Yes, We Have No Burnett's

The moment one learns English, complications set in. — Felipe Alfau

Somehow, certainly not by careful design, much of my worklife has been spent communicating with others by telephone. In my younger days, I was an employee of the good old Bell System, back when people could choose between telephones with buttons or dials. When I began working there, no one had a cell phone & nearly every household had landline service. Subscribers in rural areas could still get party lines.

When it was time for the Christmas holidays (Remember those? We were able to say "Merry Christmas" back then without offending anyone), I would volunteer to work the skeleton crew so that most of my co-workers could leave early on Christmas Eve. We didn't get many calls on that day anyway, and I'd get to leave early on New Year's Eve as a trade-off. I recall one Christmas Eve when I got a call late in the afternoon from an elderly woman.

She was in a nursing home and was being moved to another room. She needed to get her phone service moved as quickly as possible, because they were moving her that very day. When I told her we could not move her phone until the following week, she immediately started wailing. She sounded so frail.

"Oh, Lord! You got to move it today, else I won't be able to talk to my family on Christmas!"

I felt quite bad for her, but the technicians were booked solid, and only emergency orders had a hope of being worked the following week. I was already expediting her order because of the circumstances.

She continued to whine and moan, and I did feel sorry for her. I had questions, though, and said "I'm so sorry the nursing home is moving you to a different room with no warning. That's very unusual."

"Mmmm, well, yes. I suppose so."

"Why are they doing that?"

"It's this lady I'm in this room with. It's all her fault! She keep worrying me & worrying me. And when I hit her, they move ME!"

There's always more than meets the eye. Here she was acting pitiful, and she'd just been caught beating up her roommate. I told her her service would be moved at the end of the following week, and wished her a Merry Christmas.


Wilton, circa 1750-1753
The photographs on this post are of Wilton, a plantation house owned by the prominent Randolph family. Yes, Morris & I were out exploring again. It was a chilly day with drizzling rain, so the pictures look a little gloomy. I decided to be adventurous and play around with some button called picnik. Usually, I limit photo manipulation to cropping and adjusting the contrast, but I experimented with some of the more mundane picnik features this time. I didn't want my pictures to look too freaky.

Front view of Wilton
It took a lot of money and many slaves to support the lavish lifestyle of the landed gentry in Old Virginia. By the time a few generations had passed, the economic climate had changed. The last of the Randolph family to live there was Robert, who died in 1859. Here's what a northern visitor in 1833 had to say about the house:
"...spacious wainscoted rooms, high ceilings, broad staircases and fine hall give you a very magnificent idea of the grandeur of the former proprietor who so long ago had an establishment that wants for nothing but a fitting up, to vie with modern elegance. But such ruin! - Broken down fences, a falling piazza, defaced paint, banisters tied up with ropes etc. etc. - the general aspect of the house is that of forlorn ruin."

Center Hall at Wilton
The illicit photo of the interior was snapped when our guide, Tom, dashed off to the bathroom before we began our tour. Honestly, what is it with us Americans? You can go to Europe and practically lick the walls of 12th Century structures, but over here we act like something 100 years old will turn to dust if it's looked at cross-eyed. Photography, with or without flash, was not allowed inside the house.

One of the most striking qualities of Wilton is that the entire interior is elegantly paneled - even the closets. The early Randolphs were very wealthy indeed, and the house reflects their importance in colonial society. But consider this: hot, humid summers + no window screens + mosquitos. Sure, the place looks great now that it's renovated, but in its heyday on a summer night it would have been filled with a bunch of hot itchy sweaty malarial rich people. I'll happily accept reduced circumstances with window screens & air-conditioning.

Rear view of Wilton
Zooming back to current times, I once again find myself in a job that requires a good amount of telephone conversation. The wonderful thing about answering the AA hotline is that you never know what to expect. It is quite common for callers to pay no attention to what we say when we answer the phone, and we do get a lot of wrong numbers since ours is one digit different than a local television station's phone number. I fielded calls all day when the nation's TV stations went digital two summers ago. I finally started telling callers that unless their television was causing them to get drunk, I could not help them.

The previous office manager told me a story that still makes me grin. It goes something like this. She answered the phone one day with the usual "Alcoholics Anonymous, how can I help you?"
"Uh, yeah, my wife handed me this number and told me to call it. Who did you say this is?"
"Alcoholics Anonymous."
"F%CKING BITCH!!!" (shouted to someone in background as the call was disconnected)

The Chesterfield Apartments
Richmond's first AA meeting was held here in June, 1943
A few weeks ago I got a call from a blurry-sounding woman asking a question. After a bit of confusion, I understood that she was asking about a brand of liquor, Burnett's, and whether we stocked it. I told her I couldn't help her.

