First Encounter with a Vibrator

I have always loved motels and hotels, and the anticipation I feel when I slip the key in the door of my assigned room. Even as a child, I begged to be the first one in the room, ready for a new adventure. Our family trips to visit my mother's family in Iowa involved two nights each way going out and returning home. We never stayed anywhere that didn't carry the AAA rating. My parents didn't think it would be wise.


On one return trip to Virginia we had to settle for a cabin court that was not recommended by AAA. I believe we were somewhere in western Pennsylvania, and there was some type of convention, festival, or hootenanny that lit up the No Vacancy signs at motels for miles and miles. We usually stopped driving before dark, but on this night it was well-dark before my parents gave up and pulled up to the office of an old cabin court style lodging place. I was thrilled; our own tiny house! We had never stayed in a place like this before.


My mother was horrified when we entered our little cabin. There was a big tree in our room. More accurately, the cabin had been constructed around a large live tree, and the trunk was at the far side of the beds. You had to squeeze past it to enter the teensy bathroom. My mother, of course, envisioned insects and weasels swarming in as we slept. I thought the tree was enchanting. It was like staying in a tree house. My mother probably made us sleep in our clothes.


The room was clean and tidy; neat as a pin. I was intrigued by a mysterious metal box at the side of the double-bed. It had a coin slot, and I cajoled a coin from my dad. I experienced Magic Fingers® for the first time. The magic wore off quickly, but at least I had crossed another threshold in my life journey. No need to try this ever again.


The owners of the establishment were very nice people, and when we checked out the next morning they gave me a toy for my car ride. It was a thick cardboard clown head, brightly colored, with an attached ring on a string. The clown had a very long, upward curving nose. The idea was to swing the clown head by the handle to catch the ring on the clown's nose. I kept the souvenir toy long after we returned home.


A regular stop for us for an overnight stay on our Iowa trips was a huge Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge. It was anchored by the familiar orange-roofed office with adjacent restaurant, and had several buildings that contained the motel rooms. The establishment featured inside corridors that all led to the main building. The connecting links were plate glass which had been pasted with decals that looked like splatted eggs. I couldn't imagine why Howard Johnson intentionally decorated his motor inn to look like it had been visited by vandals. My father explained that these decals were an attempt to prevent birds from flying into the plate glass.


We usually had a room on the top floor, which meant we had a cathedral ceiling. My favorite thing about the room was the large switch panel between the two beds. The various switches would operate any light fixture in the room, as well as the television. I was a lazy child, and I thought this was a spectacular idea. The motel also featured an indoor/outdoor pool, and you could swim between one to the other by swimming underneath the huge glass window that separated the two. De-luxe!


As swank as the Howard Johnson's was compared to the tree-enhanced cabin court, it does not compare in splendor to The Grooviest Motel in Wisconsin. This was surely the zenith of the American Motel. You can click your way through the motel tour, and you won't want to miss a moment, believe me. This segment is part of James Lilek's larger Institute of Official Cheer. Be careful, you can get lost in there for days. Pack a lunch. Drop breadcrumbs.

Craig Ferguson, Call Me!

I got a bit of a shock this morning. For months (okay, years) I have been going through life assuming that Christopher Meloni is my boyfriend. Nevermind that Mr. Meloni is a happily married father; I ignore that detail. I was understandably dismayed this morning to learn that Chris is Maddog's boyfriend! On the heels of learning this, my television reminded me that I have another true love. His name is Craig Ferguson.


While sipping coffee and snooping around on the Internet earlier, the Sunday Morning show on CBS aired a segment on Craig Ferguson, the host of the Late, Late Show. I'm not sure when I first watched his show, but I do remember thinking that we shared the same kooky sense of humor. Craig's show opens with a monologue that is unscripted, and he delivers it unaided by tele-prompter or cue cards. If I find myself awake at midnight on a weeknight, I frequently say "Oh, the hell with bedtime! I'll stay up for the Late, Late Show" and I promise myself a nap the next day.


