Thai Hot & Spicy Conversation

Sigh.

It's nice to be home on a cold, damp night. This has been an Alice Through the Looking Glass week at work. The faster I go, I still manage to end the day in the same place. Tuesday night I went straight from the office to a monthly service meeting, which was all the more fun because our Local Lunatic was in attendance.

After the meeting, I met my friend Constance at Chadar Thai for dinner. Chadar is a pleasant restaurant operated by a tiny & attractive couple. The food is excellent; exquisitely prepared and presented. It was nice to relax after the busy day and the evening meeting.

Both Constance & I ordered our food "Thai hot." The proprietors offer varying levels of spiciness with most food selections: mild, medium, American hot, and Thai hot. As we ate, we chatted, and somehow (the economy? Job lay-offs? Dashed dreams?) the conversation wended its way to a friend of Constance's who lives in New York City.

Her friend had moved to the big city, armed with a degree in fashion design, and even though she found work with top designers, it was difficult to make a living. Finally, in desperation, Constance's friend turned to an unusual method of supplementing her meager income. She discovered that, with a minimum of expense and effort, she could consistently earn a living wage just by going through her usual daily activities. All she had to do at the end of the day was pop her soiled panties in an envelope, and send them through US mail to buyers found via an advertisement in a men's magazine.

Of course, most fetishists have specific ideas about what is compelling, so our NY Girl would have to wear thong underwear one day, and big girl cotton panties the next. When demand exceeded supply, she would entreat friends to "wear these when you go jogging," and provide them with a pair of underwear. Apparently, she developed a steady clientele.

Well, talk about thinking outside the box! With the economy near collapse, and the job market in flux, it's nice to know that there are always opportunities for quick cash if you're willing to lick an envelope. It's best not to think about what happens when the envelope gets opened, however.

Black Crepe on the Coffee Pot

nataliedee.com

My coffeemaker died Friday night. The clock still works, and the On button lights up promisingly, but those are the only signs of life. The water just sits there, and there are no choo-choo sounds of brewing. It's very sad.

I went to Target today to buy a new coffeemaker, and they had a selection ranging in price from inexpensive to ridiculous. I didn't find one that is suitable; they were all the basket filter variety, and I want a cone filter. I have to put up with basket-filtered coffee at AA meetings, but if I'm buying one for my home I'll hold out for what I want.

My mother's Guardian Service coffee pot is lurking somewhere around here, but I have no idea where it is. Suzanne & I even looked in the attic last time she was visiting, but we couldn't find it. It makes good coffee if I can locate it. The disadvantage to using it is waiting for water to boil, and then waiting after you pour the boiling water in the drip-o-lator. On the plus side, there are no paper filters to buy, and it doesn't hog counter space. It's retro coffee at its finest.

In the meanwhile, I may have to put up with tea.

A Tubeful of Birthday Cake

A recent post by Gdad about the elevators at his office brought back some memories I haven't thought about in awhile. One summer evening after dinner, I was hanging out with some neighborhood kids down the street. I was about thirteen. I rapidly started feeling lousy and returned home, complaining of nausea and abdominal pains. My parents took me to Boone Clinic on the nearby Navy base, and they sent me to Portsmouth Naval Hospital.

By this time, I was in a great deal of pain, and could feel every bump in the road on the way to the hospital. Outside the emergency room, an eager orderly grabbed me around the waist to hoist me onto a gurney, and I rewarded him by throwing up all over him. I was having an appendicitis attack, and I was in the operating room by midnight. A corpsman prepped me for the operation, and I remember feeling sad as he shaved my pubic hair, which I had waited to grow with such impatience. He assured me that it would grow back in no time.