"This isn't the ABC store??? Who is this?"

"This is Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Huh? Who?"

"This is Alcoholics Anonymous. We're who you call if you want to stop drinking."

"OH MY GOD!!!" she screamed, and slammed the phone down.

Fright Elevator

I had to take the fright elevator up to my office this morning, because they posted this notice in the lobby yesterday advising us that the passenger elevators would be out of service.

The placard was a bit misleading, because the freight elevator isn't half as terrifying as the passenger elevators. The cornerstone of the building says 1958, and I think the main elevators are held together with mid-century spit, fishing line, and a dab of library paste. The elevators break down frequently, but usually not simultaneously. Oddly enough, my cell phone works fine in the elevator cabs, so it would be fairly simple to call for help if I got stranded. This is especially comforting when I work Saturdays, and seem to be the only person in the building.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we will relocate the office soon from the sixth to the third floor, which will mean I can eschew the lifts in favor of the escalators which serve floors one through four. The escalators break down, too, but I think an escape plan would be easier to manage compared to a stalled elevator.

Sunset Cruise

I took the above picture one evening last week as the sun was setting over the International Deepwater Terminal at the Port of Richmond docks. It had been an unusually busy day at work, with people crowding the office and both phone lines ringing steadily. I looked forward all day to a sunset cruise on Sadie's boat.

One of the calls I got during the day was from a man who had contacted me previously. When he called in May, he had been sober about a month and was calling for information about AA meetings in his area. Tuesday he called again, now two months sober, and said he felt like he was losing his mind. He still hadn't been to a meeting, and was trying to figure out things on his own. He thought he would feel better after he stopped drinking, but instead he felt worse. I told him that I understood how he felt.

I had the same expectations when I stopped drinking, and the same results. For about three or four months, I went through a period of confusion, restlessness, and feeling as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Like the guy on the phone, I thought I'd instantly feel better as soon as I stopped drinking. Instead, my brain felt scrambled, and I could only string together about three hours of sleep at a time. I frustrated my friends and frightened small animals. My behavior was self-absorbed and erratic.

The meetings I attended regularly helped a great deal, but I knew that it would take time to smooth the rough edges. Talking daily to other people who had been through the same thing helped tremendously. I didn't feel like I was the last man on Earth. And I wasn't. Thousands of people had been through this before, and I was nobody special. It took awhile to stop taking myself so damned seriously.

I told the fellow on the phone that I would have someone in his area contact him. I called the same member, Miles, who had contacted the man for me in May. When Miles heard who was calling back for help he asked "Has he been to a meeting yet?"
"No, he's been flying solo."
Miles chuckled and said,"It's like going back to the doctor and saying 'Doc! My ass is still falling off!' and the doctor says 'Did you take that medicine I gave you?' 'Well, no...'
I'll call him again and tell him to come home to where we are."

But, that's how it is with most of us. We'd rather admit to robbing a bank or flying to Argentina to visit a mistress than stand up and say "I'm Bill, and I'm an alcoholic."

It was so pleasant to spend quiet time with friends on an evening river cruise. We took fried chicken, snacks and drinks. There was a nice breeze, and the air was cooler on the water. We talked and laughed, and enjoyed a gentle end to a busy day.

Here are some additional pictures for you to see.
First up is Captain Sadie at the helm, with Robespierre looking insouciant in the stern.


The Pocahontas Bridge spans the James south of Richmond.


Robespierre happily full of fried chicken and chocolate chip cookies.


The remains of the day settle over the historic James River...

Relapse

Last Saturday, Sheldon took me out to dinner for my (then) upcoming sobriety anniversary. I asked him if his mother could go along, because I always enjoy her company, too. We went to a popular restaurant, and as we were waiting for our meals, a lady at the next table was served a beer in a tall mug. The beer looked really enticing in the cold mug, and I thought about how nice it would be to order one. Then I gave myself a mental slap and asked myself why I was thinking that way? I don't even like beer! The answer to my question, of course, is that I am an alcoholic, and "the idea that somehow, someday he will control and enjoy his drinking is the great obsession of every abnormal drinker." ¹

In December of 1941, General Douglas MacArthur had more than eight hours warning following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor to prepare his base for an assault. Although he touted himself an expert on the Far East, he underestimated the military might of Japan. He did not disperse the aircraft from his base on the Phillipines for concealment. The planes, including seventy-two P-40 Warhawk fighters, sat in pretty rows on the airfield, vulnerable to attack. When the Japanese bombers came, most of the U.S. aircraft were caught on the ground and destroyed. MacArthur had a fool's measure of hubris, and when he failed he always pointed the finger at someone else.

