Tick

So I've been trying out this new thing where I work to meet all of my obligations, do what I say I'll do when I say I'll do it, and do things even when I don't wa-a-a-nt to.

I think it's called... wait, wait, give me a minute. I think it's called maturity.

Don't worry, I haven't gone completely on the rails. I still love cartoons, blowing bubbles, and jokes heavy on the crass. But turning 50 has sharpened my hearing. I can hear the clock of mortality ticking so much more clearly than before, and it is chanting, do it now, do it now, do it NOW.

Example: Last week was the week the city did its annual spring brush and branch pickup. For me, this effort amounts to thinking about picking up the fallen branches in my back yard, reasoning that I still have plenty of time to take care of it, then being amazed that the pickup day has come and gone and my yard is still filled with branchery.

Not this year.

When I came home from work one night last week I saw several of my neighbors diligently clipping hedges, gathering branches, and piling it all in tidy curbside mounds. Oh, I thought. The city must be doing the pickup tomorrow. Oh, well. My yard doesn't look so bad. Too late now.

I was greeted at the door by my Indy dog. It didn't take a dog whisperer to read the expression on his face: "Walk tonight? Walk tonight, Mom? Pleeeeaaase, walk tonight!"

"I'll take you in a little while, Indy,"  I said. 

Shortly thereafter my son and my brother-in-law arrived to help me go pick up a used bed frame I'd bought for my older daughter, who's moved back home for awhile.

"Mom, I need a new cell phone," my son announced. "Mine's dying."

When I hesitated, Dan added, "I'll pay you back when I get paid." 

We picked up the bed (my sole physical contribution was to open and close doors) and got it back to my house. I thanked Dan and my brother-in-law, said goodbye to each, ignored the sinkful of dirty dishes and flopped on the sofa to watch TV. When Indy danced over to me I rubbed his fluffy gray head and said, "Sorry, bud, Mom's too tired to go tonight."

Then I heard it: tick, tick, tick. Now. Now. Now.

I jumped up and headed for the kitchen. 

As I washed the dishes I thought about the economics of parenting. My daughter needed a bed. I bought one without thinking twice. My son needed a phone. I dragged my feet about it.

I was bombarded with memories of times when my two daughters' needs were met and my son got short shrift. Dan was a quiet kid, never asking for much and always appreciative of what he did get. And while my girls were never demanding and also always appreciative, they were more verbal. And because they were girls, I understood their needs more easily. Or so I told myself. 

The reality was, Dan was the back seat kid. Not because I loved him any less, but because it was easy to not see what he needed - especially if you were preoccupied, and not seeing made life easier.

Tick. Tick. Tick. I finished the dishes, ran to the store, bought a box of microwave popcorn and a bottle of Coke, two of Dan's favorites, and left them at his doorstep. I called him and told him my revelation. I told him I'd buy him that new phone. I apologized for all the times he felt "less than." He didn't say much, but he was, as always, appreciative. 

Then I gathered armful after armful of dead, dried branches from my back yard and hauled them to the curb.

By then it was almost dark. I ducked back into the house, rounded up Indy, and we bounced through the neighborhood in the twilight.

The words mortality clock have a ring of doomsday to them, don't they? But that isn't how I think of this demanding internal timepiece. For me it's a hand at my back pushing me to accomplish what I can while I still can. I don't plan on dying tomorrow, but I can't guarantee I won't, either. All I have is today, this moment, right now. That's always true of everyone, but for a lifelong procrastinating look-the-other-wayer, turning 50 has made it more than true: it's made it real. And how grateful I am for that tick, tick, tick.

Keeping the faith

Faith was the topic at a recent recovery group meeting I attended. When you're living in recovery, either in your first 24 hours or your 24th year, faith matters.

I was raised a Catholic, but I don't remember faith having much to do with it. It was more of an unwavering tradition. My father's parents were Catholic, so I was raised Catholic. You went to church on Sundays because you went to church on Sundays. The closest I ever got to a theological discussion at home was when I badgered my dad about why I had to go to church every week. His reply: "Because I said so, goddammit!"

I've always believed in a higher power, which gave me a big jump start on my recovery program. But while I never doubted the existence of a higher power, I frequently doubted the logic behind putting a useless being like myself on earth.

