Time Won't Give Me Time

In the 80's, we danced with our arms way up high, and spun around slowly with intricate little footsteps. Perhaps this move, with our bodies open to the wind, was an expression of freedom from the tight, dancy shoulder-shakes of disco, a smoothing-out of the Travolta-esque rapid-arm bag punch. Maybe we were reaching upwards for four minutes at a time to draw the air and sky and sun toward us as we entered an earth-conscious age that joined us in world-wide human love and ended the Cold War. The time proved us eager to dissolve the board room establishment, escape land-line constraints, and render "the Man" powerless. We greeted each other with open arms, hugged trees, and lifted ourselves into the bliss of self-awareness. Our dancing jived with our anthropology, a fluid uprising of collective souls.

Debasing these noble evolutions through truth and vanity, I must admit that logistics played more of a role in our dancing style that any earthy or spiritual expressions, because we wore huge clothing. Our physical movements had to accommodate for our enormous outfits, and our sleeves in particular. Dolman sleeves, they were, and our jackets and shirts had big shoulder pads and tight cuffs, with yards of swingy, wingy fabric to connect them. The nightclub crowd looked like a party of bats trying walk upright, moving with arms above our heads and cautious little steps.

We wore our big, beautiful sleeves in lime green and neon yellow, with matching bangle bracelets, pounds of them at a time, jangling above our heads. Girls and boys alike rocked those sleeves sewn into grey pin-striped zoot suits, in fatigue army jackets, and in torn black sweatshirts (which made us all, instantly, flashdancers). Eventually our pants went dolman ("can't touch this"), and we were sailing through the 80's like paratroopers, arms and legs wide open.

Now, I am a creature of habit not only in my day-to-day, but from decade-to-decade. I've made my bed, every single morning, since I could walk. I cannot sleep without shutting all the closet doors in the house and whispering the prayer that I learned before I could speak. And when I feel crappy, really blue and despondent, I play a smooth beat like "Clock of the Heart" and dance around with my arms up high above my head. For thirty years, nothing can compete with that song to get me nearer to cool again, I close my eyes with a shy smile on my face, and I find comfort in every breathy word. Today, I needed to breathe like that again, and smile that smile again, and dance just that way. I wore the closest dolman top I could find, a whispy robe that flows around my arms, and turned up the speakers to hear my youtubed savior, George Alan O'Dowd. I gave myself 3:40 break from my chores, and danced like I did when I won my junior year dance contest. And like the clock of my heart, it worked.

Here, try it yourself, and check the billowy lab-coat:



PS. If you don't feel quite awesome yet, or you have nothing much going on right now, check out this original video. You don't want to miss the sleeves on Boy George's Amish-inspired overcoat at about 1:20.

Breaking News from High Atop the GWB

I think that Sarah Palin has put the icing on my home-made rose-topped sickeningly sweet-strawberry-frooty-tooty angel food cake...the dessert that looks perfectly baked and decorated, but when you take a big bite you pucker, double over, gag, and puke the thing out. She has gotten a face lift, and has now gone Skeletor on Fox News. All smooth forehead and no more eye bags, and cheekbones that stick out a la corpse. This, along with many other dysfunctional social and personal defects I'm facing, has put me near the point of jumping off the bridge, or waking up tomorrow morning in the gutter in front of the Ringside Pub, a soggy cigarette between my lips.

Here is what I sound like when I'm drunk:
"I've worked so HARD! And SACRIFICED! And I got up earlier than everyone else, stayed up longer than everyone else, to get better scores than everyone else, and I get along with people, and they LIKE me, and I give the shirt off my back, and I never make time for myself, and no one UNDERSTANDS me..." You get the drift. Sick stuff, right? Not the classic pity pot that everyone shits in once in a while; it's the everyday experiences that guarantee nights of me feeling resentful, desperate, and alone. Very very alone. I'm singing the same song (to myself only...a kind of melancholy a-capella broody bit) without the "time for myself" part, because I got a mani/pedi yesterday, and I wouldn't want to sound completely ungrateful. I've worked really hard yet I'm unemployed, my last boss is denying my unemployment claim, I'm busting my ass at an internship and I owe them thousands for the pleasure, and I can NOT wait patiently from my latest job application to see if I'll be called back, or not hired at all. I almost wish the guy would send the e-mail that says, "We regret to inform you" to end my misery; only thing is, I really am the most qualified and best person for the job. I was made for it. I can bring new insight and integrity to that office...and that's where I start to sound like Palin, and my self-loathing begins anew. Women who get facelifts just to look less wrinkly should not be taken seriously in politics. And how far away am I from the lipstick-on-a-pig in-over-my-head wink-and-a-nod failed governor-slash-beauty queen? My recovery hides my deep flaws, my academic achievements hide my social phobias, and my resentments grow as others who are less brilliant and more dishonest write million-dollar sellers while I stay safe on a cheap and easy blog. I bet Sarah didn't even write her own book, and with that, I resent her ghostwriter. I could ghostwrite better than anyone, I bet.

Just got a call from the kid I checked into rehab a few months ago. She's sober, struggling, and has had to take herself out of a challenging situation. She needs a place to hang tonight...and that is why I am here. That, thankfully, plants me with the root of who I am. And of who she is. We are not fake or make-believe. We are real, honest, hardworking women who have made a profound change, not just plumped up our breasts or tightened the turkey necks. We keep going, growing, and we never let the rough times bring us down. That's my story to tell, and it's a good one.