I came to after surgery in a men's ward, and a friendly corpsman named Powell told me that they would want me to get up and move around sometime soon. The ward occupied one wing of an upper floor, and was a long rectangular room with a communal bathroom at the midpoint. As the night sky began to brighten, I needed to go to the bathroom, so I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Wow, was I sore! I was a little shaky, but I had my IV on wheels to hang onto as I shuffled toward the bathroom. Suddenly Powell was at my side. He was alarmed, and asked me what I was doing. I told him I had to pee, and that he had told me that I needed to get up and move around. "Not without help, little man. You call me or whoever's on duty next time."

I was in the first bed, just outside the nurse's station, and I was the only kid on the ward. There were probably 24 to 30 beds, some empty, but most occupied. The more serious cases were near the nurse's station, but I think I was placed there because of my age. In the bed beside me was a guy named Karl Savage. When the ward came to life for the day, he introduced himself. He was in the final stages of cancer, and had all sorts of tubes and monitors hooked to his frail body. When breakfast came, he didn't get a tray, and he explained that he could no longer eat. He was a very nice fellow; he kept an eye on me and would call the corpsmen when he thought I was in pain and needed medication. He also kept the other men on the ward from pestering me, and made sure they behaved when they were within earshot.

I recovered steadily and rapidly, and soon was allowed to roam the hospital in a wheelchair. Portsmouth Naval Hospital, officially known as Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, Virginia, is the oldest continuously operating Navy hospital in the country. The original building's construction was started in 1827, and was an imposing but impractical structure. In June of 1855, yellow fever came to Tidewater via the ship Ben Franklin. By mid-July, the epidemic had swept the area. Within three months, Portsmouth's civilian population of 5000 had suffered 1000 casualties, and the Naval hospital admitted afflicted local residents. Ten percent of the total area's population was killed by the yellow fever epidemic. The hospital was praised for its service to the community.

I was in a modern high-rise building that was completed in 1960. Fifteen stories high, it was like a city under one roof. It had a post office, a library, shops, and a movie theater. The elevators were often problematic for my wheelchair, because sometimes they would stop several inches above or below the selected floor. Powell was stern with a warning about the elevators: Don't just roll in when the doors open. Be sure the elevator is really there. It seems a distracted nurse fell to her death when she stepped into an empty elevator shaft. I'm not sure if that's true, but it may have been, considering how untrustworthy the elevators could be. A lot of times they had their own ideas about which floors to visit.

One morning I woke up and there was a new guy directly across from me. He moaned, screamed, and cried a lot. He was a typical brash sailor, and he had been in an accident with his motorcycle. Riding shirtless, he had wiped out on his bike, and skidded about a hundred feet down the pavement on his bare back. He was in a lot of pain. He was also teased by the other fellows for being an idiot.

One unexpected outcome of my surgery was the discovery of a little something extra called a Meckel's diverticulum, an extra appendage in the intestinal tract that, at the time, could only be detected during surgery. This was also removed, and was the likely cause of previous unexplainable pain and discomfort. Only 2% of the population has these weird things.

My parents took advantage of my confinement, and sold the house, changed their names, and moved to an undisclosed location. Naw, of course they didn't; there wasn't time. They visited every day, and usually brought one of my friends to ease my boredom. One visitor was a schoolchum named Karen, who brought me a huge hunk of her birthday cake since I had missed her party. That evening, after everything was quiet, I unwrapped the cake and showed it to Karl. It was one of those store-bought sheet cakes with lots of pink & white icing. He said he loved birthday cake, and I asked him if he wanted to share it. He said he couldn't because he wasn't allowed any food. I asked him what would happen if he had some. He said it would get sucked back out through the tube that went in his nose and down to his stomach.

We grinned at each other. I cut the cake in half, and we both ate quickly. He said it tasted so good. A few minutes later, we giggled hysterically when the pink and white goop started coming up through the tube in his nose. I'm glad he got to taste birthday cake again.

How Fights Start

A friend sent me the following, so I thought I'd pass it along. I'd heard some of these before; you probably have, too. But, let's face it, your memory ain't what it used to be. By the way, where am I?

