Vicarious Rising

Roget's Says Moderation and Temperance are Synonyms

Unpacking from this move has been a slow process. We still have one more storage pod full of lord-knows-what to be delivered to the house. At this point, it's been over two years since that particular load of junk was stowed away. Other than some much beloved books, some photo albums, old yearbooks and oft used kitchen pots and gear that we've made do without, I have no clue what is in this pod. My husband says it is fairly full. I have a good memory, and I cannot think of much of anything I am missing. I do know there are some clothes in there I was in that waffling phase of getting rid of when I packed them away. I am pretty sure they have graduated to the donation category by now.

This is a wonderful thing. I get this exhilerated feeling getting rid of old things I have no further use for and no sentimental attachment to. With this new house, I am surrounding myself with only things I love. My therapist said to me that building a dream home can be like surrounding yourself with your own parent. It is interesting to see how you choose the environment in which to enfold yourself. I know I have been mindful in designing my space - it is important how it makes me feel, not what the latest trend or what the next potential buyer or anyone else might think. This home was created for our comfort and pleasure. Luckily, our tastes run rather practical as well as beautiful. In my opinion, at any rate.

Naturally, a handful of forgotten things pop up while opening up boxes. Not too many posts ago, I mentioned selling all my "how to still drink and not die" books on Amazon.com. Welp, I found one sneaky bastard tucked in with my fairy tales this weekend. It was the tome "Responsible Drinking: A Moderation Management Approach for Problem Drinkers" by Frederick Rotgers, Marc F. Kern and Rudy Hoeltzel. Back in my boozing days, I skimmed the book once, certain that this method would work as a lifestyle for me, once I cut back to a moderate amount of drinking. One of the book's co-authors, Hoeltzel, lived in my area of NJ and held weekly Moderation Management meetings at 7:30 on Tuesday nights. I even went so far as to email him and find out when and where they met. Unfortunately, I was typically too wasted by 7:30 p.m. to drive anywhere.

So, this weekend I discovered the shiny, unused copy of this book amongst my collection of favorites and gave a derisive laugh. Then listed it for sale on Amazon.com. It sold this morning. I am shipping it off to some poor soul that I am perhaps prematurely judging to be a terribly fearful alcoholic not yet ready to give up the drink. Maybe she will google the book and find this blog. Maybe she will hit bottom some other way.

Maybe she will never end up getting help. But... I hope that the fact that she at least is researching some sort, any sort of respite from the downward spiral, maybe she is seeing that all is not right in her world.

I wish her the best, however she may find it.

Wearing My Insides Out

My husband's parents are prosperous enough to own multiple homes in multiple states, which allows them to enjoy fortuitous weather yearlong. It is also rather lucky for us, as we get to hop down to Florida in the winter time and we usually have a nice apartment in New York City to crash in whenever we want to visit the city.

But it does make for a little bit of a lonely winter as everyone packs up and leaves us up in the cold Northeast. But come May, everyone is returning.

This year is especially fun because we - finally - have our new home to show off. Just in the last two days we've had family guests over. I think one of my biggest thrills, however, was hearing my 13-year-old saying to his grandmother and her friends, "yes, we are all very proud of our house." I love that he feels ownership here. I know when I was a kid, the house I lived in was very much my parents' home and not mine at all.

One of our guests was the 80+ mother of my mother-in-law's best friend. She is having a lot of trouble with walking (she suffers from fibromyalgia, among other ailments) and her mind is going a bit. She walked around the first floor of the house, then settled down into one of our comfy chairs. At one point, I was standing across the room, about 30 feet away, and she shuffled her way over to me. I smiled at her and was about to ask if she needed something.

"You are more beautiful than ever," she said to me. "You've always been an attractive person, but you have never looked more beautiful. I just had to come over here and tell you that."

I swear I blushed and I thanked her. It was so sweet. Especially since I was shlepping around in raggedy jeans and a sweatshirt and I needed a shower. My husband teased her that she maybe needed new glasses (to which she responded, "actually, I do.") Maybe it is that thing that makes you dotty and loving when you're old, but I have had a lot of other people say how much different and better I look, that I carry myself differently and with more peace. You know what? I think this sober living agrees with me. I think my own skin is beginning to fit me right.