I think I'll call my book "Undefeated". Well, maybe not.

Do You Think I'll Get an A?

God and the Human Condition: What’s in it for Me

There is something to be said for good parenting. As a young reader, prolific beyond my years, I would often come across a word with elusive meaning. I’d follow the trail of cigarette smoke in my search for my mother to ask for help, and often found her sprawled out on her bed, a heavy book in her free hand. When I questioned my mother about the troubling word, she would ask if I’d identified any Latin or Germanic clues; “There are none”, I’d respond, sure even before my approach. “Well then, look it up” she’d say, and lower her head back to her Margaret Atwood. As I got older and became determined to write the great American novel (I think I was nine), my grammar school spelling would betray my Steinbeck vocabulary, and I would find my mother again and ask for help. “How do you spell dispassionate?” I’d ask, so afraid of her standard answer. I was in a hurry to get back to my thread, and our dictionary often went missing, shared by six siblings! But no, ease could not be mine, and “Look it up” she would say, a pen between her teeth, smoke around her head, as she worked her way through a dimestore collection of New York Times crossword puzzles.

Such has been my experience in this class. As I study the world’s religions, I am motivated to answer the very many questions of “why”, “how”, and “where” that nag at me with each chapter. Many late nights I was motivated to “look it up”, the connections that lead us through time and culture. The study of religion is not simply to find comprehension of a particular dogma; for me, religion is part of the world’s historical whole. Who found faith in what, where were they going, from where had they come, why were they motivated to find answers to their human condition at that point in time…for me, all these questions relate human beings to each other over time, generations, boundaries created and re-created, and human experience. In my opinion, there is no other subject which can teach us so completely about history, literature, art, ethics, culture, and philosophy, all under one empirically accurate roof. The study of religion to me does not point out our personal differences, but unifies us as world travelers, muddling through life the best way we know how. Really, to me it’s all the best way, as long as the path is kind, fair, and promotes the independent spiritual growth of followers. Do no harm, do unto others, feed the starving, teach what you know…it’s all really very good.

An objective look at a religion different than one’s own allows insight to another lifestyle, and maybe greater appreciation for one’s own lifestyle once educated. I am not at all uncomfortable with the Catholic who thinks of the Jew, “Well, that doesn’t sound right”, as long as she finds no hatred in such difference. Unfortunately, there are too many of that type of bigot, and it was obvious that such ignorance got in the way of objective learning while I sat in our religion class. There are those so cloaked in their religion they wear it like a self-righteous burqa, with only small slits cut out for limited vision, lacking a peripheral view of the world. Their education is inadequate by design; if another person’s reality lies outside their field of vision, it cannot be reality, and may even seem ridiculous. Thus I am motivated to return home and “look it up”, the how’s and why’s of man’s personal motivations, cloaked as religious behavior. My annoyance at some classmates’ blindness serves to illuminate my own illiteracy, and through the study of religion, I am enlightened. And that is why I am here, as a college student, aiming for a degree in higher education. For this experience, I thank my classmates, my professor and, of course, my mother.

A Communion of Us

My friend Karen talks about the Second Step of 12-Step recovery in a way that skinny old chainsmoking bar flies can really hear: The First Step tells you, "You're fucked!", and the Second Step whispers, "Maybe not!"

When you finally admit you've got a problem, it is suggested that you find a "higher power", or as my sponser refers to in her text messages, a "HP". This can be a challenge for those who can't seem to shake their disappointment in God, or the hypocrisy of religion, or the self-righteous indignation of very right and judgemental churches. The need for the HP is urgent and real; you need to know that there is a power greater than you, and it is...NOT YOU! Face it, your ideas, as far as being a drunk goes, suck. So, mull it over, argue with your sponsor, tell the Lord what you really think of Him, and then pick something, anything, that is iconic enough to keep you from drinking. And do it quick.

There are those who, like me, start out with AA itself as their HP. After all, I thought, the room is full of people who found a way not to drink so much that they fall down the stairs today, so, maybe I should shut the hell up and listen to what they have to say. I have a friend who has taken a deceased group member as her higher power, and there are a few who may have followed that lead, and just don't say it out loud. (Believe me, this guy is worthy.) There are myths and legends of AAs that chose a non-conventional higher power, like a pet, or a squirrel, or grandma's quilt. Then there is the woman who, whenever she raised her hand, thanked her higher power, whom she chose to call "wood". Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right?

Now, if you are like me, and you choose the group as a starting line HP, all goes well until someone in the group does something really stupid, and then your resentments start to build. After all, you've put this group on a pedestal, and now someone is screwing the young newcomer/gossiping about your ex-boyfriend/cheating on their taxes, and that shaky house of cards begins to fall. You need a real higher power, real quick. Who do you call?

