Yes, It Is!!

Day 357 of Sobriety

I was sitting out on the front porch of my shitty little apartment shooting the shit with my neighbor, Kyvan, this evening.  Kyvan is a driller in the oil field, and if you know much about oil field workers, you know that  about the closest most of them get to refinement is what happens to that stuff that they're drilling that big hole and losing a few fingers for..  I can say that with pride because my daddy spent 30+ years in the oil field and he always liked to make note of all the years he spent in the field and the fact that he retained all of his digits.

Kyvan is also a recovered alcoholic and drug addict with 12 years of sobriety under his belt, I know this because my friend/landlady told me that Kyvan's first day of sobriety was the day he moved in next door, which was 12 years ago.  I also know this because another friend told me that Kyvan helped her daughter get off the crack and booze.

Kyvan does not know I am an alcoholic.  Or he didn't, but when we were discussing our mutual acquaintance, the daughter of my friend, I thought it appropriate that I let him in on my little secret.

"You know," I said, "I'm an alcoholic, too."

 "It'll be a year within the next week," I added with what I thought was just the right amount of humility.

"Well," Kyvan replied thoughtfully, running his tongue under his bottom lip as if he was getting ready to let go with a big wad of chew (which he also gave up 12 years ago), "Ya gotta start somewhere."

I blinked at him dumbfounded for a minute, and then I burst out laughing.

Who was I to think that my peasly, measly, almost year would impress him?  I'm sure he's seen the likes of me come and go and come and go again.

And then I thought of how I view the people with all those years of saying, "No" under their belts and how it must be so blase for them now and how the struggle has got to be practically  non-existent for them.  And really, after all those years do they really deserve much attention?  Certainly not as much as I, who still thinks about drinking on a daily basis, and even today had an occasion to think, "I wish I could have a drink before I do this."

And then I thought of how I view the people who are just starting out, the ones that are getting their Day 1's, and Day 30's, and Day 100's under their belt and the pull of the booze is still the stronger opponent in their game of tug-of-war and I'm still not putting my bets on them because that ground under their feet is still to damn slippery.

And then I made myself remember how hard-won and amazing every one of my 357 days have been and how proud and thankful I was/am when I woke/wake up in the morning after making the choice not to drink the day before. 

And then I made myself look ahead and try to picture myself 10 or 20 years from now and I wonder if I will have let my sobriety become monotonous or if I will forget how hard I struggled and how much I valued my early sobriety. How will I keep myself from being tempted to relinquish this miracle?  Will all that time spent sober some how fool me, once again, into believing I am in control.

 I looked into Kyvan's 12 years sober eyes and I could see the gratitude and pride that I knew was mirrored in my own 357 days sober eyes.

That's when I realized that every day we stay sober is a Big Fucking Deal!

Message From Afar

love builds up the broken wall

and straightens the crooked path.

love keeps the stars in the firmament

and imposes rhythm on the ocean tides

each of us is created of it

and i suspect

each of us was created for it”

--Maya Angelou

Day 120

Some miracles can be buried and lose their shine in the razor sharp sands of time that wash in and pile up in a short 24 hours.  I wanted to write about yesterday’s miracle while it was shiny and new but because of a shortage of that shifty thing called time, I didn’t.  Now I find myself doubting that it was even a miracle at all and I’m frantically brushing off the sand and spitting and rubbing trying to bring it back to its original  luster.

I was walking my strand of beach yesterday scanning the sand for treasure, I’m not really a shell collector but I always manage to return back to the casa with one arm an inch longer from carrying a bag of sea junk.  Up ahead of me was a Mexican man also carrying a mesh bag and poking around in the sand and rocks, this was strange because he didn’t look like a “spit and polish” Meridian here for a holiday, instead, with his sun faded, frayed clothing and weathered face, he looked like one of the local fisherman.  Believe me, those poor souls don’t have time to play shell seekers.

I watched from afar as he prodded and dug at something in the sand until finally curiosity got the better of me and I walked up to see what he was so intent on digging up.  As I approached I saw him digging along the edge of a large buried slab of concrete.  He looked up at me and smiled and I tried idiotically to pantomime that the chunk of concrete would be too big for his bag and too heavy to carry.  He went back to digging and I continued on along the beach.  I hadn’t gone far when I heard him approaching from behind me. 

“Senora,” he called.

I turned and he held out his hand to show me what he had been digging for.

It was a starfish.

Now if you’ve read through all of my blogs, you know that starfish hold a certain significance for me.  Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote about a starfish I found on the beach and I blogged about my mother and told about the priest calling her a Starfish Thrower in his homily at her funeral. So when the fisherman showed me his treasure, I knew it was special.  I knew it was a miracle.  I just didn’t know what it meant.

This morning I think I’ve figured it out.

As I grow older, I grow more and more comfortable with and proud of the similarities between my mother and me. For years I tried to deny them but one glaring similarity that couldn’t be ignored is the fact that both of us are married to “drinkers”.  Although I would never say that I was scarred by my dad’s drinking, I was definitely affected by it.  It was always there in the background, laced through all the years of my childhood.  Though not constant, the arguments about his drinking were frequent enough and frightful to me as a child. That may explain some of the fear I’m feeling these days.    I’ve been browsing the message boards lately in search of a means to bring a resolution and some peace to my turmoil in dealing with the capn’s drinking.  I’ve read a lot about detachment as a means of survival.  I don’t like how detachment sounds. It scares me. I don’t want to detach from anything.  I feel like that was what I was doing when I was drinking.  I tell myself that the cap’n and I love each other too much to end up like the testimonies that I’ve read.  I’m scared that those women told themselves the same thing.

 My dad never quit drinking, but in the last few years of Mom’s life there seemed to be less turmoil about it and there was a peace in their marriage.  Maybe Mom finally learned to detach herself, but I don’t think so.  I never knew that woman to detach from anything, we worked in the same hospital every day and she still called me nightly to check up on me. That’s how I viewed her phone calls then, now I think maybe she was just lonely.  I get that.

No, I don’t think she detached.  Instead I think Dad was one of her starfish.  I’m sure that sometimes the same starfish strand themselves over and over on the rocky shores and you have to keep picking them up and tossing them to safety.  Hopefully every time you fling them, your arm gets a little stronger and they end up further and further until they are finally far enough that they no longer feel the pull of the perilous coastline.  Or at least you get some respite.

I think Mom was just trying to tell me not to give up.  Or maybe she was just letting me know she’s still checking up on me. Lol

I tried to hand the starfish back to the fisherman but he shook his head and pointed to me.  It was a regalo.  A gift.

We parted and walked opposite ways on the beach.  The starfish curled up one of its legs in my hand.  It was still alive.  I looked over my shoulder to make sure my new friend wasn’t watching and I flung that little starfish with all my might into the outgoing tide.