One of my favorite parts of the Late, Late Show is when Craig reads and answers e-mail questions from viewers. His parodies of Prince Charles, Sean Connery, Michael Caine, and Angela Lansbury (as sleuth Jessica Fletcher) are too darned funny. I also like it when he gets tickled at himself and bursts out laughing. There's no doubt that he is "not right" in the head, but that's part of his charm.


One thing I can tell you about Craig Ferguson is that he is a very tender and passionate lover. I know this from personal experience. One night after I had clicked off the television, Craig came to me in a dream. Most of my dreams are not in the least erotic, leaning more to floating or flying, or trying to figure out how in the heck to get off of a perilously tall structure like a bridge or a building. On this particular night, Craig and I did not meet at my house or his, but apparently in a tent. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Craig was feeling frisky, and things progressed from there. I also learned that Craig is assertive, without being selfishly aggressive. A dream lover in every sense of the expression. Yes, I know that he is heterosexual and has a seven-year-old son, so shut up.


Another thing that bonds me to Craig is that he is a fellow recovering alcoholic. He is candid about this, although he wisely declines to specify the name of the 12-step program that saved his life. The Sunday Morning show included an excerpt of a serious monologue from earlier this year, and I'm including a link here because it is well worth your time. As you watch, you will sense that the audience is initially a little confused to hear him speak to them with seriousness in this from-the-heart chat. You will see for yourself why I love this man. He does not shut the door on his past, and he has moved on to a wonderful life.


So, I relinquish Christopher Meloni to Maddog, knowing that I have a new man in my life. Call me, Craig!

The Golden Years

First of all, while I'm thinking of it, today is Karen's 50th birthday. Zip by Over the Back Yard Fence to wish her well. I have Karen to thank for finding many of your blogs. She dropped in with a comment on Planet Bill last summer and told me about clicking on an interest in my profile to find folks who listed the same thing, thus leading me to so many wonderful blogs. By the way, Karen is a work-like-a-bee-at-home mother & wife, so she will never see the sign at the left. That job has no retirement date. Happy Birthday anyway, Karen!


Several years after I moved away from home, my parents decided to relocate to the beautiful mountains of Virginia, or God's Country as my relatives there call it. They built a lovely retirement home about ten miles below Abingdon, a charming town with a lot of historic buildings. Daniel Boone named this place Wolf Hills in 1760, following an attack on his dogs during a hunting expedition. After that, Black's Fort was established here in 1774 to protect early settlers from Native Americans. In 1778, Black's Fort was incorporated as the town of Abingdon. The area offers many leisure activities, including hiking along the rugged Appalachian Trail or the gentler Virginia Creeper Trail. Cultural choices abound, too, and I have seen plays at the Barter Theater that rival shows I have seen on Broadway.


The Barter Theater was founded in 1933, when the nation was reeling from the hardships of the Great Depression. Patrons were allowed to barter their way in to see performances with food and other goods. It is now the official State Theater of Virginia, and some famous actors who launched their careers at the Barter include Gregory Peck, Patricia Neal, Hume Cronyn, Ned Beatty, and Ernest Borgnine. Wikipedia also lists Kevin Spacey in their article on the Barter, but I cannot find any other site that supports this assertion.


My father owned a tobacco farm on the Holston River south of Abingdon, but my parents thought its location too remote, and had their home constructed on a large hill (or a small mountain, depending on your point of view) off a main road. The house sat at the crest of the hill, and had a stunning view of a mountain ridge which was part of Jefferson National Forest. The famed Appalachian Trail runs through this chain of mountains. The next-door neighbors' home was named Riverwind, and we jokingly dubbed Mom & Dad's place Windy Hill. My mom had Dad put up a clothes line in the backyard, because she preferred air-dried laundry, but had it pulled up after my dad died because the ever-present wind would spiral the flapping fabric around the lines like spools of thread. Sometimes the clothes would just blow away, never to be found. My grandmother would have said that the wind blew like Sam Sixty, whoever that was.


Although my dad died three years after moving to their new home, these were very happy years for my parents after they settled into the community. They became active members in the Methodist Church in nearby Damascus, and they enjoyed a busy social life. My mother continued to live there until her death in 1998, and I am very grateful that they moved to this beautiful and welcoming part of the state.


