Weather you like it or not.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the snow I cannot change, the courage to shovel the snow I can, and the wisdom to not pout about it.
Whenever I complain about winter (which is frequently), someone will invariably comment on the irony of a warm weather lover such as myself living in the center of the snow belt. Yes, ha ha, I will reply, it sure is ironic.
It's not really ironic, it's just life, that thing I've spent 20-some years learning how to live on its own terms. I became an alcoholic because I wanted my life (read: me) to be different and had no idea how to accomplish that.
I think it's safe to say I've made progress. I accept responsibility for my own actions, I accept that things won't always go my way, I accept that people aren't always going to behave the way I think they should, even when I know exactly how they should think, act and speak. That goes for everyone from the president on down to my kids. And my pets.
And the weather? The icy knife wind, the stinging blasts of snow crystals, the slick roads and sidewalks?
I'm working on it, ok?

One of those days

Today was a comedy of errors. Only it all happened to me, which made it a tragedy.
The coffee pot spewed hot liquid and crunchy ground across the kitchen counter. The dogs refused to take care of business on their first trip outside, necessitating a second trip. The outfit that seemed so classy in theory fell short in the mirror of reality. Then, as I was dashing around (late, naturally) in search of my jacket, I remembered I'd left it upstairs.
No, I couldn't listen to tunes on my bite-sized mp3 player as I walked to work - the itty bitty battery died.
You get the picture.
I slid into snarl mode for a couple of hours after I got home. In the interest of frustrating myself to the point of boiling over, I tried moving my son's unweildly electric organ from the spare room into the mudroom. Guess what was too wide to make the corner into the mudroom?
By that point I was unbearable. As usual, my daughter was the lucky beneficiary. We sniped a little, then she had the good sense to withdraw into the organ, er spare room.
There's a recovery saying: don't get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. HALT. By dinnertime I was at HAT. But I was also determined not to let the rest of the day grind to its end on the sticky wheels of self-indulgent sulkiness.
Another beauty saying in recovery is, you can start your day over at any moment. If you feel yourself going off the rails you can pause, regroup, and do better. After 27 years of sobriety I actually remember to do that sometimes.
I called Melissa to dinner. Then I thanked her for preparing most of the meal while I was wrestling with the impossible logistics of moving a wide musical instrument through a narrow entryway. And I apologized. Another gem learned in recovery: when you're wrong, admit it. Don't blame, don't justify, don't qualify. Just make your amends.
HALT. Start over. Say you're sorry. Simple concepts, right? That's right, simple concepts. But try practicing them in your daily life. Then you'll see that simple doesn't equal easy.
As I write this I'm waiting to take my son's birthday cake out of the oven. Well, half of it. I could only find one of my two round cake pans.
Yes, it's been one of those days.

C'mon, Wednesday

Nov. 3 can't get here fast enough. Enduring this election season has been like having two radios playing full blast, one in each ear: one shrieking heavy metal, the other a screaming fire and brimstone preacher. And for the grand finale, we're expected to pop into a booth and take a quiz on the content of both stations.
I think I'm going to form my own political party. I'll call it the Reasonable Party. We Reasonables will not raise our voices, hurl invectives or spend kabillions of dollars trying to make our opponents look like horses' patoots. What we will do is quietly state our beliefs and goals, encourage citizens to vote for us, and work hard to fulfill our campaign promises.
Our mascot will be the giraffe: quiet, serene, head up high enough to see the big picture. And a vegetarian - how politically correct!
First I'll need a candidate. And don't look at me. Although I do enjoy public speaking and kissing babies, I'm not much for giving orders, or accepting resposibility when things go awry.
My first choice? Alan Alda. Don't be dubious. I think we can all agree that actors of far less talent than he have held public office. He's intelligent, humane, warm, well versed in social issues. He's also in his 70s, which I guess means he wouldn't jump at the chance to hold public office.
Second choice? Big Bird. A true man of the people. He's got street cred, he's compassionate, he cares about the education and welfare of children. And think of this: who would dare to attack a country of citizens crazy enough to elect a 7-foot-tall bird president?
Third choice: the late, great George Carlin. Imagine it. By the time he completed his inaugural address he'd have offended 75 percent of the population so profoundly that they'd all defect to Canada, leaving the rest of us to create our own utopia. Can you imagine a Pledge of Allegiance that incorporated the seven words you can't say on television?
Yes, I'm a little punchy. I look forward to casting my ballot tomorrow night, doing my sacred duty as an American, making my voice heard.
And if you hear about a precinct where Robin Williams got one vote as a write-in candidate for county commissioner, you'll know those political commercials sent me right over the edge.

Splitting hairs

Yesterday I went to my favorite salon for a long overdue haircut. I strode in confidently and gave Anne, my stylist, my usual clear, distinct idea of what I wanted done:
"Ohhh, I dunno. Something different."
Having put off getting this haircut until my bangs were tickling my eyelids and my layers had melded into one limp, untidy, shoulder-length mass, any version of different would have been an improvement.
What I'm always seeking is a flattering, carefree hairdo. Nothing elaborate. Nothing requiring curling irons, gel, blowdryers, hair ties or barrettes. I am strictly a shampoo/conditioner/comb girl. This narrows my options considerably, of course. Add to that the fact that at the age of almost 50 I still have no clear idea of the best look for my face - the same face I've been wearing for, well, almost 50 years.
Anne, bless her heart, is long on patience. "OK, hon, let's look at a few books and get some ideas." She handed me a magazine full of hairstyle suggestions, complete with photos of obscenely beautiful women, including several famous actresses, who would look lovely even with mohawks. Fortunately, I have enough of a grasp on reality to understand that a side part and a few long layers were not going to turn me into Jennifer Aniston's double.
What women need is a hairstyle magazine showing ordinary women who've just rolled out of bed, sans makeup, pre-coffee. A hairstyle that flatters you at that moment in time is a hands down winner.
"What about something like this?" Anne pointed to a 'do with short hair in back and longer, brushed-forward layers on the sides.
"Uh, ok, yeah, something like that, I guess," I said, trying to sound decisive. And off we marched to the chair.
Being as nearsighted as Mr. Magoo, I never know what my haircuts will look like until the work is done and Anne hands me back my glasses. What I see in the mirror until then is a peach blur topped by a water-darkened brown blur. So you can imagine my alarm when I heard the other hairdresser in the salon exclaim, "Wow, you're really getting a lot taken off!"
"I am?" Come to think of it, I was feeling a draft on the back of my neck. I'd been so busy chatting with Anne, exchanging updates on kids and weighing in on the latest news, that I'd almost lost track of why I was there in the first place.
"Wow, you gonna pay her for that haircut?" joked the stylist's customer.
I laughed along, but under the protective cape my hands were slowly clenching.
At last Anne whipped off the cape and handed me my glasses.
Wow.
At least three quarters of my hair was now littering the salon floor. What I was left with was either a chic new look or a desperate cry for a hat.
I fluffed the sides. I stared. I thought hard.
I liked it.
The second phase of a radical new haircut (following phase one: shock) is the big reveal to family and friends. When I got home my friend Jan was waiting for me so we could go for a hike in the woods.
"I love your hair! You look great!" she said without preamble. I whined a bit (a large bit) about how it wasn't what I expected and I wasn't sure I could pull it off. Being a good friend, Jan didn't advise me to suck it up and quit bellyaching. She just kept repeating that I looked great until I ran out of whine.
When I walked into the house, my daughter Melissa stared, eyes wide.
"Wow, that's really ... different," she said.
"Well, I've decided I like it," I said.
Five minutes later I was whining, "I'm not sure I like it" as Jan and I headed to Little Presque Isle. To her credit, Jan did not throw me out of the car, or even threaten to.
To forestall another uncomfortable daughter confrontation, I called Jess to give her a heads up, so to speak.
"I just want to let you know that I got my hair cut. Short."
"And what, you're warning me?" Jess laughed.
Yes, yes I was.
And it was a good thing, too. When she came over later that night her eyes widened exactly as her sister's had.
"Wow, that's really ... short."
I've decided that this is an excellent haircut, a flattering style that suits a busy, creative, middle-aged woman. And having slept on this new hair for one night and then looked in the mirror, I've also decided I'm going to learn how to apply mousse to settle down my wild, wayward feathers on my head.
Hair is as much of a fashion statement as a Coach bag or a Chanel gown. But unlike a bag or gown, you can't toss it back in the closet if it doesn't suit you.
I'll be wearing this particular fashion statement for some time to come. Good thing I've decided to embrace my freshly shorn look and wear it with pride. It's the new me! Arty, stylin', carefree. And saving a fortune on shampoo.