Long story short, I called Mary. Well, maybe she called me. Anyway, I ended up at her feet, and there I remain. She stands in my kitchen, looks down from my car visor, and watches over my classrooms. She's everywhere, she always has been, and she's IT for me. I love her, talk to her, and listen to her. We have conversations. I talk to the Mother of God, and She talks to Me. Crazy, you say? Well, don't whisper Joan of Arc-y things about me to the Pope, or any other Catholic true believer, because they will have to tell you, it's true. The Catechism tells me that not only is it possible, it happens all the time, and the willingness to believe it is necessary to Catholics. "The Communion of Saints" is the interactive relationship of all believers between heaven, purgatory, and Earth. I didn't know this until yesterday, and when I learned it, I cried. I had imagined the communion of saints to be a recited line in a creed I really didn't care to understand, a club for dead stigmatics. Not so. The saints, Mary included, are there to help us and lead us toward what is best for us, even when we don't know it ourselves. They are like kind and loving grandparents, or godparents, or best friends. Mary is my best friend. She hears me, and sets me straight, and the Church will tell you it's all true. How else do you know it's true?

I didn't drink today. Miracles can happen.

The Bowery Boys vs. John Wayne (or, How the Duke Goes Down)

While researching a paper on the Catholic influence on world peace, I came across a quote by John Wayne. (Yes, this is how I often end up on the road less travelled.) Regarding Native Americans, he said:

"I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them. There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves."

And he meant it.

Boy, do I miss my dad.

My father would tell stories of how his younger brother was an insufferable whiny brat. Whatever Timmy wanted to eat, that was lunch. Whatever he wanted to play, that toy became his, even if it belonged to his older brothers. Whatever he wanted to watch on TV, that show blared into the living room. Now, Uncle Timmy loved John Wayne movies. Back in the day of the Sunday Afternoon Classic, and the Friday Night Late Show, and the NBC Holiday Classic or whatever Show, you could choose from two movies for the afternoon or evening. Well, if one movie was "Big Jim McLain" and the other was "The Bowery Boys Meet the Monsters", little Timmy would cry and say, "But Mom, it's my favorite! Dickie NEVER lets me watch my favorite movies!" He'd run in front the old tube wearing a kid's toy holster and cowboy hat, stick out his tongue at his brother, and grin that smug bratty grin. Insufferable. Whiny. Brat.

My father, the older brother, had little recourse. Just about anything he might do would get him pounded by the adults in the home who just wanted Timmy to shut the hell up; he couldn't change the channel, steal Tim's toy gun, or smack the hell out of him. So, he'd grin a bigger grin in the Whiner's face, lean down low to him, and whisper, "John Wayne is a fairy." It would ruin my uncle's afternoon, everytime. The Whiner became the Tantrumer ("I'll kill you for that, Dickie! John Wayne is an AMERICAN HERO, he is NOT A FAIRY! So WHAT if his real name is Marion!"), and my father would smile and take to his room, the Quiet Victor.

Now, my father is gone, and my uncle remains. He calls Asians "gooks", blacks "niggers", Latinos "spics", and God knows what he calls gays; I don't spend enough time with him to hear it. That my father used a slur against homosexuals may not have been nice, as far as homosexuals are concerned. But my dad wasn't looking to offend gays; he was using his brother's own weapons against him. The tools my uncle used to cut another man down would leave him crying and red in the face when turned in his direction. His hero was a man who stood on principle of murder, displacement, and a sense of entitlement. When it comes to giving the other guy a break, my hero was, is, my dad.

Men and women of every color, race, sexual orientation, and religion came to pay their respects at my dad's wake. They were his real friends, not icons on the screen. My father's lasting quotes are, though borrowed, kind: Keep on keepin' on. Home safe. Shower the people you love with love. Never go to bed angry.

And then, there is that quote all his own: John Wayne was a fairy.

Excuse Me Sir, That Seat Was Taken

How do we DO this?! How do we stay sober?!

Big exam in Psych Statistics tonight, the kind where I pull out my hair while working my pencil, and end up getting an A. Killing myself, because that is what I do. (Let's remember, I did not get A's in college the first time around. I was into blackouts, cracked ribs, stealing cigarettes. And there was a tail-gate party that, as good drunks, we didn't party out of the trunk of the car; we rented a U-Haul cube to hold the kegs. I got mud in my braids, puked all over, and had to ride home in the back of the cube, which was scary and made me even pukier.) These days, why do it unless you do it right, which means full throttle, pull-your-hair-out-late-night-statistics.

There is an Indian dandy who comes in late when he comes to class, which is almost never. Wild hair and gorgeous black eyes, and a smell you'd imagine comes from his car, gassy and smokey and boozy. His skin should be lovely, too, but it's not, it's yellow, and there are bits of tobacco-like things in his hair. He chooses to sit by me, probably because it's the easiest seat to take when late and leave when early. (Some of you might say a higher power put him there, but I believe it's just a matter of logistics.) He takes off his coat and his smell comes to me, lets me know what he's been up to. On lecture nights, he raises his hand and asks questions that no one but the professor can understand, and she dismisses him because his questions will be answered two chapters down the line. The kid is in overdrive on some crazy Jim Beam-and-speed math ride, and the teacher can't keep up. Tonight is exam night, and he's drunk again, swaying again, and getting an A...again. How does he DO it?

And why couldn't I? That's what still can piss us right off. Why can't we be like "other" people? Why can't we drink like normal, and act normal, and have normal relationships with normal expectations and disppointments? Have a drink at Friday happy hour, toast the bride and groom at a wedding, have a few beers from the trunk in the Giants' parking lot? Well, we can't. We just can't. We've proven it over and over. We don't know more than we know, and we know we cannot drink at all if we are to live like "other" people.