I got an e-mail from a friend recently that made me think about how glad I am that they chose Washington County as their place of retirement. It was a big decision, and there were many other places they could have considered. Below are some other choices that may interest you.

You can live in Phoenix, Arizona where...

1. You are willing to park 3 blocks away because you found shade.
2. You've experienced condensation on your butt from the hot water in the toilet bowl.
3. You can drive for 4 hours in one direction and never leave town.
4. You have over 100 recipes for Mexican food.
5. You know that "dry heat" is comparable to what hits you in the face when you open your oven door.
6. The 4 seasons are: tolerable, hot, really hot, and ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!!

You can Live in California where...

1. You make over $250,000 and you still can't afford to buy a house.
2. The fastest part of your commute is going down your driveway.
3. You know how to eat an artichoke.
4. You drive your rented Mercedes to your neighborhood block party.
5. When someone asks you how far something is, you tell them how long it will take to get there rather than how many miles away it is.
6. The four seasons are: Fire, Flood, Mud, and Drought.

You can Live in New York City where...

1. You say "the city" and expect everyone to know you mean Manhattan.
2. You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Columbus Circle to Battery Park, but can't find Wisconsin on a map.
3. You think Central Park is "nature."
4. You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multi-lingual.
5. You've worn out a car horn.
6. You think eye contact is an act of aggression.

You can Live in Maine where...

1. You only have four spices: salt, pepper, ketchup, and Tabasco.
2. Halloween costumes fit over parkas.
3. You have more than one recipe for moose.
4. Sexy lingerie is anything flannel with less than eight buttons.
5. The four seasons are: winter, still winter, almost winter, and construction.

You can Live in the Deep South where...

1. You can rent a movie and buy bait in the same store.
2. "y'all" is singular and "all y'all" is plural.
3. "He needed killin'" is a valid defense.
4. Everyone has 2 first names: Billy Bob, Jimmy Bob, Mary Sue, Betty Jean, Mary Beth, ... etc.

You can live in Colorado where...

1. You carry your $3,000 mountain bike atop your $500 car.
2. You tell your husband to pick up Granola on his way home and he stops at the day care center.
3. A pass does not involve a football or dating.
4. The top of your head is bald, but you still have a pony tail.

You can live in the Midwest where...

1. You've never met any celebrities, but the mayor knows your name.
2. Your idea of a traffic jam is ten cars waiting to pass a tractor.
3. You have had to switch from "heat" to "A/C" on the same day.
4. You end sentences with a preposition: "Where's my coat at?"
5. When asked how your trip was to any exotic place, you say, "It was different!"

AND You can live in Florida where...

1. You eat dinner at 3:15 in the afternoon.
2. All purchases include a coupon of some kind -- even houses and cars.
3. Everyone can recommend an excellent dermatologist.
4. Road construction never ends anywhere in the state.
5. Cars in front of you are often driven by headless people.

Sunrise Squared

I was out of touch with the Land-o-Blog for a few days while I was out of town. I had the duty and the privilege to represent my main-squeeze AA group at a state assembly, and about 400 recovering alcoholics were gathered together in Virginia Beach for three days. We stayed at the Cavalier.


The Cavalier Hotel opened in 1927, and now consists of two hotels. The original hotel, also known as the Cavalier on the Hill, is only open during high season. The newer hotel, opened in 1973, is directly across from the old hotel and situated right on the beachfront. Our assembly was held at the newer complex, which houses the convention center. As a child growing up in Virginia Beach, the old Cavalier was a grand structure looking out to the sea, even though she was showing signs of wear and tear at that time. I'm glad that the old hotel has been refurbished and maintained. It is the city's only grand old hotel.


This gathering was the first state assembly I have attended, and I was gratified the see how each person focused on the volume of work we needed to accomplish in a short amount of time. Visions of the political posturing, grandstanding, and self-promotion I have endured at so many corporate conventions in the past faded away as I participated in the workshops, committee meetings, and business session. Everyone there, although opinions on methods varied, rolled up sleeves to keep the worldwide organization of Alcoholics Anonymous a vital source of recovery for alcoholics who still suffer. We stayed busy from early morning until late at night.


