempo and tone put me in mind of her 2003 tune, Ventura, which is important music to me.

Look, folks, I get it. You like her or you don't like her. That's OK. It takes all kinds to make a world. What I love among so many other things: she puts her age/generation right out there: " . .I'm 57 but I could be 7 years old . ."

Something bad happened to me this week. Another human being behaved really badly and sent terribly disturbing bad thoughts careening in my direction through the mist. I didn't deserve bad treatment, though I got it. I was supported by women friends, fellow AAs and I got through without drinking.

More, more to tell. I have a writing deadline of 9-11. For on THE 9-11 ('01 ~ it's been nearly 10 years) my tiny, personal world changed. And I'm trying to tiptoe up to writing about it. I am both compelled and hesitant. A terrible dilemma.

And, p.s.: some of the photos of Lucinda show an eroded chick a la Grace Slick in her dotage. Other, carefully artistic Lu - man! Could I be as glorious as that?

Signing off, a jumbly Leslie Morgan . . appreciated today (by others who expressed themselves in different ways) sufficiently to make me willing to try on tomorrow as another day . . .

The Bear Came Back

Hey, I've been wrestling bear again, with a bit of a twist. This time I brought no bottle to help me either beef up and whup the bear or to help me high-tail it and run out of the woods. With apologies to those who are adept at problem solving, I have not always, nor have I often, been good at making positive decisions on my own when it comes to my problems. Oh, put me in charge of 8,000 school employees about to lose their health benefits in a bad economy and I am the go-to-girl. I advocate nearly to the death for others in trouble, but I don't support myself as well as I represent a stranger. These things belong in the "I'm not worth it" basket. That basket belongs in the long line of character defects I'm (re)discovering as I work my very hard AA Step Four. The basket, however, is being dismantled. It seems to be more gap, more split than basket, more "not there". It seems to sieve the rot a little faster, the torrent washing away. But it won't be completely fixed immediately, if ever.

A change was to occur in my day-to-day living situation. It was beyond my control (thanks, Serenity Prayer, for helping me to figure that out, for this would have been a big order to micromanage). I had no vote. Really, it was only very nominally any of my business except for the way this change would feel to me. I was given 3 weeks notice. On paper, it didn't seem like it might affect me all that much. Two hours into the "new", and I was done. Not having it. My whole world had just changed and I had to "do something". Frequent visitors to this blog know that I am very big on "doing something", often too soon and too ill-conceived to have any positive results. I got annoyed. I got a little too quiet. I got angry. I disappeared into my private quarters and refused to come out. Note: this is the point at which I typically introduce the bottle or some really regrettable behavior to break the tension and ratchet it up a little. But I did it differently this time, if not so prettily.

It can't have been attractive. It was hell for hot and my scalp dripped perspiration. I spread out all the books on the bed. I printed a few worksheets and threw out the cats, to their shock. I lined up phone numbers I might need. Oddly, I ran from both music and TV/movie white noise and just sat in near-silence. And sat. Scribbled and sat. I did not cry. I flipped through the books to the pages I've highlighted so diligently for 7 months. I Googled some things. I used some self-soothing techniques I have learned. It may be interesting to know that in one particular modality, self-soothing can range from masturbation to eating a favored food. I did not feel sex with myself was the best choice in this case. I made some phone calls. I looked in the mirror (literally) and I did not care for what looked back at me. It was a face that revealed all the flaws from my internal landscape. I looked old and mean. I went to an AA meeting and told my woes, spinning in a little humor, because I am driven to do that. When they laughed, I had to laugh, too, and sincerely. I'm goony and I know it.  Soon began e-mails, phone calls and knocks at the door. "What's wrong? You almost seem depressed." That was a good word for it, though I didn't intend to succumb to it. "Are you eating and drinking fluids?" I was. As much as I felt I needed. "Do you need me to come over?"  No. Please. Finally, the insistent plea I did not care for, but relented to: "I need you to open the door and let me see you, just for a moment." I resented that. There was no bottle in there with me. I opened the door and proved that, delivering up a few harsh words to show my displeasure. She just grinned at my foul mouth.

Although I am an advanced age, there are certain basic skills which are not well-developed in me. I talked myself down this time, without alcohol or drama (if one dismisses my running to my room and slamming the door - please, it was a first attempt). I walked out realizing that my whole world had not just changed. One element had changed, no matter whether I supported it or not. Now I have options. I can do anything I want to do. This may require me to rise up out of my comfort-wallow and do some things differently, but it was time for that anyway. Perhaps I was growing just a little complacent. I'm not really all that entitled, one knows. Or I can just hold completely still and suck it up, tolerate that which does not please me. I'm not drunk, I'm not homeless, I've lost nothing. I've simply had something enter my atmosphere that does not charm me, and now . . . . what will I do with that? I wonder. Biggest lesson learned: I could have set fire to my hair, slit my wrists, and jumped off a bridge simultaneously while brandishing a bottle. Then I'd have more problems to solve. I didn't choose to go that way. The choice is within my power to make. It may shock the reader to learn that this may well be the first time I've ever made such a conscious choice in a matter that has thrown me, unless I was being managed by keepers stronger than I. That may be literally true.