Oh, wait! Before I forget, a woman who recently started coming to the early morning meeting picked up a thirty-day chip today. For my Earth-people readers, most AA meetings give out tokens in recognition of consecutive days in sobriety. At my very first meeting, a guy picked up a thirty-day chip, and I wanted to be just like him. Experts are still trying to figure out how in the heck one-thousand nights can be crammed into those first thirty days. That's how it feels, anyway.

So, at the end of the meeting this woman comes up to me and says "You're the Bill who answers the phone line? I was hoping I'd meet you one day. Can I give you a hug?" Of course I said no. Are you kidding? I gave her a big hug and thanked her, and congratulated her on her thirty days. What a way to start my day!

I rarely meet the people I've talked to, so I was grateful to hear that she is doing well. She said she was scared when she called, but I was encouraging and humorous. Note to self: be that way on all calls, even when you're swamped. I know that when these folks call, the phone receiver seems to weigh one thousand pounds. It is so difficult to admit we need help.

When I got to work this morning, one of the first things on my list was making a deposit at the bank across the street. Unless I'm depositing a million dollars, which hasn't happened yet, I walk to the bank. Today, when I went out the front door, there was a hullabaloo in the street. An SUV was straddling the median, windows blown out, one tire flat, and had sustained quite a bit of body damage. Glass was all over the street, along with a prone traffic light pole. I guess someone was in a hurry to get to work this morning, but they had been hauled off, either to a hospital or jail.

Oh, I promised to share the information on how fights start. Here you go...

My wife sat down on the couch next to me as I was flipping channels. She asked, 'What's on TV?' I said, 'Dust.' And then the fight started...

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary. She said, 'I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.' I bought her a scale. And then the fight started...

After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later. The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'. So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair. She said, 'That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me' and she processed my Social Security application. When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office. She said, 'You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.' And then the fight started...

My wife and I were sitting at a table at my high school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table. My wife asked, 'Do you know her? ''Yes,' I sighed, 'she’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear she hasn't been sober since . ''My God!' says my wife, 'who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?' And then the fight started...

I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason, took my order first. "I'll have the strip steak, medium rare, please." He said, "Aren't you worried about the mad cow?" "Nah, she can order for herself." And then the fight started...

A woman is standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror. She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband, 'I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly. I really need you to pay me a compliment. 'The husband replies, 'Your eyesight's damn near perfect.' And then the fight started...

I asked my wife to buy a case of Miller Light for $14.95. Instead, she bought a jar of cold cream for $7.95. I told her the beer would make her look better at night than the cold cream. And then the fight started...

My wife asked me if a certain dress made her butt look big. I told her not as much as the dress she wore yesterday and then the fight started...

A man and a woman were asleep like two innocent babies. Suddenly, at 3 o'clock in the morning, a loud noise came from outside. The woman jumped up from the bed and yelled at the man 'Holy crap. That must be my husband!' So the man jumped out of the bed, scared & naked, and jumped out the window. He smashed himself on the ground, ran through a thorn bush and to his car as fast as he could go. A few minutes later he returned and went up to the bedroom and screamed at the woman, 'I AM your husband!' The woman yelled back, 'Yeah, then why were you running?' And then the fight started...

Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, grabbed the dog, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the truck, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour. The wind was blowing 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad all day. I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife's back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, 'The weather out there is terrible.' My loving wife of 10 years replied, 'Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that?' And then the fight started ...

I asked my wife, "Where do you want to go for our anniversary?" It warmed my heart to see her face melt in sweet appreciation. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested, "How about the kitchen ?" And that's when the fight started...

My wife and I were watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire while we were in bed. I turned to her and said, "Do you want to have sex?" "No," she answered. I then said, "Is that your final answer?" She didn't even look at me this time, simply saying "Yes." So I said, "Then I'd like to phone a friend." And that's when the fight started...

Update on the traffic light out front: when I escaped for lunch at 2:20 this afternoon, there was a new pole already in place. I'm surprised they were able to replace it so quickly.