Growing in recovery is difficult, uncomfortable, liberating and exhilarating. One of the greatest gifts I've received is kind of an equation of faith; ironic, considering my unabashed hatred of all things mathematical. It goes like this: If I have faith in a higher power, I must believe that my higher power has faith in me. Based on my higher power's faith, I have faith in myself.

That tag team faith gives me the courage to roll out of bed each morning and believe that I can survive whatever the day may throw at me. It gives me the gumption to speak up, to trust that I have enough experience, strength and wisdom to share with my fellow humans. It lets me relax into my faith, knowing that a power greater than myself is running the show.

  My prayers are no longer desperate pleas for what I think I need. Most often they're telegrams of gratitude from my soul: Thank you for another sober day, a loving family, a body that works, a houseful of nutty pets, a life full of beautiful friends.

This is not to say that I don't ever thrash around in prayer, freaking out over the quick fix I want when uncomfortable situations arise. But the more conscientiously I work my spiritual program the less thrashing I do and the more peaceful life is. In fact, sometimes I wonder if all of this peace of mind is a signal that I am, in fact, losing my mind. Shouldn't I be more worried about money, my kids, my job, the world?

No, I shouldn't. All I need to do is stay spiritually connected and concern myself with being the person I believe I was meant to be. 

In the end, it's all about keeping the faith, whatever your faith may be.

Charlie Sheen IS the drug, and the media's hooked

I can tell you right now who’s high on a drug called Charlie Sheen: the media.

The slow motion train wreck known as sitcom star Charlie Sheen’s life is being documented in excruciatingly up close detail online, in print and on T.V.

A gaunt, wild-eyed Sheen has captivated America with his rants against anyone who dares to disagree with his delusional version of reality. CBS executives who temporarily pulled the plug on his “Two and a Half Men” series are now his enemies.

He was served with a restraining order filed by his wife, and the separated couple’s twin sons were removed from his home by police after he refused to return them to their mother. The restraining order was only a bid by his wife to grab a little of the spotlight for herself, Sheen claimed. It had nothing to do with the alleged threats he made against her, including that he would cut off her head and mail it to her mother.

I initially rolled my eyes at Sheen’s grandiose speeches. What a spoiled little jerk! Get into rehab, get sober and get over yourself, I thought.

After seeing several interviews and reading more quotes,my “oh, please” attitude was replaced by anger and sorrow. Charlie Sheen is mentally ill (my money’s on bipolar), and the media is wringing every drop of drama the can squeeze out of his situation. The bottom line isn’t the disintegration of a star, a husband, father, son, brother. The bottom line is the bucks.

A so-called addiction expert spoke knowingly about Sheen on T.V. last night. He claimed that, although Sheen has tested clean for drug use, he’s still using. He also claimed that Sheen will either get into treatment or die from substance abuse. He stated that Sheen’s delusions and egomania are the result of drug and alcohol abuse, even though there were no drugs or alcohol in his system when he acted out.

This guy’s credentials are that he’s a recovering addict and he’s appeared on the T.V. series “Intervention.”

Well, my credentials are that I’m a recovering alcoholic and I’ve been in a recovery program for most of the 28 years I’ve been sober. I’ve seen people drunk, sober, high as a kite and in the throes of withdrawal. None of the people I’ve seen in any of those states exhibited the symptoms Charlie Sheen has been displaying.

Believing you’re superhuman, viewing anyone who doesn’t share your vision as a mortal enemy, and behaving erratically and manically are symptoms of mental illness. 

I think the fact that Sheen tests clean for substances means that he’s no longer self-medicating. Many drug addicts and alcoholics have underlying mental health issues and become substance abusers to take the edge off their symptoms. 

It’s the sad, sick truth that I keep checking the Associated Press web link on my computer, expecting to see a file tagged “obit—sheen.” Unless someone steps in to help him, Charlie Sheen has nowhere to go but down. And so long as the media and his so-called fans embrace him and reward him for his mania, he’s going to keep spiraling, possibly into an early grave.

And if that does happen, prepare for a media frenzy as manic Sheen on his worst day.