When I first started in AA, I was told I only needed to be willing to believe in a higher power, not actually have one. This was a relief to me as that higher power thing was difficult and I was already struggling. At first, like many of us, I chose the AA group itself as my higher power. Surely that collective had to be more powerful than I on my own. No Jesus Christ for me, I began to read voraciously, in search of my higher power who has developed into a loving power, with the appearance of a lizard made from many spare lizard parts (I have seen such a lizard in the desert). Higher power's name is Roland. Come on, of course this is not literally true, but this is what I am willing to share - I've been told I can pray to a lightbulb or a doorknob if that's what works for me. The tenets of Rolandism draw from many learned writings and I seem to have well integrated one narrow precept fairly well. I applied it to my problem, worked it until I believed it, and came out healthy and sober, with a plan.

As much as I would like things to remain static, black and white, they don't. Everything changes every moment. I don't control that. But I do have to live with it. It occurs to me (lighting bolt at age 58) that, as nothing is black and white, then my tendencies to assign like/dislike, love/hate or right/wrong designation to a situation probably contribute to self-delusion. Rather than opposites, those things seem to be integral parts of the same whole concept, which I cannot dissect. I am forced to accept things as they are, not as I wish them to be and then stab them with a poster pin to hold them in place at the opportune stage. So, as the wind screams and my appointment was just pushed out until tomorrow, I believe I'll go put a few miles on my aching body.

Something that charms me/disarms me, that I like/dislike, love/hate:  I have lived a life down a groundhog hole in the dark. Reveal nothing! I am musing on the dichotomy of my groundhogly self now superimposed by someone transparent enough to be understood, even just a little. When I went too quiet, others noticed and asked me about it. More yin and yang? I'll have to meditate and let you know.

When My Silence is Your Comfort

My friend and I were adding to a long and lively stream of e-mails between us, landing on any and every topic that crosses the mind of one or the other and solving the world's problems in general. She mentioned an event from her young childhood that hasn't left her though decades have passed. A man exposed himself to her and her girlfriend, not overtly with noise and fanfare, but in a rather sneaky way that may have allowed him a narrow opportunity to say that his nakedness was unintentional. My friend remembers that she knew this was "wrong" and "bad", but she also remembers that she felt compelled to be "polite". One feels it would have been far beyond her ability to have said, "Hey, beat it, you freak!" or to have screamed out, "Pervert here, bothering little girls!" No, the lily wagger got by with it, perhaps to live on and show his business again the next day in the park. The innocent young girl grew into a woman who isn't precisely traumatized by the event, but hasn't forgotten it and muses upon her reaction to it.

My personal violations are not exactly the same. No stranger exposed himself to me in the park in my tenderest years. The similarity between my friend's experience and many of my own is this: some of us are so willing to be "polite", not blow the whistle, not make any waves, we will do that even to our own detriment, safety and peace of mind. Did we once possess that little bit of attitude, that disregard for the niceties, that willingness to call a spade exactly that? Was it beaten out of us in one way or another? Or were we convinced very young that we just shouldn't say things outright, perhaps that no one was interested enough to listen or pay attention and our best hope in life was just to be polite?

It happens I appreciate people who just say what they're thinking. Oh, sometimes they make one a bit uncomfortable, but little is left to the imagination. No fantasies, good or bad, need be constructed. No bullshit among the straightforward, right? I am still not completely forthcoming with exactly what I think in every single situation. Age and menopause have brought me a little closer to outspokenness. The courage of my convictions and an appreciation of the things I know well has bucked me up, somewhat. But I am still rather accommodating to those I encounter who may prefer not to hear my actual reaction to their words or behavior.