A Fifth (of Beethoven)

The pace at work is slowing down a bit following the holidays. I had five consecutive days off at Christmas. At left is a picture of my desk when I returned. I wish. It never looks that tidy. My desk is covered with post-it notes: reminders of things to do, people to call, unfinished projects, and reports clamoring for attention. Add some standing files, fax machine, computer, phone, and other typical desk items, and I'm lucky to have a large free-standing wooden desk instead of a modern Dilbert arrangement. That little desk in the photo would never work.

I was on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride for a few weeks. There's one of me but two phone lines, which is usually very manageable, but when I'm juggling two distress calls and handling walk-in customers, it can be edgy. The day certainly flies by, though, so that's nice. I'm happy to be moving at a canter rather than a full gallop this week, and I can spend a little time on organization rather than SOS calls.

I'm wearing an orange hooded Champion sweatshirt today with khaki pants. Sheldon gave me a Target gift card for Christmas, and I took advantage of sale prices. I also bought a black flat-knit cotton cardigan with gray piping, and a new pair of sneakers. The sneakers were sorely needed; my old pair looked disgraceful, but the damned things refused to wear out. These new ones feel great, and have put a spring in my step.

Have you changed the way you feel about colors over the years? Orange used to be my least favored color, but now I love it. I don't have a favorite color, and what I like on a particular day may vary. Perhaps it depends on my mood. Some days I feel like wearing muted, monochromatic tones, but the next day I may choose an eye-popping palette.

Is it just me, or is anyone else interested in giving Barney Frank elocution lessons? I'm sure he's a smart guy, but he sounds like he's got a mouthful of marbles or mashed potatoes. Or both.

A woman called me today because of a friend who has a drinking problem. We talked for awhile, and the woman started crying and admitted she was calling for herself. Her friends & family are worried, because she just got out of the hospital. Her liver is in bad shape. It's the typical story of feeling guilty, remorseful, isolated, and bewildered because her willpower fails her. I told her that was because we have a disease, and that a frontal assault using willpower simply won't work...if she didn't believe me try willpower on a bad case of diarrhea. I said she didn't have to live this way any longer, and found a few meetings she could get to easily within the next couple of days. I usually don't give meeting information more than a couple of days out, because their disease will tell them to choose the latest available option and then try to talk them out of going to that one. I made her laugh, and I could hear a small spark of hope in her voice. She said she hoped she would meet me one day. I told her she probably would if she went to enough meetings. That may not happen, but it doesn't matter. She'll meet many people in the rooms who will love her and help her recover her health and sanity. It was a privilege to talk with her today; she helped me more than she knows.

Boy, do I need a haircut. Most people like my hair with some length to it, but it drives me crazy. Even though my hair is finely textured, it's like a pelt. Unless things change drastically, I won't go bald. My hair is unruly and curly, so it's easier to handle when it's cropped short. We've had several windy days, and when I go outside I end up with Beethoven Hair. Maybe I can get a haircut later this week or this weekend. Think of the money I'll save on shampoo.

Obnoxious Teens

By and large, my friends & I were fairly tame in our high school years. We didn't drink alcohol or smoke dope. We didn't vandalize people's property. We did, however, engage in pesky pranks from time to time. No animals were harmed in the commission of these acts.

Sometimes the tomfoolery was directed at a friend. Our pal Charlotte, for example, had a part time job at Jack-in-the-Box, and this low-end eatery boasted one of the first drive-thru windows in our area. When we knew that Charlotte was working the window, we'd pull up to the speaker and place a large order. When she had carefully recorded our long list of sub-standard fast food and asked if there would be anything else, we'd scream "...and a Charlotte shake" and scram. The Jack-in-the-Box was near one of the Amphibious Naval Base gates, so large orders were not unusual. Many times I'd choose the shortest line at McDonald's, only to have the sailor ahead of me get to the counter and say "The USS Nimitz would like 500 Big Macs, 389 Quarter Pounders with Cheese, 451 medium Cokes, 403 orange sodas, and 999 French fries. Oh, and 276 hot apple pies."

