Exiled in Soberville

I'm about the crank this baby back up!!!

2009-04-08T15:56:00.001-07:00

A New Perspective on Groceries

2006-11-08T19:10:00.000-08:00

I took dad to Central Market on the day after he moved in with me. Did I mention he is from Panola County? As in, deep piney woods of East Texas, spitting distance to Louisiana, Panola County? Needless to say (but as is my style, I will say it anyway), Dad did not understand the groceries in Central Market. Hummus and pesto and the like freak him out.

Well, he has Alzheimer’s so he is a little bit confused to begin with, but I think the new-fangled groceries did him in here.

Me (standing in front of a 10-foot long display of varied lettuces): Dad, what kind of lettuce do you like?
Dad: (staring dubiously at the frisee and arugula): The REAL lettuce.

Yes, he meant the iceberg lettuce. We found an anemic-looking little head of it shoved back behind the gorgeous red leaf and moved on.

Me (standing in front of the deli counter): Dad, do you want to get some lunchmeat? Which do you want?
Dad (looking around everywhere except at the meat counter): The regular kind.

Yes, he meant the SQAURE lunchmeat. The filler-filled, preserved-for-evermore lunchmeat, only to be found in yellow plastic and shrink-wrap.

We left Central Market and headed straight to my Barrio HEB and spent $200 on over-processed, bleached out, pesticide-filled, cancerous foodstuffs that compelled me to apologize to the cashier for their very existence.

All of this only to come home from a 9-hour work day on Monday and have dad tell me that when he looks into our stocked fridge, he doesn’t see any food to eat.

He wants to go to the grocery store.

We go.

He becomes upset about how many people are there and how big it is.

He can’t read the labels because the print is too small.

He thinks I am rushing him.

He is agitated and I don’t know how to help him.

And later on, as I lay reading in bed, I heard him crying in his room.

I RAN (and there were no cops chasing me)!!

2006-10-22T12:10:00.000-07:00

Vis-à-vis exercise, my mantra used to be "Run or Breathe."

There was just NO WAY to drink as much alcohol as I drank and eat as many pills as I required and ALSO do some kind (any kind) of exercise. You have no idea how time-consuming it can be to chewing up forty horse pills a day, swallow another 10 to 12 other assorted lil pills, and swill back half a handle of vodka. There just aren’t enough hours in the day.

But, anyway, that was then.

This is now

Can you believe I ran a race? Me either. Stay tuned for Armageddon.

$28.26 or 2826?

2006-10-20T19:08:00.000-07:00

So, I went to my local H.E.B. tonight to pick up a few things (including some sparkly mega-long fake eyelashes, a box of Cheerios, and some sewing needles). And the cashier says to me, “$28.26.”

But what I hear is, “2826.”

Not the same thing.

The difference is about ten years and five or six hundred tabs of X ago.

Instantly, I am back in Houston at Club 2826 (now defunct, of course. The only web reference I could find was in this DJ’s Myspace bio).

Pounding music pulsating, surging, reverberating through my body - packed ass to sweaty back with beautiful people grinding to the beats in a sea of Tanorexics and Glamazons, Strippers and Drug Dealers - strobe lights (or is it the drugs?) making everyone appear to be moving in flashes of freeze-frame photography – tracers of lights: blues, reds, whites, streaking through the smoky, thick atmosphere illuminating the faces of people so hyped up on GHB, cocaine, and Ecstasy that their eyes look like they may actually pop out of their heads, their tongues might succeed in wiping their lips right off of their faces, their shivery 98-pound frames might collapse into convulsions.

And there I am so hopped up myself that I can barely breathe – my eyes rolling back in my head – my barely-clad body broken out in tiny gooseflesh, shivering and sweating at the same time, oxygen eludes me, my boyfriend props me up like some limp, beautiful doll, while my head lolls to one side and my mouth gapes, stupefied.

Standing in the HEB, my stomach started to churn. I was sick. I needed to take a shit. Bad.

I paid the cashier and went home to my Real Friday night: curled up with my dog and reading.

I’m thankful to be alive and at home on a Friday night with my dog.

Comparison Shopping

2006-10-13T16:08:00.000-07:00

I got an email this morning from a high school classmate that I hadn't thought about in 15 years. Damn - that really makes me sound quite old, which I am NOT, by the way. I am young and fabulous. I am.

ANYWAY, this classmate of mine has started a website for our graduating class (1990, if you must know).

Naturally, I perused it...

Then it started.

The Comparisons. Yes, The Comparisons. This one is a college professor. That one has started her own foundation. This one has won an Emmy. Those two are in business for themselves. There they all are with their babies and businesses and accolades and homes.

I didn't notice where anyone was a recent rehab graduate, just starting her life over in remedial mode. In all those photos, I didn't really see anyone with just her dog by her side... I have to admit that I became a little bit sad.

But then I was reminded of something an old guy in one of my first meetings said to me. He said, “It’s none of your goddamned business what anyone else thinks of you.”

And so I considered for a moment what I thought of myself.

And I was reminded of who I am.

And I was no longer sad.

Romancing the Drink

2006-10-12T18:42:00.000-07:00

Did I mention that I am a successful attorney? Now, I understand that success is subjective, but let’s use my definition of success here (being that this is my blog and all). Within the context of my blog, to be successful at one’s job means to be deeply fulfilled and challenged by the work that you do, and also to be appreciated (perhaps not financially, the unavoidable reality of the non-profit world) and recognized by the people/company/clients for whom you do it. By this standard, I am wildly successful.

All of which brings me to this management retreat I am on right now…

I made a LOT of changes in my life when I got out of rehab (which, by the way, I enthusiastically recommend with a straight face to ANYONE WITH A PULSE just because it is so instructive on living life in general).

Before rehab, I traveled constantly for work, I worked around the clock, I was the youngest member of upper-management, I managed two teams of attorneys who had underwear older than me, I didn’t know how to turn down a case or a project, I was writing and presenting at conferences, I was on committees and boards and blah blah blah … And I couldn’t sleep at night without slamming a few shots of Maalox and a bunch of martinis (filthy, up, thank you very much) to wash down a handful of xanax.

So, when they finally let me out of the clink… um, okay, well they didn’t exactly let me out. I pretty much orchestrated a dramatic escape because, well dammit, it had been FIVE months, I didn’t have another 30K to stay on and I was ready to go home! But I digress…

Anyway, my first order of business upon returning to work was to resign from about 40% of my job, which went swimmingly, except that my silver-tongued long-suffering executive director would not countenance my total resignation from management. I was therefore prevailed upon to retain a Stupid Figurehead Title (you’re going to love this: Group Coordinator for Alternative Delivery Mechanisms. Do not ask me to explain) and to continue to oversee a small project that effectively runs itself. In this way, I have all the time I want to concentrate on the work that I really want to do (ask me and I’ll tell you all about it) and also have a life outside of the office, but I have a sleeper of an upper management job and thus am still required to come to these damned management retreats.