If you are one who takes comfort from the silence of certain others, here are some things to consider:

• Though some of you think we are dumb, we're not necessarily. Our failure to bark in your face does not mean we believe what you've just said. Nor do we forget it. One doesn't want to think s/he has put one over on us.
• When you say, every time we see one another, "Girl, I'm going to call you next week for lunch - it's been too long!", we don't hold our breath any more.
• When you say "Just because _____, doesn't mean _____," we know that's exactly what it means.
• When you say the same thing to us over and over and over again, but your words aren't followed by any action to support them, you can stop telling us whatever it is. We don't believe you any more.
• When you tell us in vivid detail about your latest exploit that most people would find shocking, do not mistake our silence for approval. Maybe we're simply not up to screaming "Slut!" or "Bastard!" at you.
• When you take an unpopular stand on something in a group, do not misconstrue our quietude for solidarity. Perhaps we're simply embarrassed we brought you along and don't wish to call attention to ourselves or you.
• Sitting at lunch together, when you say, "Don't think _____. That's not how it is.", be warned: we know that's just precisely how it is.

If you are one who takes comfort from the silence of certain others, here are some other things to consider: perhaps you seek out those you know will be silent because you are unwilling to face your own nonsense. They won't force you to do that, either. Maybe you pontificate to the quiet ones because it makes you feel pretty good about yourself. You might blow smoke up the butts of such people, because you can and no one challenges you. There is a chance you do these things to avoid relating with other human beings in any real way. My friend coined a most beautiful phrase: "Such people are addicted to deception. They thrive on misrepresentation undisputed."

Although I have come a way down the road, I doubt I'll hang my head out of the car window tomorrow and say "Damn, that's an ugly hat, old lady!" I probably won't immediately start in on everyone I know with "Stop spinning it, I'm not buying it." At least not in every situation. At AA, when someone yammers on until I want to scream, I'm unlikely to say, "Hey, I think you're drunk now!" But I feel I could manage, in honor of my friend, "Hey, Mister, your dick is out and I'm not appreciating it. Put it away before I call a cop," if such a situation presented itself. Sometimes we take on the bigger tasks first and fill in the blanks later with the little stuff.

Keeping Up Appearances

In the first year (at least) of sobriety, one wants to avoid HALT - getting too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Those, apparently, are triggers to most of "us" and can render us needy, isolated, depleted, and looking for something to fill up our emptiness. This is not good for an addict. This is where we go looking for our substance of choice. It is better to avoid slipping into a hole than trying to climb out of it. In the past week, I've pushed the limits. An abundance of work and, therefore, deadlines led me to tired, hungry and lonely (or, at least, alone). I never quite landed on angry, but I'm sure it would have shown itself had I continued to push. And, actually, my displeasure with the barista at the airport Starbucks last night could almost have qualified as angry. Certainly bitchy, at least.

I made an agreement with myself and wrote it in the DayPlanner, because that is the way I have to do these things if they are to happen. No going anywhere or doing anything for friends. My world-renowned expertise on all things technological or computer (Ha! All things are relative.) will simply have to be put on hold for a couple of days. I will not be available to attend the AA Spring Fling for 7 hours, but I will pop in briefly on my way into or out of a meeting. Though poking around in the yard sounds kind of fun, I do not want my new neighborly best friend to conclude that I am eager for intense gardening, so maybe I should just lay low. I will not do laundry. I won't tap at e-mails until they begin to feel like work. I will not write one word on the pop art icon I am paid to write about. I will give no consideration to any small luxuries I'd like to take on now that my finances have improved, for that would first require a serious breakdown of necessary spending and I'd turn that into a days-long project. I will consider a soak in the hot tub or a soak in my jacuzzi bathtub if I can spook up some interesting new form of bath salts. I will surely read both sobriety/recovery materials and the reading I do for pure pleasure. I will sleep or nap whenever my body or mind says "Now." And finally, I thought, "Maybe I'll learn about something new. Do something a little different."

I don't like to wah-wah about anything. No, really. I do wah-wah, but that is only to let off pressure so I don't explode. After I wah-wah, I suffer great angst and guilt. One of the most deeply ingrained messages I got young is "Don't ask anyone for anything. Do it yourself. Be self-sufficient." It's been a burden, that requirement against which one judges oneself, to know how to do all things. And well. Mostly, across time, I learn how to do most things I want to know about. But one must measure that "time" against the movement of - oh, say - the mighty glaciers, not against the speed of a roadrunner. First, I have to noodge a lot about why I don't automatically know how to do whatever it is. "Ha!" thought I. "I know what I want to do. I can likely do it right at the computer, never changing out of my raggedy but comforting dorm shirt, never doing anything to my hair."

I got a cold drink, flung open the French doors, set the music and started to noodle around online. Oh, please! Don't let the "Wine" part of that advertisement disturb you. I'm told this is a vintage ad for the original formulation of what ultimately became Coca-Cola, and that's what was in my tall, iced glass. I found what I needed very quickly. Oh! Both free and easy to use. The download took no time at all. Within minutes, I had the basics down. In an hour, I was doing fancy stuff. My thoughts started to drift into old wah-wah territory. Now I'd have to apologize for having taken so long to learn what seemingly everyone else knew how to do . . . never mind. I don't apologize. No, really. When it became urgent to me, I went and learned. Everything in its own time.