Besides, the sotten Indian is not one of the "other" people, he is like me. He just doesn't know it yet.

I'm Sorry, I Don't Think We've Met

When I was 16 I had the most beautiful boyfriend in the world. Really. He looked like Jim Morrison, without a shirt, a strand of love beads over his hairless chest. Maybe that's why I loved him, because God knows I loved Jim, and to make the deal sweeter, this gorgeous blonde kid with big curls at his neck even wrote poetry like Jim's, so, there.

He could draw, too, my Adonis, and at the time I thought he was the greatest artist ever to sketch with a pencil in a book. (He has since been replaced by my oldest daughter.) Serious and sly, he would draw anything anywhere...except me. He never drew me. Not my face, my mouth, my eye. After years and reams of paper, I asked him why. "You wouldn't like it," he said, "I'd draw you as you are, and not how you want me to see you." He thought I wouldn't recognize myself.

Fast forward twenty-some years, and I know now what he meant. Because I never can recognize myself. Sometimes, in my mind, I see myself as a sexy siren, a feminine fox with a great walk and a nice mouth. The with-it girl that guys want. The woman that you can't guess her age, you'd guess a bit low. A passionate lover who can't wait to be unbuttoned. Other times, I see an ogre. A fat, ugly, pockmarked lump. A crazy-ass chick that only a crazy-ass ogre would want. An aging beast that makes a solid friend, but you wouldn't want to see her naked. You wouldn't dare touch her, please her, love her. Even if she'd let you, but she probably won't.

Today when I checked the mirror, I didn't see either of those. I could see a bit of my grandmother's face, a shine my dark eye, a too-broad nose, set on a rounding body. Nice shoulders, though. Maybe my old sweetheart should have just drawn my shoulder, my line to my clavicle, a few dark freckles and lots of light ones. That, I might recognize. That part of me doesn't seem to change.

And who wants to love that? Fucking shoulder...Is it enough to rip the clothes off a woman, throw her down, kiss her round belly? Is it enough to make a man want to bite that shoulder just to get a part of me in him? To say my name, to beg my name?

Nope. But, it's all I've got, all I can rely on right now. It's a start. So, a drawing of me might be something I would like. I wouldn't be able to wonder, and waver. I'd learn to recognize myself, maybe. And maybe learn to like that pencil-sketched girl, too. I bet she's kind of pretty.

Merci Beaucoup!

Did you know I went on a health clinic mission to Haiti? Guess I didn't hit you up for money to help pay my way, then. Anyway, I went. I missioned. I had the best experiences, and some of the worst, of my life, sometimes within the same afternoon. Reflecting, I get to look at what was really cool and grows daily in meaning, and what wasn't as important as I thought it was when I was in that particular moment. For instance, at the time I learned that FOUR other team members out of nine were alcoholics recovering through the 12 steps of A.A., I was blown away. I fired off e-mails to my A.A. gang at home, hoping to translate my breathless surprise and joy through typed language. Really, I was fired up. Nine days later, not so hot about it, more warmly appreciative. (Of course half the gang was in recovery; drunks and junkies do it UP when it's time to give back! No simple local food bank for us, we go to fuckin' HAITI cross fuckin' MOUNTAINS and save some LIVES, mothafuckers!) Looking back on what meant the most, my most defining experience could have happened in my own back yard, but I'm like Dorothy and need to travel around some and end up beat and vulnerable in a strange land before I can learn my lesson.

My travel companion was an acquaintance from work, our school's nurse, Pam. We've always been friendly within the confines of work; we made our plans to travel to Haiti together without ever having had a cup of coffee or any conversation outside school walls. We did not have each others' phone numbers, or e-mails. We weren't sure how old the other was, or how old the others' daughters were. General niceties gleaned some random bits, like one of her daughters was a tv producer, but which daughter eluded me. I called her husband Steve, when his name is David, so it was pretty much like that between us. One afternoon we booked flights to Haiti from her office, and I realized I might be making a real friend, and that was more frightening than the prospect of a Haitian kidnapping. Better to keep Pam at an arm's length, no matter what country we were in.

I guarded myself while we planned and shopped and gave interviews to the local news. We met each other at our front doors to swap boots and bug spray. We didn't mind that we might sleep in separate rooms, or that our airplane seats weren't adjoining. We were just two travellers, each on our own trip, happy for a companion but ready for individual adventure.

Once in Haiti, though, almost immediately upon landing, the dynamics changed. In the Port au Prince airport we found out that we needed each other, or things would go very badly very quickly. One would guard while the other gathered belongings, not individual bags, but our luggage, our supplies. We locked arms through the pressing crowds, and shared the trip through the city wide-eyed and astounded. We shared everything: matches, food, clothes, tears, tantrums, intolerance of stigma, frustration with dogma, dislike of others. Because of the heat, we were more comfortable undressed than clothed (which is really huge for me, I cannot walk around in my own living room with only unders on, I have to wear something more to hide my body, to protect me). We swam in our panties, we made up songs about other travellers, we laughed until we cried. We became the very best of friends, in spite of me. I didn't have to work or analyze or manipulate it, it happened, and it was, and is, beautiful.