Fall in!

Melissa and I were finishing a late supper when I looked out the kitchen window and said, "Uh oh, I don't think we'll be walking the dogs tonight. We're going to get a storm."
"Mom, it's not going to storm. It's dark because it's nighttime."
OK, so did you know that one major characteristic of alcoholics is denial? And deny I did.
"It can't be dark out yet. It's too early. We're getting a storm."
"Check the Weather Channel," Melissa said confidently.
"I will!" I blustered.
Approximately 15 seconds later my bluster was crushed by the unarguable logic of the stupid Weather Channel radar. And the listing of sunrise and sunset times.
But denial doesn't die that easily. "How can it be getting dark so early? It's only..."
Only almost October. Right.
So Indy and I set out for a walk under a cloudless indigo sky and the nightlight glow of our wonderful old globe-shaped streetlights. The air was cool, soft and sweetened with the scent of dry leaves. Indy was wildly impatient to get under way, having watched Melissa and Saira (her beagle) set out full minutes ahead of us, so the first few blocks were spent trying to hold him to a reasonable pace and pausing to scoop up his, uh, expressions of excitement.
When Indy finally slowed to a brisk, forward-leaning trot, I had time to marvel at how quickly summer had yielded to fall. One day it was 90 degrees, the next day it was 60. This was no gradual change of seasons. Maybe that's why I'm still reeling.
Walking in the fall is 180 degrees different than walking on summer evenings. The streets are quiet. No kids biking, skateboarding, or chasing one another across fresh green lawns. People have their lights on, which I appreciate, because I like to glance into houses as I walk past. Every home is a story being written, a complex history as rich and full as our own. It's easy to forget that everyone is the star of their own play. Those cursory glances at what other people are watching on TV, or what they choose to hang on their walls, reminds me that my life is one molecule in a picture too big for tiny me to comprehend. And I find that comforting.
Walking in the night awakens a particular loneliness I can't imagine a cure for. I'm not lonely for any one person or any particular place. This loneliness evaporates the minute I see my house waiting, welcoming, in the near distance.
I miss summer, but it's kind of a relief to see it end. Summer always yanks at my sleeve, reminding me that unless I'm at the beach or licking an ice cream cone or walking with Indy, I am wasting valuable, fleeting moments of an all to short season. DO SOMETHING! Summer yells.
Fall, on the other hand, says, "Relax. Check out those beautiful leaves. Pull on a warm sweater and curl up with a good book."
Summer is a small, yappy dog who's a lot of fun but wears you out. Fall is a big, gentle mutt, content to meander and take frequent naps.
Lucky for we who live in a place with distinct seasons, we get to enjoy the company of both.

Rev. Jones vs. Christianity

As of this writing the Rev. Terry Jones, the Florida preacher who spearheaded a plan to have a Quaran burning on the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, has decided not to follow through with his plan.
Whew.
I've been worrying about this insane event all week, imaging the potential havoc that could be wreaked following such a blatantly disrespectful - dare I say sinfully disrespectful? - attack on another culture's most sacred text.
In my darkest thoughts I surmised that maybe that was Jones' plan, to provoke the radical Muslim faction and then, after another tragedy on American soil, point his holier than thou finger and preach the gospel of "I told you so."
Burning copies of the Quaran has nothing to do with religion and everything to do with narrow minded, self-righteous bigotry. Seems to me if you're a person of true faith, whether Christian, Muslim or Buddhist, your most sincere wish would be for peace. Peace for everyone, whether or not they pray to the same higher power you do.
Few things raise my hackles more than folks of any sect who believe that their way of believing is the only way. Some of them pity you for not seeing the light - their light. Others stand above you on what they believe is a moral high ground.
Whatever, folks.
I believe in a higher power. My belief system is a joyful blend of Christianity and Buddhism, and as I work at deepening my connections to both, my life is taking some unexpected and amazing turns. Little gifts are presenting themselves. My soul feels more expansive. I feel more at peace, quicker to forgive, a tad slower to anger.
I'll take this spiritual peace, along with a healthy dose of tolerance, over all the fire and brimstone Rev. Jones has to offer.
I think Rev. Jones is afraid. Intolerance and anger are often simply masks for fear of the unknown. As a man of God, would Jones come to the aid of a fellow human in need regardless of their religion? Wouldn't that be the Christian thing to do?
There are, unquestionably, radical factions in this world who despise us and want to destroy us. We need to be vigilant and protect our country and countrymen. But how is the cause of peace advanced by defiling another culture's most revered holy book? Where is the Christian love in that? Where is the plain human decency? Maybe Rev. Jones needs to examine his own sins before he condemns an entire culture in the name of his god.
OK, I'm finished. My sermon is over. Go in peace to love and serve ... Whoever you believe in.

Eat, pray, READ

I maybe could have handled it if they'd cast someone else. Kate Hudson, perhaps, or even Cameron Diaz. But the minute I heard that Julia Roberts was cast to play author Elizabeth Gilbert in the film version of Gilbert's book "Eat, Pray, Love" I knew I wasn't going to be buying a ticket.
The whole idea of making the wildly popular book into a movie was a dubious prospect from go. Most of the action in the book transpires in Gilbert's head, particularly the "pray" section. So how, I wondered, could that be accurately portrayed on film?
Then I saw the previews and realized how: cliches and gimmicks. Julia as Elizabeth tumbles from her bike and is swept up by her lover-to-be. That isn't the way they really met, but why let reality get in the way of a good story, right?
In fact, having seen several clips from the film, I find it almost unrecognizable when compared to the book. The old school of "Let's take a great book, throw it in a blender, add some big stars, and simplify it for the easy digestion of the audience."
Ok, I'll admit to making sweeping judgments about a film I haven't seen. But I've seen enough movies based on books I loved that were either dumbed down or rewritten beyond recognition by filmmakers who either underestimated their audience's intelligence or wanted to turn the movie into their own creative statement.
Another case in point: the new film "Beezus and Ramona." Anyone who's ever read even one of the beloved series of books authored by Beverly Cleary knows that Ramona was not a little princess wanna be, and Beezus was no adoring, indulgent big sister.
What makes the "Ramona" books so endearing is the way they capture the irritations, pleasures and misunderstandings of family life. It's real. Parents quarrel and lose jobs, pets die, siblings battle. But in the end the message is always the same: families struggle together, grow together and, above all, love one another through thick and thin.
I hope that children who see the cutesied-up version of Cleary's stories will pick up the books and not quickly put them down because they don't resemble the movie. I hope they'll recognize themselves and come back for more.
I wish the same for those who see "Eat, Pray, Love," and for anyone who ever saw a movie based on a book, ever. No matter how amazing the film adaptation of a book may be, and some truly are glorious visual tributes to the originals, there's nothing like the movie screen of one's own imagination to bring characters and events to life in the most vivid, memorable - and personal - light.