I learned to enhance photos to maximum unambiguity, even though I am no photographer. I now have the means to post my pictures so they will present in the way that I saw them, not in the way that my ham-fisted camera work delivers up. I pondered on how big a cheat I thought this was. Other people learn to take fine pictures from behind the camera. That does not intrigue me, though I would like to illustrate my posts with things I saw that pleased me or made me laugh or made me sad. I landed on something I can live with. I was born with a face. It is neither hideous nor beautiful. It presents better if I use certain techniques to punch up its positive attributes and play down the unfortunate ones. Once, a friend commented that she liked the way I kept my hair. I replied, "Yes, well, I try to keep it nice because I have to wear it right up here by my face." I believe it's OK to use assistance to play up appearance.

And so, it's been nearly a year since my trip to Arizona. I only got to post one of many pictures I actually took that pleased me very much. Almost immediately afterward, I went on my urgently needed blog sabbatical. All those images are lying quietly in the bag, along with the memory of getting down on my knees in the garden rocks, putting my sweating face right up into those photo ops, and snapping, experimenting with angles, having a good time, getting a breather after a very long walk in the early morning heat. Yes, I know about the plethora of purty flower pitchers in the blogosphere. Yes, I hear the cries of "Please, show us something else besides flowers!" That's OK. I don't offer my pics as exceptional in any way except for the extreme pleasure they gave me - both the camera work and the enjoyment afterward. I feel the sweat rolling down my body, the was sun burning through the top of my hat, my large array of walk-alongs (water bottle, iPod, cell phone) spread out on the ground beside me. "You OK, Lady?" Nice people in that community. "I'm grand, Sir. Thank you."

Yes, I know Osama bin Laden is dead and (maybe, according to some news reports) we're supposed to cheer about that. Ten years, and all. But I'm not paying attention to that right now. Maybe never. I'm not required to. I'd rather reminisce and learn something new.

Flower photos: Leslie Morgan, 2010

Venus Rising

I have emerged. Four days and nights of writing, sleeping, quick showers, quick nibbles, and then back to work to meet a (soft) deadline today. [See last post below.] I did it according to the tempo my body and mind set, so I typed awhile in the predawn and I slept some during the daylight. I escaped once each day to go to an AA meeting and I got up occasionally to stretch and work my body. I have spent much time alone with myself. Too much? I don't know. I reviewed many things from life and played movies the reader may laugh about. I concentrated 100% on my writing project for long periods of time and then took brain vacations wherever I chose to go. I won't approach a deadline in the same way again. Although it worked, it was not ideal for me. We live, learn and modify. Last night I blurted "Finis!" And it was finis - at least this first draft. I got up from the chair, stretched, grinned, sipped coffee. I almost immediately got an e-mail from David. "I'm not recuperating as quickly as I'd hoped from Thursday's surgery. I won't be able to work tomorrow. Can we play it by ear?" I sent back a sincere, "Just get better. I'm totally ready when you are." I thought to put up a post as I'd not done any writing for fun in several days. What I managed to do was put up the appearance of a post with a title from Byron's "She Walks in Beauty . . " and no other content. I can't even blame Blogger. I was just done and ready for insertion of the fork. "Go to bed, Les. Give it all up. This gig is over." And so, I did, French doors wide open to let in the warm night, cats curled up at the foot of the bed, content that their part in my writing marathon was now complete.

I have always enjoyed writing as part of my work, and I have always approached my work both feet forward, "Let's go!" But writing for work used to look different. When I worked for the union, I was acknowledged the writer of post-hearing and post-arbitration briefs in our office. This didn't make me unique. We each had a specialty. Writing just happened to be mine. When it was possible, various labor reps would trade off tasks, making each of us look good in all areas of our work. It was a different era. Our office was equipped with a fine word processor approximately the size of a small condo and an enormous printer that required a monstrous "cone of silence", as we dubbed it, to keep the noise within legal limits. The floppy disks were about the same dimensions as an old 33 rpm vinyl record. We were also gifted, in this office, with a Secretary I and a Secretary II for our combined needs. No Administrative Assistants, yet. These women were "secretaries" and proud of the title. I had served as the Secretary II in that office for years before my meteoric promotion to labor rep. I was likely pretty difficult for the two ladies to please, and in truth, I'd have preferred to boot one of them from her chair and bang at the keyboard on my own as we do today on our PCs. However, I was a true union believer. Each of us had our work to do, and I needed to let the women do their jobs.

