Singular Events

So it's been one month since I learned I must get some medical monitoring and be very alert for the return of an old affliction after a routine blood draw gave up some worrisome news. Yes, it is a serious ailment and I've already had a 2-year turn standing in the watchtower. I don't care for it much. I wrote about whirling around like a dervish for a week, doing the avoidance dance and then being hit hard after seven days when I was forced to slow down and look it in the eye. Get an update on the enemy's position and plan from there. I don't like "one". It is the loneliest number, just as we were told. One day, one week, one month, one year out of how many? How many ones make "all"? As in "all over, let down the drawbridges". I like definition, as the reader can see.

At least half of the illness fear focuses upon my head and what goes on inside it. No illness ever arrives at a convenient time, I am sure, but when I had to face this beginning in 2006, I handled it perhaps as poorly as it could be handled. Fired by the flaming fuel of terror, I got myself to appointments, procedures, blood draws and emergency rooms, in the company of advocates when needed. I was well-supported by friends and loved ones. My work did not suffer and I maintained my home as usual. I weathered more than 2 years of chaos and came out "optimistically good" in the end. That's when I lost it. The erosion of my self by fear caused me to behave in ways that are unlike me. I acted out. I drank. I broke things that may never be repaired. I harmed myself and others in ways that may never be remedied. My personal store of resources is still low and I cannot afford to "lose it" again, for any good reason. I can pony up for any briefly unpleasant form of treatment or diagnosis. I feel less certain of my ability to hold myself together metaphysically.

Ah, but there is this: almost literally simultaneously with my little physical surprise, I'd been enjoying some temporary sunshine. I was renewing a relationship that is important to me, with a person I love. This was exciting, and I fairly bubbled over with it. I suffered a good deal of teasing and winking. However, the issues that have always been issues are still issues, to my disquietude. I imagine it is my sobriety that has cleared my head, but some things cannot be molded to perfection and I became silent. We're two nice people who shouldn't spend a lot more time beating a dead horse, in my opinion. My withdrawal into self was noticed at AA. "Why so quiet, Les?" I said I had more on my plate than I could deal with. I didn't feel up to handling any of it well, and that I'd possibly make a mess of all of it (again). I was encouraged, day after day, in meetings and in private, to get every bit of the buffet out onto the table in full view. Guess what? I still have health issues. I have resolved a human issue. Everyone involved it in has retained their dignity and love for one another. In fact a love offering was delivered right to my door on Saturday, to my surprise. I nearly broke my face grinning! This may sound day-to-day dull to some readers. This is earth-shattering for me. I don't resolve issues. I bomb the planet and leave no man standing. Including myself. I sense this new way is going to save me a lot of time formerly spent in reinvention. I got through without drinking, without destruction, without hurting anyone. Even myself.

If you heard a thundering din followed by the roar of a rushing river, that was me. For my years-long creative logjam has been freed by a surge of ideas, adhesives and more. I have made and completed a project I am OK good with! I cannot show it here and now as it is a gift for a friend who won't see it for a few days. It is an imperfect item, to be sure, but it is whole and it shall be presented with joy. It should be noted that I called out for my usual absolutions: "Wrong adhesives on hand." "Don't own the good scissors any more." "I'm depressed." I was gently urged forward. "Try this." Keep at it." Finally it was completed after some pretty close handwork accomplished without my glasses and with muttered curses. I christened it with a histrionic and overwrought name, will feature it on my blog at some future date, and immediately jumped into plans for more such items. As described in my recent post, I'm in full "Hey, I've Got an Idea!" mode. Oh, this will affect others and change the world as we know it. Or so I see it right now. And the beauty of this is that my strong yen to create has lay dormant for so long, I thought it was irretrievable. But maybe not.

The monsoonal season is back in full force with a day of showers and glowering clouds on Sunday. Oh, I enjoy a rainshowerjunk art supply treasure. Yeah! Uh-huh. Within moments, I opened the big garage door in order to breathe. After 5 minutes, I needed to sit down, sweat pouring. Unlike myself, I felt a little faint. Short of breath, kind of. Glancing at the new instrument, I saw it was only about 80-degrees, with humidity at 65%! We're accustomed to single-digit humidity. I came inside, wiped my brow and wondered how people in the east can tolerate that for even a moment. Ugh!