The most meaningful thing I brought home from Haiti is a friend. At work, we share whispers and songs, and put silly stuff in each others' mailboxes. After hours we call each other on the phone, and write e-mails to add that one more thing we forgot in conversation. And even without talking or writing or holding hands through airplane turbulance, I know Pam is my friend. And I am hers. Haiti gave me what I couldn't give myself.

Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

Oh, the past two weeks! A visit from my mom, and she brought a wonderful guest. Seems "Aunt" Ellen is the same good old friend she used to be, as she has grown into her age like a perfect Golden Girl; sassy, generous, and tattooed. Both Mom and Aunt were three days in and out, though, and now it's over and all really good. Except...

My mother comes to visit me (which she swore she would never set foot in my home), invite friends for sleepovers (another of my mother's "never"s), and tease my partner (yeah, pretty crass). Part of her tour de Jersey includes a dinner gathering that I host while my partner grills, my mom shows up late (having left Ellen napping), and my wine snob uncle brings the booze. The wine, I don't mind. The Grillmaster balked at first, but settled down when he saw only two bottles intended for four drinkers (What The Fuck is That?!). Ah, but here's the catch...how to open those bottles in a Wine-less home? Off to the neighbors I go to beg a for a corkscrew. (Another aside, frustrating but remarkable: The 20-year-old neighbor girl does not know what I mean, and calls her mother to ask in Spanish for a translation and description of this irreplaceable tool.) She hands me a silver beauty, fits in perfectly in my palm, and asks, "Is this what you need?" Ahh, I am taken away by the treasure in my fist. A ballerina, I whisper. This is perfect, we call it a ballerina.

I walk on a cloud through my own back door, and the ballerina is plucked from my hand by the uncle and set to work. I have to leave the room. Throughout dinner, it isn't the wine that holds my attention; it's the thought of its necessary accompanist in the kitchen, the little wonder that opens the bottles, the miracle worker. My guests leave, happy, satisfied, and not one bit drunk (they drank only ONE bottle, the other rode to its new home in an old Chrysler). And the ballerina remained an additional house guest. For eight days.

All I had to do was walk her from my back door to the neighbor's, thirty steps each way, taking not one whole minute of my life's time. But I kept her. I washed her and polished her dry. I cleaned around her, moving her gently aside to spray Windex around her special spot and pushing her back just so when I was done. I babied her, romanced her, said her name inside my head a hundred times.

After more than a week of this torturous affair, my alcoholic recovery kicked in to low gear. I set my jaw, grabbed the little whore, and marched outside. She went back to her rightful owners, along with a "thank you" cucumber from my garden. They probably put her in the back of a drawer, and don't give her a second thought. That was three days ago; she's still on my mind.

My Orange Sweater

There has to be a way.
There has to be a way I can fit in to my life.
I am so uncomfortable, like a girl in an itchy orange sweater
In July.
Lightening starts in the clouds
It starts in the clouds and heads straight for the earth
I cannot connect, my white blaze runs parallel across
tall dry grass.
I can light little fires on what I barely touch and eventually
they'll all burn themselves out
or drown themselves out
or be smothered.

Just Because You Work for Fox Doesn't Mean You Are One

Crazy busy days. Good, great, gigantic things happening. Not a "baby-steps" kind of week, this one goes down in history as the best that sober life brings. To see the Dalai Lama would be enough, certainly, but it wasn't, not by a long shot.

My oldest child was in San Diego, and called her mother almost daily, just to say "hi" and share a quick story. My second child is God knows where doing God knows what, and I love it. Love her life for her. The flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants part wouldn't suit me; I need a plan. She doesn't, the wind blows her, she laughs at it, and the race is on. My baby baby did what most "Jerzy Grlz" do, and rented a room down the shore with friends. I signed my life away as the responsible adult (cuz I am) and blew a kiss goodbye.

The certificate for my LLC has come from the State, and I am officially the owner of a small business. Checking account opened, insurance policy purchased, personalized stationary ordered (comes with a free return-address label dispenser), all done. We are on our way, folks!

Today, as I shop and cook and clean, I ruminate. Do I reflect on my accomplishments with grace and gratitude? Do I call my mother and share my wonderful life? No. I play out an old recurring story in my head, the one where I meet Ann Coulter. This works as a tool to keep reminding me of exactly who I might become: a real bitch. What would I say to Ann Coulter? What would she say to me? Could I effectively cut her down and make her cry, which you would think would happen whenever she showed her nasty ass bony knees in public? Could I express to her that I left the Republican party because I didn't want to be in the same category as she and Sarah Dollar Signs Palin? Would she care? I imagine saying to her, "Excuse me ma'am, you really can't assume you look good in a mini skirt and high heels. At your age, only Tina Turner can make that look good." Hah! Get it?! Tina is black and over 60, and everybody loves her! Or, upon being introduced, I would hold out my hand and say, "I'm sorry, Ann Who?" How about this gem: "Pardon me, you have lipstick all over your teeth. Did you just blow Hannity in the men's room? Ew." Well, it's a start.

I have also started a gratitude journal, and Ann Coulter is definately not in it. My children, friends, soul mate, and Dalai Lama are. Hmm, Ann has none of these. Not one. So, I'll take my life, and she can take my bitchiness. She seems to always want more of that, anyway.

To be continued, or not.