My preferred secretary was Chris. She was my cousin's best friend since junior high school and I'd helped her to get the job for which she probably didn't qualify. I met her at the office on Saturdays and helped her get up to speed so she would be able to do the job. She rewarded me by becoming very good at what she was asked to do. On weekends, Chris, Cousin and I were an unholy trio of fun-loving, hell-raising 80s-90s women, residing in the vast 4-square-mile metropolis of Lemon Grove. We thought we were the queen and princesses of that cloistered little world. I could lean on Chris a little with my work demands and she'd dig in for me. That doesn't mean it was always sunshine and roses. She learned to enter the office before 8:00 a.m. and listen for the sound of my music. She could tell my mood by what I was playing. I learned to bring peace offerings and deliver them sincerely - "Chris, you know it's just the pressure I apply to my work." She understood that and loved me anyway. She was in the birthing center with us when Amber was born. Chris and I used a love name for one another when it was time to give a warning tone that we were reaching the end of our good nature: "Sea Hag". Yes, Popeye's Sea Hag, the one with the pet vulture, Bernard. The Sea Hag had always fascinated and repelled me, and it just popped out of my face one day. When others would ask "So which one of you is the Sea Hag?", we'd respond in unison, "She is!" I once found a gloriously beautiful Sea Hag and Bernard action figure in a funky little shop in a mall. There was only one, and of course, I bought it. To my credit, I gave it to Chris. I've searched and searched for another Sea Hag, but I guess I will have to accept that she will only live on in my dreams and on old, old cartoons.

Late in the 80s, I'd sit up as late as necessary, writing for work, sometimes following a 16-hour workday. Hey, I had coffee. I'd drive to Chris' house at 5:00 a.m., tuck maybe 153 pages of hand-written yellow legal pad sheets under her windshield wiper, go home, rest a short while, shower, dress for the day, and land in the office - looking pretty fresh, I think - to find my first draft ready. When I needed to include an infant's needs in my night shift work, I managed that, too, though it took a lot more out of me. Sometime I shall write about the dawn day that I was hurrying to drop the writing off to Chris and accidentally locked my baby and the keys in the car. She slept through it. I nearly melted into a puddle in my driveway. The Lemon Grove Sheriff said, "Lady, if you want us to, we'll break out a window. But the baby is sleeping. Look, you can see her." AAA took an hour to arrive. But I digress. And I think I just told the entire story of baby locked in car. My point is that I could pull the occasional (or semi-frequent) all-nighter, present a good piece of writing, look perfectly appropriate the next day, work another 16 hours of intense enjoyment, and continue on. I thought I was a young Venus rising, but no longer.

Let's see. This time I preplanned almost to a fault. Had the apocalypse come, I'd have been ready. Man, that sounds an awful lot like my mother. I had a fine, fast PC, dual monitors, reference materials and office supplies at my fingertips. I was working on a project that has no right or wrong. I designate right, wrong or appropriate, verifiable or not, anecdotal or witnessed by many who will come forward in writing. There is no element of anyone (like a union member) winning or losing in this endeavor. There is no prior written biography of my subject to be challenged or bested. And yet, it was far more difficult for me to execute than any previous crunch-time assignment. Oh, some of it is that I'm rusty and don't fully trust myself. Yes, I had some concerns whether my recent illness and its artifacts would hinder me. They didn't. And yet, it took a lot out of me. I had to acknowledge it: I am no longer she who was. I can still deliver the goods. It just takes more of me to do it.

Last night, when I finally decided to throw in the towel, I stepped into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Of course, I got a look at myself in the mirror, "the writer at the end of the project". Oh, it wasn't quite as bad as death eating a cracker. But it was pretty bad. I felt as if I might smell kind of cobwebby like an old lady, and I looked - oh, yeah - like the Sea Hag, with or without Bernard perched upon her shoulder.

April Alliteration - Alcohol
My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey
Happy ending ~ 100% possible
Installment 5