Today I’m just out there doing my best to keep my miracles spit and polished and pumping my little two pound barbells as hard as I can.  The cap’n better watch out, who knows where I might fling him.

P.S.  There were some incidences I was involved in on the message boards last night that I’m not feeling particularly proud of this morning.  Some of God’s creatures that get flung from the sea onto the beach are not as benign or beguiling as the starfish.  Some of them are like the blue “Medusa” jellyfish that I also find on the beach.  You need to give these creatures a wide berth because even though they may look dead and harmless their long tentacles that are buried in the sand can still cause you extreme harm.   As malevolent as these creatures may seem, they may just be scared, too, and are using the only line of defense that is left to them.  There is no need to poke at them with your pointy stick and cause them even more misery.  I am sorry.

Simple Choices

The Nativity in Progreso

"Three flamingos preening,

Two marlins leaping,

And a dead grouper in Joseph's net"

“There are days when I think I don't believe anymore. When I think I've grown too old for miracles. And that's right when another seems to happen.”

― Dana Reinhardt, The Summer I Learned to Fly

Day 118

Did you know that every time I sit down to write this blog, I think about drinking?  I don’t just think about how to expel some more wisdom about “not” drinking, no, I think about fixing a drink.  I think, “Boy, a glass of wine would sure make the words come easier” or “If I knocked back a shot of bourbon, I bet I’d be a lot wittier.”  And all that may be true.  But today I choose not to drink.  That’s what it comes down to, a simple choice.

I’m not telling anybody anything new.  Hell, Jennifer Hudson was on the Today Show this morning and when she was asked what the secret was to her “miraculous” weight loss, she replied, “I chose to lose weight.  I chose to change my life.”  It is that simple and it is that miraculous.  Every day we get to choose who we are, all day long.  We can change ourselves any time we want.  Yes, events happen that we can’t control.  Shit happens, so to speak.  But through it all we get to decide exactly who we will be.  And if we decide tomorrow or in the next hour that we want to be someone else, we can change. Miraculously.

We tell ourselves that our addiction controls us, that it takes all of our choices away from us, that it has “power” over us.  That’s just so much bullshit!  That’s just an excuse.  With a simple choice, our addiction loses all of its power.   Jennifer Hudson chooses to be skinny.  I choose to be sober.  Tomorrow or in the next hour or in the next second Jennifer Hudson could choose to eat a dozen doughnuts or I could choose to have that shot of bourbon.  But right now I choose not to. With every breath I take today and every day of my life, I get the chance make that choice.  Every day I get the chance to gather miracles.  Miracles such as trust, and respect, and peace, and joy, and dignity and hope and honor and love and…

It’s not easy, but it’s a simple choice.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to keep choosing my miracles.

Bearing Gifts From Afar

The Nativity in our village church.  My blanket is folded up neatly in the corner.  I guess Baby Jesus got too hot.

Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  And today?  Today is a gift.  That's why we call it the present.  ~Babatunde Olatunji, also attributed to Alice Morse Earle

Day 116

Good Morning!  I know it’s another “Act Like I’m Not A Drunk Saturday” but I’ve decided to do a regular blog today because I’ve been kind of busy/lazy this week and haven’t written much, plus I can’t think of anything to write that is worthy of ALINADS (Act Like I’m Not A Drunk Saturday) status, plus it’s my blog and I can do anything I want with it.  So there.

So now in a more charitable timbre, yesterday was el Dia de las Reyes Mago,  or Three Kings Day down here which celebrates the day that the three kings arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child.  It is a day of great celebration here in a country that finds a reason almost every day to throw a party.

Anyway…I had my own gift I wanted to give the Christ Child yesterday, it wasn’t frankincense, myrrh, or gold, although I did try to talk the cap’n into throwing a gold coin in the coffers but let’s just say he doesn’t possess the same generous spirit that I do.  My gift was a baby blanket that I had knitted a couple of years ago.  The blanket’s pattern is called the tree of life and it includes bare branched trees on both ends of the blanket and rows of tulips in the middle. More tulips with their twisting stems and leaves border the entire blanket.  It’s an odd theme for a baby blanket with its stark naked trees and spring tulips, but I guess it is supposed to signify the cycles of life and birth.  I do know that it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever knitted and I learned a lot of new stitches and techniques through trial and error and demonstration (Thank you, internet and KnitWitch youtube videos)while I was completing it.  I did a lot of rip-outs and redo’s and I actually abandoned the whole thing for several months.  When I picked it back up, it almost seemed easier to rip the whole thing out and start over but instead I decided to go back, figure out where I had left off, find my mistakes, correct them and go on.

I didn’t realize until I was writing this how much that little blanket represents my life.  It seems like a worthy gift for a King.

So I went to our little church yesterday morning to present my gift.  I wanted to do it in secret, but there was a senora in the front row.  I decided to wait her out so I let the kneeler down and decided I’d have a little chat while I was waiting.  The kneelers in our simple little church are narrow and they are not padded so for me there is a tendency to keep my reflections short and when I saw the senora stretch out her arms along the back of the pew (she was sitting) and kick off her shoes, I decided I would continue my stealthy (I don’t think that’s a word but, again, this is my blog and I can do what I want)vigil across the square at my favorite taqueria.  After dos tacos I ventured back across the square and into the church.  It was empty.  I carefully picked my way through the assortment of barn animals that include a rearing stallion and a flamingo and gently placed my blanket over our Baby Jesus who is of grande proportions compared to his Mama and Papa (poor Mary) and is sporting eyelashes a young calf would covet and a knitted jumper and ski cap.  It’s been chilly down here.

Now he has my blanket for additional warmth.  As usual I like to attach an inordinate amount of importance to any gift I give and I wonder if years from now, the senoras of the altar guild will lovingly spread the blanket over the Baby Jesus and tell of its mysterious appearance on el Dia de las Reyes Magos many years ago.  Or will my humble little blanket be appropriated (aka stolen) for another poor baby in meager surroundings to be swaddled in.  I hope it’s the "latter"!!!! (If you read this before 11:17 pm CST, it mistakenly said  "former." It must be those last traces of alcohol still floating through my medulla oblangata.  Thanks for pointing it out Lulu, I'd rather have real baby slobbers any day.)

So today I’m just out there doing my best to keep spreading my gifts and watering that tree of life.

P.S. I'm going to a memorial mass for a friend's mother this morning and I'll get a pic of our Baby Jesus and the blanket.  If it's still there.

Every Little 'Ting's Gonna Be Alright

...there isn't a guidebook for setting boundaries. Each

of us has our own guide inside ourselves.  If we continue

to work at recovery, our boundaries will develop.

They will get healthy and sensitive.  Our selves

will tell us what we need to know, and we'll

love ourselves enough to listen.