On Saturday and Sunday, I hopped out of bed and walked out to the beach. I wanted to spend time alone preparing for the bustling activities ahead. For me, seeing the sun rise over the ocean waters is a calming, spiritual event. Even as a teenager, when getting up early meant before lunchtime, my friends and I would sometimes pile in the car and go watch the sun come up from the sands of the shore.


Each sunrise is unique. On Saturday, the horizon was clearly delineated by ocean and sky. Strands of wispy clouds hung above the horizon, and although the sun had not yet appeared from my little point on the globe, these clouds were already suffused with colors of lavender and pink. In my experience, if the horizon is clear at the ocean, when the sun first breaks you can actually see it rise. Steady and sedate, it rose, and I said the Saint Francis Prayer as the sun burned crimson. I was prepared for the day ahead.


I visited the sea before I went to bed. At night, the steady pulse of the waves dominates, simultaneously reminding me of the passage of time and the possibility of timelessness. Several blocks away, the nightly throb of humanity hummed in the heart of the resort area, but the Cavalier is the last large building at the north end of the hotel district. The boardwalk does not come up this far, and there are no bright lights. I think this is the best way to experience the beach at night.


Sunday's sunrise was different than the one I watched the previous day. There was a low, opaque, crenelated line of clouds that stretched across the horizon. The sun sent up four beams of cornsilk, telling me to be patient, to wait and watch. The sand was crossed with patterns from strolling gulls and sandpipers, and the breeze from the sea was a better tonic than the coffee from the hospitality suite. This morning, when the sun broke over the clouds, it was white-gold, and too intense for direct inspection. The pale purple clouds were edged with bands of gold along their tops. Another day begun with prayer and meditation.


A special gift for me on Sunday morning was a visit from one of my teachers from high school, Linda. More than just a teacher, she has been a friend and mentor for all these years. She had an enormous impact on my life at a time when I was shy and uncertain, and she built my confidence and my abilities in public speaking. Although our time together was shorter than we would have liked, it was splendid to see her, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast together at the hotel. She had asked me to bring my laptop along, and after we ate she showed me a slide show she had assembled from our time at Bayside High School. My, how young and full of hope I looked back then!


Today, I am no longer young, but I am once again filled with hope. I hope you are, too.

Breakfast & a Dirt Nap

One recent morning my friend Jean and I went to breakfast, followed by a walk. Jean & I get together every few weeks following my early morning AA meeting for some eggs and exploration. During the Christmas season we strolled Richmond's famous Monument Avenue after eating at Karen's Diner. The holiday decorations were lovely on many of the mansions, but my favorite expression of the season was the Christmas Caddy, a 1963 deVille bursting with toys, decorations, and a stuffed Santa at the wheel.


On our last outing, following our breakfast, we drove over to Hollywood Cemetery for a walk. On the way there, we passed through Virginia Commonwealth University, an urban campus. As we sailed down West Franklin Street, I pointed out the handsome mansion of Elisabeth Scott Bocock. It sits in the middle of modern-day VCU, but this was not the case when it was built by Mrs. Bocock's parents in 1907. It was then in the heart of one of the most fashionable neighborhoods of the wealthy.


Jean and I both attended VCU in the late 1970's, and I told her about peering in the dusty windows of Mrs. Bocock's carriage house when I walked through the alley behind her home. Mrs. Bocock was still alive then, and had a collection of antique carriages which could be seen (dimly) through the elaborate grillwork protecting the window glass. She allowed them to be displayed in selected parades and exhibitions, and following Mrs. Bocock's death her heirs donated them to Maymont's Carriage Collection, which she helped fund in 1975.


Elisabeth Scott Bocock (or ESB, as she also identified herself) was known as the loony old lady in the stone mansion when I was a VCU student, but as I've learned more about her I now know that she was an implacable force behind the preservation of many of Richmond's historic buildings and landscapes. You just can't stop a determined southern lady. I wish I had known her.