Traverse City North

It's not as if I don't realize how unreasonable I'm being. I just want Marquette to become a more vital, job-accessible city, and not change one iota in the process.
So Indy and I were strolling along, rejoicing in the newly cool, dry air. As we approached Mattson Lower Harbor Park I tried unsuccessfully to ignore the scraped-clean earth boxed in by an ugly chain link fence locked with a seriously thick chain and heavy-duty padlock.
"Coming in 2011" the sign bragged about the soon to be built hotel. I stared over the fence and construction equipment, wondering how much longer I'd be able to view Lake Superior from that spot. Resentment is a tough lump to swallow and it leaves a bitter taste. I tried to keep in mind that this hotel would attract tourists and create jobs, but overriding that was the thought that a handful of rich guys were tearing up the lakefront in order to make themselves even richer.
As I walked away I knocked my hand against the orange plastic fence blocking off the lot next to the chain-link imprisoned area. The sudden "ow" and the tiny mark on my knuckle felt like a rebuke. You can't fight progress.
Over the years I've heard people grumble that developers are "turning Marquette into another Traverse City." I've never been to Traverse City, but that doesn't sound like the worst proposition in the world. More shops (maybe a Barnes and Noble to console us after the loss of B Dalton), more entertainment venues, more entertainment.
I can hear you already. Yes, that would mean more changes to the city I don't want changed. But here's a crazy thought: how about making use of existing buildings instead of constantly tearing up the landscape with newer, sleeker, less attractive constructions? The downtown area is small-town cozy and welcoming, yet buildings stand empty while white siding mini malls pop up like dandelions all over town.
And while I'm ranting, how about trying to attract more industry instead of building fancy condos most of the population can't afford?
I love Marquette. It's friendly, beautiful, and as comfortable as my favorite sweatshirt. It's not that I'm resistant to changes in my city, really. I'd just like to see them made for the good of many instead of a few.

Rocking out, Mom style

So I stayed up past my bedtime again, knowing full well that it would take at least two days to recover from such wild hedonism. And it did. It's actually been three days, and I'm not even sure I've completely recovered.
I went to the Wild Rover on Friday night with my friend Jan to watch this awesome band perform: Dan Daniels and the Southern Gents. I may be a tad prejudiced in my assessment. I happen to be the mother of Dan Daniels.
The Rover is a restaurant by day, bar by night. We got there around 9, when things were still in restaurant mode. In keeping with the night's theme of "So what if I feel like crap tomorrow," I ordered a little delicacy known as Irish nachos. That would be homemade potato chips languishing under a thick blanket of melted cheddar, garnished all over with tomato and green onion, all accompanied by a side of sour cream for dipping.
When I ordered the waiter asked me what kind of meat I wanted on my nachos. "None," I replied, feeling marginally virtuous. Those cheese slathered, deep fried taters may be glistening with grease and sparkling with salt, but by God they're meat free!
At 10 o'clock the lights were dimmed and the band took to the stage, which holds a banquet table when the Rover is in restaurant mode. Jan and I moved up front, the better to cheer the lads on and watch a roomful of adults - legally, anyway - get progressively, uh, happier.
I've seen Dan perform enough times now to not well up at the sight of him onstage, handsome, confident, joking with the audience and his bandmates. I've not, however, gotten over my amazement at his musical prowess, and that of the rest of the band. They play an eclectic mix of blues, '50s and '60s rock and their own compositions, all with lots of young-guy joy and energy.
But it's Dan who commands most of my attention, of course. I love watching him get what I call music face, that look of painful ecstasy that performers get when they're expressing the essence of their hearts and souls through their voice or instrument. I know when a song isn't going right when I see him scowl and bare his teeth in disgust. When he rises up on his toes, following the notes, or when he gives a lighthearted little kick a la Bo Diddley, I want to hold up a sign that reads, "That's my boy!"
Another band mom, Mary, mother of Matt, tapped my wrist on her way to the dance floor (location of a table for four during restaurant hours). "How often do we get a chance to dance to our own kids' music?" she called.
Good point. Before long Jan and I, along with Karleen, Dan's girlfriend, were out on the floor, too.
One gent, a stocky, thoroughly inebriated chap, stood in front of the stage throughout most of a set, expressing his appreciation for the music by shouting "Fuck you!" at random moments.
"Hey, hey, language!" Daniel chided him. "My mom's here!"
The evening was a blast from nachos to encore, a powerful rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun."
My favorite moment occurred at the band's first break. I walked up to Dan and he smiled down at me.
"I see you got front row seats," he said.
"Are you embarrassed?" I asked, half teasing, half wondering if I was overdoing my mother of the rock god routine.
"No, I'm really glad you're here," he said, with enough warm sincerity to melt cheddar cheese over potatoes.
"So can I hug you in public?" I asked, pushing the embarrassing-mother envelope a little further.
To my surprise, Dan answered, "Of course you can. You're my mom!"
I think, of all the unexpected events and surprising scenes that can occur in a bar on any given Friday night, a loving hug between a mom and her son has got to be one of the rarest. And without question, one of the best.
We left at 1:30 a.m. When I got home my left ear was ringing and my right ear was buzzing. My back and neck ached from sitting on a hard wooden stool. I tried not to think about the fact that I had to get up in five hours to get ready to attend a recovery-oriented activity.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll is the typical nightlife trifecta. The young folks can have it. I'll take Irish nachos and motherhood with my rock 'n' roll.
And maybe a little less amplifier.

Happy Birth Day

My oldest daughter's birthday is less than a week away. The approach of each of my children's birthdays inevitably takes me back down Memory Lane to those long, long, long final days of my pregnancies. It's often said that the pain of childbirth is quickly forgotten. That's a big fat lie. You don't forget, you put it in perspective: Hours of insane pain results in a beautiful new baby. Definitely a fair exchange.
I was never one of those radiant pregnant women. I was tired, cranky, and frequently nauseated. But I was happy.
There's nothing to compare to the wonder of a first pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I got the news: at a pay phone in a mall in Kingsford. I was selling ads for the local paper and called the doctor's office on my lunch hour to get the results. Hearing one sentence from a nurse changed my day, changed my life. When I picked up the telephone receiver I was me. When I hung it up I was me plus one. Amazing.
I talked aloud to my baby from that day on. I had an acute sense of having someone else with me at all times. I felt like a walking miracle.
My joy was tempered by moments of unbridled panic. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's mother! I liked staying up late and sleeping in. I loved spending hours curled up with a good book. Could I wilingly turn myself over to the constant demands of caring for an infant? No, probably not. I was too damn selfish. This child was doomed.
My friends who already had children assured me that I'd do just fine. Nature kicks in, they told me. It wasn't a matter of the proper mindset; good old motherly instinct would kick in by the time I held my newborn in my waiting arms.
Comforted by my friends' wisdom, I quickly found something new to panic about. I was going to expel an entire human being from my body. It was going to hurt in ways I couldn't imagine, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I'd bought my ticket and boarded the ride. There was no turning back.
By mid June I'd quit my job and become a full-time pregnant lady. The brisk walks I'd taken through the neighborhood diminished in proportion to the rising, record-breaking temperatures. My husband's sisters and sister-in-law threw me a baby shower, where I was the awkward center of attention.
Then all that remained was the waiting. I spent countless hours lying on the sofa, my soccer ball-sized midsection forming a permanent dent in the middle cushion. I watched "Desperately Seeking Susan" approximately 792 times, grateful to have a story to focus on that was pretty much the opposite of everything happening with me. Susan was a free spirit, a guy magnet - and thin.
By the time my due date came and went my feet were so swollen I couldn't wear any of my shoes except my sandals. I imagined my baby lolling in comfort in my stretched out uterus. Why come out when you're in a temperature controlled cocoon that transports you everywhere and delivers all your meals?
When it was finally time to go to the hospital and meet the newest Pascoe, Ron and I were still debating names for a boy. In my heart, though, I was sure my baby was a girl. Jessica.
And after a lot of floor pacing and hours of back rubs from Ron, Jessica Lyn Pascoe met the world. Tiny, pink and perfect. Worth every minute, and then some.
I'd been told in childbirth class and read in books that new mothers feel awkward and unsure of themselves. Not me. I knew this little person. She was mine. There was no way I was going to make any major mistakes.
Ah, the bliss of the young and ignorant!
But Jess survived. More than survived. She grew up into an intelligent, beautiful, talented, whimsical, bighearted, hilarious young woman. Every time I see her, or any of my children, I feel a burst of pride, a little internal skyrocket. I put these people in the world (along with their dad), but they are their own creations, their own gifts to this life.
Happy birthday, Jess. Thanks for giving me the gift of motherhood.