A man introduced himself as a newcomer at AA. There's no requirement for a person to do so, but when one does it, we who are veterans make a point of welcoming him or her. He said it was the first AA meeting he'd ever attended and he was fewer than 24 hours sober. He was back today. "Hi, this is my second AA meeting ever. I'm more than 24 hours sober." Members applauded. I was sitting near him, so I smiled and said, "Good for you! Keep coming back." During the meeting, the topic being discussed prompted me to share an anecdote. It was a rerun, but that happens. Sometimes the day's subject only reminds me of one event, or I'm in a different group. It's OK to tell a story more than once. Some AAs even become legends due to their one seminal story. So I told my true tale and spent the rest of the meeting feeling uncomfortable as I'd been sandwiched tightly between a couple who were sparring and tossing angry energy at one another through me. I bolted for the door after the Lord's Prayer.

In the patio, the man made a beeline for me. He'd been struck by my sharing and took pains to say so. He reiterated he was 24-hours sober and hit my sponsor up for a cigarette, but turned his attention back to me. "Well, let's talk, though I can't help you with a smoke." He said he wouldn't have thought so. I must give off rays or something. For those who do not share our disease, this man is in a hard spot. His face showed it. We talked about my sharing and about how difficult the first days are. He asked when he could find meetings during the week, so we agreed to meet up tomorrow when Jenn and I will introduce him to some of the men in our group who can perhaps sponsor him and who can certainly help him. He was so grateful. He said so. And he showed it. Walking to the parking lot, I said, "Well. My first. A newcomer reached out for help from me." Jenn said, "Yep. He was definitely seeking you. And you did  it really well." Imagine this. Exactly one year ago I lost my job and other major parts of my life because my drinking was so out of control. And today I helped a man. He didn't know my story was a retread. He didn't know I'm struggling to work my own program as I am distressed over my other problems. He gave me the opportunity to be of the highest service we can give: get sober, stay sober and help another alcoholic get sober. I just seemed safe haven to him. A drunk with something to offer another drunk. I am humbled and awed.

And so, another day. It's August! Driver's license to be renewed, already. A writing deadline looms, which promises income. The humidity is torturous, causing even my straight-as-pins hair to curl a little. Smokey Robinson on the iPod. And so it goes.

In my ears right now: Because I love it, because it makes me dance, and because the focus just now is on "up", "fun", "hand-clapping".

This post dedicated to the memories that were made.

Turn Out the Lights, the Party's Over

Okey dokey, then ~ we put up the birthday post and went out to do some shopping and spend some girl time. We fairly exhausted the thrift store and a used book store, checked to see whether Mike had seen his birthday party online . . . no sign of him. That's OK. We're resourceful women. Let's call him! We did so. He said he wouldn't be able to connect to the internet until the next morning. Arrrggghh! But this was his birthday. Well, nothing else for it: we each wished him a happy birthday and told him to go blogging as soon as he was able. And then we proceeded to blow out his candles and eat the chocolate muffins Rraine had brought, so thoughtfully. They were good - mine served as lunch and dinner. Sorry you missed them, Mike.

And then we thought, seeing we were three blogger women gathered, seeing Rraine is expert with a camera, seeing I have become addicted to Picasa photo collage, seeing Jenn is young and adorable, seeing Rraine and I are . . . um . . . adorable, we'd go outside and take some pictures. Yeah!

One kvetched about her glasses. The other two did not. One had us try a couple of different spots to get the best location and light. One whined that she never photographs well, so please be sure to snap two of everything. The names shall be withheld to preserve our dignity. Rraine recalled being shown how to execute a becoming pose by thrusting a foot forward, hand on hip. We all tried it and thought we were pretty cute. Jenn knew a showgirl pose, arms extended. Rraine said she wanted a big headdress. I said I wasn't doing any showgirl stuff, though I'd try the foot-forward, hand-on-hip thing. We thought we were something!

And so ended an afternoon enjoyed in female company. There were friends to be met for dinner, AA meetings to attend. We'd shared some irreverent laughs and some serious talk, giggled about vanity when the camera came out, and pledged to get together again soon. Two of us had cackled at terrible shoes for sale and wondered why selected items were considered "designer". We all talked about ideas for future blog posts and congratulated one another for being brilliant. I needed this sunny, happy afternoon. I've been under some duress. And I was reminded of at least one of the things I can engage in to keep my spirits up and my fever down. Thanks, Good Women and Mike, for making my day! Damn you, Rraine,  for wearing Rocket Dogs when I didn't even think of it. But I'll be back on my game soon enough. I can feel it!