--Beyond Codependency

Day 112

There was a moment on New Years Eve that I had my own private little celebration.  Even though I was surrounded by people dancing in the sand,  I was alone in my sobriety.  The band was from Texas,  the sand was in Mexico, and the music was from the islands.  All of these places hold a piece of my heart and people that I love.  I raised my eyes and my arms up to the stars in the dark sky and I swayed with the palms.  My heart sang along with the band, "Don't worry 'bout a 'ting, Cuz every little 'ting's gonna be alright."

This what I know.  God has never abandoned me on this journey.  He has rewarded me all along the way.  I know that "every little 'ting is gonna be alright."  I don't know what "alright" looks like yet, but I know it's gonna be beautiful.

The cap'n got up this morning and said, "I'm not going to drink anymore."  I know it's not that easy. I know he loves me immensely.  I know that's not enough.  But I know love can be a great motivator.  I know it was for me.

I know I'll keep moving forward with or without him.  I said some things last night.  I've said them before.  But before they were threats, this time they were statements.  "I will not live like this anymore.  You have a choice to make."  Before I was not strong enough to back these threats up, they were empty.  Now I am and we both know it.

From the Language of Letting Go,  January 3 (My apologies to Melody Beattie for stealing this but I just had to.  Buy the book, it's ability to speak to your needs on any given day is uncanny)

"What do we need to do to take care of ourselves?  Listen to that voice inside.  What makes you angry?  What have you had enough of?  What don't you trust?  What doesn't feel right?  What can't you stand? What makes you uncomfortable?  What do you want and need?  What do you like?  What would feel good?

In recovery, we learn that self-care leads us on the path to God's will and plan for our life.  Self-care never leads away from our highest good; it leads toward it.

Learn to nurture that voice inside.  We can trust ourselves.  We can take care of ourselves.  We are wiser than we think.  Our guide is within, ever-present.  Listen to, trust, and nurture that guide.

Today I will affirm that I am a gift to myself and the Universe.  I will remember that nurturing self-care delivers that gift in its highest form."

So today I'm just out there doing my best to put one foot in front of the other and love myself every step of the way.

I've Got Your Back

Day 107

 I tumbled off my pink cloud today.  Sort of.  Remember Sandy, the dog I’m keeping for my friend, Greta (not her real name) who is recovering from a relapse?  Yesterday she dug a hole under my gate and managed to wiggle her way out, but I wasn’t too worried because I usually walk her on the beach without a leash and she runs off and won’t come back when I call her name but she eventually finds her way home and I know that Greta used to let her have free run at her place.  She has been fixed, thank God!

So this morning after our sprint on the beach, Sandy decided she wasn’t done with her morning exercise and when we returned home and I shut the gate behind us, she decided to wiggle out her new escape route again.  I called her name a couple of times but she didn’t come so I went about the business of fixing breakfast and sure enough when she smelled the bacon and eggs cooking she was right behind me in the kitchen.  I teased her a little bit and told her she had missed her desayuno of scrambled eggs but she and Stanley, the blind killer bichon with an abscessed tooth, both got their own bowls.  After breakfast I decided to water the plants and once more Sandy decided she’d had enough of the confines of our compound and once more I didn’t worry too much about it…until I heard that unmistakable squeal of tires and thud accompanied by a dog’s pain-filled yelps.

“Please oh please, God.  Let that be one of the hundreds of other dogs that are running loose in this village.”

But I knew it wasn’t.  I headed around the corner toward the highway and sure enough here came Sandy limping and yelping.  Shit!

I got her in the porch and I frantically called the vet that has been coming over to take care Stanley’s tooth.  Sandy limped into the flowerbed and collapsed.  She was breathing hard, but she didn’t seem to be hurt any place but her foot.  I picked her up to put her back in the porch where the vet could see to take care of her.  She yelped again in pain and I felt her teeth go through the tissues of my finger.  I knew she would never bite me on purpose, I knew she was in so much pain and shock that she was reacting out of her fear.  I’ve been there.

The vet arrived and tranquilized Sandy and inspected her.  She was pretty sure that it was just her foot that was injured but she would need to take her into Merida for x-rays.  She still had several dogs in her office so we decided to leave Sandy here at my house until she could take her.  She left and I had to call Greta.  We had just talked right before Sandy and I went for our walk on the beach.  Sandy was supposed to be going back to her mama tomorrow and Greta and I had made arrangements for me to drop her off at Greta’s new place.  Now this.

 I stumbled through the “I’ve got bad news but it’s not that bad of news…”  Greta seemed to take it okay and I didn’t hear any blame in her voice.

I hung up the phone and I broke down.  Maybe Greta didn’t blame me, but I sure blamed myself.  I should have been more careful.  I shouldn’t have let Sandy run free.  The cap’n had warned me that this exact thing would happen.  And I got that old familiar feeling.  Yep, you know the one I’m talking about.  I didn’t really feel the urge to drink but I recognized it as a feeling I would have tried to drink away in the past.  Then I got worried about Greta.

 I called her and said, “Now this is not something that is going to make either one of us start drinking, okay?” 

“Of course not,” she replied.

“Because it would have in the past, for me.”  I said.

“Yeah,” she replied, “It would have me, too.”

We assured each other that we were okay and I hung up the phone.

I had some friends over last night and the conversation turned to Greta.

“She’ll start drinking again.” one of my guests said.

“People change.” I argued.

“I guarantee it.” they insisted.  “She’s done it too many times before.”

“I wonder if they say the same thing about me?” I thought.

But they don’t know me.  And they don’t know my friend, Greta.  They don’t know how strong we are.

The vet just came back and took Sandy.  It’s been several hours since the accident and there are no signs of internal bleeding.  I am relieved but Stanley is still worried, he is wondering around looking for her and whining.  He crawled up and laid down beside her and never left her side all afternoon. (I have a pic but the camera transfer cord is in the capn’s computer bag with him back in CO.)  They haven’t been the best of friends since Sandy came to stay with us, more like wary cohabitants that give each other their “space”.  It reminds me of Greta and me, we weren’t close friends before but now, when the chips are down and everybody else is betting against us, we’ve got each other’s back. 

So today I’m just out there doing my best to place my bets on people and dogs that the odds are against, they always have the biggest payouts.

P.S. I will update you on Sandy.  And I want to thank you guys for the encouragement on my last blog.

P.P.S. Greta just called to check on Sandy, and to check on me.  "You're not drinking, are you?" she asked.  Do you know how good it felt to know that question was asked out of concern instead of derision?

"Of course not." I reassured her.

All Is Not Lost

And yet, I suppose you mourn the loss or the death of what you thought your life was, even if you find your life is better after.  You mourn the future that you thought you'd planned.