Tuesday was a long day. I went to my early morning meeting and picked up my anniversary medallion. Afterwards, I went to the office early to prepare for a monthly evening meeting. I was at work until 10:00 p.m.

Wednesday morning I slept in, and as I was getting ready for work, I got a call from my sponsee, Hope. Hope was shaken because two of our home group members had relapsed. One woman had been on vacation, got into a disagreement with a family member, and went to the hotel bar and drank. Her story prompted a woman with nine months of sobriety to confess that she had relapsed over the weekend, but had been ashamed to tell us.

I explained to Hope that relapses are part of the disease process, not the recovery process. There is no requirement to relapse. It is an experience you may miss, if you choose. No one that I have talked to felt that it was a dandy idea afterwards. For some, though, it seems to be the event that really makes them value sobriety, and they return to embrace the 12-step program. AA always welcomes everyone back; unfortunately, not everyone makes it back. One of my friends told me about a man he met when he was in rehab. After his release, the fellow relapsed and tried to detox himself in a hotel room, and that's where his family found him - dead from a heart attack. Withdrawal from alcohol without medical supervision can be fatal.

I was fortunate that I collapsed at the home of a friend, and she immediately called the rescue squad. The decision about medical help was taken out of my hands. In the hospital, I required several blood tranfusions, insulin, and massive doses of potassium - in addition to medications and multi-vitamins. My liver was in terrible shape; I was dehydrated, and severely anemic. I was constantly monitored through several days of detoxification. When I went home, I knew that drinking meant death. I drank two nights in a row anyway, even though I did not want to do so. That is when I knew that I could not stay sober without help.

When I woke up the morning after my second night of drinking following hospitalization, I reached the bottom. I could no longer fool myself into thinking that I chose to drink. I could not honestly say "I can quit whenever I want...I just don't want to quit." All of my reasons and rationalizations were stripped away, and I felt completely beaten. I went to the local AA website and found a meeting near my home. Something about that simple action kept me sober. When we were at dinner the other night, we were talking about Sheldon meeting me for the first time about two weeks after I joined AA. Sheldon was laughing about how bad I looked, and he told his mom "I was almost afraid to shake his hand, because I was afraid his arm would snap off." But he did shake my hand and he offered to help me, because that is what the sober members do for people like me who walk in frail & bewildered.

So, unlike General MacArthur, I do my best to stay on guard. Warning signs are heeded. I know that the disease will employ surprise attacks, like the thought that pops in my head when I see the cold mug of beer at the next table in a restaurant. Or anger and resentments which will take me to a hotel bar if I allow them to fester. When I think about how nice a martini would be, I'm thinking of the days long ago before I was an alcoholic, so I refocus my thoughts on how miserable I was a month before I came to Alcoholics Anonymous. A day will come, though, when this line of defense will not work. The best offense is the daily maintenance of my spiritual condition. That is why I pray & meditate. I thank God each morning for keeping me sober the previous day, and ask for help staying sober today. I go to at least one meeting nearly every day. I also go for the laughter and fellowship. We are not a glum lot! I found my sense of mirth again in AA. I have "succumbed to that gay crowd inside, who laughed at their own misfortunes and understood his." ²

¹ Alcoholics Anonymous (Big Book), page 30
² Alcoholics Anonymous (Big Book), page 160

(Not) Dashing Through the Snow

Just when we thought we had made it through the winter with negligible snow and ice, we had a winter storm move through the area which started midday Sunday. I canceled plans to go poke around the Virginia Center for Architecture, and stayed home where it was warm & snuggly. I took the picture below from my back door in the mid-afternoon. The snow was starting to stick.

I took the next picture from my front door around nine o'clock in the evening. Sometimes when it snows, the temperature isn't terribly low. This was not the case during this storm. When I woke up the next day it was ten degrees.


I got up extra-early so that I could dig the car out, and get on the road. Since I grew up in the Southland, I am not an expert on driving in snow and ice. I realize this, so my motto is "Slow & steady wins the race." I don't crowd other drivers, I start off slow, drive below the speed limit, and anticipate stops so that the engine slows the car instead of relying solely on the brakes. At 6:00 in the morning, I didn't have many other drivers to worry about. I did see quite a few accidents later in the day. Some folks do not modify their driving techniques for poor weather conditions.