In my ears right now:  An old favorite. Just because I feel like it today.

Seven Days

It took about 7 days. I was still speaking and writing joyously for having some new things fall into my life and about how much I was going to relish experiencing them. Somehow - perhaps this is just very human and not at all specific to me - I connected those nice new things with the degree to which I've been working my AA program and my sobriety. Hey, if you save your money, you get a nest egg. Work your body, you get fit. Start leading a good and righteous life, good things come your way. Right? Sure! I had a busy July 4th weekend planned - busy for one who has been emerging from shadows and clouds for many months. Things were going well. I hadn't said it out loud in too many places yet, but I was beginning to think - just a little - that I was getting this "life" shit down pretty well.

Then came the routine blood draw with dubious results. Yes, it's an old enemy and one I understand very clearly. My doctors were wonderful to fully school me about it the first time around. I know percentages and survival odds depending upon age at onset, gender and ethnicity. I know what the levels should be each time I have a blood draw. I know many people walk around for years with the precursor and it never develops further. The precursor is as much as I ever had to deal with, and I found it nearly made me insane. Blood tests, wait ages for the returns. Biopsies, wait longer for the returns. Medicate as necessary, begin entire process again in 90 days. It is maddening and terrifying. In fact, last time it nearly sent me around the bend. It broke me in a handful of ways from which I have not recovered.

Frequently mistaken for Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, I went into my usual mode. I spun. Man, it was 4th of July weekend and I had some plans. A party here, a dinner outing there, some rare mall shopping, AA meetings with coffee afterwards. I had a couple of pieces of writing in mind and planned to work on them with the French doors open, the monsoon blowing cool breezes into my little work station. I spent some hours helping a friend create a blog and I was asked - for one of the first times - to listen to and advise a struggling alcoholic. A fellow member of AA asked me to critique his thesis paper and then to work with him on the presentation. I was flattered to be asked! My friend and I are planning a joint blog post featuring some of the only-in-Las-Vegas things we see every day. We spotted out some locations to shoot photos and kept eyes and ears open for more of the startling things unfolding on every corner when a woman stops for a red light. Yep, I got through that long weekend just fine. Tired, in fact, just a little bit, for all the increased activity. The neighborhood fireworks banged on a few hours longer than I hoped, but that's what earplugs are used for.

Tuesday morning rolled around. I felt unsettled. No more long weekend stretching ahead. No more forgiving doctor's offices that did not return calls immediately - the holiday was over now. Time to get serious. I spent the morning digging out records, making phone calls. I noticed I needed to change the bed sheets and the cat litter in both boxes. The monsoonal thunderstorms have occurred daily, remarkable in intensity, mucking up windows which I hurry to clean before they dry dirty. Yes, I am eating a little. Not very much coffee. I arranged for someone to come in to repair the fine, fancy, new washing machine that spews water everywhere. And then I just stopped. Stopped everything. No reading library books, which I bring home by the bushel. No e-mail, no text messages, no phone calls. No blogging, either reading or writing. No writing for pleasure or economic purposes. No meditation, no music, no movies that make men scrunch up their toes in their shoes, no daily readings for AA and other forms of serenity. I have stopped, utterly and completely. Slammed into the wall. Splat.

I have not missed an AA meeting, and I am talking at those meetings. AAs give good advice to their fellows. They are kind to me, but will not kill me with kindness. Many have approached me to tell me how they meshed their program of sobriety with their own or another's illness. I thank them. Some simple speakers say, "Just keep coming back every day." Yes, I will. I get good encouragement like, "Tomorrow try to make it to the meeting and just read one of your books." I shall try that. And one man I'd never seen before said something really profound to me: "I can tell by your face and your words you're beating yourself up pretty badly. This isn't crazy, alcoholic reaction. Anyone would be concerned about this." That helped me! I didn't know. How would I compare my reaction to anything "normal"? I've written before about my intense distaste for using the words "I can't" about any endeavor I take on. I don't allow myself that very much. It can be a very difficult burden to carry. It is an old reaction I've not yet been able to correct in myself, and yes - that is my safety button: "I've not yet been able to . . . "

Yes, rely upon it - I am in near constant evaluation of just what I'm waiting for. The other shoe to fall? Perhaps. The lab to call me back to say "Sorry to have scared you to death. It was a mistake!" That would be nice, but I don't expect it. Am I channeling the Beatles' "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"?

. . . Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead . . .

I've been crazier than that before! Channeling isn't so weird. So, the best I can say is I'm struggling. I'm modeling Bambi in the High Beams. I don't have all the answers for it yet. And I'm working on all of it as best I can. My sponsor gave me a new tool yesterday. "Les, can you live with 'I can't today, but I may be able to tomorrow'?" Hey! I can live with that.

There has been little sleep in these almost couple of weeks. That's a chronic condition for me, though this bout is more intense and I've found myself both tearful and irritable. This morning after coffee, I managed to read one of my daily meditations and thought I could doze a little. I popped in some earplugs, pushing each almost through to the other side. I located the most boring book in my current repertoire, firmly planted  a cat on either side of me. I was ready! And soon enough, I felt myself drift. Until, through the earplugs, an unholy noise sufficient to raise my body from the bed tore me from sleep. When my heart slowed to the rate of a mouse's, I stuck my head out to see WTF? Ah! Home dudes here to fix up that washer leak. It seems the concrete slab has to be jackhammered, followed by some other ungodly noises. This has continued for hours. The very structure is shaking on its foundation. There are 6 homies on the property speaking very loud in Spanish. For hours. And so it goes. I can't do my laundry today, but maybe tomorrow.

In my ears right now:  I need a little lift!

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:

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.

Eased Her - a Love of Springtime

Easter has never held a lot of meaning for me, as such. Oh, yeah, when Amber was a little girl, we spent weeks making springtime bird houses for the relatives, and flowery bracelets and yummy treats like bunny cakes for the big family gathering held at my mother's home. I always loved making small, cotton floral frocks for my child who - obligingly, happily - never failed to announce loudly, "My mom made this dress!" As if her mother knew how to do something world-shaking. Stepfather always made a grand entrance carrying approximately 17 tons of strawberries freshly picked in the fields of north San Diego County. It was a nice gathering of food, fun and confabulation. The kids (meaning children and menfolk) would go into the ravine behind my mother's home for the egg hunt - some of the colorful plastic ovoids contained a lottery ticket or a dollar bill. Others held pastel sweets or tiny toys. One notable case of poison ivy emerged on the body of an adult man coming out of that ravine. No child ever came to harm. It was a sweet, warm, lazy day. Later, when I decided nature and the changing seasons, new growth of flora, new intensity to the sun's glow and the blue of the sky were more meaningful to me than any religious tenets, I still enjoyed "Eastertime". I just call it "Spring".

The past week has intrigued me as I have practiced mindfulness and living in the now. Sincere thanks to my sister blogger, CramCake, for reminding me of mindfulness, for I'd forgotten it somehow! I'd completed a work assignment that drained my reserves of energy and creativity. I was given an unexpected few days of "nothing much going on, no demands". Sometimes a void in my day has caused me distress. Not now. The memories I indulged in were of the soft, bunny tail type, not the ones with razor sharp edges. I snickered a lot. No tears, no angst, no regrets. I kind of eased on down the road. That's rather new business for me. Calm, rested. Can "satisfied" be far behind? Maybe . . . . never mind. I wanted to write for the blog, but I could not. I could not plant myself in the chair at the computer, viewing the monitor and the slice of the world I see through the French doors. Not for a little while.My friend, the Sea Hag, and I loved - oh, we loved - to sing very loudly and poorly, but with great gusto. Mostly, we favored heavily harmonized boy band tunes, and those with a concentration on a boyish lead singer. We danced, as well, though I was always dicey about dancing with her when she was pregnant, and I'm not sure why. It's not like anyone would think I made her that way. Oh, well. We sang and danced up and down the corridors of a tension-filled workplace, to the delight (mostly) of the other staff. Our rendition of Solitary Man should be archived - um, somewhere - for posterity. Yes, I know it may sound odd that "Melinda was mine" and that "Sue came along, loved me strong". It doesn't matter! Get it? So, in my ears right now: a firm favorite. Give me a hairbrush microphone, and I'm off. In a pinch, I can sing all the parts. And I can still dance, sort of.