--Lynn Redgrave

Day 89

Hey gang!  A year ago having me MIA for a week from this blog would have fostered ominous foreboding but I am happy to report that all is well down SOB (South of the Border).  I feel like I hit the tarmac running and I just now have a chance to catch my breath.  I had planned to go to Merida this morning but the weather is not cooperating, there are very few days in the Yucatan when I wish I had a fireplace but today is one of those days. Blustery, and rainy and a chilly 71 degrees Fahrenheit.  Boy, I sure do acclimate quickly, I’m still sitting here in my shorts but I’m just about ready to go upstairs and pull on some sweats and socks just like everybody that lives down here full time has been wearing for a few days. 

This week has been a week of revelations and while I have all day to write about each and every one of them, I know you, my loyal readers, would take one look at the length of the blog and decide you had better things to do, like read War and Peace.  So for today, I’ll just tell you about yesterday.

I sent the cap’n off to the airport in Merida at 5:00 am yesterday morning.  I gave him a kiss, pushed him out the gate, waved him off and turned around and faced the coming day like a big birthday gift I had been waiting weeks to open.  You see, I can probably count on one hand the number of days, in my entire life, that I have had completely to myself.  To try and envision three whole weeks of such days is just too overwhelming, so, as I have become quite adept at doing, I’m taking it one day at a time.

First I piddled around the casa for a couple of hours, I spent some time contemplating the Christmas tree lights, I drank some tea, I visited the message boards, drank some more tea, looked at the lights some more and then I went outside to piddle around in the garden for a bit.  Saturday is the day that the “plant guy” comes to the square in our little village, and I decided I needed to replace some plants that hadn’t withstood my desertion of the last couple months, so around 9:30 am I drove down to the square to see what the “plant guy” had to offer.  He wasn’t there so I settled in at my favorite little cocina economica and had a couple of tacos arrecharra with salsa and crema.  Pretty soon I saw a battered old scraped up van chug around the corner.  The plant guy had arrived.  I waited as he unloaded and then he and I began our pantomime attempt at communication.  I ended up with 4 poinsettia’s, 1 eucalyptus, 1 bougainvillea, 1 oleander, 1 vine of some sort, 2 rose bushes, and 2 tiny cacti for 480 pesos (about $35 US).  My friend Shelli puttered up on her scooter and together we found the nerve to haggle the price and the plant guy knocked off another 10 pesos (73 cents). That should teach him to try and take advantage of this gringa.

I hurried home and unloaded the plants.  A new Italian restaurant in Progreso was donating the entire day’s profits to the toy drive and a couple of my elf buddies and I had volunteered to help them out.  I picked up my fellow elves and we headed over the bridge to Progreso but before we started our afternoon of chopping and peeling vegetables we stopped off at the Progreso Mercado and meandered among the produce and flower stalls.  Each of us bought a bunch of bright purple bachelor buttons with the intentions of harvesting their seeds to plant in our stingy flowerbeds, then we sniffed appreciatively at the romero (rosemary) plants and tried to figure out why none of us have been able to get one to survive down here in a climate in which it seems they should thrive.  With a “never say die” bravado I bought two more sacrificial offerings.

We spent the afternoon helping Progreso Pasta’s proprietors prepare for the special evening of Christmas music and the “impossible to find in the Yucatan” delicacy of filet mignon.  They had to ship the beef in from Monterrey, them Yucatecan cows ain’t got no meat on their bones.  Now if we could just get russet potatoes and good corn, we’d have all of the comfort food of home.  The rumor that Mayan corn is good is a myth, I don’t know what corn god they were praying to but it was the wrong one.  They must have been worshipping the god of corn not fit for human consumption.

And now for the most important part of the day.  I bet you thought I’d never get here.  This blog reminds of a story one of my guests’s was telling last night, he paused in the middle of it and said, “Now, to make a long story short.”  And I thought, “Too late for that.”

At 4:00 pm I said “Ciao!” and headed home with my containers of lasagna, ravioli, and alfredo and five pieces of Drunken Deutschman cake.  I had invited a couple of couples over to eat take out.  I iced down the beer and I swear I never even considered having one.  It didn’t even cross my mind.  As my friends drank their beer and wine throughout the evening, I sipped on my sparkling cider and sat back, happy to be a spectator and participant and not the one woman act I always felt driven to be when I was drinking.  None of my friends seemed to take notice of my not drinking, if they did, they didn’t comment on it and it sure didn’t seem to deter them from their drinking.  There did seem to be something missing (other than the cap’n) but I don’t know if anybody noticed it but me. There was the same jostling to be the first one to get a word in, there was the same amount of laughter and hilarity, but missing was that escalation into brash awkward drunkenness that seemed to permeate my parties of the past and when  my guests left to get in their cars or stroll down the calle to their casas they seemed to leave with a sense of comfortable well-being instead of the riotous, on edge, over the top, out of control (do I need to go on?)desperate hysteria I remember. I have full confidence that all awoke this morning with good memories of the evening.  Their heads might have ached a little but there was no pain of regret gnawing at their innards.  One more thing that I had mourned as lost when I gave up drinking, good times with good friends, is resurrected in a new and much improved form.

I cleaned up and went to bed with the same sense of well-being and it wasn’t until this morning that I realized that I didn’t even consider having a glass of wine to wind down, even though there was half of an open bottle left on the counter.

So to make a long story short, you don’t have to give up everything you love when you quit drinking, but you do have to give up the drinking.

So today I’m out there just doing my best to be more succinct and making the most of the 19 days, 8 hours, and 32 minutes of alone time I have left.

P.S.  A year ago, I would have allowed myself to have one or two celebratory glasses of wine when I arrived in Mexico and by this time a week later I would have been in the depths of withdrawal and a day like yesterday wouldn’t have been in the realm of possibility.