Which brings me to the real point on this entire posting: for better or worse, I work in an organization (and a profession for that matter) where the Drinking Culture is King. And when they wheeled the big galvanized tubs full of iced-down Shiner Bock into our meeting room at about 3:00 this afternoon, I REALLY wanted one. I felt, somehow ... left out. Like I was no longer part of the Cool Crowd.

I found myself remembering fondly previous management retreats where we were all toasty by noon, having heated drunken debates about contentious Constitutional issues (how best to sue the shit out of local police for Driving While Mexican arrests, for example) in the early afternoon, drooling lazily on our legal pads during late afternoon power-point presentations, floating the kegs before dinner, and skinny-dipping in the river by nightfall (or maybe that last part was just me).

But, to snap me out of my reverie and back into the reality of what it’s like for me when I drink, I need only recall that just yesterday as I was about to close a (pre-sobriety) case file – I found a dangerously close to malpractice mistake I’d made that I now have to fix. Yikes!

The wreckage of the past is still all around me… Although I hope one day to not be surrounded by reminders of my alcoholism and drug addiction, I do hope that I NEVER FORGET how it really was.

P.S. - I did NOT have a Shiner Bock

Makes Me Quiver

2006-10-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

Okay. Is anyone else as completely freaked out about this as I am? Pan-seared foie gras is the only food I’ve discovered with the power to MAKE ME QUIVER.

Yes, that's right - I positively quiver with unholy pleasure when a properly prepared pan-seared foie gras just dissolves onto my tongue in its ablution of finely carmelized fruit … now fig … then pear … a hint of vanilla, perhaps. I am suspended in delight, blind and deaf to the world around me. Oh god ...

To take away my right to feast upon this, the most perfect dish anywhere, would be barbaric indeed.

Why, I’d be forced to seek out my fix on the black market (and rest assured, one would crop up if this dish were outlawed). Why, we could all be relegated to eating foie gras prepared by back-alley chefs without proper credentials and sterile utensils.

This is an OUTRAGE!!

One gem from the article: "In my opinion, the four farms that grow ducks for foie gras in this country -- especially the largest ones, in New York and California -- they ought to be made examples of by our legislators, not as places of animal torture, but rather as models of humane farming. Unlike factory hogs, which have their tails painfully cut off and never see the light of day before winding up as cheap grocery store pork, the billions of chickens that live packed wing to wing and live in their own ammonia-reeking waste, or the feed-lot antibiotic-laced beef -- if I had to come back today as an American farm animal destined for the dinner table, I'd choose to be a Moulard duck raised for my fat liver in a heartbeat."

Aaaaargghhhhh!

2006-10-03T06:32:00.000-07:00

My roommate, bless her sweet heart, does NOT:

(1) take the trash out to the trash bin - EVER;
(2) take the trash bin out to the curb on trash day;
(3) take the recycling out to the curb on recycling day;
(4) rinse a dish before putting it in the dishwasher - EVER (but she WILL put a crusty dish from the dishwasher into the cabinet when she (rarely) unloads the dishwasher after I run it);
(5) put a dish in the dishwasher, rather than just leaving it in the sink;
(6) fill my dog's water bowl after her dog drinks all Pogo's water;
(7) bring the mail inside the house - EVER;
(8) wring out a sponge and put it in the sponge-holder - EVER;
(9) bring home my dishes and silver that she takes over to friends houses, her office, and in her car;
(10) scrub the bathtub - EVER;
(11) remove dead things from the refrigerator;
(11) you get the idea.

She loves to cook. And she is very good at it. But after she cooks, the kitchen looks like this:

Once, when I went of town, I came home to our kitchen looking like this:

To avoid the above, I go behind her religiously EVERY DAY and rinse her dishes and put them in the dishwasher; re-locate her dirty abandoned glasses and other dishes from the living and dining rooms to the kitchen; dredge the soaking, nasty sponge from the bottom of the kitchen sink, wring it out, and place it in the sponge-holder; put the lids back on various household foodstuffs like the peanut butter, honey, and syrup; and excavate her dead, moldy tupperwares and assorted expired spore-producing snacks from the refrigerator.

If I had the stomach for it, I would do an experiment: stop picking up after her and see what happens. I'm just far to terrified of the results. I can't do it. I wonder if she ever wonders how the trash gets out of the kitchen and to the curb ... I wonder if she ever wonders how all the ditry glasses that she leaves all over the house magically end up in the dishwasher ... I wonder if she ever wonders how the peanut butter jar ends up all shiny and clean and in its place after she leaves it open on the counter with a sticky knife stabbed down into it ... or if she ever gets curious to know where that moldy bag of tortillas or those fermented black bananas swarming with fruit flies went ...

I love her to death. But sometimes I just want to kill her.

Okay.

I think I feel better now.

Huntin'

2006-10-01T07:20:00.000-07:00

I'm finally going to take that gun safety course so I can get my hunting license this year. No more poaching for me...

Ego

2006-10-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

So, remember that I deided that I had to dump my new best girlfriend because he went off on a cocaine binge?

I know he's still alive b/c I sometimes get this irresistable urge to pseudo-cyber-stalk him. I check out his Myspace page and see that he has been on line. What that is all about, I do not know. But, yes, I do a little cyber-monitoring of his activities. Okay, I admit it: that's just a little effed-up. It started out b/c I was worried about him and wanted to make sure he wasn't dead.

But then, after HE NEVER ONCE CALLED ME so I could tell him I was dumping him as a friend, I became incensed over the possibility that he was dumping me first. Is HE dumping ME because I don't do cocaine and I am BORING?!

I could take consolation that I am still in his top 8. But, you can bet your ass that if I change my Myspace picture to something less, er... sexy, then he will dump me out of his top 8.

I said he was my best girlfriend. I never said he wasn't shallow.

Sad Moment

2006-09-26T08:05:00.000-07:00

I have to dump my new best girlfriend.

We will call him Hoover here. Yes, him. Hoover is actually a guy, but he was nonetheless a good girlfriend - we laughed our asses off, gabbed about who we were dating and (who he was) sleeping with, went trail running together, bitched about our bosses, showed each other our new clothes from shopping, and talked on the phone and texted a million times a day.

But now he has to go... Hoover has a cocaine problem that just keeps getting the best of him. And it's really disturbing my own serentiy and sobriety.

I have known Hoover since January, but have only been invested in this friendship for approximately two months. I regret it already. I tried to avoid being friends altogether once I found out about his cocaine use, but Hoover is charming and persistent and makes me want to hug him and do whatever I can do to help him. He's sort of like a Dennis the Menace - he wreaks havoc in his own life, and thus in the lives of people around him. But you adore him anyway because he is irresistably cute and helpless, as only a child can be.

And it has been my life's pattern to find guys exactly like this, and try to save their souls. I'm on dangerous ground here.