Play it! Oh, come on! I must to confess to being a little selfish sometimes in life. I knew the part I wanted to sing and I'd "work" the Sea Hag. Funny how I almost always landed where I wanted to be. The Sea Hag wasn't dumb. Maybe it just mattered less to her than it did to me. So, for this pick, I argued that the lead singer was skinny and had a pretty remarkable nose, while the guitar player was gorgeous, and therefore, she must take the guitarist's part. " . . .'cause I'd already kno-o-o-ow".

I found "the kicks" this week at Ross on Tuesday (Geezer Day), so I saved 10% ~ always a factor in my selection. You see, spring isn't official, never mind summer, until I have found "the kicks". I mark the passage of time and season with the purchase of the year's most wonderful shoes. It puts a spring in my step, one might say. The kicks must have a little edge to them, and it's better if they make me grin or laugh out loud. I'm not terrifically subtle. Uh-huh, I know spring/summer kicks are expected to be yellow or white, but that doesn't work for me. I have an unreasonable attachment to black for pants and shoes. The 2011 model sports a zipper up the back and reveals not only the foot tattoo, but a little toe cleavage. Oh, these will be fun!

For the first time in many years, I found myself at the bargaining table, representing [gulp] myself. I was a strong advocate for many years, for other people. It is more difficult for me to negotiate for myself, mostly because I've mostly felt unworthy in my life. I approached the proceedings with some trepidation, though I was to sit across from friends, David and George. The issue was how and how much to pay me for my writing project which is being performed in pieces across a wide span of time. We'd agreed at the outset that none of us had experience in paying for writing, we'd monitor the first installment and go from there. I was now delivering up Segment 1. I had lots of data to set out. They had the first tangible evidence that I could create exactly what they wanted. I spoke to them in terms of time spent, research conducted, interviews held, travel time. "Surely you must have a figure in mind, Les." I didn't! I'm a trained and collaborative bargainer. I came with the information - all verifiable. Now it was time for us to arrive at some sensible amount and move forward. Lest any reader be tempted to come and snatch my "bone" from me, I'll simply say this: I'd already been given advances so I wasn't working for free. Nothing would have made me squeeze them unfairly. I didn't need to. I came away with far more than I would ever have asked for. And that sets the table for the future. Nice. I thought to treat myself to a Starbucks on the way home. Instead, I filled up my gas tank for an amount equal to about 10 Starbucks treats. And I felt satisfied.

To my surprise, in a week full of those, my dance card is pretty much punched for today. I've been rather a shut-in for quite awhile, but it appears those new kicks are going to carry me out into the world. There is a social function at the Club where I attend AA meetings. Go figure - while I can put my guts out on a tray in AA meetings, I have found it far more difficult to socialize with the fellowship before and after meetings, so I am forcing myself today to take my potluck contribution of fried chicken and to stay for an hour (minimally). I won't eat there, as I'm invited to a few other functions, but I will aim for talking with 5 people I don't know, and if I need to, I can duck into a meeting. Then off to a traditional Easter ham dinner among friends. I contributed a banana cream pie which I also will not eat. And then, and then . . .

Her name is Kim and her wonderful blog is Numinosity. A fascinating and talented artist in unlimited (apparently) media, she was long ago designated as a blogger I'd most willingly follow around for 72 hours. She is a self-styled "rustafarian" (one who loves rust) who maintains homes in both Arizona and Alaska and commutes between them a la snowbird. Today, Kim and husband set out from Arizona and will drive through Las Vegas at dinnertime and then I will eat. Yep, the cell phone is already glued to my forehead. "Hey, Kim, does husband understand the juju of blogger meet-up? Will he take pictures of us?" "They call him Papa Razzi!" "Hey, Kim, you know that last round of ephemera earrings?" "I'll have them handy in the truck so you can make a selection." If any of my other events runs short, maybe I'll go out onto the highway and into the desert looking for rust treasures as I pass the time waiting. Yes, I'm kidding. One day can only hold so much.

Today is the birthday of my dear blogger friend, Kass, who has taken a blog break for awhile to pursue other important matters. I miss her! I'm sure I'm not alone in that. A year ago, some of us took an imaginary world-wide birthday tour in celebration of the auspicious occasion. I'm thinking of you with love today, Girlfriend. What a difference a year makes, good, bad and indifferent.

Something that charmed me: This past week charmed me. I was too depleted to swim against the current or attempt to control the world. I just went with the flow. Things I expected to happen, didn't. Things I didn't expect to happen, did. I was given so many gifts of the unexpected sort, that I must get busy giving back.

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.