Digital scraps

This morning I left a voice mail for my friend Patty. We were planning to spend the afternoon precisely as we had the day before: lolling on the beach under a white-hot July sun, close enough to Lake Superior to keep ourselves comfortably wet and cool.
When she called back she was proud to report that she'd taken a new step forward in the ever-expanding world of technology: she'd learned to retrieve her cell phone voice mails!
"I deleted a bunch of them, but I kept the one you left me a couple of weeks ago when I didn't show up for breakfast. It was so sweet!"
"Well, that's nice. Thank you," I replied, wondering what I could possibly have said in that brief interlude between "At the tone, please record your message" and the point where time's up and you're disconnected in mid-sentence. Leaving messages is not my strong suit. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the spotlight and The Clock is ticking. Be informative! Be clever! Be brief! It's a lot of pressure for someone with too much emotional investment in being a wit.
I wonder if the digital age means the decline and eventual extinction of the treasure box. You know, that special drawer or container where you stash notes and cards from friends and loved ones. Not the Hallmark cards; the sticky notes and scribbled scraps you find on your kitchen table, nightstand, or desk at work, little messages that make you smile and make you want to save them for some later date when you'll be in need of a little dose of sweetness or smart-alecky humor.
My own digital treasure box is filling rapidly. I save texts from my friends and my kids until my phone informs me that the virtual filing cabinet is full. Something has to go. When this happens I scroll through my favorite messages with the solemn gravity of a Supreme Court judge.
"Moose ... moose," sent by my daughter Jess on Feb. 18. A hilarious message with a history if you're a Pascoe. Keep or delete? Let's see what else there is before we announce a ruling.
"Whts gud lilmama Mr. LeBlue." A cryptic message from an unknown sender that jolted me awake at 4:06 a.m May 24. An interesting bit of anonymous cyber-debris. Kind of like finding someone else's grocery list in your shopping cart.
"I'm a balloon guy. You know what I say? I say "gimme a balloon!" Sent by my son, Daniel, way back in August. Conveys no practical information but is one of our favorite George Carlin quotes.
"I am safe, mama! God is with me ... he's quite the backseat driver!" A message of reassurance sent last summer by my daughter Melissa, the newly-minted licensed driver.
Yes, this is what it's come to: ephemeral digital scribbles held in pocket-sized devices, available for rereading at the touch of a button.
It's kind of sad. Texts lack the intimacy of the handwritten note. You can't appreciate the particular slant of the author's handwriting, the wrinkled paper that softens a tiny bit more each time you unfold it. You don't have that happy miser feeling of lifting a lid or opening a drawer and seeing those little scraps of love and laughter, all meant for your eyes alone.
But when I need a little lift in my day all I need do is flip open my phone. There they are, arranged by time and date. Digital evidence that people want to chat with me, share with me, make me smile, let me know I'm loved.
The verdict is in: Save them all. They're only taking up 86 percent of available space. When the inbox reaches 96 percent full gud lilmama will have to go.

So every weekday I roll out of bed around 6:30 a.m., leash up the dogs and stumble out to the back yard for the morning canine constitutional. And every, every blessed morning it happens: I feel something stringy and creepy brush my cheek. Auugh! I've walked through the spider web again!
Shuddering, I brush frantically at my hair and face, certain I can feel web matter sticking to my eyeball; unlikely, since I wear glasses. I turn around and see the rest of the web, an intricate, finespun work of art stretched across the far end of my clothesline post.
Every morning there is a single strand of web stretched from the post to the blackberry bushes. Every morning I walk through it.
If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, who is crazier here, me or the spider?
My money's on the arachnid. Her money, of course, is on me.
This is probably an excellent metaphor for life in general and my life in particular. Whenever I want or need to make a change in my life I tend to chase my tail for awhile, doing the same things over and over (with subtle variations), making myself insane when the results don't change before I exhaust myself, step back and evaluate what I'm doing and what actually needs to be done.
Is this an alcoholic thing or just a being a garden variety human thing? Could someone let me know? I must confess to a secret hope that it's an alcoholic thing. Then I can say, "See, I can't help it! It's an alcoholic thing!" To which my friends in recovery will say, "Yes, it is an alcoholic thing. And you are responsible for changing it." That's the trouble with living this sober life. I have to be a responsible adult. Ironically, that is also the gift of this sober life. That, and my kickass friends.
The solution to the web/face thing was surprisingly simple: DUCK! This morning I finally remembered to duck before I got webbed.
But here's the best part: I didn't need to duck. This time that thin filament of web had been strung higher. I could walk right under it and never touch it.
Now who's insane?
Don't answer that.

Big Night

I am Deb, office worker, walker of dog, washer of dishes, mower of lawn, doer of laundry, hanger of curtains, hauler outer of trash! Leaper of tall buildings! All in a single day!
All right, fine, I am not a leaper of buildings, not even ones made of Legos.
But I am feeling pretty darned good about myself at the moment, as I really did accomplish all of those other things today. My acute awareness of how good I feel makes me realize that I haven't been feeling all that peppy over the past few days. I felt lazy. And surly. There was a reason, of course. A girly, hormonal reason. (Any guys who might have been reading this have just clicked over to Mafia Wars or CNN.) And maybe I was recovering from my big night out last weekend.
On Saturday I did something I hadn't done in years: I went to a bar. My friend Jan was fired up about a blues band playing in town and invited me to join her. "If you can stay awake that long," she said, not unkindly, knowing my propensity for nodding off around 10 most nights. The band was starting at 10. Yikes.
But you know, I was tired of being weekend on the sofa girl. Yes, I said bravely. Yes, I will abandon my traditional popcorn and "Law and Order" rerun in favor of a night out.
It felt strange, but not uncomfortable, to be out late in a bar on a Saturday night. The strangest part was the fact that Jan and I were old enough to be the mothers of three-quarters of the clientele. Not to mention the staff. The girls were for the most part uniformly pretty, wearing either short, wispy summer dresses or tight jeans and foot-killing high heels. The boys' fashions ran the gamut from camo hats and Carhartt T's to suits and fedoras. Most of the girls carried purses the size of saddle bags. Almost everyone carried cell phone and checked them often, the pale light of the screens cutting through the darkness of the room.
Jan and I nursed a couple of Cokes, enjoyed the music, chatted, and watched as young men and women who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone drink, progress from tipsy to hammered as the hours passed.
"I'M SO DRUNK! I'M SO DRUNK" a girl chanted like a mantra, her voice reaching its upper registers. Jan and I grinned at each other; yup, we used to be her. Another girl swayed alone on the dance floor, moving when the music played, but not moving to the music.
A small cluster of young women danced jubilantly, each of them wearing a glow in the dark bracelet, the kind with liquid inside that you snap to activate. The only other place I'd ever seen those was on little kids on the Fourth of July.
"There ought to be a law," I said loudly to Jan over the music, "If you're young enough to wear a glow bracelet you're too young to be out at a bar."
Not all of the people were drunk. In fact, most of the young people were noisily social, wandering through the room, exchanging hugs (girls) and fist bumps (guys). I felt not old, but removed. This was a kind of fun I'd never had. I drank to get drunk, period, right from the beginning. There were fun times, but it didn't take long before a night at the bars meant me getting so wasted that it wasn't fun anymore. Ask any of my friends who remember my crying jags, or the time I got thrown out of the Alibi because I passed out on a table and broke a glass.
This night was a different kind of fun, the tamer, manageable kind. I'm grateful for the indescribable amount of fun I've has since I've been sober. Let the kids have their day, God bless them and keep them safe. I've been there, and I'm happy to still be here. And pretty happy to say that I stayed awake till 2 a.m.!