Like I told him when I explained why we couldn't date: I AM FINISHED WITH FIXER-UPPERS. I am over it. I have enough broken and needy people in my life already (like my family, for instance, see previous blogs for hillbilly updates), that I do not need to run right out and augment my stable of people who NEED something from me to make their own lives whole.

Hoover was attracted to my sobriety - he basks in its presence. ... Until he runs out and hoovers up a bunch of cocaine and disappears for a week.

I just can't consent to be the palliative presence entre-temps.

It hurts me to see my friends hurt themselves. I cried last week when I found out he was out on a binge. We had just run 5 miles the day before and he was so proud of himself for being in the "double digits," as he said, on his number of days of sobriety. He had two weeks under his belt. And he went out that nght after our run and gave all that up...

Hoover is a new friend. I think I have to let him go now before I go into the Savior Mode of my former self, the one where I concentrate on fixing what's wrong with everyone else so much that I forget about all the things that I have to work on for myself, in myself. Hoover can only offer a one-sided friendship that will drain the life out of me. It's already starting. I'm losing sleep over his problems!

So, he's got to go.

G'bye Hoover. I'll miss you.

My Celebrity boob twin?

2006-09-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

Your Celebrity Boob Twin:

Charlize Theron

Who's Your Celebrity Boob Twin?

You know, I really do not like that word "boob." It's just an unpleasant, sloppy word for such a lovely body part. And when you call a person a boob, you insult him. That's just silly - why, I think calling a person a boob should be a compliment of the highest order, signifying that they are soft and beautiful and that to be in their presence is comforting somehow.

Now that I think about it, I guess all sexual body parts turn out to be insults when hurled appropriately at your interlocutor. But, why should that be?

What a majestic thing a penis is. Why on earth should it also be a condemnation?

Heart Burn

2006-09-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

I have NO groceries in my house, so I am reduced to eating my bloody mary bar.

Yes, you heard that right.

This year I reinstituted the South Austin grand tradition of the Pre-Austin City Limits Breakfast Taco and Bloody Mary Brunch. So, this past Saturday morning, I cooked up bloody marys for 30 of my closest friends before we all headed out to the festival grounds.

ANYWAY, the point is that I have ONLY bloody mary ingredients in my kitchen. And so that’s what I had for dinner tonight:

(1) two Vlasic Kosher Crunchy Dill Pickles - mygod, I love these! Maybe not as much as this crazy chic,
(2) some salsa
(3) some Spanish olives
(4) two glasses of spicy V-8
(5) some pickled okra
(6) a garlic stuffed olive; and
(7) some pickled asparagus spears.

And the BAD-ASS bloody mary bar doesn’t end there …

It included horseradish, wasabi, olives marinated in chilis, blue-cheese stuffed olives, indeed, many fine olive varietals ranging in size from 200-220 all the way up to 70-80, pepperoncinis, pickled carrots, pickled beets (OMG – if you are EVER in Fort Mill, S. Carolina – you HAVE to go to The Peach Stand), escabeche, Worchestershire (how the eff do you spell that?) sauce, habanero sauce, tomatillo salsa, pickled cherry pepper popper thingys, one of my fave secret ingredients, pickled cayenne peppers, and the rest shall remain nameless (mainly because I can’t remember and my heart burn is so bad right now I can’t be bothered to go do inventory).

Guy-aitus

2006-09-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

So, I went ahead and dumped Mr. Incredible.

Then along came another guy with flowers. I said no.

I am on Guy-aitus.

Which probably isn’t such a bad thing, I guess, since I keep effing up my interesting new concept birth control.

The (somewhat) funny thing about this is that I somehow thought it would be a good idea if I synchronized my dog’s flea preventative medicine schedule with my own nuvaring schedule.

But now that I have it all messed up, not only do I have the (highly theoretical immaculate conception kind of) possibility of becoming pregnant, but I might also get fleas.

Skills

2006-09-03T20:20:00.000-07:00

So, many of you know that I am in North Carolina hanging out with some really cool wake board friends.

I have learned many new skills here and I am VERY excited about it.

Skill #1: Surface 180

Skill #2: Ollie, but they call it a 'bunny hop' in these written instructions.

Basically, an ollie is such a lame trick that there really isn't anyone shooting video of themselves doing it.

Except maybe me.

Here's a shot of one of my lame ollies:

Skill #3: Aqua Dump. No video for this one. Use your imagination.

Ewwwwww!!!

More Country Cousin Quotes

2006-08-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

I LOVE this one.

FoF Husband was in town last weekend. He was taken aback by all the homeless people with signs begging at highway overpasses.

He was irritated that they seemed to mostly be able-bodied people. He said, "Well, this one feller, he din't have nothin' wrong with him. "Cept maybe a little bald patch on 'is head -- but, hell, that ain't nothin' a hard hat won't fix"

Airborne

2006-08-23T20:42:00.000-07:00

In 8th grade science class, I learned that we humans constantly shed dead skin cells. And, really, it is notable that I was able to learn anything in my 8th grade science class because I was so completely stoned every day.

I was thoroughly horrified by the idea that dead, shriveled, flaked-off microscopic skin cells were swarming and swirling madly in the air I was sucking down my throat. My best friend Jennifer Palazola used to make me scream like a girl by chasing me around frantically rubbing her arms with her hands. I was sure she was exciting huge clouds of invisible sloughed-off skin cells that would clog my airways, my pores, my eyes….

I hate to fly for this very reason, and others of a similar vein. Being shut up in that small space, breathing that same air, with those, those…VECTORS. Yes, my fellow airline passengers are reduced to nothing more than vectors in my estimation.

Today on a flight to Austin, I was seated in the center seat between two men. During the approach, the one by the window began to rub his hairy, beefy arm. I began to steal furtive glances at his arm while trying to concentrate on my book.

But he started to worry this one spot. He was no longer just rubbing; he was picking and scraping and straining his fat face around to peer at the backside of his meat-slab arm. I was horrified. By now, I was most assuredly inside a maelstrom of cells hurtling through MY airspace, frenetic and shimmering all around my head like so many noxious fish scales and fumes.

I was distraught. I could not prevent myself from stealing increasingly frequent sidelong glances at Mr. MeatHooks and his eczema escapades. I wanted to shout at him, to put a stop to it. But even I was incapable of such boldness.

In desperation, I began my silent (and ineffective) attempts to engage the guy on the other side of me – to somehow foment in him the same indignation I felt at this obvious personal affront to our common airspace. He was not swayed by the energy I directed his way. He didn’t see my imploring glances at him, then towards MeatHooks. He couldn’t feel my fervent need for his support, for us to unite against our common enemy.

He was dumbly flipping through the dirty, dog-earned (and clearly infectious) Skymall Magazine, and was oblivious that we were choking on Mr. MeatHooks’ airborne effluent.