There had been no fiery Armageddon; the family had just stopped breathing. It had not existed so long that anyone passing through would really notice it was gone. The house remained standing on a manicured lawn, the curtains pressed, meals made and eaten, windows put up at night and pushed down securely in the morning. But the family was no longer. The house seemed to maintain itself just fine.

Hijacked hijacker.

My new favorite word. Lately, I can use hijack for any situation, as in:

My project at work got hijacked by a short woman with a big ego and a european accent. You can't fight that bitch, gotta let the project go. I picked my battles; actually, I picked no battles, and guess it all worked out in the end. The kids seeded flower pots for Earth day, which was my original plan, so everybody won.

Also as in:

My oldest child is living a life for which she patiently waited more than 2 years. She is about to graduate with a degree she wasn't sure she should want or could earn. She's rented a 2nd floor walkup over a bagel deli/Domino's pizza, and her new home is filled with light and scented candles and owl paintings. (Also in this new flat is a nice guy who is rather cute and very much in love with her, but maybe too old for her, but maybe not, it's not for me to say.) She helped out a friend in need a few days ago, and now her life has been hijacked by an angry drug addicted lesbian who has been tossed out of rehab due to her "problems with authority". My child came home to lie on her old bedroom floor, pet her left-behind cat, and cry. I used to love the angry drug addicted oppositionally defiant lesbian; I guess I still do. I'm just really disgusted with the bad-behavior-in-rehab spiel. Look, kid, this is your third go round doing 28 days. Swallow that shit that comes out of your mouth so you can get help, or move along so someone who deserves your bed can have it. You're like a punk holding a knife to a bus driver's neck. Get arrested, already, would you? Yes, life is hard, I get it. No, no one understands you, I get it. Get locked up, you may finally be the one who gets it.

Today I:

Hijacked my diet with a trip out to the Stewart's root beer and hot dog joint in Denville. I didn't order fries, but you know I ate 10 or 12 of Steven's. Feeding the ends of my chili dog rolls to the dog does not count as discounting the caloric content of the meal; I am only kidding myself.

My final example:

I am a recovering hijacker. I hijacked the expectations for a somewhat normal life not only from the above child, but her two sisters as well. I did hijack the idea of unconditional love from their dad. I hijacked my father's pride in a daughter who could rise above bad luck and poor timing. I've hijacked hundreds of people's plans to have a nice day. I have hijacked conversations, good intentions, and interventions. I took over that plane at gunpoint and turned it toward Mexico more than once, let me tell you, and I am more like the angry lesbian than I am my own kid. That is, I was like her. Now, I am more like my own child. I can hand over the controls and say, that's ok, I guess this flight will just take a little longer than I had planned. Does anyone have extra peanuts?

Priority Number...9???

I have a lot of important things to do, like write critical papers on Socrates, and take on-line exams about ethics of psychologists, and get my car inspected. I have to press my embroidered fingertip towels, and bleach the grout in both bathrooms, and walk the dog. Instead, I am doing what I am the absolute best at doing: Procrastinating.

I'm wrapped in my old familiar worn out blanket of fear, frustration, and denial. Ah, it's warmth! That smell, that scratchy edging, that impossibly heavy weight that keeps me still, paralyzed. Forget that I have so much to do...It's so much easier to do nothing!

This is bad behavior, I know. I occasionally jump up to put out small fires, and this eases my guilt (somewhat) that is my constant companion when I return under my big old blanket. A few days of this, however, and I am in deep shit, my friends, and my blankie is starting to stink. I tell myself, I will get going as soon as I order dahlias online/finish my pudding/spot the first robin of spring. I blame others for my laze, like if I didn't have to sit on the couch and watch that bad movie my boyfriend's been bugging me about, I could write that 3 page analysis of Descartes' Meditations. Each moment that I think about what I should be doing instead of what I am doing gets me sicker and sicker, and when I get sick enough, I do really stupid things. So, it's time to throw this old smelly blanket off my shoulders, and get going! Prioritize! Make lists! First things First! Feel the fear and do it anyway!

Ok. I'll do it! As soon as I trim my bangs, and change the status on my dog's Facebook profile.

Consider this...

Life is good, and kind, and busy, and what got me sober now keeps me away from the rooms and people I need desperately to stay alive and well. An academic's schedule, and one meeting a week, and thoughts swirl around, creep in, speak to me.

Happy hour, Friday night. Delicious.

Music mixes with flighty moods, and for some reason, R.E.M. plays a loop, rarely interrupted. So, in succumbing and downloading and listening and dancing, I sing and recognize the truth.

Right before I got sober, in an unmanageable time of a hellish life, I was struck then by R.E.M., "Losing My Religion", and found what was slipping through my fingers. I found myself in the corner or in the spotlight, grasping at sanity, dishonest with myself and life about what I was really up to. I didn't intend to ever post words here that aren't mine, but these saved me.

Life is bigger than you, and you are not me. The lengths that I will go to, the distance in your eyes. Oh no I've said too much, I've set it up. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight. I'm losing my religion, trying to keep up with you, and I don't know if I can do it.
I thought that I heard you laughing, I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try. Every whisper, every waking hour I'm choosing my confessions, trying to keep an eye on you like a hurt lost and blind fool.