Fast forward to April 16, 2011: The AA meeting I attended was something else altogether. Saturdays are not de rigeur at the club, so it helps break any tendency to complacency and forces me to try other things. The Feather Meeting intrigued me. The AAs there appear almost 100% to be breakaways from the enormous biker gatherings in appearance and presentation. I would say most of them have many, many years of sobriety and AA experience. A huge "bong" (sorry, no other word for it) of sage is burned in an abalone shell and passed one to another, the smoke purifying the environment. I detested the smell of the burning sage and after the meeting, my clothes and hair reeked of it, but I held in. An eagle feather is passed from one AA to another as each speaks. One holds only the beaded handpiece, and not the actual feather. There is no evidence of the Big Book or any other AA publication, but I must underscore that these AAs are veterans and recite entire pages of the Big Book from memory, so I wasn't too offput by that. "god" is universally referred to as "the creator". I have no problem with that. Going around in the circle, the AAs talked about stuff one hears at every other AA meeting, but then I was struck by something I didn't care for very much. These renegades, these outlaws, these very-far-from-mainstream folks are extremely rigid about their own little version of the AA "talk circle" and its "rules". There is all manner of bad juju surrounding the utterance of a curse word while one holds the eagle feather. One man supposedly committed this sin (I swear I did not hear him swear, and I was paying attention!) and all manner of grief and finger-pointing ensued. This was intriguing to me. Across the campus at the middle-of-the-road group operate all the freedoms I've come to associate with AA. And in the room populated by the wild bunch, restriction and required orderliness and rule-following. This intrigues me. And I marvel that I've now been doing this long enough to form opinions and preferences for certain meetings.

Something that charmed me: Two somethings, actually ~ Sunday afternoon, I pounded the keyboard in temperatures of more than 90 degrees outdoors. "Hmmmmmm, " thought I. I savored the first iced coffee of the season! And ~ I lost weight during my writing project! No, no, not the difference in weight effected by whether or not I am sporting a pencil behind my ear. Real loss. I wasn't a slave to The Bean, either. Go figure.

For Kirk, By Request (Or At Least Upon Suggestion)

Blogging friend Kirk appreciates the beauty of a vintage neon sign against a dark sky and I knew that. I just didn't happen to be thinking about it when I last posted. I was daydreaming along Fremont Street in the car, fantasizing about the Lucky Cuss Motel in the sunshine. Kirk didn't complain. He simply commented that the sign would probably be amazing against the night sky. He was right! So here is the Lucky Cuss as it would be seen by some lucky cuss after dinner, drinks and a spin of the roulette wheel.
And, as added sprinkles on the top, these are Miss Vickie Vegas, the cowgirl (though I think she should be dubbed the Lovely Leslie Las Vegas - hey, I've got the boots and I can kick pretty high), and a view of the Neon Museum displays lit up at night.

I do not typically rely on pictures as the bulk of my posts, but my alcohol paragraphs run a little long this time. So I'll let the pictures tell a story and continue on with my real life one.

NO photo credits: Leslie Morgan (She couldn't do as well.)

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending ~ 100% possible

Installment 3

As a teenager, I consumed some alcohol, although pot and other substances were preferred by young people of the time. I am small, I share the genetic makeup, and I am foolishly mulish. The instant someone says "You'd better not drink any more," I'm off and running. Sometimes men who were not old but who were old enough to buy alcohol and who were certainly too old for me would ply me with liquor and, apparently, enjoy the "wind her up and watch her go" game. On my 18th birthday, an attentive young man bought me a pint of Southern Comfort, Janis Joplin fan that I was. I drank it very quickly and I was very ill for a great number of days. It was the last alcohol I would touch for a very, very long time. By 18, I'd had more than plenty to drink, and never anything CLOSE to "Let's have A drink." The memory of the Southern Comfort served me for decades. I attest: Janis must have had an iron gut.

Ex was full blooded Native American, of the Pima tribe from the Salt River Reservation in Arizona. The struggles of native peoples with alcohol is well-documented. I don't have to beat that drum. His parents and others of a similar age wanted to get off the reservation - considered a sign of progress and good fortune. They did get away. Right into the mean streets of Skid Row L.A. where they produced 5 children together, and she eventually produced 10 before dying of cirrhosis at the age of 32. After meeting Ex in my late teens, I heard and witnessed the most sorrowful and horrific stories imaginable, all related in some way to too much alcohol. I cried when I first heard the stories. The same stories and the ones that followed make me cry today.

I got Ex when he was 17 years old and already an entrenched alcoholic. In retrospect, it is shocking how quickly I fit into the mold of enabler and codependent. I was perfectly suited. If only I did ABC, then Ex wouldn't drink any more. Uh-huh. I believed that for more than 20 years. In our extremely young years, there were events I could relate in a humorous way. Except that right now I can't work up a cackle. Rare for me. I can usually work up a donkey laugh about most things - the more painful, the heartier the laugh. There was the time he went out in the rain to buy more beer before the stores stopped selling at 2:00 a.m. When he didn't appear after a couple of hours, I figured he was in jail and went to bed to read and wait for the bad news. I was startled when he burst through the front door, soaked. He'd stranded our only car in the mud on the train tracks and had spent awhile trying to push it to safe ground. When he finally had to give it up - that car was good and truly stuck - he came home. He had not failed to get into the store in time to buy beer and then return to the car on the tracks.