I was unwittingly recoiling in horror, and by the time I realized that I was visibly shrinking away from MeatHooks, I was pressed up against SkyMall Man, nearly crowding him to the far side of his own seat…

I was left with no choice but to stare with open hostility at Mr. MeatHooks long and hard until he realized how offensive he was. But, just as I firmed my resolve, we pulled into the gate and he started to gather his things to deplane.

Dating Lite with Yours Truly

2006-08-22T20:51:00.000-07:00

So, I've been dating a few different people lately. And I use the term "dating" very loosely considering I haven't kissed a single one of them!! Since this is really "Dating Lite" and is not really Dating Dating, I don't think I have to tell any one of them about any of the others of them. What do you think?

I mean, after all ... how do you tell someone that you aren't even dating that you aren't even dating someone else at the same time?? What do I know about Dating Lite?? This is all new to me… I used to just hop in the sack with ‘em and sort it out later.

Anyway, I've also been watching this television show called Rockstar: Supernova. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t do TV, but my friend Patrice Pike is on it and is kicking ass, incidentally. On RSN they have an elimination round each week where one contestant (rocker, as they are referred to on the show) gets sent home.

I was all set to have my own elimination round this week on Dating Lite with Yours Truly. But Mr. Incredible, as we will refer to him here, narrowly escaped elimination today by sending me these fabulous flowers.

Tidbits from My Country Cousin Weekend

2006-08-21T09:54:00.000-07:00

Okay. So, as I've said, my dad is living in Purgatory with "friends of the family," while I get things ready for us here. These Friends of the Family are, in fact, (hold on to your seat): related to Trailerpark and Little Chief (see previous postings for more background).

So, anyway, the Friends of the Family with whom he is staying are interesting in and of themselves. Allow me introduce:

F.o.F. Husband: His notable quote of the weekend pertained to his desire to “go to the dentist this hitch.” (NB: a “hitch” in this context refers to the one week spent at home between two-week stints on an offshore drilling rig). When I inquired further, I learned he wanted to go to Mexico to get his remaining teeth extracted.

Apparently, it is well-known in certain circles that one can go to Mexico for low-cost tooth extractions…

F.o.F. Wife: We went to the auto parts store to buy a new battery for my car (another long story). She bought some GoJo and some shop towels. She then proceeded to apply it liberally, IN THE PARKING LOT, to her arms and hands, explaining that she “ain’t got all the oil off since ma’ last shift.”

I would point out here that her last shift at the refinery was three days prior.

I’ll update later with more on the prodigious children and dogs.

Communication Breakdown

2006-08-10T21:01:00.000-07:00

My dad and I never have been able to communicate. We don’t understand each other. Never have. Looking back, I think we communicated best when we were silent. But maybe I am wrong about even that…

He’s still down in Purgatory while I am getting things ready (running around with my ass on fire) for him to come live here with me, thereby launching my official spinsterhood.

Some examples of our stellar communication skills:

About ten years ago:
Me: (Proudly, looking for approval) Dad, I am going to go to law school.
Dad: (Bewildered and Disappointed) But, why?

About twenty years ago:
Me:
Dad:

About ten minutes ago:
Me: You are baby-sitting her children while she’s at work? Maybe we should ask your doctor if that’s a good idea.
Dad: What do you think I am going to do? Rape them?

Whooahhh! Did that just happen? Did he really just say that?

If I thought we couldn’t communicate before, well Alzheimer’s has a lot in store for me!

He actually thinks that my concern is that he will affirmatively harm those kids. He can’t see that my concern is really that he will not supervise them closely enough to prevent them from harming themselves, and that if one of them does get hurt, that he won’t be able to react in the appropriate way.

His neurologist told me at our last visit that I should just go ahead and accept that I will NEVER EVER win another argument with dad again. I think now I understand what he meant.

There’s no logic and reason.

There’s only us. And what’s more, we have never liked it that way. It has never felt right. And I am afraid that it never will.

Oh Boy! Myspace is fun!

2006-07-31T13:24:00.000-07:00

Find me on MySpace and be my friend!

Stalking on MySpace

2006-07-26T15:47:00.000-07:00

I joined MySpace this week. Within 24 hours of joining and publishing my profile, a guy who used to stalk me when we were in law school together found me.

I mean REALLY this guy DOES NOT give up. I've consistently blown him off for TEN YEARS. He has been trying to implicate himself in my life for TEN YEARS. It has not yet worked.

He has not yet caught a clue.

I am truly dumbfounded by this man's tenacity.

Mood Altering

2006-07-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

I am an addict through and through. An addict absolutely cannot stand to feel emotional pain. I’m in pain today. So, let’s examine my thoughts, shall we?

Well, I definitely thought about having a drink. In fact, I’m having a hard time NOT thinking about having a drink right now. Each time my roomie goes into the kitchen and opens the specially-designated-for-alcohol fridge (not to be confused with the regular fridge, where we just keep our food), I listen for the “Pfhshhht” of her beer bottle opening. Then I think about it some more.

But I haven’t had a drink.

I thought about pills, for sure. My head says, “Man, if there was ever a time in your life when you deserved a Valium, it is RIGHT NOW.”

But I don’t listen to me. And I don’t have any Valium anyway.

But get this: I thought about sticking my finger down my throat to make myself vomit. Just to break through the pain somehow.

What IS THAT?? Who would think to do something like that???

I did it once, you know. When I was in rehab and I was really hurting. I was wild-eyed with pain, desperation, and fear. And it was all that I could think of to do. It was like an instinct. A sort of last resort. And it worked. For a minute. But then it made me really scared about what I was getting myself into. I haven’t done it again. And I hadn’t thought about it either.

Until tonight.

What is so wrong with me that my instinct drives me to try to gag myself in response to emotional pain? Why can’t I just cry like everyone else?

I guess if I were like everybody else, I’d be able to take a Valium right now without opening Pandora’s Box.

Or, maybe, if I were like everybody else, it wouldn’t occur to me to take a Valium at all.

What do I know about being like everybody else?

Diddly.

Grievous Bodily Harm

2006-07-22T17:08:00.000-07:00

Remember the old days when we all used to drink a bunch of GHB until we passed out in mid-sentence and pissed ourselves?

Oh, wait, that was just me. None (very few, rather) of you knew me in those days. Ahh, yes, the salad days (in the, Shakespearean sense mind you).

Back then we called it “scoops,” because it came in a powder form, straight from the GNC Health Food store, and then later from the pharmacy. You just mixed yourself a scoop up in a glass of water and voila, Instant Heaven.

That is, until you kept throwing back the caps, taking more and more, because you couldn’t stop yourself and because, by that point, you didn’t know any better anyway, and you ended up overdosing, passing out, losing control of your bodily functions, and nearly dying right there in front of your laughing dazed smiling friends. Yeah, the good old days, right?