When we reached nearby Oregon Hill, we coasted through the gates of Hollywood Cemetery. It was a nippy but sunny day - perfect for a stroll amongst the dead. I should tell you right now that I love cemeteries, and have never found them scary or creepy. When I lived a couple of blocks from Hollywood in the mid-80's, I would often slip through a well-known hole in the fence to take my roommate's dog, Calpurnia, for a walk. Even in the gloom of night, I thought of this cemetery as my own personal parkland. I'm fairly sure that Daniela shares my affinity of old boneyards.


Hollywood Cemetery covers hundreds of acres, and sits on high bluffs overlooking the James River and Belle Island. There are over 75,000 people buried there, including 18,000+ Confederate dead. Designed in 1847 in the "rural" style, its roadways twist and wind under massive trees - including its titular holly trees. It is easy for a newcomer to get lost inside its walls, as I well know from my first visits in the late 70's.


We parked near President's Circle, but headed away from the tombs of James Monroe & John Tyler, and were immediately greeted by a magnificent tulip poplar in full bloom. We wandered through the headstones, agreeing that this was a great place to collect character names for stories, and read many of the epitaphs. I always enjoy talking with Jean about books, writing, history, and spirituality. We walked downhill to Mausoleum Row, where we saw an artist capturing on paper the beauty of the art-deco muse on the door of the Sauer family tomb. The funky music blasting from her car stereo added a lively note, but it wasn't loud enough to wake the dead.


We took a look at the graves of Jefferson Davis and his family. Poor old Jeff. Not only did he lead a lost cause, only one of his six children survived childhood. There are many notable figures from history buried at Hollywood, including J.E.B. Stuart, Matthew Fontaine Maury, Ellen Glasgow, and U.S. Supreme Court justice, Lewis F. Powell, Jr. There's also a local vampire associated with Hollywood Cemetery, and a midnight visit to the mausoleum of W.W. Poole was a rite of passage for VCU students when I lived on campus.


The terrain is quite hilly, and we soon climbed up to a row of graves high above the James River. We had a clear view of the rocky section of the river across from James River Park, and we paused to observe a bird just above us that seemed to be singing his heart out just for us. In addition to the winding roads, there are curving footpaths to explore. Clearly, this cemetery was created during a time when families enjoyed spending time with deceased loved ones. Many family plots have benches inviting visitors to rest their feet, before they take their own final rest. Each family lot is bordered by stone curbing, and some plots still have their original iron fencing. It must be a nightmare for the groundskeepers, because even a pushmower would be of no help, let alone a lawn tractor. Yet, the grounds are meticulously maintained from corner to corner.


Before we left, we spied a handsome Celtic cross at the crest of a distant slope. We could see, as we approached, that its stone was beautifully carved with scrollwork. As we stood at the base of the cross, I glanced over at a raised vault beside the monument. Serendipity had brought us, amidst thousands of graves, to the resting place of Elisabeth Scott Bocock, the eccentric old lady with the antique carriages. No longer a believer in coincidence, I determined at that moment to learn more about her. I am now reading an interesting biography of Mrs. Bocock, Never Ask Permission, and I'm sure I'll be writing about her soon on Planet Bill.


If you are ever in Richmond, please include a visit to Hollywood Cemetery. It is considered one of the most beautiful graveyards in the nation. You may click this link for an at-home tour of some of its highlights and history.

Kinda Flaky

Thank God it's raining. I just needed to get that out of the way. I love spring, but the pine pollen has been fierce. One day is all it takes to coat everything with a lime-yellowish, gritty mantle.

My mother made the lightest, flakiest pie crusts I have ever put in my mouth. I'm reminded of this as I transcribe her 1960's diaries. She frequently rolls out a pie crust, either for the freezer or for a pie to have handy for drop-in company. We had a bunch of fruit trees and a large grape arbor, and Mom could step out the back door for many of the ingredients she needed for desserts and jellies. I've never tasted a better apple pie than hers, but she was known for her pecan pies - my favorite as a child.

My mother, equipped with a constantly whispering inferiority complex, was afraid that her baked goods wouldn't be fit to eat, but I never heard any complaints. Our family friend, William Worsley, came from a North Carolina family that owned a huge peanut farm. It had been in his family for generations, and it was what the Kennedys would call a compound, with several Worsleys building their homes on the property. William's older spinster sister lived in the original "Big House" on the old farm. Each year the family would host two pig-pickin's, one in the spring and another in the fall. They hosted hundreds of people, and my parents were among the privileged few who were invited to stay on the property. The price of admission was two of my mother's pecan pies.