I think I thought I saw you try. Vodka gave me those visions, made it all look so fine. But that was just a dream. I woke up screaming one night, I really did. I knew that to get out, I had to stop drinking, and I hated it all, me, him, life, love, false identity in all of it. Most of what was me was gone, drunk away, you hold the bottle upside down praying for a drop and nothing is there, I'm all gone, baby.

Shaking the bottle, shaking my head, shaking my fist, shaking.

When happy hour whispers, so does My Religion. A gentle, loving reminder of where I was, and how it was, and to never ever go back to that life again. A dishonest room full of dishonest people, me in the corner/in the spotlight, hurtlostblind. I set it all up to get out of there, I left that room and walked into another, and my rooms became my castle, and this is my confession, all of it. My blame, my responsibilities, my dreams, my sobriety, my songs, my life.

Few of us in sobriety thought we could face the truths and still be happy; we needed others to show us the way. Now, I'm no longer dreaming, I'm living, and so are those around me, in a life that is bigger than all of us, and just the right size.

What's Going On In There?

I don't know sometimes, I really don't get it. Me. Here is what I did today:
cleaned--quite a bit
My youngest kid--got her, took her back (hate that part, hate writing it, hate knowing it, she isn't here and I hate that)
pedicures for two
dinner for 3...roast chicken, mashed sweet potatoes, peirogies smothered in onions
Sunday night meeting with friends
homework...3 page paper, half of a 2 page paper, read
called my mother AND ex-husband
And now I am manic. It's not enough. I am behind. I will never get it done. Futility reigns. I am fat. Why did I say that? Why did I wear that? What was I thinking? I should live alone.

My dad's birthday is Tuesday. He always asked those questions. "What are you talking about?" "What did I tell you?" "What's going on in there?" (um, giggling with my sister.) Well, I really miss him a lot. I loved my father, and I know he loved me. He wasn't always the nicest guy, he could bite you to pieces, he could really shred you to bits. I don't know why he felt he had to do that, or why he would really want to if he had looked closely enough at it, but he did it, his whole life, right to the end. My dad could be loving, encouraging, supportive, funny. When he bit, though, he bit hard, and I really wish he hadn't. There are people here, now that he is gone, who only remember the teeth, and wear his toothy scars. My youngest kid is one of them. I'm so mad at him for that. I have enough apologies of my own to make to that girl.

What I really meant was...

So, the fourth step, still finished, yet unfinished, because I haven't done my fifth step yet, and all that muck and mire I took weeks to stir up now bubbles and stinks, and I walk around smelling my own shit all the time. I've got to dump this crap, fast. A new sponser is willing to hear it and help me package it up for the garbage heap. Time is of the essence; but I haven't had the time. But you and me we know we got nothin' but time.

What I really want to unload right here today is how the sober sex part is gnawing on my bones. How having sober monogamous sex with a self-centered recovering 51 year old man is crushing my frail ego. (Or empowering it, maybe? Because I have to learn to live really well on my own accomplishments without making someone else responsible for my self-worth through physical attention?) But I can't seem to go that far here. Fuck the total disclosure; my few readers include my daughter, and the 51 year old whom I really do adore and who snoops around my blog for sexual innuendo and references to himself. Neither wants to know that much about me. Let's just say this: I am frustrated. Classic.

I want to run away. Pack all my stuff carefully into huge cardboard boxes, rent a truck, and shove off. There is way too much responsiblity here in this town for a drunk floozy like me. Work and more work, school (with TESTS! and PROJECTS!), housework, and stroking the ego (let's call it "ego" for the sake of the children) of the 51 year old is tough stuff. For me. I want to read and write and walk and dance and practice applying the "smokey-eye" look til I get it right. I want to sit and pet the cat. I want to talk for hours on the phone with my mother. I want to hop in the car and shoot down to my sister's compound in Richmond so she and I can simultaneously kayak and birdwatch. I want to go for coffee with my girl crush, and laugh and cry til we realize we've been sitting in the stupid Starbucks for 3 hours. I want to have sex until the sun comes up and not be the one who has to wash the fucking sheets.

Guess what. I want to do anything BUT my fifth step.

I've Been Waiting For A Girl Like You

I balked at attending the fourth step workshop for three years. Thank God.

Now I am in it, working it, doing my homework, feeling all of it. Never before would I have been able to stick with this, and stay sober. I needed every meeting, reading, phone call I've made to get ready for this step. This is the tough stuff, friends. You get to unwrap those pretty little boxes tied up with satin ribbons (or nooses) that have been kept high up on the closet shelf throughout your life, your drinking life, your life when it was messy and ugly and not at all neat. The Big Book approach to your fourth step helps you wade through all that wrapping and padding without falling into and letting it eat you alive. I won't detail it; if you've done it, you know, and if you haven't, you will. Or, you will drink. Up to you.

So tonight I am reflective, but not victimized by whom I'm looking at. I am strongly moved by my experience, but calm in my emotions. I'm incredibly empowered by knowledge, but not ego maniacal. I am full of compassion for myself and others, without pity. With respect and gentility I have been shown how to take an honest look at myself. There is a beautiful truth about who I am, and I like this woman. Finally. You might, too.

Man Overboard

There is a loneliness, and isolation from man and world, that alcoholics can turn from a gnawing discomfort to a full-blown desperation given time in one's head and just time. I hurry to isolate myself from everyone around me when I feel small, insignificant, a non-person. Silly, right? But that is my identity, my reason to drink to feel comfortable, to drink to act out, to dance hard, laugh loud, mouth off, and let the world know that I AM HERE!