We also used to call it Grievous Bodily Harm, which also illustrated our stupidity since that makes the acronym GBH, instead of GHB. Whatever. We were FLY-ING! We were D-U-M-B!

But then the FDA and Congress got all involved and ruined our reindeer games. Now we had to rely on our friends and chemists working out of their homes to produce it. :(

But what's my point?

It's baaaaa-ack!

And it's respectable now! Because the drug manufacturer says so I LOVE the disclaimer, by the way, which identifies death as a potential "adverse event" and cautions of "neuropsychiatric events" even if taken as recommended). It is "no more harmful that table salt" according to Dr. Gleason, who prescribed it to many patients for everthing from insomnia to depression!

Wow, I was a little depressed last year. I sure wish Dr. Gleason had been my doctor. NOT.

Pogo's First Rib!!

2006-07-19T07:35:00.000-07:00

Alzheimer's is a Drag

2006-07-16T21:18:00.000-07:00

(Much time has passed since my last blog. Things in E. TX. ceased to be funny when I found out Dad has early-onset Alzheimer's. He is living in Purgatory (a friend's house in South Texas) while I find a place for us to move into together so I can take care of him. In all my spare time, I'll update my blog to make some sense later.)

For now, however, allow me to share some of the drama to divert you from your urban malaise...

I've most recently been embroiled in a plot to relieve my unwitting father of his weapons and tools. I arrived unbidden in Purgatory with a moving truck and three strapping movers with the baldly-expressed intent to secrete away my father's personal arsenal, assorted ammunition, and hulking manly-man gang box, filled as it was with a variety of tools, both power-driven and manual.

Dad brought these items to Purgatory last week in an ill-advised effort to protect them, after another dramatic event involving the alleged burglary of his home in East Texas -- the more likely scenario involving my 'sister' and simple theft. These items include: One SKS Assault Rifle complete with bayonet; One AR15 Assault Rifle; One 30/30; One .357 revolver; One .22 revolver; and various other pistols and non-automatic rifles of greater and lesser calibers; Ample ammunition for the above-mentioned guns, which are all legal and registered, etc., btw; One gang box (approximately 800 pounds) bursting with omnifarious tools of all values, large and small.

Dad lives in a house with three (city) boys between the ages of 8 and 11, who have never handled a gun in their short sad lives. The house he in which he temporarily resides is frequented by the same thief who stole and disposed of, at a minimum, the following items formerlly owned by him: (1) One pick-up truck; (2) One 15' hauling trailer; (3) One .270 deer rifle with precision scope; and (4) an undisclosed amount of cash.

Thus, in my infinite wisdom as Number One Daughter, I decided it would be best that he not have these items with him in Purgatory. Hence the trip referenced above.

And, so, there I stood in all my glory (shame), doing what I knew was the right thing to do. Dad threw things. He fought. He left out on foot, refusing to return until I'd left.

I pleaded. I cried. I doubted myself. I loaded everything and left. I hated myself. Dad won't talk to me.

I hope this epic update has managed to jolt you from that insidious urban malaise, which no doubt affects us all from time to time...

Ladies, Our Friends at the Supreme Court...

2006-02-23T21:25:00.000-08:00

... are few and dwindling. These are desperate times. Very desperate times. Stay tuned for updates on the schemes and shenanigans of the Crazy People Among Us and the Thomscaliaquist Machine's "Team (Anti-)Terminator," if you will.

Meanwhile, Canada's current abortion debate revolves around whether citizens can force the government to pay for an abortion in the hospital of their choice, if you can believe that!

I'll leave you tonight with this thought:

We celebrate Rosa Parks for her refusal to stand up and give her seat to a white man. If only Sandra Day O'Conner had done the same...

What, me angry?

2006-02-09T07:12:00.000-08:00

So, last night my acupuncturist (who has no webpage, but whose contact info is listed here) kept asking me why I was angry.

"Why, whatevah ahh you talkin' about, sugar blossom?" I replied.

Well, actually, I didn't say that. I'm no fragile flower, of course. I actually asked her what the hell she was talking about.

She explained that my "energy" was very different than usual. Well, I know better than to try to fool the Mojo Master that does all my bodywork (massage, energy work, acupuncture).

But I apparently do not know better than to fool myself.

I denied being angry. I believed I was not angry.

But my massage was not going well. As I recall, her comment was that she could not tell where my muscles ended and my bones began.

When she began to insert the acupuncture needles, I felt them in a way that I’d never felt them before. I felt my back revolt. It resisted violently. My trapezius launched an assault on the needles! I couldn’t help but envision them backing out slowly and cautiously, afraid the trapezius would go postal on them.

But when she began the cupping, it was ON. I thought my body would lurch crazily off the table, despite myself.

So I began to create a visualization, a visualization intended to take back control of my body. I visualized the cup stuck to my back actually sucking my very trapezius right out of my back. Ripping it out, effortlessly shredding the fine ends of it as they struggled to maintain contact with my scapula. The cup then flung the bloody and pulsating angry trapezius onto the floor.

And I jumped up off the table and began to stomp that trapezius into submission. I beat it with my fists, stabbed it with my stilettos, flung insults and invective at it, piled furniture on top of it and finally set the whole effing thing ablaze.

But I’m most definitely not angry.

Movie Rental Late Fees

2006-02-08T11:13:00.000-08:00

To obtain a waiver, try this:

"I'm sorry these are late by one week, but my sister tried to kill my dad's girlfriend and when the police came all three of them went to jail because of the meth lab at my dad's house. They called me up to ask for help and I had to go home for a week on super-short notice. Could you maybe give me a break on these fees?"

It worked for me at the local Vulcan Video. But, then again, I also offered to show them the front page of the local newspaper in the town where these events took place, which features the whole story.

Anyway, after she picked her jaw up off the ground, she promptly credited my account for the late fees. As I was turning to leave, she found her voice and whispered breathlessly, "Did she die?"

Grades. Oh, the nostalgia...

2006-02-08T07:23:00.000-08:00

My former secretary has just finished her first semester in law school. She wrote to me looking for guidance about her grades. My response follows:

Oh Ginger!!! Take heart, honey. You know the answer, intellectually, but the blow to the ego is so tough. I know what I'm talking about -- it led me to drop out for a year after my second year of law school!

Here's how it went for me:

First year - I worked so hard that I lost weight, neglected and destroyed my relationship with my significant other, suffered from chronic gastritis, muscle spasms, insomnia, and ended up in the ER several times b/c my neck and back muscles were so knotted up that I couldn't move my head or shoulders without excruciating pain. Since I had no idea what I was doing and was too proud to admit it, I worked eighteen times harder than I needed to work. I read and re-read cases, using numerous colors of highlighters and ink to mark up my case books, the resulting texts appearing to have been attacked by marauding vandals wielding confetti-filled Easter eggs. My case books became incomprehensible, adding to my confusion. I was too shy to join study groups. I walked around every day just KNOWING that I had a big sign over my head that read: IDIOT. I hated everything and everyone around me. I got my grades, and then I hated myself. I finally had empirical proof that I was, in fact, an idiot.