Crusts are tricky things for a novice baker like me. I remember encountering a problem crust a few years back, and the thought of it has given me baker's block when it comes to attempting a homemade pie crust. A few years back a friend made a pie crust that still haunts my memories.

Several friends and I decided it would be fun to do communal lunches a long time ago. One friend brought a homemade peach pie. It was breathtakingly beautiful, at least to a pie-lover like me. I couldn't wait to get my mitts on it. The edges of the crust were carefully fluted, and golden brown. The baker had arduously created a twisted lattice top crust, and the peaches peeked promisingly from beneath. The pie looked like a work of art, but it should have remained behind glass.

I knew I was in trouble when the pretty latticework would not yield to my fork. At all. A final, desperate effort broke through, and sent a shard of crust flying at least a dozen feet into some shrubbery. Luckily we were eating outside; no one noticed and no retrieval was necessary. The hand of God sent that projectile into some concealing bushes instead of someone's eye, as far as I'm concerned.

For me, a good crust makes or breaks a good pie. I've heard that a wise baker knows just when to stop working the dough, lest it turn deadly. My impression is that it takes a keen eye, a deft hand, and the experience to know when the dough "feels" right to the fingers. I tell myself that my limited counter space prevents me from rolling out my own pie crust, but I know it's simply fear of creating cement out of flour and shortening.

That's why I still use the refrigerated crusts that come rolled up in a plastic sleeve. In my opinion, they are better than the frozen crusts in an aluminum tin, but one day I hope to master the skill of making my own pie crusts. If any of you have any tips or recipes, feel free to share your ideas. You can send me an e-mail if you like.

Anyway, I'm going to share a recipe that I found on allrecipes. I tweaked it a bit with extra flour, but I love this pie because it is easy-as-pie (whatever in the hell that means), and quick to throw together. It's never failed. I've also discovered that you can line the crust with a layer of fresh blueberries or sliced strawberries if you have them on hand before you pour in the filling. If you use strawberries, add a little more flour to the pie filling (it prevents "weeping"). This is a tasty slice of old-fashioned goodness.

Buttermilk Pie
½ cup butter, softened
1-½ cups granulated sugar
3 tablespoons flour
3 eggs
1 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla
ground nutmeg
1 single-layer unbaked pie crust
Cream the butter and sugar. Add flour and mix well. Add eggs, one at a time. Add vanilla and buttermilk. The mixture will look curdled; don't get your panties in a wad. Pour into pie shell. Sprinkle with nutmeg to taste. Wrap aluminum foil around the edge of the crust to prevent over-browning. Bake @ 350° for one hour. Cool on rack. Store in refrigerator.

p.s. The image of the buttermilk pie at the top is from the Stubb's BBQ site. They will happily send you a frozen buttermilk pie for only $35.99 if you'd rather not make your own. I'm not sure if that includes shipping.

Girl Power

This post may interest a few of the women who land on Planet Bill from time to time. I know the value of complaint letters written from the heart, so I'm posting one that Our Girl in Amsterdam forwarded to me. I have found most companies very accommodating when a consumer takes the time to point out problems or offer suggestions for improvement. I worked in customer service for a well-known global company, and we knew all too well that most customers do not voice their opinions directly to the corporation; instead, they share their dissatisfaction with friends and family. Any business interested in staying in business will welcome your complaint.

Disclaimer: salty but candid language below!

This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to American company Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets rolling after the first paragraph. It's PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice for best webmail-award-winning letter.

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from the curse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants...which brings me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.' Are you fucking kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness is possible during a menstrual period?

Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

(name omitted)
Austin , TX

Giving Thanks

When I graduated from high school in 1977, I received the usual acknowledgements from family friends and relatives, mostly in the form of cash, checks, and savings bonds. My mother kept a careful tally of the gifts received and the thank you notes I sent. It would have been unthinkably rude of me not to have sent a handwritten note of gratitude, and my mother made sure my thank you messages were sent promptly.