Doomsayers, Look Up

The first couple responses to my last post have kind of taken me by surprise, much in the same way my sponsor's coldness has. I'm not sure why. I guess I might think about it some more, but that isn't what I want to say here.

I do want to address a few things about the seeming concern about my meeting attendance. First, I wonder if my sponsor is that worried, wouldn't it be a better tactic to actually return my calls and/or perhaps take me up on my invitations to meet up for lunch to talk? For one thing, I have made it clear to her I am not rejecting AA - I am still a very strong believer in the program. I do believe I am practicing its principles in all my affairs - perhaps not to the literal level that some would wish me to, but I believe in the true spirit they are intended. I do think there will be times in my life where I will very much want to attend a meeting. I also think that sitting in meetings, day in, day out purely out of fear, guilt and habit is not doing myself any favors. Hearing the same people say the same thing every day was beginning to be boring. I wanted to spend my time living life, not hearing people stuck in thoughts of constant not drinking.

Second, I am not going to tell anyone else how to live their lives or what is best for them, although I think there are more inclusive ways to get healthy than solely with AA. For me, I needed my therapist, my husband's family and my friends with the catalyst of AA to get me through the necessary changes. I don't think I am done changing for the better. But as my therapist said to me not too long ago, therapy was never meant to be forever. I believe the same is true for AA meetings. You use the tools you learn in these places, sometimes you need refreshers, but the idea is that you grow. If I make myself go to AA meetings just because I believe that is what I am supposed to do and not because it is what feels right to me, I am stunting my growth.

Anyway, I wish I could hang with sober people without being beat on the head with meeting rhetoric. There is so much more to life than yammering about drinking and not drinking. I am more open to life and the stuff that I used to hide from through my drinking, so I think it is better to not avoid experiencing it by devoting all my time saturated in an AA-focused life. I'm just sad that it seems my AA buddies seem to think that means I am excluded from their gang.

Hey, I just want to be a better, sober person. I have said all along, there was something about many people in the meetings that did not have things that I wanted, that it was one of the hardest "sales" of the program to me. That so many of those in the rooms reminded me of beaten puppies and seemed more defeated than surrendered. What I have been coming to realize more and more as I recover is that I have what I want, I have been cultivating it for years. I just didn't believe I deserved it until I finally put down the drink and found my self worth. And, yes, AA has been and will continue to be a part of that discovery.

Well, I am sure those of you who think this spells doom still think so and those of you who are not pro-AA are still firmly there. But maybe some of you on the fence can understand my perspective and know that I'm alright.

No Place for the Non-Follower

This morning I went to my AA home group's meeting to return the business meeting's official secretary book. I have abdicated my position as secretary. It makes sense since I haven't been to a meeting in a couple months. The last one I went to was basically to meet my commitment as secretary.

I hadn't planned to stay - I arrived at the halfway point when they have a five minute smokers break, so I could pass off the notebook to one of the other officers. Instead, I ended up briefly talking to a woman who I don't know all that well who coerced me into sitting down for at least five minutes of the meeting. Five minutes I didn't really have because I had a doctor's appointment for my annual pap smear in 20 minutes. Nonetheless, I found myself guilted into a seat.

WTF?

I think part of the reason my butt got weighted down was that my sponsor greeted me with less than an enthusiastic hello. In fact, I think she seemed a little pissed. I know it might've been my imagination, but I have called her a few times, including asking if she wanted to get together so I could pass off the secretary book to her because I would love to have a visit with her. She hasn't returned my calls. She did, however, call once to leave me a message to inform me that I should oust myself as secretary and return the notebook ASAP.

I guess I feel a little hurt. I suppose I had hoped that my friendship was perhaps contingent on my sobriety, yes, but not necessarily my attachment to the tenents of the AA program. It seems those bonds were not so strong as I imagined. I have to walk the same walk in the same voice in the same language, conform.

This makes me sad. I can't say I think this is the fault of AA. I still plan to go to meetings on occasion as I need it. I saw my walking buddy David this morning, and I miss him terribly. Not keeping in touch with him is my own self-involved fault. But I think I am disappointed that the camraderie of a bunch of drunks was somewhat superficial.