I think you are at this stage right now. But take heart and read on...

Second year - This year my tactic was to pretend that I didn't care anymore about grades. The good thing about it was that I really concentrated on my social life and conducted my studies in a more lackadaisical kinda way. I figured my grades would suck no matter what. So, I studied when I could but made sure I had time for dating and for fun. I hiked. I boated. I read flash cards on the fly while swimming at the Green Belt. Miraculously, my grades mostly went up. I even managed to get one of the only three A+s handed out in one of my huge classes. I trounced people that had achieved God-Status in my eyes after first-year grades came out. And while this didn't much matter to me because I had convinced myself by this time that grades were useless, these afore-mentioned God-Status People were crushed that a simpleton such as myself could have received better grades than they had received.

I can't put my finger on what I did to study differently (except I started reading the hornbooks instead of the actual cases). I think I figured out what parts of the reading assignments were really necessary. I always went to class and took great notes. But I didn't pore over tons of unnecessary junk like I used to. I think you just get a better sense, your second year, about what you need to be reading and studying for. Things started to make more sense.

But I still hated most of my fellow students, so I dropped out anyway.

I should also note that during my second year, I made both the highest grade in a class and the lowest grade in a class. I took this to be solid evidence that grades are, in fact, a load of horse shit. Yes, the amount of work I put into the course had some bearing on my grade. But ultimately, grading is overly subjective in law school. And in any case, it is certainly no evidence of my worth as an individual and is only the tiniest bit of input into an evaluation of my overall intelligence.

Grades are bunk. Period. This was my third year attitude. And I took classes I wanted to take, not classes I thought I should take. I was interested in the subject matter and I did just fine. My grades just went up and up. And it was easy. Far easier than the misery that was first year, where I just groped in the dark to just figure out what it was I was supposed to be understanding, before I could begin to try to understand it.

So, there you have it. I went from below average my first year, to mixed results my second year, to above-average my third year. I graduated in the top one third of my class at a first-tier law school ranked at about 10th in the nation. ... oh yeah - that's another sort of consolation for average grades: if you are at a first-tier law school, then your average grades are much better than your top grades at a lesser law school. See? You can get an early start on your elitism with such logic, but it is exactly what you will hear from your law school administrators. Employers buy in to it, too.

Here's the best conclusion I can draw from all of the above: my grade performance had a direct relationship with my personal satisfaction with myself and my life. The more I got out in my new city and met new people and had fun, the happier I was personally and the higher my grades went. Also, there was for me a direct inverse relationship between my grades and my closeness to the law school and the law students. I found I needed to have more in my life than law, law school, and law students. I felt oppressed by my one-track life. The more time I spent with those yuppies-in-the-making and those dusty old law professors, the more I was unsure of myself and questioned myself and my abilities. The more time I spent away from that atmosphere and with people I cared about and who cared about me, the more I thrived. I guess that last is about perspective. Gotta have it.

Finally, consider this: your bourgeois concerns about your performance in law school wither next to the concerns of, say, the average shrew, who absolutely must scavenge and consume three times his weight daily or perish. This example may work better for you if you substitute a Roma child exposed to deadly toxic waste at his UN-sponsored settlement or a Sudanese refugee with no UN refugee camp at all, or even that ruddy, shivering guy in a thin coat you saw this morning outside the metro begging for his breakfast.

Ginger, I know you. And you are incredible. You know it, too. Don't let those musty old codgers trying to label you get you down.

love, Asylum Seeker

Despair and Loathing in Panola County

2006-01-28T17:51:00.001-08:00

So, my fruitless foray into the piney woods of East Texas... What can I say? It was all true, everything that Trailerpark had been telling me. Big Chief is desperately in love with Little Chief, is in a constant state of drug-induced psychosis, and has lost all sight of reason.

He is prepared to deed Little Chief some of our family farm. He bought her a vehicle. He has been spending his retirement (taking early distributions) to pay for whatever else her highness might desire. He has permitted her to turn my grandmother's home into a meth lab.

Meanwhile, in his own world, he moved out of his house because he believes it to be haunted; he hasn’t worked in more than a year; he hasn’t filed his federal income tax returns for the past two years; he hasn’t paid the property taxes on the family farm; he has lost more than 100 pounds; he limps around on an undiagnosed swollen knee; he is confused and paranoid; he is fragile and painfully sad.

Oh, and...

Today would have been my grandmother's, his mother's, 88th birthday. If that house truly is haunted, then it is most assuredly haunted by her discontented and restless soul, fearful for the fate of her only son.

Quiz

2006-01-25T19:04:00.001-08:00

(1) The neighbor makes her living by:
(a) stealing copper wire from well sites
(b) breeding pit bulls
(c) collecting aluminum cans
(d) selling meth
(e) all of the above

(2) Trailerpark lives in:
(a) her truck
(b) a storage shed
(c) a dimpsty-dumpster
(d) the pasture
(e) all of the above

(3) Big Chief's land will be owned by:
(a) his crooked-ass lawyer
(b) Little Chief
(c) the IRS
(d) the Crime Victims Compensation Fund
(e) all of the above

"I Done Moved Out"

2006-01-24T19:41:00.000-08:00

Coming soon, to a theatre near you...

Trailerpark sobs, barely able to hold the pipe to her mouth, "I done moved out! Little Chief done stole DD2's four-wheeler. We took the hog an left up outta there."

Southern-Fried Blues...

2006-01-23T21:57:00.000-08:00

This is a far more palatable explanation for my angst today, the unpleasant alternative being that I have to drive to The Land Of The Dueling Banjos tomorrow to talk to my meth-addicted father about the recent drug raid on the old family farm, his (and my sister’s) pending felony charges, and his expressed intent to deed my great-grandparents’ farm to his newfound love, a meth-cooking skank about 30 years his junior.

Drug Dealer Death Match

2006-01-20T21:39:00.000-08:00

So, in my very first blog posting I promised details about the prominent characters figuring in the Drug Dealer Death Match playing out in the piney woods of East Texas, in a little county called Panola... I think when we last checked in on our cast of shady characters, the word of the day was Arson.

Well since that posting, sordid details of bribes and broads, land disputes and narcotics, and sheriffs and K-9 units abound!

Let us first take some time to re-acquaint ourselves with the shameful stars of this saga.

DD1 - aka Drug Dealer #1. Just for fun, let's pretend he's this guy. He's not that guy and he doesn't really resemble that guy, but they have a thing or two in common and, anyway, it gives us a face to hate. :) Anyway, he's number one only in his own Napolean Complex-afflicted mind. He is, shall we say, rotund. And vertically challenged. And diabolical. And as dumb as a box of rocks.