I got to the church where we have our morning meetings, and opened up the building. Soon, a couple of others showed up to help with coffee and setting up the room. The fellow who usually chairs on Mondays called and said he was running late, so he took my Thursday and I handled Monday. Even with the snow & wind, we had ten folks. We usually have thirty or so, which is not bad for a meeting at 6:45 a.m. It's important to be there for anyone who needs a meeting, no matter how nasty the weather may be. The picture below is how it looked at 6:30 outside the church; very pretty.

After the meeting on my way to work, I decided to snap a couple of photos on Monument Avenue. Growing up, we never went to Richmond, but we drove through it on I-64 when we were traveling. I always thought Richmond looked grim and ugly, and later realized that the interstate highway was deliberately routed in a way that would plow through many of the city's poor blighted neighborhoods. All I had seen of Richmond were worn-out ghettos.

My first real view of Richmond came in high school, when a friend & I drove to Richmond to see Virginia Commonwealth University. It happened to be snowing that day, and I remember how beautiful and quiet Monument Avenue seemed in the snow. It was not the Richmond I had seen from the interstate. The next picture shows Monument Avenue facing east. If you kept heading straight in this direction, you would end up in the State Capitol; you would have to side-step the Civil War cannon dead ahead in the picture, however. Our Capitol was designed by Thomas Jefferson, and a new visitors center opened recently, so I'll tell you about that when I become one of the visitors. Soon, I hope.

Next, we are facing west. The grandiose monument to Jefferson Davis is barely visible in the distance. These pictures were taken during a lull. It continued to snow and blow for several more hours.

I've always liked the Mediterranean-style house below. It looks cozy & friendly.

Then we have the austere and imposing Taylor House, which looks cold even in the summer months. The owner, Helen Marie Taylor, spends very little time here. She has a large estate in Orange County where she breeds Arabian horses, and she spends most of her days in the country.

Behind the Door

We have had a couple of sunny days with warmer temperatures. I was not surprised Saturday to arrive home from yoga to find one of my neighbors splayed out in her front yard working on her tan. She knows how to tan, so she's sticking to her plan.

Yesterday morning, before I went to work, I decided to take advantage of the sunlight and the low threat of frostbite by taking a stroll along Monument Avenue before I came to the office. The picture on the left was taken outside Branch House. The property is surrounded by a brick wall, and this is a side service gate. Constructed more like a door, it makes you want to open it to see what lies behind.

Yesterday morning in my early AA meeting we discussed one of our Promises. We do this every Monday, and today's discussion was about "We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves." We had a powerful discussion centering around this promise. One woman, quiet as a mouse, who has been joining us for a few months opened up and told us some of her private troubles. It was the most we have ever heard from her, and despite the tears and torment I know that she took a healing step this morning by letting us peek behind the door. To watch someone look cautiously into a better life instead of back toward shame and remorse is truly thrilling.

So we're back to the morning walk. I'd like to show you more of Branch House, but the structure is so massive that it's hard to capture it with my cheap little camera. I run the risk of being struck by a car if I stray off the sidewalk. The home was designed by John Russell Pope (who also designed the National Gallery of Art) for John Kerr Branch in 1916, and was completed in 1919. It was the largest private home on the street with a nearly 30,000 square foot interior. That allowed room for a private chapel, so the Branches didn't have to mingle with the hoi polloi. It's now the Virginia Center for Architecture. The photo on the right is from an oblique side/front sort of angle, so you're not seeing much of the house, I'm afraid.

Oh, look, I found a better picture on line. Maybe someone stopped traffic for this photographer. John Kerr Branch was a banker who liked to collect stuff, and I guess if your tastes run toward suits of armor and big old tapestries you need a house with oversized rooms. The house remained in the Branch family until the 1950's, and was then bequeathed to the United Giver's Fund. Who can blame the family? Can you imagine inheriting a money pit like this place? It sits on an entire city block, and I can tell you that city taxes are ghastly. I can hear my mother's ghost whispering in my ear "I'd hate to clean that place." That's the first thing she'd think of, buddy.

In the next block sits this house, designed by William Bottomley (the fellow who designed Stuart Court, one of my favorite former homes). This handsome house is still occupied by Frances Lewis, widow of Sydney Lewis. Together, they co-founded a chain of catalog showrooms that some of you may remember. Best Products started in Richmond, and remained headquartered here until its demise in 1997. Best Products was known for its association with the SITE architectural firm, and many of the Best Products showrooms were famous for whimsical design. I'll include a couple of pictures of Best Products stores at the very bottom of this post.