I am not blessed with a deep well of patience. While I continued to try to do things that would divert him from drinking - keep a perfect house, cook wonderfully - my tongue sharpened very quickly. I am quick with a quip, and was then, but it didn't do a lot of good things. He learned to turn off my volume a little sooner in an altercation. I became an embittered young woman. When I grew sturdy enough to snap, "Go sleep it off awhile before you go out again!", he sometimes didn't argue. Once he took matters into his own hands. Rather than have me follow him, bitching, to the door, he opened the kitchen window in our second floor apartment and leapt out. I blinked a few times and rushed to the open window when I heard a loud yelp from below. Had he broken a leg, cut himself? No. He had landed on the back of the landlord's very large dog, Chunky. Chunky was not hurt, but was very, very surprised to have a dark young man with waist-length braids fly out of a window and land on his back. "Shut up, Chunky, " I heard the landlord snap out of his own kitchen window. Ex got up, dusted himself off, jumped the fence of Chunky's dog run and went off to find some fun. One of his ankles remained fragile for the remainder of his life.

In my ears right now: Very poor quality video and sound take nothing away from Natalie Merchant for me. Scritchy scratchy is OK enough. Just for today.

Something that charmed me: This morning I got a double-yolked egg - the first one I've ever seen, I believe. I don't get away from home much, I guess.

Send Les - Despite Her Protestations, She Likes It

I'm already on record about hating to waste precious time performing stupid tasks. I don't want to run errands such as the dry cleaner, the pharmacy, grocery shopping (my own and the cats'), or picking up the certified letter at the post office when I was home, inside the house, when the letter carrier went by with it. Fiddling around pisses me off, and - mostly, I am truly sorry to say - I am further pissed off by many people who "help" me as I perform these tasks. I am nearly as crabby assed as my father and Donald Duck, particularly about poor service in a place where I am spending my money. On the other hand, more sensitive readers, I spend time writing notecards, sending e-mails or delivering homemade cookies when I've been served in a manner that exceeds expectations. I'm just not called upon to do that very frequently.

For most of my adult life, I have been the champion of all errand runners, especially considering that I detest it so. Oh, I could take a route of 7 establishments, carrying a written list for each, take the shortest, straightest route to each, get the bargains and return home having completed each list. I could even incorporate a little "picking up" for my mother or the elderly woman next door. I watched the stores year around for holiday gifts and birthday gifts to be purchased and I had an eagle eye for new products on the shelves. My erranding prowess was a source of contention between Ex and me. I am sorry to say, in retrospect, that I turned it into a competition for which he felt no passion. No bright red letters marked next Tuesday in Ex's DayPlanner as "Errands" day. Others have been heartily appreciative of me. It's a mixed bag of stuff, like everything else. Yes, that bright red streak in the parking lot was me!

Life changes, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I divorced and was no longer responsible for being the errander for 3 full-time. My holiday and birthday lists were whittled down to manageable. However, I remained efficient and thorough. It should be noted that I miss nothing as I drive through the streets. New store over there to be checked out! Oh, no, another Fresh & Easy location boarded up. My god, the Sahara corridor is like a ghost town with all the businesses and car lots shutting down. That branch of Borders is closing its doors - like I didn't see that coming. A new Ross Dress for Less ~ let's see, is it Geezer Day so I'll get my discount? Oh, bite me - now there is an 89-Cents store, apparently set to vie with all the 99-Cents emporia. I notice when buildings are painted a different color and I recall the storefronts that existed when I lived here years ago. Sometimes I can even recollect what sort of business was housed there in the 1970s. No, nothing on the land escapes me, and sometimes I spin around the block just to make sure I saw what I think I saw, losing no time on my route. Add to all of this the fact that I have a memory like an elephant. Oh, a mind that is a veritable index system of pretty much trivial data to anyone except myself. Welcome to my head.

After my alcoholic meltdown, I found I had misplaced a number of things I'd called upon for many years, if not an entire lifetime. I found I could not rely upon my head 100% of the time. This frightened me. My heretofore admirable stamina had evaporated. I was not physically capable of prolonged activity of any kind. Isolation being a strong element of alcoholism, I'd become fairly agoraphobic. Lists seemed a good idea. Perhaps they would help ground me. But I couldn't think of anything to write on the lists, or why I was writing one. I never lost the imprinting of the sights on the streets, but I didn't file them away with a snort or a giggle or a reminder to "take a picture of that and write something". Please note that those statements are written in past tense. I am in a program and a state of recovery. Recovery is a fluid thing, not static. I am not the exact same person I was in any other frame of the film that is me. I like the present one best, so far. And I arrange my errands across a wider span of time and a shorter space of distance now.