DD2 - aka Drug Dealer #2 aka The Peach. I really can't say he's a drug dealer, but I will anyway. If you don't believe me, ask any cop within a 50 mile radius of Panola County.

Trailerpark - aka Pocahontas; dates DD2 and is "adopted" daughter of Big Chief. So, theoretically, my sister.

Big Chief, aka my stoopid-ass-ruining-his-life, make-my-therapist-rich dad. Took Trailerpark in when she was 15 - seems she was knocked up and her mama said, Out Out Damn Spot.

Little Chief, the dirty-legged ho who runs the show at Big Chief's ranch. Also, the recently repatriated baby sister of Trailerpark. Not otherwise related to Big Chief or Yours Truly.

If I had any expertise in photoshop, I would prepare a nice graphic. But I don't. So quit your bitchin' and study up.

Rig Watching

2006-01-06T19:16:00.000-08:00

Did you know there was such a job in Texas and Oklahoma? Rig Watching. "Why?" you may be asking yourself. Why would anyone pay someone else to watch a rig? Well, they do. Now go look it up.

To Tattoo Or Not To Tattoo

2005-09-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

So, I've been considering (for about a year now) getting a tattoo in a discreet place. How discreet? Sooo discreet that it will be sort of embarrassing to actually have done. Basically, I am considering getting a tattoo on my PUBIC MOUND. Isn't that a funny term? I don't know if it's clinical or if I made it up or what. What I'm going for is a tattoo that could potentially become obscured if I quit shaving. Get it? I envision a beautiful magnolia flower.

I love magnolia flowers. In fact, my father planted me a magnolia tree for my 30th birthday. That would be a really sweet story if that were the whole story. But it's not. I had to (1) tell him that ALL I wanted for my birthday was for him to plant me a magnolia tree in our pasture; (2) defend magnolia trees in general; (3) remind him several times until he finally ordered a young tree; (3) then plant it myself a week after my birthday because it had been sitting around in its little starter pot forever and he couldn't seem to get around to it. Yep, I don't have the ideal dad. Anyway, I digress...

It's a sort of renaissance-of-my-life tattoo, if you will. It will be my Recovery Tattoo.

The large, creamy, fragrant magnolias were all in full bloom when I left The Clink in Atlanta and returned to my home...

Scott says: don't forget to pack the...

2005-09-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

Free Samples!!

Honestly, what cracks me up is that my pal Scott thought to send me this link.

A Web of Lesbian Intrigue

2005-09-14T06:55:00.000-07:00

Last night my roomie and I were hanging out and she said, "We need to get that CD."

I said, "Which CD?"

She said, "You know, the one from that movie we watched by that guy who made the whole film on his imac."

"Oh, yeah," I said, "The one we watched with [name removed to protect the innocent]?"

She said, "[name removed to protect the innocent]?" She clearly had no idea who I was talking about.

I said, "[NAME REMOVED TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT]!!" I was incredulous.

Still met with a blank stare, I had to qualify [name removed to protect the innocent] with the following, "OUR EX-GIRLFRIEND!"*

Laughing maniacally, she managed to get out, "I was confused because I thought we watched that movie with [another name removed to protect the innocent], and as far as I know, NEITHER ONE OF US has EVER slept with HER...

She trailed off, steering her eyes around the side of her head toward me, studying my face to see if I was hiding anything...

*[name removed to protect the innocent] was not 'our girlfriend' simultaneously, but rather consecutively, which is almost as bad.

Backwards Bush

2005-09-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

Now you, too, can have your very own Backwards Bush keychain!!! It counts down the days, to the very second, until this debacle of an administration is OUT. Don't you just love it?

Here are the top ten reasons to get one:

(10) You'll never again be mistaken for a Republican
(9) Wearing one around your neck helps to keep Republicans away and smells much better than garlic
(8) You can attach a magnet or tape to the back of it and hang it anywhere you damn well please!
(7) Carrying a BackwardsBush keychain will make it much easier on the Secret Service to identify you when they break into your house in the middle of the night to take you to Guantanamo
(6) They are currently the hottest fashion accessories in New York and L.A.
(5)It's worth buying one just to see how pissed off Republicans get when they see it
(4) Purchasing a BackwardsBush keychain instantly qualifies you for "Enemy Combatant" status
(3) You might as well spend your money on a keychain now, because once social security gets privatized, you won't have any money left!!!
(2) Once Bush gets his judges on the bench, the keychains will be illegal (and therefore a collector's item)
(1) Because you know you want one!

Welcome to Texas

2005-09-04T12:52:00.000-07:00

Last night I said, "Welcome to Texas" hundreds of times. I was talking to the dazed, shoeless, weary refugees arriving from New Orleans, Louisiana. These spent souls were coming off of five days of horror - danger from nature and fellow man, starvation, thirst, despair, and privation of all sorts.

They arrived by plane and bus all night long at the Austin Convention Center, where we were waiting with smiles, hugs, food, sleeping bags, cots, clean undies, and toothbrushes, among other things. So we spent our evening welcoming them and trying to help them be as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances.

One young man told of seeing two sets of twins born at the Superdome in New Orleans.

One wizened elderly lady of 81 proudly announced to me that she'd had her first helicopter ride and her first plane ride, and that she'd, "walked right up the steps to it herself!"

Another white-haired grandfatherly type praised the Lord with tears in his eyes when he learned, while talking to his son on my cell phone, that his wife and daughter had been safely evacuated from a New Orleans hospital after they were separated.

I am grateful today. So grateful.

Blame it on the Meds, Part Deux

2005-08-30T08:03:00.000-07:00

Whooo.... Whoaaahhh.... A manic three days of spur-of-the-moment, middle-of-the-week camping, painting my living room and dining room, and scrubbing the floors for hours with a tiny bowl of cleanser and a small sponge...

I went down in a blaze of glory on Saturday afternoon when my New and Improved Dope Dealer hit me with a special shot outta his blow gun - a poisonous dart antidote to my lunatic ravings. Stars and Moon circling my head. Blackness.

Note to self: NEVER NEVER take provigil again. He called it Adverse Reaction. I call it: If I wanted to feel like that I woulda stayed up a week smoking cocaine and drinking GHB!!

House of Sad

2005-08-28T14:40:00.000-07:00

We are looking for a new roommate these days... after the untimely departure of Ex Factor Flake-a-Zoid.

Anyway, I pulled up one of our old roommate ads of yore and thought we'd just use it.

But in the interest of veracity, we had to make some minor changes to the advertisement.

I'm still smarting over the removal of "gregarious" from the description of ourselves.

I think my blog's not funny anymore...

Blame it on the Meds

2005-08-26T10:58:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday my therapist told me that I HAD to get out of my house. Go for a ride or something - ANYTHING, just get out. Even if it was just to walk around the block.