Dr. Dreadful's Miraculous Recovery Elixir

Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.” --C.S. Lewis Day 81 I thought the birds deserved a special treat on this snowy morning so I drizzled some honey on the rolls I baked last night and I’m getting a giggle watching their feet stick to the plate.  Some days life is just a giggle.  I’ve been assigning myself the task of finding a miracle in every single day and my miracle yesterday was giggling back and forth on the phone with my grandson yesterday when we were discussing his Christmas list.  He wants a Dr. Dreadful Zombie Lab which is bad enough but what set us off giggling was the accessory toy, Dr. Dreadful’s Snot Shot and Wax Snax kit.  I’ve got to get those for him, it will drive his parents crazy. What a miracle to be able to be silly and giggly without drinking.  I used to think only drunk Grandma could do that. The other task I’ve assigned myself is a little more difficult, at least it is more difficult to discern.  I’ve set myself to creating a miracle every day.  Sometimes my miracles are planned and orchestrated but sometimes, like yesterday when I was tired and cranky, it’s kind of up to my miracles to start the creation process on their own and only when I glance back looking for them and they show themselves, am I able to imagine them into the miracles they could be. Confused yet? Let me try to explain.  This morning when I sat down to write my morning pages, I went in search of any trace of miracles I might have caused yesterday.  I thought about my congratulatory response to a friend of mine on the mmabser's message board who had announced her one year sobriety anniversary, but, in all actuality, my congratulations was just acknowledgement of the miracles that she has wrought in my and so many other’s recovery with her zany wit and no bullshit counsel.  You are a guitar destroying rock star, Lulu. Then I thought about the 144 princess dolls, 50 sock monkeys and 50 pounds of Play-doh I packed for their trip south to be part of our little village’s toy drive.  Each one them a little miracle for a child whose parents won’t be able to afford anything else this year and I am so thankful to be a part of this that it too makes me feel as if I am on the receiving end of these tiny miracles that I am packing so carefully. Then I thought about the request that I put on the toy drive facebook page asking for volunteer “elves” to help us with an upcoming fundraiser and I remembered when a woman named Star, (yes, that is her real name.  Kind of symbolic, huh?) asked me to help with the toy drive.  I was new to the expat community, and I so badly wanted to start anew, to become known for something other than being able to drink 20 sailors under the table, to be respected.  That extension of trust from Star, her willingness to see through my jolly drunk façade, saved my life because the toy drive became one more thing, or 900 little things (kids) I needed to get sober for. So maybe I didn’t start that miracle either but yesterday I passed it on.  Maybe someone will grab it and use it as a lifeline like I did.  I wrote a letter to Star early this morning to thank her.  Maybe that will be her miracle for the day…or maybe she’ll think, “Old Kary must be hitting the bottle early this morning.” LOL Get on out there now and find your miracle for today and start a few of your own.  If you keep yourself busy miracle making, you’ll be too busy to drink. So today I’m just out there doing my best to dream up some more miracles and keep finding something giggle worthy. Maybe I'll order me the Dr. Dreadful Scabs and Guts Game. See! It works, just typing that made me giggle.

Resilience

"It's the constant and determined effort that breaks down all resistance, sweeps away all obstacles."
Overcoming Addiction Quote by Claude M. Bristol

Day 79

Okay, here’s my scenario.  I am supposed to be on a plane headed to Mexico bright and early Monday morning with 100+ pounds of toys for the kids in our little village.  I had a whole two weeks to get packed and get the house cleaned up for the winter, so of course me being me, I procrastinated until this week.  Then I decided I needed a new computer which entailed a trip to Denver and an overnight stay to get it all set up.  But that’s okay, I still had 5.5 days to pack and what idiot would dust her house before leaving it for six months? Then the cap’n got a call to work one day this week in a small town in the north part of the state which would also require one, maybe two, overnight stays and since we only have one car and I don’t relish being left up a mountain without transportation I would have to go with him.  He could have turned the work down but I have a new computer that has to be paid for.  I still had 3.5 days to pack. Plenty of time.  Then a blizzard decided to visit and it doesn’t look like I’m getting home until Saturday sometime, and we have to drive to Denver on Sunday because we fly out early Monday. 

You know what?  It will be okay.  There is always this mad dash when we are getting ready to head south for the winter.  No matter what happens, I know this year is going to be easier than ever before because I’m sober.  Would you like to hear about my experience last year at this time?  I didn’t blog about it because I was too ashamed but I can write about it now, even if it still turns my stomach and makes me want to cry.

Last year I decided to squeeze in one last visit with my precious grandson because I wouldn’t see him for 6 months.  My son, his dad, was stationed in Iraq and my daughter-in-law was at some sort of special training in CA and her stepfather was staying with my grandson while she was gone.  The capn and I drove up to see him for a couple of days.  I was lit when I got there.  I had been hungover when I got up that morning and I nursed Jack Daniels during the four hour drive to his house (the cap’n was driving).  But I was still functional, or so I thought.  We played cards all night, and I was hilarious and fun, or so I thought.  At about 3 am, I woke up and, of course, was sick.  I took Stanley, the blind killer bichon, out to the backyard to do his business while I knelt down on all fours behind their garage and puked my brains out.  I must have made some commotion because my daughter-in-law’s stepdad came to the back door to see what was going on.  I mumbled something incoherent as I pushed past him into the house.  The next morning my grandson had a soccer game and he was so proud to have me there, he’d turn around and wave at me in the stands about every 10 minutes and I’d try to smile and wave back.  I went down to the bathrooms twice to get sick.

The cap’n knew I was ruined and after the soccer game was over, we made some sorry excuse about why we had to leave suddenly.  I hope my grandson was too young to figure out the real reason why, but I know the step-granddad knew.  I was so ashamed and heartbroke over this (I still am), I swore I would never drink again.  But I did.

But I’m not drinking now.  And that’s what is important.  I made it on a plane south a few days after that visit.  I made it through a year of relapses, separated by longer and longer periods of sobriety.  I’ve had four visits with my grandson since then and I didn’t drink a drop.  I’ve made it through 79 consecutive days without alcohol. 

This ain’t that bad.  I’ll make it.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to persevere through rain, and snow, and dark of night and waiting for a break in the weather.

Last Wishes

“I believe you should live each day as if it is your last, which is why I don't have any clean laundry, because, come on, who wants to wash clothes on the last day of their life?”

Day 58

Yesterday I was working on my book and as usual what I intend to write is never what ends up on the computer screen and the book that was supposed to be about my struggle with alcohol and life in general is ending up being a lot about my Mom. I guess she thinks I’ve ignored her long enough. Lol So here are the words that sprung from the keyboard onto the computer screen yesterday. I guess it could be considered macabre but it doesn’t seem that way to me. Instead it seems hopeful and joyful and peaceful. The day I describe is nothing special, in fact it’s very normal…if I’m not drinking.

My mother and I worked in the same small rural hospital. Mom died there unexpectedly at the age of 57. She had only been sick for a week, she had contracted Legionnaires’ Disease somehow, but she thought it was just the flu and by the time we convinced her to go to the hospital, it was too late. After mom died one of the ladies that worked with Mom in the medical records department came up to me and said, “Don’t you feel lucky that you get to come to work every morning in the place where your momma went to see Jesus?” The woman was a walking talking Tammy Fay Baker wannabe and had the requisite poufy red hair. I wanted to scratch her heavily mascaraed eyes out.

Mom, I would have preferred that you had died in Las Vegas with the slot machine ching-ching-chinging right after you won a million, which is where you were supposed to be that week instead of in a cold sterile hospital room with the respirator wheezing and the oxygen monitor beeping. Or in Tuscany after having a delicious lunch and a bottle of red wine, that way I’d have an excuse to go there. Instead of the drawn, sad faces that peered down on you restrained in that hospital bed I wish you would have had a whirl of dizzy smiling faces as you danced. But I think you would have preferred to just drift away as you set out on your patio with the smell of your roses in the air and the birds singing among the leaves of our tree.