Maybe it's just me. But anyway, I ain't gonna drink over it.

On another note, I've been following The Junky's Wife's blog for some time now, and she is struggling with stepping back to let her husband try to manage to put together a recovery for himself. She wrote that he recently had the brilliant idea that all he needs is a doctor to prescribe him all the drugs he needs to not feel the pain of withdrawal so he can wake up clean, refreshed and brand-sober-spanking-new.

Yah, that sounds familiar to this alcoholic. I also remember when I bought all these books about how I could drink all I wanted if I only ate the proper diet and vitamin supplements and drank a certain amount of water. What a crock.

After I returned from rehab, I sold all these books on Amazon.com. I felt a little remorseful about passing on that crap to other people who I am certain were idiots just like me. I even thought about sticking a little note in the package saying, "when you're done with all this crap, write me an email" or stuffing in an AA pamphlet. But I realized it would go on deaf ears. I wouldn't have heard it until it was my time.

I hope the Junky's Wife's man will hit the point where he has had enough soon. No one can do it for you, especially not Dr. Feelgood.

The Film Doctor

I love movies. Reading this blog, you probably wouldn't get that sense. I haven't written much about movies here. In fact, I really haven't watched many movies of late.

I'm not a huge fan of going to movie theaters. I do love movie popcorn and can eat over a bucket of the stuff all by my lonesome (keep in mind I only weigh about 100 lbs., but that stuff is all air, I tell you) and I dig the big screen and sounds. But I hate all the people around me and hate that I feel stuck in my less than optimal seat.

The new house has a media room that is not yet furnished that should resolve a good deal of my movie issues. The primary problem remaining that I have to wait to see movies until they are available on demand or DVD. But since I haven't been going out to see movies in the theater of late anyways, that's hardly a sacrifice.

Today, however, was an exception. We got tickets to "Iron Man" - on of the special digital showing and we drove a little further to go to one of the stadium seating theaters.

The movie kicked ass. Go see it. I have a little crush on Robert Downey Jr. I am so glad he's stayed sober. Hope he continues his success.

So, now maybe since I have gotten bored with blogging about my recovery I will return to an old, old old idea I had to write about movies. See, I pretty much can find things I like about every movie. But, of course, there are ways things could be improved much of the time. So, I had thought it might be fun to blab endlessly about how to fix what was broken in movies, hence the name "Film Doctor."

Ok, writing that out sounds really pretentious, but well, it still might be fun.

Let it Rain

My therapist and I are in the process of breaking up. It's a very strange thing to do with deliberation and discussion. I imagine this is the way we are supposed to grow up and leave home. But I think it seldom happens in this way. It is an unusual experience, and rather uncomfortable. I feel a lot of discordant emotions, pleasure and guilt, excitement and fear. But I think in the end sum, it feels right. It feels time.

Nearly.

Decorating my home has been a joy interspersed with headaches along the way. Most of the headaches seem to be shipping related, and unfortunately cannot be pegged on just one shipping company. This has me rather disgruntled, particularly since I am rather in love with online shopping. It give me the opportunity to patronize independent artisans and smaller boutique shops and discover new things the world over. But the merchandise needs to arrive and arrive in one piece. I never had much of a problem (except for the mail lady who smoked incessantly so everything smelled of cigarettes and she also would never bring packages to the door even when we were home: she always left the "sorry we missed you" slip in the mailbox right before I'd watch her drive off in her USPS truck.) until recently. I don't know what the deal is, but it isn't like everybody is spending tons of money shopping. You'd think the delivery folk wouldn't have much else to do but get their jobs done right.

One lovely item that just arrived is this Zen Rain Drop glass mobile I purchased from Leah Pellegrini's Glass Creations on Etsy. My office faces south and gets quite a lot of sunlight. I think this will look beautiful hanging in the windows over my desk.

