Thursday, October 20, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
recovering heroin addict seeks sugar and BLTs
Of course bread and milk would be grouped together. Along with bacon. Bread, milk, and eggs are what everyone is supposed to eat. Except that eggs freak me out. I once cracked one that had blood in it. I still have nightmares about killing baby chickens. And for the bread, be sure to pick up rye. It looks the most angry, and it saves me the step of toasting it since it's already dark brown.
Lettuce and tomatoes for BLTs. And because those words both have so many nice, straight lines that I can draw over and over. And it reminds me of how we end our NA meetings, "We stand in a circle because we don't do lines anymore."
WHITE CHOCOLAtE and MAC NUT creamers for my decaf. My therapist recommends that I no longer drink regular, as I need to wean myself away from all chemically altering substances. And decaf is usually all they have at meetings.
Chocolate ice cream reminds me of when I was growing up. We had a dairy farm with some Jerseys. My cousin Dale would visit each summer and every Sunday, we'd make ice cream together so we'd have something sweet to finish the day off with after milking in the evening during the week. One summer, Dale's mom called to report that Dale wouldn't be able to visit and help out at the farm for the summer. Turns out that Dale was made a recent resident in a West Virgina prison for producing, selling, and using meth. Funny, I just thought he was an insomniac with poor dental hygiene.
Contrary to my doctor's recommendations, I started my detox from heroin at home. I ended up blacking out on a number of occasions while still apparently otherwise functioning, then fell into a coma for a week. My aunt brought me to a hospital where I was to finish out my detox while monitored and medicated as necessary. Due to my so-called carelessness prior to hospitalization, I still have seizures now and then. While my penmanship has always left much to be desired, I feel as if this may be the cause of what some may call "sociopath" handwriting. Whatevs, yo.
Finally, don't forget the VANNiLLA PudiNg MIX (INSTANT. At rehab, I was told to expect sugar cravings - this is one of the few things I remember. Since getting out last month, I've spent $482 at Yankee Candles. I have the entire candle collections of the Buttercream, Sugar Cookie, and Vanilla Sundae lines. Sometimes, I burn the candles and eat vanilla flavored sweets at home while watching "Golden Girls" - it's my guiltiest pleasure these days. Oh, and the VANNillA WAFFERS cannot be forgotten - my beagle Jethro and I share them after our evening walks.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
I met a genuinely happy person today
Seeing as I had not turned on my television in 4 or 5 months, I finally cancelled the non-cable-but-still-get-the-news-and-the-Simpsons-on-local-channels television portion of my U-Verse account. I think that takes off about $20 each month – that’s enough to buy 120 limes when they’re in season. Or 200 key limes when they are in season and on sale. While on hold with AT&T waiting to speak to a human, I marveled at the image of the spread of key lime pies my savings could produce. I wondered if they had key lime festivals in Florida – including best pie, Miss Key Lime, and best marinade with key limes cook-off.
When I pulled into the otherwise full strip center parking lot, I spotted an empty spot directly in front of the store. I was almost expecting to see a sign with my name on it. While I consider it a bothersome practice to circle around looking for a close-to-the-door spot, there seems to be something magical that happens between the consumer and the store when the consumer finds a close-to-the-door spot. It makes one feel welcome, expected. Like a neatly decorated place card at a dinner party given by a cherished friend.
When I got out of my vehicle, my eyes were immediately engaged with a set of frighteningly rhinestone-studded flip-flops, worn by a woman who was also wearing a displeased look on her face. I stepped inside, television unit thing in hand. It smelled like a combination of dog shit and new, cheap carpet. And there was some tapping – no rhythm, just random… but persistent – coming from a wall of the store. The rhinestone flip-flop woman then walked in. She had anger about her, so I stepped back – I figured something happened and her transaction had not been completed to her satisfaction. The noise from the wall kept making itself known. I stared at it in an effort to survey the happenings, in hopes of discovering the source.
There was a man in front of us sending Folgers coffee, paper towels, and some other items to someone in Pennsylvania. He spent about $40 to send what appeared to be about $38 worth of products. He knew the address and shared it with a conviction of someone who loves another – the recipient.
When he was done, the rhinestone flip-flop woman stepped forward – I tried to make eye contact with her to let her know that I understood that while she walked back into the store after I’d been waiting in line for a few minutes, she was probably wrapping up what she’d recently stepped out on. But she did not meet my eyes.
It was then my turn. I handed over my television device thing with power cord. Matt asked if I was returning an AT&T device – I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him for knowing, then said that I was, indeed, returning such device. There was something about this guy that just got to me - he seemed genuinely happy. I said to him, “You seem un… unusually happy to be at work. On a Saturday.” He smiled. I went on to add, “There's something... you seem to be smiling. Even when you’re not smiling.” He smiled even wider and said, “Well, I hope it’s contagious.” I assured him that it was.