If only we could plan our last day.

What would yours have been like, Mom, if you could have planned it? I wish I knew.

What would mine be like if I had my choice? A lot like what I imagine you would have wanted yours to be, Mom. I’d be home, surrounded by the people and things I love.

I’d be in Colorado and my kids and grandkids would be there. I’d get up early in the morning and start a fire in the woodstove and light a pine candle. I’d go to the kitchen and roll out the dough for cinnamon rolls and get them to rising so everyone will wake up to the smell of them baking in the oven. Then I’d fix myself a cup of tea and just sit there and watch the sun come over the mountains. I might knit a little, maybe a new blanket or a dress for one of the grandbaby’s dolls. Josh would be up first and he’d sit and talk awhile before he’d get the itch to go drop a line in the pond. Matt would be up next and he’d sit by the woodstove and poke the fire, I hope he has quit smoking by then but if not that is where he’ll have his first cigarette of the day. Ryan will wonder in and ask where Josh is and think about joining him. The grandkids stretched out in sleeping bags in the loft have heard the noises below and they’re up and giggling and starting to bicker. I’ll fix scrambled eggs and biscuits and gravy and I’ll make the strawberries with heavy cream and sugar that are the grandkids’ favorites. We’ll sit out on the deck and eat our breakfast and watch the squirrels and blue jays squabble over their own breakfast. Fishing poles will be located against the side of the cabin, and some will head down to the creek to check lines that were left in overnight. The youngest grandkids are swinging on the tire swing hung from the old deer stand tree. I’ll grab my same old walking stick that I found soon after we bought the place and try to persuade someone to go on a walk with me. We’ll stick dog biscuits in our pockets and loop the binoculars around our neck and set off down the roads we’ve walked a hundred times before. We’ll wonder in and out of the cabin throughout the morning and fix makeshift lunches of cold cuts or leftovers. Later in the afternoon we’ll gather firewood and build a big fire in the pit and roast hot dogs and marshmallows. The grandkids will try to burn anything they can find and chase each other in a game of tag or play hide and seek until it gets too dark and they get scared that the bears will get them. We’ll sit up and watch the stars come out and talk about all of the fish we’ve caught and not caught and all of the nights just like tonight and tell the same old stories. I’ll leave my boys gathered around the fire and I’ll make my way carefully up the old spiral stairs and step gingerly over the sleeping bodies of my grandchildren. I’ll lay down under my quilt and say, “Thank you everyone.” And close my eyes.

When I wake up the cap’n will be looking down at me and smiling and saying, “Good morning, Baby.”

(I wrote this scenario with the assumption that it will take place several years from now and that the cap’n being several years older than me will have gone on ahead of me)

Here’s the wonderful thing, I can have that day right now. (except for the part where the cap’n has gone on ahead, thank my Co-writer). In fact, I had several very similar days just two months ago when our families came to visit. I can have hundreds more of them…..but not if I’m drunk or hungover. I’ve read so many posts recently from friends that are struggling to make the choice of whether to abstain from alcohol permanently or not. Just like I was, they are afraid of what they will be missing if they quit drinking. I want so bad to ask them, “What are you missing right now?” “How much have you already missed?” “How much more are you going to miss?”

So today I’m just out there doing my best to live every day as if it’s my last, jic, and hanging out with my mom.

Re-Gifting

(Stanley on the boat and dressed up for Fantasy Fest in Key West, 2001. He earned more beads than I did that night but that's another long, sad drinking story.) 

Today, I'll be grateful for all my relationships.

I will open myself to the lesson and the gift from each person in my life.

I will trust that I, too, am a gift in other people's lives.

--The Language of Letting GoDay 55

I'm grumpy! This time change is really kicking my arse. I know that I was supposed to gain an hour of sleep but try telling that to Stanley, the blind killer bichon. Nobody set his clock back and now he is up at 4:00 am bumping into walls waking me up. So I grumble and cuss and haul him outside in the moonlight so he can do his business while he wags his tail, so happy to see me and wake-up to a new day. He has been such a gift to me, he deserves better.

Fifteen years ago I was getting my dog fix by going out to our local humane society shelter on a weekly basis to visit the dogs out there. The cap'n had decreed, "No more dogs," after the lab I had brought into the marriage jumped the fence for the 900^th time and escaped. One afternoon, as I was perusing the caged dogs, I noticed a freshly groomed "poodle" dog in one of the cages. He didn't have that forlorn, unfortunate look yet that shelter dogs usually have.

"Are you guys boarding dogs now?" I asked my friend that worked there

.

"No," she replied, "that one is up for adoption."

"Hmmm," I said, thinking, poor thing, he's not my type. I hate "poodle" dogs and their prissy, yippy ways. Give me a burly Labrador or German Shepherd any day.

"Did you guys get a shipment of food in?" I asked. "I noticed a bunch of big red dumpsters out front."

"No Kary, the dumpsters are for the euthanized dogs," my friend replied.

I immediately ran home to the cap'n and said, "You've got to let me get this dog." And he did.

Poor Stanley didn't know what he was getting into.

He went from an unknown previous life, to a house with three rambunctious teenagers where he usually hid under the couch or a bed, to a sailboat which made him seasick every time we sailed, to a cabin in CO with bears and coyotes that would love to have him as a snack, and now to a casa in MX where the iguanas are bigger than he is. Along the way, he's been stuffed under uncountable airline seats, swallowed a fish hook, stared desperately, for days on end ,at a shoreline that we couldn't get him in to because of rough seas, been attacked by vicious street dogs and cranky sand crabs and now that he is completely blind, we up and move him to a new hotel room every other week or a new country twice a year. Still, he wags his tail.

On the mornings I was hungover, he would wag his tail hopefully and wait for the silly, "Good Morning, Stanley" song I sing every morning and when it didn't come he would look up at me worriedly. Days later when I finally felt like I could sing again and he heard his song as I came down the stairs he would jump up and down in circles until I grabbed his front paws and danced with him. Both of us relieved.

Stanley, I promise no more deadly quiet, hungover mornings, just silly songs and dancing from here on out. That's my gift to you, you lucky dog.

So today I'm just out there doing my best to ignore my grumpiness and get in the spirit of re-gifting.

P.S. My youngest son called while I was writing this and we had one of the longest and most real coversations than we've had in years, the capn's son called yesterday just to yak at me, and one of my oldest friends called last week and I didn't get off the phone for over an hour. (This may be hard to believe, but I am not a phone person, I'm a lot more gabby on the computer). The gifts just keep piling up. It looks like it's time for me to start re-gifting so I'll have room for new ones. I have several phone calls I've been meaning to make.