Leah included a little business card-sized note on her inspiration of the mobile's design, and I thought I would share it because it reflects some of what I have been going through the past several months.:

In this image of lotus leaves in the early morning, we can see in the rippling of the water that one drop has just fallen. It is a precious moment, and one that is full of poignency. In surrendering to gravity and slipping off the leaf, the drop loses its previous identity and joins the vastness of the water below. We can imagine that it must have trembled before it fell, just on the edge between the known and the unknowable.

~Osho Zen Tarot

Leah says to "remember to let go and your life will thank you". I like the imagery of the lone, trembling drop of water setting itself free. But I don't like to think of it as wiping out its entire identity. Rather, that it is joining the part of itself it had been separated from, that it is being made whole. I kind of have to wonder if the vastness below is any more knowledgeable than the lone drop above. Or does it too change beyond the impact of superficial ripples when hit by the droplet? Maybe it doesn't matter. And I'm not so sure about surrendering to gravity. I'm not in any hurry to get wrinkles. But the rest sounds good.

There I go, ruining a perfectly good metaphor with literal interpretation. I'm having a hard time taking myself too seriously these days. I think that's progress.

Things I Can't Swallow

I generally like eating most things. But I ran into these at the grocery store and can't come up with a good explanation for them. They're broccoflower (which you've probably heard of) and orange cauliflower. I ask you, why? The damn things look like Play-Doh food. My phone photo don't do them Technicolor justice. The orange was really pastel carrot orange. Ick. Thought about buying them to make my son eat them, though. Because I am not very nice.

I suppose I could accept these mutations of vegetables as they are, victims of some sort of well-intentioned science experiment or perhaps a marketing scheme. I don't care to guess or investigate. It's not the brocco-orange-cauliflower's fault for being as it is. I should have compassion for its facsimile of appearance as an edible item. It too is sufferring. Maybe by seeing a pervasion of mutations everywhere, mauling the good vegetable kingdom of no fault of its own or the victims partaking in eating the vegetables, I can find peace of mind in my own corner of the world. I am not the only victim of unreal tinted vegetables. It's no one's fault things got out of hand. We should just accept the evils that happen, open our eyes to the pain and close our eyes to the fact that we are all still being poisoned. 'Cause there's no one to blame, no one taking responsibility. We're all just ingesting and being saints.

Yep.

I think I'll pass on the crazy colored engineered veggies.

Obviously this is hyperbole. I'll probably eat the weird brocco-shit and like it. It's supposed to be nutritionally better for you than regular cauliflower, the orange one with beta-carotene and crap. Clearly, I'm irked by something other than the molestation of leafy greens. But it was a fun analogy even if it isn't a perfect one.

Because I am So Superspecial -- All About Me

The other day I declared myself positively boring on this very blog, so maybe I can debunk my own claim by filling out this self-absorbed meme. The amazing Lea Jacobson of Geisha, Interrupted tagged me. For those of you who haven't been to her blog, you should visit her droll diary of experiences as an expat in Japan. Also, Lea's memoir, Bar Flower, will be published in a few weeks. Click here to order it from Amazon.com. I pre-ordered mine ages ago.

Lord knows why Lea'd want to know anything about my upstate New York mom-of-a- teen-boy life. But, hey, I'll take any compliment I can get because I am that deprived and pitiful. Now that I have sufficiently lowered expectations, here are the sordid details of my secret life as a horny housewife:

What I was doing 10 years ago

Living off crazy South Street in Philadelphia and attending the Wharton school for my MBA. My son was 3-years-old and I was one of only three mothers in the grad program. This was out of a total of 750 enrolled. We three were the most exhausted of any of the students, and I am not saying this for dramatic effect. All the men with kids had wives who stayed at home with the kiddos during the program. My husband and one of the other mother's husband was also in the MBA program. The other woman commuted daily from Princeton, NJ so her daughter could stay in school there and her husband could keep his NYC job. Some days we three ladies would just bleerily eye each other and mumble, "no one else understands."

I hated, hated, hated business school. My drinking became an increasing problem. Everyone kept telling me I would never regret getting an Ivy League MBA, that it was a terrific opportunity and my ticket to the big time.