Sliding into summer

And so the long, lazy summer slide begins.
I usually reserve Sunday mornings for housecleaning. Nothing industrial, just your basic tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. I preface this burst of domesticity with several cups of coffee, the Sunday paper, and the gently thought-provoking "Sunday Morning" on CBS.
Yesterday I had the coffee, the paper, the show, but the cleaning was limited to washing a few dishes and giving the downstairs a cursory pass with the broom. Several passes, actually, as small clumps of sand and dust exert some strange magnetic force on my dogs and cats, drawing them ever nearer, and eventually straight through, even the tiniest accumulation of floor ick. Thus, I often sweep the same area several times, racing to get it into the dustpan before paws big and small trounce through.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the vacuum. I found myself not caring an awful lot whether or not my carpets were clean. I set aside the vacuum (for later, I dutifully promised myself) and sat down at the computer.
I blame summer. Even though Sunday's weather - overcast, rainy, downright chilly - didn't feel summery in the least, just knowing it's June seemed excuse enough to choose recreation over housework.
Summer encourages you to kick off your shoes, pull on a T-shirt and ditch those claustrophobic winter blues. Hey, summer says lazily, what's the rush? The housework will still be there tomorrow, but life is short and so am I. Come enjoy me while I last! Who are we to argue? Beach days, barbecues and trips to the ice cream stand are short-term pleasures for Yoopers. Carpe sunblock! Cast aside your to-do lists! Revel in the long days of sunshine, the tangy smell of cut grass, the muggy, starry nights. Better to celebrate with wild abandon than to look back and regret that you didn't. The broom, the rake, the paintbrush, they'll wait.
As if in cosmic agreement with my summer state of mind, by lunchtime the clouds had departed, the sun was beaming down and the temperature inched up to bearable.
And while you're out there reveling, pay attention. Flare your nostrils and breathe in the sweet damp scent of blossoming flowers. You'll look a little goofy, but it's worth it. Don't be afraid to get a little silly. Run down the bike path - not jog, run, like a joyful little kid. Wade into the lake and splash a little when you're walking along the shore. Skip a few rocks. Buy yourself an extra large ice cream cone and ignore the drips on your shirt.
Grab hold of summer and squeeze the bejeebers out of it. Kiss it full on the mouth. You're alive and it's beautiful outside. Fling aside boring grown-uphood and embrace Mother Nature's limited time offer. See you at the lake.

Quiet surprise

When I go to the library I usually follow the same path: drop books in return slot, peruse new releases, mosey through the first floor art gallery, meander upstairs to the non-fiction section to see which biographies catch my eye.
The library is the perfect place for meandering and moseying. Its atmosphere is an invitation to slow down. Every room is quiet; even the smells - aging books, wooden tables and chairs polished by the arms, legs and derrieres of countless patrons - are quiet, inviting leisurely rumination. Take your time, is the library's message. Sit down and read a magazine or newspaper, choose a few books, CDs, DVDs or even pieces of art to take home with you for a few days or weeks. Enjoy yourself, the library encourages - in a soft voice, of course.
On my most recent library visit I took myself off my usual path and found some surprises. I was looking for books about Buddhism, but after I looked up a few titles and reference numbers, I wandered up and down each aisle in non-fiction, wondering what surprises might await.
Surprises abounded. Shelves of poetry, political science, gay and lesbian literature, cookbooks, do-it-yourself books. I was delighted, and a little chagrined by how long it had taken me, to see the dizzying variety of books one small-town library had to offer.
I found the books I was looking for, plus a bonus, a book on Buddhism by Natalie Goldberg, author of "Writing Down the Bones," the book that cracks open my writing mind and unleashes my originality every time I pick it up.
In keeping with my change of library routine, I exited Non-Fiction at the opposite end I usually do, and was rewarded with another surprise. On a shelf of recommended books sat a small volume with a photo of a smiling dog on the cover. It's title? "Doggerel." A book of poems written about dogs! I added it to my armload, feeling like a child who'd just found a quarter outside the door of a candy store.
I've been reading one dog poem aloud each night to my canine housemates; partly because I enjoy the sheer whimsy of reading dog poetry to dogs, partly because I like reading poetry out loud. It's like singing without the worry of staying in tune.
This is a lesson I want to remember. Old, familiar paths are comfortable, but there are surprises waiting for those who venture a step away from the routine, even in the whisper quiet of the local library.

A Rare "Medium"

My typical Friday night modus operandi is to get home from work as quickly as possible, shuck off my work clothes, change into jeans and a sweatshirt and do some serious vegging. The pinnacle of the evening is at 9 p.m., when I sink onto the sofa with an enormous bowl of popcorn and watch "Medium."
For you non-watchers, the show is based on the life of true-life psychic and crime solver Allison DuBois. I am not a crime show fan, but this show blends a (usually gory/creepy) crime Allison must solve with her home life, where she is married and the mom of three daughters. Her husband is a patient, good-humored honey of a man, and her daughters are written as real girls, not stereotypical TV kids.
Last night was the season finale. It was unusual in that most of the action took place while Allison slept. I won't regale you with the whole plot, just the part that hit home with me. Allison's oldest daughter, Ariel, was thrilled to receive an acceptance letter from Dartmouth College - a long way away from Arizona, where the DuBois family lives. Allison panicked, and immediately began trying to plot ways to keep Ariel from leaving.
Joe refused to scheme along. "It's her life. It's her future," he reminded his distraught wife.
That night Allison dreamed that she died, and that she appeared to Ariel, enlisting her to serve as the family caretaker under her mother's guidance. She also pressed Ariel into taking Allison's job as a crime solver for the district attorney's office.
As you can imagine, things didn't go well. Ariel struggled to balance living her mother's life with living her own life as a young adult. She ended up foregoing Dartmouth to live at home and attend community college.
At last Ariel, torn between her desire to please her mother and her longing to lead the simple life of a college co-ed, erupts. Go away, she tells her mother. "Go to your grave, and I'll visit you on Mother's Day and Christmas." She pulls a bottle of liquor out of her nightstand drawer and downs several shots, relaxing as the alcohol dims her awareness of her mother's smothering spirit.
It ends well, of course. Allison awakens, thrilled to be among the living, to have another chance. To be able to look her oldest daughter in the eye and encourage her to claim her bright new future. They both laugh and cry, promising to keep in touch with phone calls, texts and e-mails.
It's so hard to let go of your children. When they're little time seems to pass so slowly, weighed down as it is with the constant attentiveness and sheer physical labor that raising small children demands. But when you've finally done it, raised self-sufficient young adults ready to fly the nest, it all seems to have passed in the time it takes to sing a lullaby.
I understand Allison's desire to hold on to her daughter. With one child still under my roof and the other two living only a few minutes' drive away, I still miss them sometimes. I miss being central in their lives. It was exhausting and sometimes exasperating, but sometimes I'd give anything to do it all again. I just have to settle for being grateful for the opportunity to have done it at all.