Bookmarks

I have about 50 websites on my bookmarks list, and of those 50 I use three of them on a regular basis. Sometimes I'll get in a cyber cleaning mood and delete a few, but mostly they remain there, in the spirit of, "I'd better not throw that out, I might need it someday," the same spirit that keeps the drawers and tables in my house stuffed and stacked with envelopes and random scraps of paper.
Really, am I going to need the address of a discount shoes website where I saved the page describing a pair of winter boots I was going to buy for my son two years ago? He doesn't even wear that size anymore, for crying out loud.
And do I really need to relocate six websites offering moneysaving tips for tightwads? Finding a tip I didn't already know about would be as likely as finding a diamond ring in my morning bowl of Special K.
I've also got the addresses of several bloggers, most of them smartass women like me. But the only bloggers I follow with any regularity are my friends Cori and Kathy and authors Rona Maynard and Elizabeth Berg, and I could find their sites with my eyes closed.
As for the sites listing Crock Pot recipes, vegetarian recipes, cheap recipes and cheap vegetarian Crock Pot recipes, I can find all of those and more in seconds courtesy of Google.
And those 10-odd Phil Collins listings... I think I'll hang onto those for awhile. It's like a scrapbook I like to leaf through on occasion. Although I'm too old and too mature to keep a scrapbook on my favorite singer. A list of websites is much more dignified. Don't say a word, please. Let me hang onto my illusions.
What I need is a bookmark list for my brain. I'd love to have a file list of favorite memories that I could roll out at any time. Not the big ones; those have a permanent spot in my heart and mind. It's the little, ordinary days I want to recapture. Like the summer day Ron and I took the kids to Little Presque Isle, when the sun was hot and the water was bathtub warm. Ron and I spent the day jumping in the waves with the kids and lying on our blanket under the sun, watching them play.
So many small special moments get lost in the shuffle of daily life. We swear we'll remember, but the moments get crowded out by flat tires, doctor bills and grocery store runs.
I want to remember every single night I read bedtime stories to Jess, then Jess and Dan, then Jess, Dan and Melissa. I want to bookmark every one of those nights. And the bathtimes, trips to the park, all the Friday nights we piled blankets and pillows on the floor and hunkered down to watch "Dinosaurs" and "Family Matters."
It's ironic that with a single click we can save the location of a website on the mating habits of tse tse flies, but there's no way to save the moments we treasures as they happened and would love to treasure again... if only we could find them.

These old bones

So the other day I read an inspiring Associated Press story about a woman in her early 40s who was so morbidly obese her doctor told her she could expect a major coronary event at any moment. If that wasn't enough, she smoked like a chimney and used alcohol as a stress reliever.
Here's the inspiring part: this woman made a vow to change, not only for herself, but for her husband and children. There followed an amazing self-renovation. Now in her late 60s, this woman is lean and mean. She's run marathons and is a champion swimmer.
The story continued with the tale of a 98-year-old who still runs every day. The gist, as I saw it, was that age doesn't have to be a barrier to physical fitness. Talk about inspiring!
Next came some quotes from a personal trainer, who explained that, although there is no age limit on maintaining fitness, as one grows older one has to make certain accommodations, accept the inevitable limitations of an older body. Beginning at age 50...
Wait a minute.
Age 50?
The age I will be in four months and 14 days?
I swear I felt my brain twitch when I realized I was reading an article about growing older and keeping fit that pertained to me.
I sat up straighter and had an indignant mental conversation with the author of the story and that oh so wise personal trainer. I informed them that I get more fresh air and exercise now than I have in years. I've lost weight, gained muscle and stamina, and I can't remember when I've felt more at home in my own body. So there!
I judiciously left out of the conversation the fact that when I stand up after sitting for too long my spine is as stiff and creaky as a length of frozen rope. The fact that my knee joints sound like Rice Krispies when I stretch was also edited from the conversation.
I understand that I am growing older, chronologically speaking. But I refuse to stock up on Ben Gay and Geritol (do they even still make Geritol) anytime soon. If you're only as young as you feel, then I feel I am not ready for low-impact this and high fiber that. As long as my favorite jeans fit and I can keep up with my high-energy dog, I'm still the same me I've always been.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get up and stretch. I've been sitting a little too long.

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.