One day, when we had a snow day from school, Suzanne & I decided to walk over to Fred's house for hot chocolate. Fred lived in another neighborhood, so it was quite a hike through the snow. When we got there no one was home, but we found a back door that was unlocked, so we went in to get warm & rest up for the long walk home. We were also hoping that Fred & his dad would come home, so when they didn't we shoved all the living room furniture into the center of the room and left. Colonel K was not amused, and when he blessed me out on the phone I said coolly "Be glad we didn't take all the labels off your cans. Next time, be home when we want hot chocolate."

One lark sort of backfired on Brenda & me. Four of us had dashed to the beach to "study" after school one afternoon. Brenda and I were getting out of the water, the beach was deserted, and we thought it would be cute to moon our two friends on the beach blanket. We did, but when we turned around, three nuns had materialized out of thin air and were walking between us and our friends. Yes, we had just shown our asses to three stern nuns in their black habits. To this day, I have no idea how those sisters appeared so suddenly on a seemingly empty stretch of sand.

We all spent a lot of time at the mall, and one evening Suzanne pretended to lose a contact lens. We had split up into pairs & singles, and acted like strangers that stopped to help her look. Soon, we had many shoppers helping us, and a security guard even roped off part of the area. Then we all gathered against a far wall to see how long it would take before people figured out that Suzanne had fled the scene.

On another mall adventure, Suzanne & I shoplifted a bottle of Prell shampoo, and surreptitiously dumped it near the intake tube of the mall's fountain. It took several moments, but when the shampoo hit the fountain jets, it was really spectacular. Prell truly was as concentrated as the commercials promised, and they had to shut down the fountain before the bubbles went all over the place.

One of our best capers targeted Krispy Kreme. I think we had two car-loads of friends that night. One of us had a pair of novelty spectacles with battery operated windshield wipers on the lenses. It was between 10 & 11pm, and Elton John was in town for a concert. This was during Mr. John's flamboyant era, and he was known for outrageous costumes that included bizarre eyeglasses.

The doughnut shop was full of old people (you know, people my current age), so Suzanne & I went in first and sat at the counter. Other friends entered in pairs and took seats. We acted like we didn't know each other. Finally, Fred came in wearing the motorized glasses, and sat across from us at the counter.

Suzanne went into a convincing act, asking me and the strangers next to us if that wasn't Elton John that just came in. Other friends "overheard" her and started getting excited. We all agreed that, yes, it was Elton John. Suzanne squealed and ran over to Fred, asking for his autograph, which he graciously provided on a KK napkin. Other customers were all abuzz. I'm not sure how we made our exit, but perhaps Suzanne will remember.

Speaking of Suzanne, below is a little slideshow I assembled from the pictures I snapped at her wedding in October. If you watch it, it is helpful to know that the posed photos of Suzanne in her gown were taken moments before the ceremony. We were in a room adjacent to the assembled friends, family, and groom. Suzanne did not want Brett to see her gown before she walked down the aisle, and her mother kept popping in the door, throwing it wide open. This explains Suzanne's facial expressions in a couple of the shots.

Call of the Wild

I just had to show you this picture of Sheldon's cat, Sassy.
You know how some cats simply love people, greet visitors at the door, hang out with them and make them feel welcome? Well, that's not Sassy.

Cats, like dogs and people, have unique personalities. Sassy's clearly says "Feed me or go away." She will allow me to give her a couple of strokes, and then she moves a few feet closer to her food bowl. If I pet her too much, she starts breathing heavily - huffing, in other words - and this means that she's getting ready to break into a full-blown hiss.