HALT

I've had 12 hours' sleep, four cups of coffee and two glasses of Coke. I am awake.
When I got home last night I was exhausted. I laid down for what I told myself would be 15 minutes. I woke up long enough to take two phone calls, change out of my wrinkled beyond repair work clothes, pull on pajamas, take the dogs out (yes, in that order) and wash my face. Next thing I knew it was 6 a.m. Being this awake is a little disorienting. It reminds me that too much of the time I'm operating on way too little sleep.
There are a lot of helpful little sayings in recovery. When you first hear them they sound, depending on your state of mind, like gems of wisdom or trite, dumb-ass sound bites. After you've been sober awhile they actually make a lot of sense.
Take HALT, for example. As in don't let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. Sounds kind of like something Cookie Monster would sing on "Sesame Street," but I can tell you that remaining in any one of those states for too long a time can lead an alcoholic - this one, anyway - dangerously close to the precipice of a relapse.
I managed to hit three out of four this week: I was HLT. As is often true with me, one of them led to another and to the next.
It began with Tired. Tired is not a good state for me. When I'm overtired I am either mopey and snappish or hyper and obnoxious. Every night this week events seemed to conspire against my getting a decent night's sleep. Sick dog. Son stopping by to visit. Going to Mindy's to watch "Lost." Yes, I know, only sick dog was truly an unavoidable circumstance. I stayed up to visit with Daniel, but I could have gone to bed a little earlier. I make no excuses for "Lost." The show ends next week and losing sleep is a price I'm willing to pay to be a passenger on this wacky six-year ride.
At any rate, Tired led to Hungry, as I overslept every single work morning and had no time for breakfast, which made me ravenously hungry at lunch, then overstuffed and logy for the rest of the day. Also, Tired wanted crap food, and I was powerless to resist. I ate like a 6-year-old: sloppy joes, chips, pizza, cookies. This, of course, made me feel more Tired.
Lonely wrapped me in its chilly grip on May 11. It would have been Ron's and my 25th anniversary. This was not a social loneliness; I had lunch that day with my friend Margi, I went to Mindy's house that night. This was that peculiar mix that wells up on occasions when I most acutely feel Ron's absence. I miss the man I fell in love with, the man I danced with to "Sea of Love" at our wedding reception. I am sad and angry that it all became such a mess, I am relieved that the tortured addict he became is now at peace. Mostly, though, I miss him.
By Friday, HLT peaked, and I crashed. I am grateful that the worst fallout of the week was that I had to wear grubby clothes because I was too tired to do the laundry. HALT, or any combination thereof, makes me feel fragile and edgy, which makes me long for an escape. That impulse to escape used to lead me straight to the bottle, and although I've sober more than half my life, I know that I could be led there again if I don't maintain a solid program of recovery.
So I missed my comfortable Friday night routine of eating a giant bowl of popcorn and watching "Medium." But I put a halt to HLT.

Ow

You know those annoying people who feel the need to go into exhaustive detail about every minor injury they sustain? They talk about how they got hurt, where they were when they got hurt and, worst of all, they offer to show you every cut and bruise?
I'm one of those people.
I was walking Indy earlier this week and I fell down. That's the abbreviated version. The longer explanation starts two days prior, when I didn't walk him, and the day after that, when I didn't walk him again. Two days on the human calendar; 6,594 days in dog time.
By the time we finally did go for a walk, Indy was on fire. He ignored my commands to walk, he yanked me hither and yon, desperate to make up for those sniff-and-pee deprived days.
Then he spotted a big, mellow galoot of a dog being walked on the other side of the street and felt the urge to hurl shrieking oaths at him. Embarassed, I pulled Indy close and hustled him away. In mid-hustle I tripped over Indy's feet and crashed to the pavement, landing on all fours.
The good news is, I did not unleash my formidable temper on my hapless pooch. I got up slowly, feeling as teary and sore as a 6-year-old after a playground spill, and gave Indy a stern talking to.
He stared up at me with those round, earnest brown eyes and a big doggy grin, waiting patiently for Mom to stop yammering so we could resume our tour of power poles and fire hydrants.
The bad news is, damn I hurt! My knees were scraped and bruised and I ached in peculiar spots: two fingers on one hand, the palm of my other hand, one side of my neck and one spot on my lower back.
And yes, yes I did tell everyone I encountered, from my daughter when I got home to every hapless coworker I saw the next day. No, I didn't show anyone my poor, banged up knees - but only because I hadn't shaved my legs.
What is this compulsion some of us have to dwell on what hurts? Misery dwelling was the theme of my drinking career, topped with a generous helping of self-pity.
Why, oh why were my parents so dysfunctional and weird? If only I'd had better parents I wouldn't be such a mess. Nothing for it but to get good and wasted.
There's a saying in recovery: Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink.
Recovery gave me the freedom to stop playing the victim, to accept responsibility for my lot in life and to choose what I wanted. This didn't happen with the touch of the recovery fairy's wand. It took years of working my program, getting honest and accepting my share of the blame for whatever went awry in my life.
Being a victim is comfortable. The only action required is whining and lifting that bottle. But being the victim leaves you at the mercy of outside forces, and those forces aren't necessarily benevolent.
To sum it up with another recovery truism, I got sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Being responsible is hard work. When I screw up I have to own up to it and live with the consequences. How much easier it would be sometimes to point the finger and whine, "Well what about what you did?"
But I don't want to be a victim anymore. I want to hold my life in my own two hands, and I want to be a woman others can lean on for support, the way I've leaned on my comrades in sobriety. I'll take my lumps and learn from them rather than drink over them.
But the next time I fall down you'll probably hear all about it. As I like to say, I'm a work in progress - and a bruised one at that.

Forever blowing bubbles

If I were a therapist, every new client of mine would leave my office with a bottle of bubble blowing solution. Few things in life are as simple and satisfying as creating shimmery, iridescent, delicate globes out of soap and breath.
For my birthday last month I received two giant bottles of bubbles, one from each of my daughters. I keep them on a shelf by the back door so that when I am so inclined, which is often, I can step outside and blow me some bubbles. My signature bubbles are the giant, oval ones, the ones so heavy that they can barely stay afloat. I love to watch them bob lazily to earth, exploding in a gooey splash on the sidewalk. When I release a riotous cloud of smaller bubbles I watch them sail toward the trees and imagine them converging in a cloud around the head of an unsuspecting neighbor: "What the ...?"
Today was a good day for bubbles. I needed the spirit lift they provided. Four of the people I love most in this world are struggling under unreasonably heavy burdens, and I HATE it. I want to rush to the rescue, make everything all better. Partly because I love them and partly, selfishly, because I hate to see people I love hurting; it makes me hurt.
A hard but valuable lesson I learned as the wife of a practicing alcoholic is that you cannot make someone want to be well. And if you try to, you will suffer for your efforts. I also learned I must respect people enough to let them find their own way out of a tough situation. My "wisdom" isn't always needed, or wanted. I've also learned that even if someone I love is pain, it's ok for me to not be. I can laugh, read a book, take a nap. Not taking care of me doesn't fix a thing, and can become a miserable form of self-indulgence.
Not every one of those lessons applies to my relationships with each of the people I mentioned. But I need to keep them front and center in my mind when I'm tempted to wallow in secondhand unhappiness.
I can love them, listen to them, pray for them, care for them, do what I can to lighten their moods. But I can't carry their burdens or solve their problems. It took me 20 years to learn that it's all right for me to be all right when life isn't perfect for everyone I care about. It's ok to be grateful for my own turmoil free (today) life. It's ok to step outside and blow some bubbles.