The weather had turned from wintry on the weekend to hot by Thursday and Friday. I reminded myself to take it slow, perhaps make some outings in the dusk or first thing in the morning. The first heat slam takes a lot out of everyone. All the stores and public buildings engage their air conditioning systems for the first time of the year, rendering the ambient air temperature about 20-degrees, it seems. Note to self: take spray water bottle for cooling off and sweater to wear indoors. I had a destination only about 6 miles from home, driving on streets and through areas of Las Vegas I'd never seen before. The eastern side of the valley was settled long ago, some communities and commerce arising shortly after the arrival of the WPA workers who came to build the Hoover Dam in the 1930s. There exists the "Boulder Strip" of casinos and resorts, which caters to a different clientele than those who prefer the Strip. Interspersed with some of the "big houses" are shabby little relics of bygone days, here a lush, shamefully water-wasting garden oasis, there a dirt patch that never supported any form of life. There are many pedestrians, but they are not exercisers. Walking appears to be their only mode of transportation, their worldly possessions upon their backs.

I am clumsy about people who stand at stoplight intersections with cardboard signs requesting money. I have never failed to have a heart plunge about such persons, not knowing whether their situation was as they present it or not, but definitely feeling sorrowful. I was rejected when I attempted to assist once. I'd seen a very young woman at an intersection I passed through each day. She looked physically worse by the day, it was hellish high July, and I was distraught. I gathered clothing I could spare, bought underwear new so she could see the package and know they'd never been worn, put together some toiletries, got a few fast food gift cards. I provided bottled water and I'd put much thought into keeping it all compact - her backpack wasn't huge. She told me loudly on that corner, attracting much attention, exactly where I could put my handouts. She wanted money. But I digress . . . .

The man at the intersection was of the bold variety, not only brandishing his sign, but walking up and down between the stopped cars, bumping against the fenders and doors. Look, I don't have any money. But if I did, and had I been inclined to part with some, he'd lost me with that car bumping. I may want to give money, but one may not demand it of me by bumping. I immediately got very busy eyeballing the attractions alongside the road. Even the panhandler could not have mistaken my intense concentration. He still bumped, but it no longer bothered me. For I'd landed upon the sight of the Lucky Cuss Motel and it pleased me. I am going to guess that the Lucky Cuss is about my age, circa early 1950s. It shows its age, but it has been well maintained with a fresh coat of paint. (Please, may that be my fate, as well.) I grinned to think of hipsters pulling into the Lucky Cuss parking lot when it was a happening place. In the parking lot I spotted a car that would be appropriate to the era in my head. Hmmmm . . . . imprinting the sights and making up stories. Well!

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending (at least for me) 100% possible

Installment 2

I do not recall ever hearing one word about alcohol relating to my Morgan relatives (my father's family). He comes from a sizable brood, with 7 siblings plus Grandma and Grandpa. I take this lack of comment, lack of anecdotes, to mean alcohol is not an issue for the Morgans. My father says he has never been drunk. "What, Dad, not even in the Air Force with buddies?" He says, "No. I was always in training for boxing." In addition, my father is unwilling to surrender his self-control sufficiently to become drunk. On the few occasions he has "tried it", he has not cared for the taste, nor felt a need to repeat the experience. Once, at a fine French restaurant, I saw him order a glass of non-alcoholic wine, to the server's clear disdain. He has a particular contempt for "drunks", my father. "What the hell is the matter with people? Just don't drink it!"

My beloved Granny and Grandpa O'Farrell, my mother's parents, did not have problems with alcohol. Each and every one of their 12 children is/was an alcoholic. 100%, ranging from one who had only moderate difficulty functioning in the world to the one who died in a spew of blood from cirrhosis of the liver while seated on the toilet. Then there was the handsomest, most loved of the brothers who died at age 24 having made and consumed home brew created from wood alcohol while onboard ship in the Navy. In my generation of the 40 cousins, I'd be hard pressed to say how many of us has struggled with alcohol and/or drugs. Let's say "many". Let's say "most". Let's say my favored cousin, John, was dead from all of it by age 45. Some of us, from both generations, have found the way out.

During my childhood, my parents always kept a bottle of something available for visitors who might want a drink. In my junior high years, a group of school-ditching kids descended upon my house and the kids razzed me because of the paucity of booze. No one sneaked a nip from this bottle, ever. My mother's alcoholism (her assessment of her problem, not mine) wouldn't show itself for many years. I can recall a time or two when my parents went to the holiday party given by the bank where my mother worked. My mother must have had a drink or three, because on the following day, my father was silent and disapproving. It is not my impression, even today, that she did anything as outrageous as swinging, partially clad, from the chandelier. She was just so well-positioned for embarrassment and disaster if she took even one drink.