One card of thanks required no prodding from my mother. One day the mailman delivered a card from a friend of my grandparents. Mrs. Buhrmann of Reinbeck, Iowa, had sent me a graduation card.

I had to puzzle out her words in the card, because her spidery handwriting was shaky and barely legible. Mrs. Buhrmann was older than my grandmother, and was crippled by age. Osteoporosis had made her a hunchback long before I met her. She lived in a tiny, tidy cottage at the edge of her small town, and she was the poorest person I had ever met. I was always eager to visit her when my family traveled to Iowa.

When I opened her card, a five dollar bill fell out. I burst into tears. I knew what a sacrifice it had been for her. I asked my mother if I could send it back to her, and my mother told me no, that it would be very rude of me to do that. That five dollar bill meant more to me than any other gift I received for my graduation, even though it had the smallest monetary value by far. How can you put a worldly value on something that is given with such love?

Now, poised at the one-year mark of my sobriety, I have those same feelings. How can I properly give thanks for this incredible gift of a new life? I've decided that this is a case where quantity will have to replace quality. I give thanks throughout my day, every day. When I start my day with gratitude, it keeps me sober. It's a simple plan that works.

A friend asked me what I planned to post tomorrow, the actual anniversary date. This morning I decided that I will post this today, because I'm going to leave tomorrow wide open for whatever God wants to share with me. I know that I will go to at least two AA meetings, but the rest of the day is unplanned. One thing I do know, unless someone trusses me up like a turkey and pours alcohol in my mouth, there will be no celebratory drinks involved.

A friend I have known for thirty-five years asked me if reaching this point in my sober life has caused any perverse thoughts of drinking. Rather than re-invent the wheel, I'm going to share some excerpts of my reply to her below.

You mentioned something in a recent message about my sobriety anniversary creating thoughts of drinking, and I was glad you brought that up. I hate it when people pussyfoot around that topic.

I'm looking forward to Monday. I'll pick up a one-year medallion at my home group in the morning, and an anniversary chip at my noon meeting. I'll continue to pick up chips throughout the week. The day is somewhat of a paradox. On the one hand, it marks an entire year. I've hung in there with AA long enough to know that so many people never see that day in their personal quest for sanity and sobriety. I also know that it's not a graduation day, an end date, or really any different than today. Each day sober is equally important.

I'm under no illusions about the fragility of sobriety. I have seen too many people relapse, some with many successful years in AA. Others who have relapsed again and again until they gave up. Two people committed suicide within the last month. These people either became complacent or couldn't/wouldn't do the hard work that must be done in the program. The bottle (or the cocaine, or the meth, or the heroin, or the food, or the...) is just a symptom of the addict's problems.

I read something recently that has stayed with me. We've all heard about the light at the end of the tunnel. The question is whether the light is real or an illusion. The answer is that the light is real; the tunnel is an illusion. Our minds create the tunnel, and we start believing that the light is an illusion.

So, the answer is "no." I am not tempted to have a drink. Whenever that thought has popped in my head, I play the entire movie in my head, not just the first fun moments. When I think of the nice burn of that first sip of an icy martini, I remember the searing heat of a throat that was scorched by vomiting every morning. When I think of the languorous feeling after one or two drinks, I remember being too weak to dry off after taking a shower. When I recall how convivial a couple of drinks made me feel in my twenties, I think of how alcohol isolated me and made me afraid to leave my home just one year ago. Today it's pretty easy to decide to stay sober.

In thinking about this one-year blog post, I naturally thought about giving individual thanks. I have decided not to do this. From a practical standpoint, there simply isn't room. The Blogspot police would likely shut me down. I would also feel terrible if I left anyone out - remember, my mind isn't as sharp as it was once. But you know who you are, and if you are reading this my list includes you. Every comment and e-mail message, each conversation in or outside a meeting, all the blogs I read, help keep me on the path to being happy, joyous, and free. There are people I cannot name who have supported me simply by showing up for a meeting. There are those, too, who have not remained clean and sober, and I thank them, too, with sadness, because they have shown me that - for me - there is no easier, softer way to do this.