Me, Myself and Me

My ears are so cold they ache, the muscles in my legs are pulled tight and I am teetering on the edge of exhaustion.
I feel great!
I just came back from a long walk with my friend Jan. She came over for dinner and we leashed up Indy and went for a walk along Lake Street, which overlooks a long stretch of beach and a great view of Lake Superior.
Indy was wild with joy, wilder still when we encountered one dog after another. Did I mention that my leash arm is sore?
Jan is a fellow writer, so we spent most of the time talking shop. Talking to a fellow writer is simultaneously exciting and comforting.
"I have the worst time settling down and just writing."
"Me too!"
"My best ideas seem to come when I don't have any way to write them down."
"Me too!"
Ah, there's nothing like sharing lofty thoughts with someone who understands.
That's about the most human impulse there is, don't you think: trying to find another person who "gets it."
That's one of the blessings of recovery. You find people from all walks of life, all ages, all races, both sexes, who "get it." It meaning you.
I used to believe I was a freak. Not in the fun, dye your hair magenta, dance in the streets sense. I thought I was too weird to connect with other people.
Then I got sober. And I found my people. Those feelings, thoughts, fears and ideas I thought were so weird were simply human. There was nothing about me, from the deepest inner core of me to the very tip of my nose, that was so singular it hadn't been felt, thought about, or dealt with my someone else. It was good enough just to be me. It was better than good enough. And once I accepted that I was ready to work on becoming a finer version of genuine me. And the project continues.
I am a work in progress. I am me. And at this moment, me is a pretty good thing to be.

Dry/Drunk

I am slowly emerging from the foggy neverland of a dry drunk. For you non-alcoholics, a dry drunk is a period wherein an alcoholic steps away from their recovery program and surrenders to the power of the behaviors and character defects they've been working to overcome. Or, as I like to think of it, it's a severe case of cranium en rectus: the unenviable condition of having one's head planted firmly up one's ass.
Neither definition is scientific or official. And I can only speak of my own experience.
Me on a dry drunk: disconnected, unmotivated, disinterested. It's a sick little cycle that feeds on itself, much as drinking does. I know it's wrong, I know it's unhealthy, but oh, it's comfortable hiding in that fuzzy little corner away from pesky old reality.
At first I wallowed. I functioned just fine, but I was forgetful, and I was saying things I didn't necessarily mean just for the sake of saying something.
I knew I should pray for help, so I did. Only God is nobody's fool. God knew I was sorry the way a juvenile delinquent is sorry when she gets caught. My prayer was a rote, monotone "Oh please, God, please pull me out of this, I am sorry, please let me out."
God helps those who helps themselves, and I wasn't interested in helping me at that point.
There were a couple of days when I woke up clearheaded, feeling like my sober self again. There it was, the light at the end of the tunnel. What did I do? Turned and ran deeper into the tunnel.
Today I am mentally exhausted from forcibly tuning out. What I have is a psychic hangover. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, which means I'm ready to pick up my recovery program and move forward again.
Going backward is scary. Like driving your car up a mountain and having the brakes slowly lose power. But if I ever hear the siren song of normal that sometimes lures alcoholics back to the bottle ("You can have one. One won't hurt.") I hope I remember this week and know that although I am a lot of things, normal isn't one of them.

Good, good night

I am tired. Every now and then I go through a phase of thinking I really don't need as much sleep as I think I do. The first day after a low-sleep night feels okay. I feel surprisingly chipper, which fools me into believing I can go another night on fewer hours of sleep. On day two I am tired. TI-ERD. But I get through the day, although I'm in neutral instead of drive, and everything at work, from answering the phone to typing up church briefs, feels so hard. The upside, as I see it, is that when I'm sleep deprived I can drink as much coffee as I want. Hey, it's medicinal!
Which leads to poor sleep night number three. I crawl out of bed at 6 a.m. with the reluctance of Dracula leaving his tomb at high noon. But after two or three or four cups of coffee I'm chatty and cheerful. Super chatty. Mega cheerful. In a nutshell, I am wired. I think I'm being super productive, but my work production rate and stupid mistake ratio are equally balanced. I blurt out whatever pops into my head, because in my fuzzy state of mind every thought is clever, if not hilarious.
By nightfall of day three I can barely pull myself up the stairs to my bedroom. Changing into pajamas is a climb-Mount-Everest-sized challenge. I do not want to talk. I do not want to think. I fall into bed and like a tree felled by a killer chainsaw.
In the morning I feel groggy, but oddly coherent. Yesterday feels like a bad dream. And as I recall some of what I babbled about at work and at home, I wish it had been.
Today is day two. I will not be risking a day three. My head is full of short-circuiting wires. Ideas develop, then pop like soap bubbles. Is this any way to run a life? Maybe when you're 20.
I suppose I could mope about the fact that, for my middle aged self, eight hours of sleep is a requirement, not an option. I'd rather focus on how firm and welcoming my mattress is going to feel tonight, how my pillow will gently cushion the weight of my overtired head, how softly my worn but heavy quilt will cocoon me.
Good night, sleep tight. And if the bedbugs bite, well, let 'em. I'll be too tired to care.

Prom Night

On Saturday I watched my younger daughter get beauty-ed up for a night she's looked forward to forever: prom night. In her long, flowy, white with silver accents dress, silver shoe-boots, upswept hairdo and glitter-dusted eyeshadow, she was a true teen angel. I snapped photos, joked with her handsome young date, and swallowed against the lump in my throat.
Moments like that make me me acutely aware of how lonely it sometimes is to be a single parent. Ron died was Melissa was 13. He's missed her first day of high school, her pride over earning a spot in the school symphony orchestra, her excitement when she got her driver's license - and prom night.
No matter how strained or painful a marriage may be, there is something to be said about having someone there who is equally invested in your children's milestones, someone with whom you can exchange a proud, nostalgic smile, knowing that while you're looking at the tall, beautiful, poised young woman you've raised, in your mind's eye you're seeing a fluff-haired toddler in a fuzzy yellow sleeper, clutching her beloved stuffed Barney toy.
As I snapped photos of Melissa and her date, I imagined Melissa was thinking of her dad, wishing she could hear him tell her how amazing she looked, wishing he was there to give her date the firm, man to man handshake and stern "behave or else" dad eye.
The late comedian George Carlin had a standup routine on the subject of death. He scorned the notion that our dead family and friends are looking down on us "from a better place." Why would they want to waste time watching us if they were enjoying a perfect existence in heaven, he said.
I can easily believe that family and friends would treasure the opportunity to look down at us here on earth. And I could have summed up the reason for Mr. Carlin with two words: prom night.

The Mother of All Fridays

Is there any sweeter moment for a working stiff than 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon? There is if it's your last day on the job.
Skip, our advertising manager, retired today. We celebrated with a traditional office potluck, which means everyone ate way too much and became more stuporous than we usually are at the end of the week. Skip left in a flurry of goodbyes and good wishes - tinged, of course with an edge of envy. No matter how much we love our jobs, the siren song of retirement seduces us with promises of silent alarm clocks, third cups of coffee and a glorious blank canvas of hours to fill in whatever madcap way we choose.
Retirement envy's got me thinking of get-rich schemes, some of which almost make sense.
I could, for example, write a best selling novel. That should only take a few years. And some brilliance. And maybe an idea for a plot.
My recurring genius idea is a car that comes when you call it. This idea neatly bisects with my contention that life should be a lot more like a Warner Brothers cartoon.
Picture a chilly fall afternoon. An ill-tempered wind is flinging sleet pellets in your face. You smugly pull out your computer programmed whistle and give a toot. From its parking spot blocks away your car revs up and glides over to where you wait, its sensors detecting oncoming traffic and pedestrians. The heater is already on, as is your favorite CD.
Wouldn't you take out a second mortgage to own this wonder-mobile?
All I need is the engineering knowledge, the mechanical knowledge, and a few million bucks for product development.
Then there's my more plausible retirement plan: work hard, save money, and bid my desk adieu in another twenty years or so.
Wait. There is one more resort. All right, Jess, Dan and Melissa, who's going to amass a fortune and support Mom in the style to which she wants to become accustomed?
Enough daydreaming. I'm going to get this weekend started. After all, I'm due back at my desk Monday morning.