I'm a frequent guest at Sheldon's place, so Sassy has grown to tolerate me. Sometimes, if she isn't napping, she will greet me at the door and let me pet her for a few moments. I think she actually likes me in her own peculiar way. Nana (Sheldon's mom) and I seem to be within Sassy's Periphery of Tolerable Things, but I suspect because we are both viewed as Possible Food Sources. I have taken care of Sassy when Sheldon's been out of town, and as soon as we've exchanged pleasantries and I've filled her food bowl, Sassy gives me that "Don't let the door hit you on your way out" look.

I asked Sheldon if, when the two of them are there alone, Sassy shows her tender side and curls up on his lap. Sheldon says that doesn't happen, but she will sometimes sit on the arm of his chair while he's watching television. She won't even curl up next to him in bed, although she will lay at his feet if there are enough sheets & blankets separating his bare skin from her fur. This makes me feel like less of a pariah.

Sassy has a flawed sense of spatial relationships. It's fun to watch her try to stuff her fat self into an empty cereal box. She's mad about empty cereal boxes and paper bags. She also likes the little catnip-filled pillow that she got for Christmas. Lately, when I've visited Sheldon, this catnip toy can be found somewhere on the dining room floor, soggy from a round of vigorous chewing. Sassy also got a fancy new food bowl for Christmas; stainless steel with fashionable orange bands around the perimeter.

Sheldon loves Sassy, and I have to admit that I do, too. She's true to her self.

A Trickle of Rain

"There was nothing separate about her days. Like drops on the window-pane, they ran together and trickled away."
- Dorothy Parker

That sums it up. Dorothy Parker describes quite well what my life was like in the last year or more of my drinking career. Each night when I crawled into bed I promised myself that I would eat something when I awakened. At best, I would sleep fitfully for a few hours, and the cycle would begin again, just like the days stretching behind me like a red carpet to Hell.

When I woke up, it wasn't long before the shaking started. Then I would vomit. This happened every morning, and it would come on so suddenly that I started keeping the kitchen trash can right in front of my chair in the den. The vomitus was black as pitch; my body was expelling a bellyful of putrified blood that had collected in my stomach while I slept.

All thoughts of eating were wiped out of my mind. The only thing that would stop the violent tremors that wracked my body was another drink. It seemed like the only solution at that moment, even though I knew it was killing me. I couldn't see any way out.

I'm sad, and a little angry this evening. This morning, when I answered the local AA phone line, I got a call from a man who was reaching out for help. He was at the end of his rope. After twelve years of sobriety, he started drinking again last June. He thought he had his problem licked. Now, at the beginning of 2009, he cannot stop drinking.

Last night, he went out to his shed to look for a hose he could connect to the exhaust pipe of his car. Only the worry of what would become of his dog kept him from finishing the job. I told him that, although suicide was an option, it was also a permanent solution for a temporary problem. I told him I knew how it felt to feel hopeless, to dread the brightening sky at the end of each night and think "Oh, please, not another day. Not another day."

From the way he answered my questions, I knew he was in the danger zone. His pattern of long-term constant drinking meant that withdrawal from alcohol must be medically managed. Without treatment, alcohol withdrawal syndrome can be fatal. The mortality rate is 35% if untreated, and drops to 5-15% if treated early. Complicating his situation is the problem of his relapse after a period of sobriety. Alcohol withdrawal symptoms can increase in severity following each relapse. This phenomenon is called kindling, and frequently leads to full-blown delirium tremens, seizures, and heart failure or stroke.

After spending time with him, assuring him that he could get better, that help was available, and that he could start enjoying life again by getting help, I got busy calling people. I found a man who wanted to help. He took our fellow to the emergency room nearby. And that's where things went downhill.

Our helper spent hours in the emergency room with our man, waiting for a doctor. Meanwhile, our fellow starts craving another drink. His heart is racing and his blood pressure is very high. He is disoriented, and wants to go home. He is hooked to an IV, so at least he is getting some good fluids.

And finally the doctor comes in. He tells our guy that he is drinking too much, and needs to stop. And that he is wasting his time. And he sends him home.

And that is why I am sad, and more than a little mad this evening.

too oh oh 9