Look at my life since I stopped the insanity that came with my drinking. I am working in a field I love, my private business is taking off so much faster than I'd dreamed, my relationship is wholesome and loving. I continue my education with passion and love of learning. I am of help to others in the rooms, and my daughters can count on me at any time to show up with sanity. I have met two wonderful, dear, honest friends in AA, and have friendships, though few, outside of AA with women who are smart and funny. I have a deep and abiding love for the woman who sat me in my seat, and a new caring and commitment to my whole family.

I see it all, know it all is my life now, that the past is past, and yet...tonight I am just a lousy drunk, non-deserving, so so small. An impostor. A girl playing dress up with a beautiful woman's clothes, with her life. Pretending I am a professor when I don't have even a basic degree. Everyone else was invited to the party but me. I am sure that my life was meant to be fucked up, that to drink til I pass out is the real me, that I am supposed to giggle and beg and puke my way through life. I am unlikeable, certainly unlovable, by anyone half-sane, at least, including myself.

This mania is, I know, temporary, and will go away as soon as tomorrow comes, and I feel the sun on my face, and forgo my insignificance, my identity crisis, with a big "So what?". To be one of many, useful, helpful, productive will be enough. My gratitude for the life under my feet and around me will be enough. Oh, not that I don't have gratitude now! I have truckloads! And with that, right now, comes a steam train of guilt that my gratitude isn't the key to snap me out of my self-centered funk. See, I really do suck. I can't get gratitude right!

Alcoholics realize this as "the jumping off point", when a life fueled with alcohol is a desperate one, and life without alcohol seems unattainable. I know that if I drink, I will hurt someone. Maybe kill someone. Maybe kill myself, quickly or slowly, maybe I will. If I don't drink, I will have to keep my seat in AA. I then can hug my children, love my partner, learn my lessons, and tend my garden. So, I feel lonely in AA. I really don't want to belong. But without it, I would surely be alone. I must sit with the others in our life raft, and wait to see where we end up.

Bewitched

Just yesterday I picked up a copy of Augusten Burroughs' "Magical Thinking" from our employee book swap shelf, not looking at the title, just happy to have found Augusten among the autistic. The contents were not what I had hoped from Augusten; it is a collection of shorties and essays without continuum, and I prefer Augusten's writing when he is telling a whole story with his short stories. I like when he is really going somewhere, like in "Dry", and the chapters have connection. This book seems to be a money-making hardcover for the author and his publisher, resting on Augusten's popularity. Not bad, but not so good, at least to my taste. Anyway, the title has grabbed me, and thrown me around a bit, so
Dear Augusten, I am once again eternally grateful for your contribution to literature on the whole, but more importantly to me and my sobriety.
Loves, The Great "I"

The definition for magical thinking is given on a front page, and it really threw me. I have known a man who has repeatedly fallen into schitzophrenic mind benders, where he believes he has the capacity to will the world to do his bidding. This affects quite a few alcoholics while they are active, but this poor idiot (let's call him Leon for Mr. Spinks, because when this fucker didn't get his way with his mental powers, he would literally knock me down) hasn't had a drink in over 2 years, and still thinks he can make the wind blow. He really does... he called me one day while walking through the cemetary to tell me he had willed the wind to blow, and it did, and all the trees were applauding him. What do you say to that? Really? I said, "Good job."

So, I was remembering all his claims how Leon really could do magic, how he could read people's minds, make them look at him/scratch an elbow/break up with a boyfriend/answer a phone he had willed to ring, and I thought how much fun I used to have with completely fucking with that when I was a drunk, and how scary and sad it is now that I am sober. Once, a few years ago, he asked me to watch the crack under the front door while he showered, because he had just willed the spies who spied on him while he bathed to spy once again, and he wanted to prove to me just how powerful he was. Leon was actually manifesting the spies while he undressed. Now, I was hammered, and thought, yeah, this will be fun! Let's just mess with the bastard! (If you were a drunk, you would do it, too.) Leon positioned me crouched in the hallway (so "they" wouldn't see me through the windows) with my wide eyes two inches from the crack under the door. And, when I knew he was good and naked and soapy, I ran to the bathroom and whispered that yes, he was right, they were here just outside the door, I saw them! I needed to hide, too! I waited silently while Leon rinsed and got out, and then we had sex, that kind of sad, clutching, desperate sex a man will have when he thinks you are the only one in the world who believes/knows/cares about him. (I feel badly about this now, but I didn't then. Back then, the least that bastard owed me was a lay.) This happened a hundred times over four years of our crazy duet; I could write a book.

What scares me, really does frighten me now, is that Leon a. still believes that he possesses magical thinking, and b. still believes that I believe he has this fabulous gift. Today, Leon is a scary, cynical psychopath. I realize I've encouraged him to walk on that rail, and now he is dangerous to himself and others. I am not being dramatic by projecting some awful outcome should he go on a schizophrenic tirade and stab someone, possibly me. I'm just being sensibly cautious. We still cross paths, and I stay far to the right. I am careful not to cross the street, though; I know he wills me to cross the street, and his days of getting his way with me are way over.

I am also a bit thwarted by Leon. Without the booze (his or mine), he just isn't fun anymore.