The Lewises were major 20th century art collectors, and their patronage has greatly benefited the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, located just around the corner from their Monument Avenue home. Their home was also a repository of art, and modern sculptures could frequently be seen in front of their house near the circular driveway. A giant brown clothes-pin stood guard outside the front door for years.

In the previous post I showed a picture of Jeff & Vicki's current house. I knew them for several years before I discovered that they had once lived in the third-floor caretaker's apartment in the Lewis home. Jeff, now a dentist, was studying at MCV many years ago, and met Sydney Lewis several times. One day Mr. Lewis asked Jeff if he & his wife would be interested in moving into their top-floor apartment. Jeff demurred, thanking Mr. Lewis, but explaining that as students they could barely afford to live in their current apartment.

Mr. Lewis told Jeff that they could live there rent-free, if they would agree to keep watch on the house while the Lewises traveled the globe collecting art. Jeff & Vicki had free run of the entire house, as long as Sydney & Frances weren't in town. They could even hold parties, but Sydney cautioned them about who they invited, since the home was stuffed with famous & costly art. Jeff & Vicki were also invited to parties hosted by the Lewises, where patrons and artists mingled. Jeff recalled Andy Warhol moping about in a corner during one gathering.

I can't pretend that I'm on lunch break any longer. I fetched a club sandwich from City Diner, one of my favorite breakfast spots, and - Good Heavens! - it was the tallest club sandwich I have ever tried to eat. My mouth could not stretch wide enough, and I prayed that no one would come in my office while I was trying to wrap my face around the behemoth. It sure was delicious, though. Now I need to get busy unpacking books.

I was sorry to hear that Blossom Dearie died this past Saturday. I love her voice. I'll include a song I found on YouTube of some unknown person's trip to Manhattan. He's bound to be a swell guy, though, if he likes Blossom. So, enjoy one of my favorite Blossom Dearie songs, They Say It's Spring. Rest easy, Miss Dearie.

Scary Mary

My car was covered with snow when I left home this morning. Fortunately, I was expecting this, so I allowed extra time. According to Scott, we will have have another six months of winter. This will be a long day, because tonight I have a monthly work-related meeting that usually keeps me at the office until ten o'clock.

I went to bed early so that I'd be rested today. I watched a documentary about Abe & Mary Lincoln before I nodded off. I usually read when I go to bed, but I'm working on a humongous book right now that could kill or paralyze me if it dropped on my head when I start drowsing. There's something about reading or watching a movie that works on me like Sleeping Beauty's spindle. It's great to be able to fall asleep quickly, compared to the tossing & turning I used to experience. The pitfall is that I regularly turn an ordinary feature-length film into a mini-series. It gets a little aggravating, especially since I should be getting these things back in the mail to Netflix as quickly as possible. I've been watching this daggone Lincoln chronicle for over a week now. It makes no difference how interesting it is, either. Ten, fifteen minutes tops, and I'm adrift in the wooden shoe with Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.

I saw my share of movies when I was little, but my parents did not take me to every children's movie that hit the big screen. I remember loving Disney's The Jungle Book and The Aristocats. Also That Darned Cat!, The Shaggy Dog, and The Absent-Minded Professor. Doctor Dolittle seemed like the movie that would never end, but maybe Anthony Newley annoyed the hell out of me even as a child.

Swiss Family Robinson made me look at my treehouse with a critical eye. Why couldn't I live in a treehouse like the Robinson family? Where was my giant water wheel? I had to go to the garden hose to get water. My treehouse seemed mundane after seeing that movie. And instead of an ostrich, I had an ordinary old beagle.

There were quite a few movies that I didn't see until I became an adult. Bambi, for example, and Sleeping Beauty. I still haven't seen Pinocchio, believe it or not. I didn't see Mary Poppins until a few years ago. Perhaps my parents thought it was too dark. I can understand that, after looking at the trailer below.

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.

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.

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.

A Lunchtime Stroll

I love my job, but sometimes I need to step out of the office to recharge my batteries. Fortunately, I have some nice options for varied scenery just a few steps away from my workplace. Behind the office building is an odd area known as Scott's Addition, named after General Winfield Scott because the land was originally a portion of the 600-acre estate he inherited named Hermitage. Originally planned as a residential section of Richmond, the rerouting of the RF&P Railroad led to its development into a commercial and industrial center, although scattered houses and apartment buildings still dot the streets.