Thanks for dropping by! Now have a joy-filled day!

Fake Post

Okay, I'm going to cheat, and I'll be candid about it. Here's why: I need to leave soon for my regular Tuesday evening AA meeting, so I don't have time to craft a new, sparkling post. It also occurs to me that, although a few of you have been landing on Planet Bill for a long time, most of you have only recently started exploring my corner of the galaxy. Roaming through the archives can be hit-or-miss, so I'm going to pull out a few things for your convenience.

I've been feeling very good lately. This coming Monday will mark one year of sobriety for me. I know that, as long as I do what I have been doing for the past 350+ days, I will meet that mark. To get a little idea of what a difference these days, weeks, and months have meant to me, you can click here to zoom to my first Planet Bill post. When I read this post, I am extra-grateful to be where I am today on my journey. Also, here's a post that was printed in my area's AA newsletter.

Many of my posts have been about my childhood. I am thankful that I had such wonderful parents, and that my life was generally happy and carefree. If you are curious about how I ended up with a Po' White Trash version of a traditional treehouse, this will answer your questions. I spent many happy hours in and under my treehouse, usually in the company of my faithful dog, Pebbles. You can get to know her right here. Pebbles wasn't my only pet, but she did survive my stewardship the longest. There were quite a few others that passed through my careless little hands.

My childhood wasn't all fun and games. Life has its bumps, and during the past year I've come to understand that a couple of these changed my view of the world and how I relate to other people. Growing up in a nice neighborhood with loving parents doesn't preclude unpleasant experiences. If you click here and here, you can read about a couple of the rough spots. The good news is I'm okay today with everything.

I mention my family in my posts. I would be honored if you would read about my remarkable but humble father, my irrespressible grandmother, and my favorite aunt. They all had a lot to do with making me the man I am today, God bless them. My mother has her own companion blog of her daily diaries (the link is on the right column), and I thank her for my love of books and reading.

Oops, I'm running short on time, but I've given you more than enough to occupy some time - and, perhaps, put you gently to sleep. Blogging has turned out to be a fulfilling activity for me over the past months. Not only have I been able to make important discoveries about myself, I have found a network of talented, wonderful fellow bloggers. I always look forward to reading about you. When you are sad, I pray for you. When you are happy, it makes me smile. Thanks for sharing your world with me, and you have an open invitation to visit Planet Bill whenever you can.

Just a thought...

When was the last time you skipped?

My grandmother was given to odd musings. We all are, I guess, but she'd say hers out loud. One time when she and my mother were in the car, waiting to enter traffic at a busy intersection, my grandmother said "Look at all those people going by in those cars. Now just picture them going by like that without their cars. Just zooming along with their hands out like that."

Now that I think about it, I remember a gas commercial - I think it was Gulf - that showed people going down the road like that without cars. If gas prices don't drop, I may give it a try.

Grandma said to me one day, in all seriousness, "Now why do you think God put your mouth right under your nose? Wouldn't it have made more sense to put your nose under your mouth?" I thought about it a moment, and then ran outside to play.

Getting back to the skipping thing, I loved to skip when I was a kid. It was fun. It made me feel light-hearted. My parents should have given in right then and bought me a Barbie doll. Really, though, when you give it some thought, when was the last time you skipped anywhere? In addition to saving time, it would be hard to stay in a bad mood. I would wager that it would be impossible to gripe and frown while you are skipping.

What if everyone replaced walking with skipping? Would it be possible for world leaders to decide to go to war if they skipped into a defense conference? I'll bet Osama bin Laden would be a changed man if he started skipping from cave to cave. He might even start shaving and grooming himself.

Think of the health benefits. Skipping burns twice the calories of walking, and it doesn't inflict the same wear and tear on joints that jogging causes. Americans could become examples of slim physiques instead of the world's fat-asses if we started skipping through the grocery store aisles. The next time you're out and about, picture everyone skipping instead of plodding along.

I believed I had an original thought when this skipping thing occurred to me, but I should have known better. Take a look at this website. If you act fast, you may become the Head Skipper in your state.