I should have listened to my inner voice that wanted out. Ten years later, all I have is the student loan payments (although those are nearly done, but Ivy League tuition? Pricey. Especially when you follow it up with quitting your first job out of school within 3 months and not ever stepping foot in the corporate world again.), an impressive diploma and dubious bragging rights that I drag out every so often to remind myself that everyone else does not know better than me what is best for me, no matter how pretty the credentials look on paper in the eyes of people who don't see through mine.

I did love Philadelphia, however. I miss the food there. Not the smell of South Street on Sunday morning, though. And I missed the Easter Zombie Pub crawl this year. Bummer.

Later in the year, went for a semester abroad in Milan, Italy. Was the only thing that made going to grad school remotely worthwhile.

5 years ago

Living in the middle of New Jersey (shoot me) and selling US made handbags to vendors in Japan, Taiwan and Korea on eBay. Was a surprisingly entertaining venture, although I spent all my earnings. Had stopped drinking for a year, but not in a program. Buried up to my eyeballs in pretending normalcy. Would pick up again in about a year.

1 year ago

Probably about what I am doing now, hanging out in West Palm Beach, Florida and blogging. My son keeps asking me to play games with him and I keep refusing despite the massive guilt trips. Yep. Same scene. Not a bad scene.

Yesterday

One change in this year's agenda was that I got to see my husband's grandmother from Iowa, who is visiting. That was a treat. She's a phenomenal person. She still handwrites letters, writing things as simple as: "It's 5 a.m. and there's still frost on the ground. The brown squirrel has been searching for nuts, but has given up for the morning. It might snow tomorrow. Made a batch of snickerdoodles and thought I'd send some to you. Made a pie too, from some cherries Wendi and I bought at the Barnes store, but pie wouldn't ship well, now would it?" I adore her.

5 snacks I enjoy

1) Popcorn (not microwave popcorn)
2) Wint-o-Green Lifesavers
3) Rolds-Gold Pretzels
4) Swedish Fish
5) Cheese and fruit - all kinds, even if I can't pronounce it - either the fruit or the cheese. I'll take jams, jellies, compotes, crackers and fancy breads too

5 books I like

1) My big, old dictionary that my husband rescued from being recycled or trashed (sacrilege!)
2) The Stand, Stephen King
3) Drawing from the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards
4) Any fairytale or mythology book from any country, especially by Andrew Lang, Ruth Manning Sanders, the Brothers Grimm and subsequent updates by Neil Gaiman, or any books with gorgeous illustrations, plus Roald Dahl
5) J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books (this feels like a cop out, but I did love them. there are many, many other books I have loved. I have a rather large library)

What I'd do with 100 million dollars

1) Pay off all my debt.
2) Finish doing all the stuff to my house and yard that I want to get done.
3) Get a new car. Probably a Mini Cooper. My 1999 Toyota 4-Runner has over 100,000 miles and is great here in snow country, but the CD player died about a month ago. That won't do.
4) Set up some sort of investment to live comfortably on and possibly generate some extra money to continually....
5) Give the rest to various charities and environmental concerns, local farmers, small business loans to developing nations, etc.

.....because $100 million won't be enough, but maybe in perpetuity I can do some good. But a girl's gotta live.

5 places I'd love to run away to

1) My Dream House (of course!)
2) Emilia-Romagna, Italy
3) Provence, France
4) Fiji - why not? Actually, I'd probably rather go some place in Asia or maybe back to Turkey. But not permanently.
5) Someplace beautiful I've never seen, but I'll know it when I see it. It's there. I know it. I need to travel more.

5 bad habits and pet peeves I have

1) Pet peeve: bullies
2) Pet peeve: people who write the word "then" when they should be using "than"
3) Pet peeve and bad habit: people who interrupt/interrupting people.
3.5)Pet peeve: being poked to get my attention
4) Bad habit: staying up too late and sleeping too late
5) Bad habit: picking at scabs

5 things I like doing

1) Writing, reading, learning
2) Drawing and painting
3) Cooking and gardening
4) Torturing my son
5) Just being

5 things I would never wear

1) Lilly Pulitzer clothes
2) Fur
3) Birkenstocks or Tevas
4) A blouse with a big bow at the neck
5) A t-shirt with hateful images or sayings