When I pulled into the otherwise full strip center parking lot, I spotted an empty spot directly in front of the store. I was almost expecting to see a sign with my name on it. While I consider it a bothersome practice to circle around looking for a close-to-the-door spot, there seems to be something magical that happens between the consumer and the store when the consumer finds a close-to-the-door spot. It makes one feel welcome, expected. Like a neatly decorated place card at a dinner party given by a cherished friend.
When I got out of my vehicle, my eyes were immediately engaged with a set of frighteningly rhinestone-studded flip-flops, worn by a woman who was also wearing a displeased look on her face. I stepped inside, television unit thing in hand. It smelled like a combination of dog shit and new, cheap carpet. And there was some tapping – no rhythm, just random… but persistent – coming from a wall of the store. The rhinestone flip-flop woman then walked in. She had anger about her, so I stepped back – I figured something happened and her transaction had not been completed to her satisfaction. The noise from the wall kept making itself known. I stared at it in an effort to survey the happenings, in hopes of discovering the source.
There was a man in front of us sending Folgers coffee, paper towels, and some other items to someone in Pennsylvania. He spent about $40 to send what appeared to be about $38 worth of products. He knew the address and shared it with a conviction of someone who loves another – the recipient.
When he was done, the rhinestone flip-flop woman stepped forward – I tried to make eye contact with her to let her know that I understood that while she walked back into the store after I’d been waiting in line for a few minutes, she was probably wrapping up what she’d recently stepped out on. But she did not meet my eyes.
It was then my turn. I handed over my television device thing with power cord. Matt asked if I was returning an AT&T device – I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him for knowing, then said that I was, indeed, returning such device. There was something about this guy that just got to me - he seemed genuinely happy. I said to him, “You seem un… unusually happy to be at work. On a Saturday.” He smiled. I went on to add, “There's something... you seem to be smiling. Even when you’re not smiling.” He smiled even wider and said, “Well, I hope it’s contagious.” I assured him that it was.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
acornautics
What do you call a group of squirrels?
Where is this going?
A swim team. I was out walking this morning and counted seven squirrels – enough for a swim team.
What makes you think squirrels would make good swimmers?
I didn’t say they’d be good. But their eyes are naturally bulging so much that one might think that they’ve worn goggles under pressure their entire existence. They’d use their long muscular tails as propellers. And like humans, they’d let their hair grow out during training season, then shave it off just before a competition. Can you imagine what a naked squirrel would look like?
They’re always naked.
You know what I mean.
I rarely do.
What would you call a team of swimming squirrels?
More importantly, would the butterfly stroke still be called the butterfly, or would it be the flying squirrel?
Now you’re making fun of me.
I’m completely serious.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
I can imagine.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
she wanted more
Female, mid-40s, recently divorced (within the last 2 years). She was the oldest of three children, raised in a middle-class family in southeast Oklahoma. She did well in grade school, then went on the earn a full academic scholarship to OU for biology. While she enjoyed it, she changed her major to zoology after the second semester of her sophomore year. This was a difficult choice, as she lost some of her scholarship... but earning a BS in zoology then going on to law school to ulimately work in bioethics in animal research was exactly what she wanted to do.
She took a part-time job at the university in her department, as an assistant to a masters student working on a thesis the diets of invasive species and their impact on the land and natural habitats of native species. It was then that she met the man who would later become her husband. She was sent out to find someone who might help her better understand the traditional and since modified-traditional/modern diets of Native Americans in the area.
He was a history major from El Paso, Texas - his family had lived next to an Indian reservation while he was growing up. By the age of 12, he was spending most of his free time hiking to his favorite secluded spots in the mountains. He carried his backpack full of worn paperback books that his uncle had handed down to him, dried apricots, and two bottles of pineapple Jarritos.
So they met. Their first date was supposed to be at a museum, but once they arrived, they realized it was closed. So, they went to a nearby Mexican restaurant that was painted pink and teal on the outside. There was no patio. She was surprised - and a little impressed - when he ordered dinner for the both of them in Spanish.
13 months, 2 weeks, 4 days later: she discovered that she was 8 weeks and 4 days pregnant. She didn't want kids. He did.
3 weeks of arguing and frustration, they both decided to drop out of school and work on building a home for their new family. They got married at the local justice of the peace. His family attended; her family had no idea of the marriage.