Everyday blessings

It's easy to lose sight of gratitude in the everyday-ness of work, home life, finances and whatnot. One thing I've learned from working at a newspaper is that every day is someone's worst day ever. If it isn't your turn, count your blessings.
Today was overcast and warm and the air smelled like rain. Then came the rain, the heavy, silvery rain that streaks the windows, ripples down the streets, then rolls away, making room for the sun. I feel privileged to have had nothing more critical to do today than keep my head above water at work, come home, make dinner and walk Indy. Some of the people I love are currently hurting, trying to keep their heads above water in the face of illness or a loss. My frustrated impulse is to want to fix it, but I can't. I can listen, care, and be a friend. I've had my turn in those shoes, and I know eventually it'll be my turn again. So for today I'm thankful for that everyday-ness of early rising, punching the clock, washing the dishes. I know there are a lot of people who would trade anything for a life so ordinary.

I carry three medallions in my left front pants pocket at all times. The medallions are in recognition of my years of sobriety. One is the most recent I've received, for 27 years. Another was a gift from my beloved friend and surrogate mother, Jackie. The third is my 24-year, which went to Phil Collins (yes, that Phil Collins) along with a letter from me thanking him for the role his music has played in keeping me sober and (semi) sane, and was returned to me with a kind note from the man himself. More on the long, amazing story of Mr. Collins and my sobriety another time.
On one side of each medallion is the phrase "To thine own self be true." It took me a long time to understand the resonance of those words. Easy enough to say, but how can you be true to thine own self if you don't know who thine own self truly is?
Being your genuine self is work. It's much easier to show the self that pleases, the self family, friends and coworkers expect of you. Better to smile and say "I'm fine" than reveal that you're having a soul crushing day, right? Who wants those gory details? Better to nod and agree than say what's on your mind and risk the possible fallout.
It's taken me a lot of years to know and love the me that I am. Alcohol was my escape hatch from reality for a few short, intense but critical years, my late teens and early 20s. Instead of becoming who I was meant to be, I avoided reality, particularly the uncomfortable reality of being an overly sensitive, self-conscious little mouse of a person. Booze loosened me up, helped me to pretend I was anyone other than me.
Sobriety, hard work and middle age have hewed me into a closer version of the me I was meant to become all those years and bottles ago. I am driven less by impulse and more by choice. I'm not afraid to speak up, but I've also learned the value of keeping silent.
Some traits I once aspired to I now recognize will never be mine. Pretending, or getting drunk and pretending, won't make me graceful, glamorous or gorgeous. Being sober allows me the freedom to be funny, tenderhearted and compassionate. A more than fair trade.
It's good to hear those medallions jingling gently in my pocket. I still need that daily reminder that being my true self is an obligation of my sobriety ... and one of its greatest rewards.

Love, patience and shoes

My friend Jan came over for dinner on Friday. We had a good time talking about writing, our pasts, and what we hoped our futures would hold. She's moving to Lansing at the end of the month, and though I haven't known her long she's already become a close friend, and my "miss you" blues already already gearing up.
Jan is a favorite of Saira, the family beagle. Jan loves dogs, Saira loves a good belly rub. It's a match made in heaven.
After Jan left I turned on some bouncy jazz music and began washing dishes. The dogs relaxed in the living room, worn out from the excitement of company, begging for morsels and jockeying for attention.
As I wrapped up my kitchen chores, an odd sound caught my attention. My leftover mom radar tuned in to a sound that wasn't quite right. A sound of mischief. I walked into the living room and saw that Saira was energetically gnawing on a shoe. My shoe. Half of my best pair of shoes.
"What are you doing?" I cried. Saira reacted as any naughty child would: she ran from the crime scene, leaped onto the couch and tried to wipe the guilty expression from her face.
There was no saving the shoe. What was once the top of my shoe was now a scattering of black confetti littering my pale green rug.
If this had happened a year ago I would have been shouting at Saira, and she would have cringed and likely had an accident on the rug or sofa, further enflaming my temper. I would have seethed and cursed as I cleaned up the damage.
But this is now. I gave Saira a mild scolding, gathered up the sorry remains of my shoe, found its mate, and dumped both into the garbage. Instead of rage, this thought kicked in: I can have a ruined shoe and a terrified dog, or I can have a ruined shoe. Getting angry would not repair my shoe and would teach Saira nothing. Sometimes pets destroy things. They make no distinction between their ratty stuffed bear or your best article of clothing, and they aren't going to learn that distinction.
I have, by force, become a better person because of my dogs. We adopted Indy and Saira a year and a half ago from our local humane society. They were adult dogs; they came with personality quirks and behaviors we were unprepared to deal with. At times I thought we'd made a huge mistake. Two mistakes.
What it's been has been a powerful lesson for me about anger, ego and love. All my life I've had a quick temper. My husband and my children suffered for it. Now I was unleashing that temper on two more innocent bystanders. I was angry that they didn't "know any better." Meaning they weren't behaving as I thought they should.
My moment of clarity came on a sunny fall afternoon when Indy knocked me down. Absent of leash manners, Indy was a brakeless freight train on every outing, dragging me down sidewalks as I fought to control him. I was walking him less and less often, dreading the battle of wills that always ensued.
On that fall afternoon, Indy spied another dog on the other side of the street. He went berserk as usual, pulling at the leash, yelping his glass-shattering shriek of excitement. Tangled in the leash, struggling for dominance, I lost my footing and fell over.
I was mortified. I imagined people thinking, "Geeze, why doesn't she control her dog?" I got up, yanked Indy over to me and swatted him. And swatted him.
My daughter Melissa, who was walking Saira, begged me to calm down. "Please, Mom, you look like you're abusing him."
I paused then. Indy was staring up at me, frightened and puzzled. Clearly he wasn't learning a lesson on leash manners. He was learning that the person he was learning to love and trust couldn't be trusted not to hurt him.
Was this who I wanted to be? This furious woman whose pride mattered more than her dog? It was a painful moment, but sometimes pain is what it takes to drive home a message.
From that day on I made a conscious effort to rein in my temper and keep my ego in check. When either dog misbehaved I responding with firmness rather than fury. On a recent walk with Indy I stopped to chat with a couple who lives down the street. Indy waited patiently, even sat and let himself be patted on the head. My neighbors said they couldn't believe this was the same out of control dog they'd watched me struggle with last fall.
The lesson has carried over into my human relationships. Instead of battling with my kids over this or that, I ask myself, do I want to be hurtful Mom, sarcastic Mom, win-at-all-costs Mom? Usually I don't. Sometimes, though, I still do. Like my dogs, I'm a work in progress. And it's all a labor of love.

Introducing ... Me!

Welcome to my world - or at least a corner of it. My name is Deb, and I'm an alcoholic. I have 27 years' sobriety. I am the proud mother of two daughters, age 23 and 17, and a son, age 21. I became a widow four years ago, when my husband died of an overdose.
I am here to share my experience, strength, hope and observations, as well as the humor, sadness and wonder that spring from a life filled with recovery, faith, family, friends and pets. My life has been a kaleidoscope of tragedy and miracles, much of which I will share with you because I want you to know that long-term sobriety is possible if you are willing to go to any length to achieve it; I am living proof of it.
I am blessed with bottomless gratitude and a pleasantly warped sense humor. I hope you'll laugh, think, relate, and keep coming back.