5 TV shows I like

1) Buffy the Vampire Slayer
2) Burn Notice
3) House
4) Angel
5) Dexter

5 movies I like

1) Moulin Rouge
2) Gladiator
3) Heathers
4) Jaws
5) Casablanca (anything with Bogie)

5 famous people I'd like to meet

1) Freddie Mercury
2) Joss Whedon
3) Angelina Jolie
4) Queen Elizabeth I
5) Jesus (and not because I am a believer, but, man, am I ever curious)

5 People I'd like to see fill this out

1) Confessions of a Serenephobic
2) Mantramine
3) Pat of Child Lost
4) Slutty McWhore
5) Syd of I'm Just F.I.N.E.

I Swear It Wasn't Because of a Baule Fetish

I've never been one for small talk. When I was a youngun, my best manner of survival was being as quiet and unseen as possible. So, while my interior world was usually quite busy, it was rare for it to crack my exterior.

When I drank, of course, there was leakage. I became more likely to share what was happening in my head. I don't know if this was to the horror or delight of my companions or anyone within 20 feet of my viscinity, but in general I don't think it was a bad thing. I was a congenial drunk, cheerful, very smiley and a bit of a smart ass. I think. At least that's how I remember it.

My therapy session have been more and more of a strain for me because I don't really have anything to bring up for discussion. In my mind, therapy is for, well, problems. Since I don't feel any particular angsty things I need to talk about, I am left wanting to ask my doc about his personal life. Which of course isn't appropriate. Well, I do ask in the most polite of manners and he'll small talk and it's all so... dry and dull.

Today he brought up that maybe we could talk about why it is so painful for me to just talk about how I am if nothing is happening. Now, you tell me, but this seems sort of stupid to me.

Yet at the same time, I get this weird niggling feeling, like I get when I read posts like the one Slutty McWhore wrote the other day about an intense meeting with a stranger. I get this feeling that I have all these plate tectonics moving around in the lava under my skin, ready to erupt, but it just isn't coming out at the surface. And for some reason, that mask of steel I've got on my outside still isn't budging. But I feel fine. I really do. But I can't say I feel connected to anyone else.

Does any of this make sense?

I think that I am still in a place where I am not able to relate to other people well at all. The only way that I ever feel truly connected to others is when I write. And I don't just mean blogging, I mean when I write fiction, I feel closer to human beings, when I am relating to made up characters. I wonder if there is something inherently mental about that. Because I also know whenever I try to make a character similar to me, she is the singularly most boring character on the planet. And she has absolutely nothing to say.

Much like me in my therapy sessions.

It's almost like there is a part of me that thinks the world is interesting, what I observe in the world is interesting, but I, alone, am not enough to hold interest.

Swell.

I started this post because I was on the hunt for a chair for my new office. I'd bought one, but it is too short for my desk. I'd done a search on eBay for "cane chairs" because I was liking some French chairs that featured caning in the backs. Inexplicably, the search turned up this Fine African Art Senufo Zoomorphic Stool pictured (you can click on the link to see the listing on Ebay). Some of the description mentions some yadda yadda about baule fetishes and somesuch, but I don't see the word cane or chair. I sort of like the critter, but I don't think it's a suitable desk chair. A little out of my budget too, at $2,350.

I decided to post because absurdities make my day. I don't know why something like this, finding a piece of African Art while I was looking for a French chair, tickles my fancy so much, but it is part of what I love about life. And one of the things I genuinely like about myself. Maybe just the brief thought of me sitting on that bugger, too low to see the computer screen, typing away whilst trying to look serious gives me the giggles. I'm never too old to giggle.

That's my small talk for today.

On the Lookout

I wanted to post today just because, oh I dunno. Just to say hi. I haven't got anything in particular to say. It's just that people of our ilk have a way of disappearing, and I think often that means we're doing things we're not supposed to. Or at least, that is what I worry. At least one of my favorite blogging buddies has taken her blog down and not answered emails, and I am really worried. I can't help but think how I would act if I were not being good to myself.

So, not that anyone out there is asking for it, I am checking in just because there ain't nothing going on with me. Well, not precisely true, but that's all I am sharing. Heh.