Neighbor Kary May's Radio Show: The "Keeping 'Em In Stitches" Episode

"Heirloom" is knitting code for "This pattern is so difficult that you would consider death a relief. ~Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, At Knit's End: Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much

Day 52

We made it to another Happy “Act Like I’m Not A Drunk” Saturday, I hope everybody is hangover free this morning and if you’re not, have a Bloody Mary for me. Okay, I know that is not politically correct on this show to say nice things about drinking but I do love a spicy Bloody Mary, it’s just one more thing that will live on in fond memory only. I figure sex will be like that someday, just a fond spicy memory that still makes my mouth water. I know I could fix me a virgin one but I’m really not that fond of tomato juice unless it has healthy slug of vodka in it. “Nuff of that! No more talk about drinking.

My daughter-in-law is having her baby shower this morning and I mailed my present for my first granddaughter earlier this week. They still haven’t picked a name yet, it was going to be Abigail, which I loved, but now they are considering Kelsy which I am ambivalent about but it beats the hell out of Jezebel which, while not seriously considered I hope, my daughter professed a liking for early in her pregnancy. Anyway I sent the baby the cutest baby blanket, kimono-sweater, and cap that I knitted and crocheted. I meant to take a picture and post it on here but I forgot until I had it sealed up in the package. While some people are fierce in their loyalty to either knitting or crocheting and never the ‘tween shall meet, I sling my yarn both ways. Despite what other needlework devotees profess, I don’t find either one particularly relaxing. It’s probably my own fault because, just like in other areas of my life, I tend to think I’m much more skilled than I am so I tend to gravitate toward patterns that are way out of my league and I have to learn as I screw up. (Thank the heavens for the internet and Knit Witch youtube videos.) So instead of choosing a simple relaxing repetitive pattern like the popcorn stitch in the baby blanket I just finished, I will choose an expert level cable pattern that uses every letter in the alphabet in its abbreviated instructions i.e. (sskp2k4jwzlmnop) 3 then reverse. It sounds like a sobriety test for drunk knitters (my hand is raised in the past tense). I dare you to make a video of that stitch, Knit Witch (I will discontinue the rhyme at this point to maintain my “content suitable for immature viewers” rating). I will attempt this expert level project in the fervent hopes that the beneficiary of all my, devoted, finger numbing, carpal tunnel causing, hard work will gaze in stupored awe at my masterpiece for at least one minute before they toss it into the yawning abyss where all my creations seem to disappear, never to be seen again.

Here are just a few other things I find “not” relaxing about needlework:

1. I can still see to knit or crochet without my glasses but I can’t see the TV without them, so it’s more like K1 P2, Glasses on, Glasses off, repeat.

2. The yarn always runs out when I have made it 7/8 ‘s of the way down the row.

3. Too many stitches left at the end of the row.

4. Too few stitches left at the end of the row.

5. People that decide to have a conversation with me when I am counting my stitches.

6. A big fuzzy knot the manufacturer has put in the middle of a skein that always shows up when I’m in the middle of a row. I think they do it on purpose.

7. Running out of yarn with 3 rows to go. Also done on purpose so you will buy more yarn.

8. Finding hand-knit items in the Goodwill store.

9. Finding things I have spent months knitting wadded up in the corner of a closet. This is a sad true story, but hey, at least they still have it.

10. Always having the size of needles called for, in some other place, some other town, some other state or some other country.

11. Never being able to find the exact yarn that is recommended and buy what I think might be an adequate substitute only to find out halfway through that the baby booties I am knitting would fit Shaquille O’Neal.

12. Here’s one that doesn’t happen anymore. Waking up and finding out I have to rip out everything I knitted the night before because I was drunk.

There’s many more but that’s all I have time for this morning. I’m in the middle of crocheting some Christmas ornaments and I can’t decide if they are incredibly cute or incredibly ugly (kind of like my fourth child) and whether I should be embarrassed or proud when I give them away. It probably doesn’t matter, I’ll never see them again. Lol



I guess we’ll have to suffer through Nancy’s sausages for one more week on DWTS, that’s okay just as long as JR wins.



Speaking of sausages…Here’s a recipe that I used to fix every Christmas morning but I haven’t fixed it in years. I tried to google it but I couldn’t find it so this is how I remember it. Fix it at your own risk. Let me know how it turns out.

Sausage and Stuffing Breakfast Casserole

1 lb Jimmy Dean Sausage (whatever your favorite flavor is).

1 package of Pepperidge Farm stuffing mix

1 dozen eggs

4 cups of milk

1 lb cheddar cheese, shredded or grated.

S&P to taste but I usually think the dressing and sausage add enough seasoning to the casserole without adding S&P

Preheat oven to 325 F

Grease 9x13” baking dish

Brown sausage.

Spread stuffing mix on bottom of baking dish

Spread sausage on top of stuffing.

Combine eggs and milk and pour over sausage and stuffing.

Top with cheese.

Cover with foil and refrigerate overnight.

Bake for 45 minutes.



Have a great weekend!

Neighbor Kary May's Radio Show: The "Boo"-Hoo Halloween Party

In the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. ~Robert Ingersoll


Day 45

It’s another “Act Like I’m Not A Drunk” Saturday. I hope everyone is hangover free and ready for wonderful fall Saturday. I’ve been reading the message boards “listening” to all the newbies lamenting about not getting to get dressed up and go to assorted Halloween parties this weekend. It’s not really bothering me that much, partly because I live like a hermit up here in CO and if I did wander down the mountain to one of our two bars in town for a Halloween party nobody would recognize me whether I was wearing a costume or not. But also because I’m kind of used to missing Halloween Parties anyway. I remember years ago when I was married to DH numero uno we were invited to a Halloween Party that one of his trucker buddies at work was throwing. I was all excited, it wasn’t often that a young wife with two squalling babies got to dress up and go out and spend time with a bunch of truckers, not unless she was trying to earn a little extra money.

A friend and I had worked out a kid exchange, she was watching my kids on Friday night while DH 1 and I went to our party and I was watching hers on Saturday so she and her DH could go to their party. After I got off work that Friday I hurried home to put my costume on. Being an OR nurse and being poor (the two go hand in hand) I went with the easy cheap costumes, I was the patient and DH1 was a doctor, roles we had played many times before in the privacy of our own home. I wrapped my head all up in gauze and donned a patient gown (I was wearing leggings and a t-shirt underneath for a change that night), I drew some bloody gashes on my face with my lipstick, I even went as far as taping a catheter bag and tubing to my thigh. Inside the catheter bag I had placed a happy little gold fish who was swimming around swimmingly. The party was supposed to start at 7:00 pm and at 5:30 I was already ready and eager to go and get some grog. Friday was DH1’s day off and as usual he was out hunting. 6:00 pm rolled around and still no DH but that was not unusual, I never did figure out how he was able to hunt pheasant after dark. 7:00 pm came and went and by now my foot’s about to fall off from me bouncing it up and down, the poor little gold fish is looking a little green around the gills from all the turbulence and he keeps trying to do the back float. At 8:00 DH comes through the door and I am so pissed off I can’t even talk. The DH looks at me quizzically and calmly says, “Kary, the party is tomorrow night.”