And my New and Improved Dope Dealer (i.e., my addictionologist who manages my crazy meds) did some fancy footwork; he doubled this, eliminated that, and added the other. I was supposed to stay home from work until Monday, when I should be "feeling better," (euphemism for Stabilized).

But yesterday, about an hour after I took the myriad potions, elixirs, capsules, and tablets- I decided that my depression was definitely gone and my throat infection was probably improving.

So, naturally, I went camping.

Yes, that's right. I packed up my sleeping bag, lounge chair, floaties, king sized tent, miscellaneous gear, several backpacks and sundry ice chests and hit the road. Never mind that I didn't really know where I was headed. Never mind I was on new medication. Never mind I was all alone (well, I had canine companionship). Never mind I was as high as a kite. Never mind It was a Thursday morning!

I ended up pitching camp at Blanco State Park. After some wierd wierd experiences involving park rangers, locksmiths, and a 250-pound woman on a Harley Trike with "Phat Broad" painted across the back, I tossed and turned feverishly all night in my family-sized tent.

I awoke once and for all at 6:00 this morning with my dog standing on my head (where he had been standing effectively all night), one nostril running, one nostril stopped solid, head pounding, mouth dry as a bone from breathing through it, and throat on fire. I laid there staring at the half moon suspended high above my tent in the early morning sky and wondering what it God's Name Had Come Over Me and how long was it going to take me to pack up all this shit and get home.

Solid Waste

2005-08-26T10:37:00.000-07:00

Okay - this is a super-gross post. Not for the faint of heart. Stop reading now if you want to be able to look me in the eye next time you see me. Anyway, I guess I've always been on the recieving end of the "TMI!" comment (as in, Too Much Information).

But this IS a blog about new sobriety. And this IS a new sobriety reality.

Today, just now - less than five minutes ago, I had my first good, solid poop. A damn fine poop! I'm heartened. It's been a long 189 days of the recurring hot snakes.

But who's counting, right?

Have you heard the one about..

2005-08-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

The girl who was turned down for group therapy because she was too depressed?

I'll tell you all about it as soon as I recover from the shock.

SIX MONTHS SOBER!!!

2005-08-18T19:50:00.000-07:00

Umm, this is a miracle.

I've never had six DAYS sober since I was thirteen. Life feels so good to me today.

Yes, Your Honor

2005-08-18T18:43:00.000-07:00

The Chief Judge of the United States Tax Court has ordered me to file a Third Amended Petition by tomorrow. Been workin' on it for a WHILE. It's not finished. Oh hell, improperly deducted business expenses times depreciated assets minus 3 water fowl and ten swine.

Can I expense the Tylenol?

Did I mention opposing counsel characterized my client as "the most obtuse person" he had ever met?

it's late.

So, naturally, I'm watching Chappelle Show and blogging.

Puppy Kindergarten

2005-08-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

I have the #1 Cutest Puppy ever to scamper the face of this planet. His name (after long and heated debate, and not a minimal amount of fighting with his Auntie L) is Pogo. This is Pogo:

He is handsome, yeah? How about another shot of the lil poochie-poo?

I love that one because it illustrates why Pogo is an appropriate name for him - his lil hind end just hops around like that all the time as if he had a built-in Pogo Stick. It just seems to get higher than the rest of him when he is excited. It's really cute. But I digress...

Tonight was our first Puppy Kindergarten class. We are already dropouts. We left in ignominy at the end of the hour, refund in hand (or paw as it were).

You know, it took me so long to figure out how to upload those photos (and actually, I am so mortified by why we had to dropout) that I am too exhausted to go on with this blog. My friends who read this blog can just give me a call to get the scoop. :)

Angry Letter

2005-08-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

So, my therapist gave me an assignment today. I am supposed to write my dad an angry letter that I don't necessarily intend to send. I presume she meant for this to be a solitary and private endeavour, but fuck it. I got my very own bloggy-address-thing today and I'm gonna use it.

First of all, I do in fact see how trite it is for me to write the Angry Letter With No Intent to Send. What can I say? I guess I'm gonna have to stand up and defend the damn idea. As I learned in my uber-long stay at www.talbottcampus.com - that kind of shit actually works. It does make you feel better. So here it goes....

Dear Dad,

This is supposed to be an angry letter (per my therapist), but I guess I really am not all that angry with you. I'm more angry at myself for having unrealistic expectations of you. I mean, they wouldn't be unrealistic expectations of a good father, a good man. But I can't seem to get it through my head that you don't fit that bill.

[Blog readers beware: tragically funny details of my redneck roots follow]

I am extremely worried about you spending so much time with Drug Dealer #1 and Drug Dealer #1's Ho [Dear Blog Reader: read all about Drug Dealer #1 and Drug Dealer #1's Ho in a forthcoming blog]. First of all, this tells me that you are probably losing a lot of sleep and taking your high blood pressure to task. Maybe now that I am sober you are just afraid to talk to me because you are still using.

Also, you know damn well that Drug Dealer #1's Ho is a crafty bitch around whom you should be watching your back (and your wallet). Hell, we've known her since she was 9, and she's no different than the rest of her skanky sisters. I can't believe that you would deny, with a straight face, that Drug Dealer #1 burned Drug Dealer #2's house down to the ground in two separate "electrical" fires. ShitBuckets!!!!! Drug Dealer #1 is an ELECTRICIAN! [Dear Reader: Drug Dealer #2's Ho is my father's "adopted" daughter and is the sister of Drug Dealer #1's Ho. It's all very complicated. I'd make a flow chart if I were any better at using the blog tools].

I just think you are ashamed of yourself for all the shitty and stupid things you've done this year that made you look dumb and/or hurt me and made me feel rejected and abandoned, including but not limited to

(1) trying to hook it up with Drug Dealer #1's Ho (she's LESS than half your age and you knew her when she was a little tyke for Chrissakes);

(2) giving Drug Dealer #1's Ho my telephone numbers so she could call me and try to sell me a timeshare, after you yourself have not called me or spoken with me in nearly six months (that just blows me away - you are totally thoughtless or just plain stupid or both);

(3) honking up and/or smoking a lot of crappy crank and/or ice with those losers;

(4) refusing to come to family week when I was in rehab;

(5) repeatedlly hanging up on my family therapist while I was in rehab and refusing to participate in my therapy;

(6) never calling me to see how I am since that day you hung up on my therapist back in March;

(7) sinking all your dough into that stupid greenhouse with Drug Dealer #2's Ho and having the whole enterprise fail miserably (just like I said it would);

(8) moving a junky-ass trailer onto the property and destroying the pond view;

(9) getting a cell phone and not even telling me or giving me the number;

(10) not calling me for six months and counting - even after I wrote you a letter;

I could go on...

let me count the ways you've broken my heart...

Exiled in Soberville

2005-08-10T11:28:00.000-07:00

Rehab blues? I've got the blogging blues!! How the hell does this work really? I will need two meetings today to handle this shit!