Walking a few blocks across from the front doors of the office building will take you to Monument Avenue, and that's where I headed recently on a brisk, sunny day on a lunch break. Here are a few photographs from my midday meander.

Let's get out of this office building a take a little walk around the neighborhood.

This is a lovely home on an over-sized lot. In fact, everything about this house is on a grand scale. It's a shame I didn't catch someone outside the home so that you could get a sense of scale. The rooms inside would be massive.

This house, built in the English Cottage style, looks like it would be full of interesting nooks and crannies. This house rambles back quite a ways, and has a side entrance.

I've heard that this home was built by the owners of a local stone quarry. Another large home built with a cottage-like front elevation, most of this house is not visible from the street. This is one of my favorite dwellings on this part of Monument Avenue.

Here's another nice home. This street is lined with them. Most of the houses on this stretch of Monument Avenue were built in the 1920's. The economy was booming, maids and gardeners were readily available, and who gave a heck about heating costs?

It's almost time to get back to work, and there's always plenty to do in the office. I'm refreshed after my walk, and I'm glad you came along.

Movable Stairs & Dead Chivalry

I've discovered escalators in the 1950's office building where my office is located. They are hidden behind some doors in back of the elevator bank. Do you remember that weird pinky-beige that was so popular in the late 50's and early 60's? If you do, then you know exactly what these escalators look like. They are in an enclosed stairwell of sorts, and I guess they just rumble along all day, although few people seem to use them.

They came in very handy over the past couple of weeks, because the elevators were verplunkt. First, one elevator broke down, and then, in a sympathetic gesture, the second elevator followed suit. There is a third set of elevator doors, but rumor has it that there is no actual lift, and that the builders just put them there to add an air of solvency and prosperity to the railroad company that occupied the building initially. Finally, the escalator between the first and second floors joined the fun of the mechanical strike. The freight elevator was pressed into passenger service.

Many people grumbled about taking the freight elevator, especially Jessie from Building Maintenance because he had to run the thing up and down all day long. I just took the stairs or the escalator, although I did take Jessie a piece of chocolate cake one day to keep his spirits from flagging. The odd thing is that the moving stairs only go up to the fourth floor, and my office is on the sixth. I conjecture that originally the lower floors were staffed by secretarial pools and general office staff, so they were told to ride the escalators, while the executives took the elevators to the upper levels. Who knows?

I loved escalators and revolving doors when I was a small child. From my vantage point in a department store, I could see the on/off buttons at the base of the escalators, right below where the thick rubber handgrip disappeared. I always itched to switch the machinery off, but the fear of consequences kept me in check. I was also afraid that my shoes would get sucked into those toothy grooves at the end of the ride, and my feet would be mangled. It was part of the thrill of disembarking. It paid to be nimble.

Another thing I remember about shopping with my mom when I was little is the small bells that were scattered through some departments below a sign that said "Ring Bell for Service." I caught hell for that one.

My cousin Janet tried to enlist Aunt Magenta's help with the wedding invitations. Janet has selected them and an order is in preparation for shipment. Janet thought Aunt Magenta could help from home by assembling the invitations, and stamping & posting them. This task, which appeared so deceptively simple at first glance, became such a mare's nest that I offered to accept delivery at my office. I'll do the stamping and mailing, which will be no bother at all for me. I get package delivery all the time at work. I got a breathless note from Aunt Magenta along with the stamps, cautioning me to have the post office weigh the invitations to be sure they will not require extra postage. Noted.

The other day as I was returning from the bank to the office, I noticed a woman ahead of me a ways down the hall. She was, I can only assume, returning to her workplace from the ladies room. She wore slacks, and a blouse intended to hang loose all around. A casual, professional look. The problem was that half of the back of her blouse was tucked into her underwear. As I debated the wisdom of hollering "Hey, lady! Your blouse is stuck in your drawers from your trip to the loo!" she disappeared into the office across the hall from mine. Thank goodness! I don't know her, and she may have been mortified to see me ever after. She works in a suite of off-site university offices with several other women, and I'm sure one of them was happy to smugly point out her wardrobe malfunction. I'm still not sure if I was chivalrous, or merely shirking an unpleasant act of decency.

Oh, and the coolest thing about taking the stairs occured to me after one of the elevators was repaired. Just a little over a year ago, I was too weak from malnourishment and alcohol abuse to make it up the stairs in my own home. I am grateful that today I have the good health and stamina to walk up to the sixth floor. So I still take the stairs a couple of times each day.