My mother was right, we should have spent more time talking and less time playing doctor.

Well, Chaz finally got kicked off of DWTS, I wonder what he’s going to dress up as for Halloween, wouldn’t it be ironic if he dressed up as a woman? I actually took care of a couple once that were both going through sex change operations, the husband was turning into the wife and the wife was turning into the husband. How the hell do these people find each other? I don’t know who will be voted off next. Hope or David or Nancy. I hope it’s Nancy, my prim Polish sister-in-law says she is tired of looking at Nancy’s sausages every week. I thought she was talking about her boobs but she was talking about her legs. David Arquette has improved but he is one goofy son-of-a-gun. I watched him on Chelsea the other night, I love Chelsea, and he was giggling so much you couldn’t understand a word he said. It reminded me of me and my best friend when we used to sit down in my basement and get drunk and get the giggles. I do miss that sometimes. Hope is probably safe for a couple more weeks because people want to see Maks and Len fight some more.

I got my Halloween boxes to the grandkids in the mail before the snow hit this year. I sent popcorn balls for them and this adult spicy version of caramel corn for their parents. I don’t know if it is good or not since I’m still on the Atkins. I did chew up some of the spicy peanuts and spit them out just to get a taste and they tasted good. My oldest son said it was awesome but it wasn’t that spicy. I added 1 teaspoon of cayenne so if you like it hot, add more.

Spicy Peanut Caramel Popcorn



For the Spicy Peanuts:

2 1/2 cups roasted, unsalted peanuts

1/4 cup light corn syrup

2 tablespoons sugar (white, light, or dark brown)

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon chili powder

¾ - 1 teaspoon cayenne

For the Caramel Corn:

10 cups freshly popped popcorn (popped without added salt or fat) I used about 3 bags of plain microwave popcorn.

1/4 pound (1 stick) unsalted butter

1 cup packed dark brown sugar

1/2 cup light corn syrup

1/2 teaspoon coarse kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Procedures1

To make the peanuts, preheat oven to 350ºF. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.

Combine peanuts, corn syrup, sugar, salt, chili powder, and cayenne in medium bowl. Toss until peanuts are well-coated. Transfer peanuts to baking sheet and bake, stirring occasionally, until nuts around edges of pan are beginning to darken, 15 minutes.

Allow nuts to cool completely on baking sheet. They will stick together, almost like brittle. Break nuts into bite-sized pieces. Spicy peanuts can be made up to one week in advance.

To make the caramel corn, preheat the oven to 200ºF. Line baking sheet with parchment paper. .

In medium saucepan, combine butter, brown sugar, corn syrup, and salt. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Reduce heat to medium-low, clip candy thermometer to side of pan, and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until mixture reaches 238ºF. Immediately remove pan from heat and stir in baking soda and vanilla.

Pour hot caramel over popcorn. Toss until evenly coated. Transfer popcorn mixture to baking sheet and bake 40 minutes, stirring once halfway through. Remove from oven and continually stir to keep popcorn separated. When popcorn loses most of its stickiness add peanuts and mix. Caramel corn will keep for 2 to 3 weeks, stored in an airtight container at room temperature.


I’m headed to Las Vegas today for some good Mexican food, wish me luck. That’s Las Vegas, NM enroute back to Carlsbad.

See you on Monday.

So today I’m just out there just doing my best to enjoy the ride and hoping I can talk the cap’n into stopping off at the Hobby Lobby in Pueblo. He just loves that place. He could spend the whole day browsing the aisles. NOT!!! It’s so much more painless to shop online.

Staying In Synch

Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events, that are apparently causally unrelated or unlikely to occur together by chance, that are observed to occur together in a meaningful manner.

Carl Jung

There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.

Friedrich Schiller (1759 - 1805)

Day 45

The other day I decided to write down a timeline of my drinking history. As I reviewed the timeline I noticed a definite pattern of feeling trapped in situations and using alcohol as a means of escape. Until alcohol itself trapped me. It worried my because I have been feeling somewhat trapped lately by my feeling of powerlessness over the decision to move to Mexico full time and I feel trapped by my financial dependence on the cap’n which I allowed to develop and grow while I was drinking. I’m worried but I’m happy to report that I’m using other means to, not escape, rather to overcome my feelings of powerlessness and entrapment.

As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts in the last year, while I’ve been trying to free myself from the bindings of alcohol, I’ve also been reading the book “The Artists Way” and following its directives for freeing my captive creativity. Many of the beliefs and strategies described in the book seem to correlate directly to my pursuit of sobriety. The book encourages us to open ourselves up and to be alert for synchronicity in our life. Those little chance happenings that just seem to happen at the right time for no reason. We get laid-off from a job and we think our life can’t get any worse and the next day you happen to “friend” an old high school classmate on fb that you haven’t talked to in years and while your catching up he mentions his company is hiring and it just happens to be your dream job. (It happened to a friend of mine this week). You get the picture. We tend to shrug these happenings off as luck or coincidence and ignore them. But what if they’re not freak happenings? What if they are keys that open the many doors to our destiny. Are we denying the very miracles we’re waiting for just because they didn’t slap us side our heads and say, “Here I am!” I think for a long time I was too busy looking for the next drink to be on the lookout for or even give a rat’s ass about the synchronicity in my life. Once again I’m left wondering what I missed.

Last night I was up laying in my bubble bath and honestly not missing my old glass of wine one bit and I was finishing up the latest chapter in “The Artists Way.” At the end of each chapter there is always a list of tasks that the reader is supposed to do. One of the tasks after this particular chapter was to review my week and note any instances of synchronicity that had happened. I couldn’t think of a damn one. So I got out of the tub, dried off, moisturized and dressed and came downstairs to check email. Bam! Right up side my head! There in my inbox was an email from a publishing company that had turned down a manuscript for a line of children’s stories that I had submitted a year ago asking me to resubmit the manuscript or submit any other work I had. Shazam!

Disclosure: I do not submit manuscripts on a regular basis, this submission is one of a whole two manuscripts I’ve submitted anything to be published other than sailing articles.

Are there any other little miracles of synchronicity out there that I haven’t noticed.

So today I’m just out there doing my best to stay in synch and thanking my Co-writer for letting things happen as they will.

P.S. I’m on the road again tomorrow but Neighbor Kary May’s Radio Show will be on the air.