6 months after the marriage, she lost the baby. The doctor said it was stress-related. It took her a couple of weeks to tell him. He went into a deep depression for 8 years. They lived in the same house, but at opposite ends. They adopted a dog on their 10 year anniversary - this brought them together for a short time, but once she started taking over all of the dog's responsibilities, health issues, feedings, walkings, vet appointments, etc., he went back into a depression. The dog was all she wanted. She had no need for him.
The next 10 years were a blur. They spent the holidays apart. He would go home to his parents while she would entertain at their home. He was a professor of history at the local community college, but his time there was running short. He missed lectures. He missed teacher meetings. He failed to post grades on time at the semester's end.
She finally got the courage to tell him that they needed a divorce. They'd be better apart. He needed to gain his own independence once again. And she needed the freedom.
So here she is now. Shopping on her own. She likes ice cream. As a young girl growing up near the Southeast, she has a taste for good ice cream.
French Vanilla - not just vanilla, but French Vanilla. With a lower case f - perhaps a political statement, or perhaps just her style. French Vanilla ice cream means more eggs, and a richer flavor than traditional vanilla. Popular in Louisiana and other Southern areas.
The rest of her items are all capitalized. See this when individuals are dissociated with the English language due to outside stress. Or when they just don't know. I'm going with the former on this one.
Butter Pecan - another Southern favorite. Hands down delicious.
Carb Smart - early mid-age woman (40s) product
Miller Lt - Blt - Midwest girl faithful to AB, on a semi-diet
Plates - going to have people over, don't want them to judge my home or how I clean, and I don't want to have to clean after them
Lettuce - please help me with my new diet
Saltines - guilty pleasure that does not feel too guilty
Coffee - I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink coffee
Sasa Packets - no idea... looks like Salsa Packets
She wrote this on a purple post-it.
She took a part-time job at the university in her department, as an assistant to a masters student working on a thesis the diets of invasive species and their impact on the land and natural habitats of native species. It was then that she met the man who would later become her husband. She was sent out to find someone who might help her better understand the traditional and since modified-traditional/modern diets of Native Americans in the area.
He was a history major from El Paso, Texas - his family had lived next to an Indian reservation while he was growing up. By the age of 12, he was spending most of his free time hiking to his favorite secluded spots in the mountains. He carried his backpack full of worn paperback books that his uncle had handed down to him, dried apricots, and two bottles of pineapple Jarritos.
So they met. Their first date was supposed to be at a museum, but once they arrived, they realized it was closed. So, they went to a nearby Mexican restaurant that was painted pink and teal on the outside. There was no patio. She was surprised - and a little impressed - when he ordered dinner for the both of them in Spanish.
13 months, 2 weeks, 4 days later: she discovered that she was 8 weeks and 4 days pregnant. She didn't want kids. He did.
3 weeks of arguing and frustration, they both decided to drop out of school and work on building a home for their new family. They got married at the local justice of the peace. His family attended; her family had no idea of the marriage.
6 months after the marriage, she lost the baby. The doctor said it was stress-related. It took her a couple of weeks to tell him. He went into a deep depression for 8 years. They lived in the same house, but at opposite ends. They adopted a dog on their 10 year anniversary - this brought them together for a short time, but once she started taking over all of the dog's responsibilities, health issues, feedings, walkings, vet appointments, etc., he went back into a depression. The dog was all she wanted. She had no need for him.
The next 10 years were a blur. They spent the holidays apart. He would go home to his parents while she would entertain at their home. He was a professor of history at the local community college, but his time there was running short. He missed lectures. He missed teacher meetings. He failed to post grades on time at the semester's end.
She finally got the courage to tell him that they needed a divorce. They'd be better apart. He needed to gain his own independence once again. And she needed the freedom.
So here she is now. Shopping on her own. She likes ice cream. As a young girl growing up near the Southeast, she has a taste for good ice cream.
French Vanilla - not just vanilla, but French Vanilla. With a lower case f - perhaps a political statement, or perhaps just her style. French Vanilla ice cream means more eggs, and a richer flavor than traditional vanilla. Popular in Louisiana and other Southern areas.
The rest of her items are all capitalized. See this when individuals are dissociated with the English language due to outside stress. Or when they just don't know. I'm going with the former on this one.
Butter Pecan - another Southern favorite. Hands down delicious.
Carb Smart - early mid-age woman (40s) product
Miller Lt - Blt - Midwest girl faithful to AB, on a semi-diet
Plates - going to have people over, don't want them to judge my home or how I clean, and I don't want to have to clean after them
Lettuce - please help me with my new diet
Saltines - guilty pleasure that does not feel too guilty
Coffee - I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink coffee
Sasa Packets - no idea... looks like Salsa Packets
She wrote this on a purple post-it.
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