Bummer About Your Stroke

So I’m standing under the fluorescent lights in the “greeting card” aisle at the drugstore, and I know I’m not going to find anything even remotely close to what I need: “Sorry to Hear About Your Alcoholism-Induced Stroke.” I find myself humming along to John Denver on the Muzak™ as I scan the standard categories for ideas, trying to imagine creative ways to shoehorn my grief and frustration between the Hallmark sentiments:

Miss You. Well, not really. When I see your name on my caller ID at 3 am, I know you’ve miscalculated the time-zone difference. Again.
Get Well. Not likely.
Cope. Getting warmer, though these cards usually imply the death of a family member, a friend, or a pet.
Encouragement. This will have to do. I choose a card with an earnest Maya Angelou inscription suggesting there may be hope in your future yet.

Nearly 30 years have passed since I met R. at a keg party. He was my college soul-mate, a port in the storm, a non-judgmental rock I could lean on. At least that’s what I thought back then; in fact, R. was the only person I’ve ever known who could match me drink for drink. Consuming large quantities of beer and Jack Daniels (or vodka, scotch, or whatever was available) wasn’t a diversion, it was our vocation, and something we practiced every single day with gusto. Naturally we became friends despite having few common interests outside of intoxication.

After graduation, years passed and we lost track of each other. My drinking got exponentially worse. When I was 29, I dreamt that God was sitting on my chest, trying to suffocate me since I seemed determined to kill myself anyway. I quit drinking soon after that. Years passed and I stayed sober, got divorced, came out of the closet, and left high tech. I met a nice girl and settled down to a comfortable, middle-class life.

Two years ago at Christmas, I decided to contact R., figuring he had to either be sober or dead, his skinny frame surely incapable of withstanding two decades of unremitting alcoholism. To my surprise, he was neither sober nor dead. I told him about Lori, my landscape design business, and the book I was writing. R. told me he had no family or friends left, despite living in the city where we attended college and where he’d lived his entire life. He couldn’t exactly remember, but he’d been in and out of rehab at least seven times. After we hung up the phone, I knew in my gut that R. was describing the life I might have had. We were no different in our alcoholism with the exception of that “moment of clarity” when God tried to kill me.

Two months ago, the phone rings with an unfamiliar area code on the caller ID. My friend R. says hello and makes chitchat before blurting out, “I had a major stroke.” His roommate found him unconscious on the couch and called an ambulance. After the hospital, R. was placed in a nursing home for long-term care and physical therapy, where he’s now a ward of the state and living in a wheelchair. He is 47 years old, the same age as me.

Don’t ask me to explain why one alcoholic gets sober and another doesn’t. “Sobriety” feels so random and unpredictable and has absolutely nothing to do with merit or potential. I do think it helps if an alcoholic can imagine himself in better place without the alcohol. Maybe R. calls me because I represent a different way of life, or maybe I’m just someone who still gives a damn. Before our phone call ended, I gently asked R. if he thought his drinking had anything to do with his stroke. He replied, “Actually, no! It was the weirdest thing: after the ambulance came, they discovered a bottle of vodka in the freezer. I hadn’t even opened it yet.”

I waited a few days before I mailed the card. I wanted to send an inspirational and funny message; instead, I wrote, “You’re a schmuck. Get help. I love you.” I’m not sure Maya Angelou would approve, but until Hallmark comes out with a Bummer About Your Alcoholism line of cards, this will have to do.

April 2008

My backyard in Spring.

Ode to a Stainless Steel Coffee Carafe

You save me from cold, greasy java.

Reheated in the microwave two or even
Three times.
I swore I would NOT be like my mother, at least in the coffee department, but alas.
I failed.
Sparks popping on the souvenir cup from Princess Cruises,
The spiff mug from Lori’s job a few companies ago
Overheats like that bad, bad boss she had.

Sometimes, in a rush, I heat up a plastic to-go cup, even though it means
Certain Death and Cooties. Our planet suffers for my impatience.

Starbucks, Peets, Newman’s Organic, the Fair Trade stuff on sale
Splenda and some half-n-half,
A biscotti stolen from Lori’s stash
Java be not proud!

Our last carafe turned mean and bit me
One day as I washed it out I heard a clink
And I ran a finger inside the rim.
The cut was deep and the blood abundant as I cursed that
Ugly white plastic bitch and threw her in the trash.

The best Valentine’s gift ever!
$30 silver stainless steel coffee carafe
from Bed, Bath & Beyond.
From Beyond, my prayers were heard
No stupid roses or chocolates, please!
Send me something I really need!

O carafe! Nectar protector
Brushed metal exterior spotless and pure
Glassless and indestructible
Noon comes so soon and yet—
And yet—
Fresh, hot, and lovely you are
Like my little latte Lori!
You save me from cold, greasy java
Certain Death and Cooties.

Jingle Bells Root Canal

I recently had a root canal. Like the phrase "broken hip," the words "root canal" don't really mean anything. Until my mom fractured her pelvis, I never thought about what a "broken hip" actually was: The ball on top of the femur cracks or breaks off. That's a serious injury for anybody, but especially for senior citizens, many of whom are light enough to blow over in a stiff breeze. Take your calcium, dear readers, and avoid gravity whenever possible.

A root canal, on the other hand, means the endo-dentist uses a wee tiny drill to go splunking in your tooth. The human "root canal" is the tunnel carrying blood vessels and nerves, or in my case, lint. That particular molar was dead, dead, dead, but somehow still felt the urge to ring up $1500 worth of lidocaine and gauze during the annual holiday shopping frenzy. You see, the "roots" and "canals" in my tooth were fine, minding their own business, but the infection below them was seriously miffed. What caused the infection? Who knows. Perhaps it was my unconscious desire to listen to TWO AND A HALF HOURS of "lite" "holiday" "dentist music."

It was an unholy collision of lidocaine and "Little Drummer Boy," of drilling and "Jingle Bells" (five versions), and finally, listening to the dental assistant trill "Spit, please!" while she sang along to "Santa Baby." Why did it take 2-1/2 hours? As my doctor said, "Wow, this is unusual! You have not just one canal in each root--you have a total of four canals in one tooth." Four canals means four posts, and three of the most painful shots I've ever had. Two wads of cotton, and a partridge in a pear tree. They gave me some 600 mg. ibuprofen and sent me home.

I'm not sure I'll listen to "Frosty the Snowman" ever again without hearing the faint buzz of the drill or tasting the tang of silver amalgam. "Silver Bells" indeed.

Start Screaming

I’m delighted to live in an era of technological innovation and cultural change that makes a green future possible. However, if I read one more inane article about saving the planet with fluorescent light bulbs, I may just set fire to some polystyrene. Enough with the pious marketing efforts of General Electric and Chevron. It’s time to dig a little deeper if we Americans are going to break free from our post-WWII advertising-induced coma.

Christmas Newsletter 2007!!!!!

Welcome to planet Earth, Santa and Baby Jesus! Did Rudolph and the Three Wise Men guide your sleigh tonight? Ho ho!!

Our children Olga, Melvin, and Wheeler are all doing fabulously well in spite of a shared IQ of 5-1/2. Each of them achieved personal milestones in 2007. Just last month, Olga ate 31 pieces of individually wrapped, sugar-free hard candies. We now know that no living creature should eat that much sugar-free anything. Ever. We briefly wondered if Olga could overdose on Splenda, but after the incident with the bag of organic lawn fertilizer (and the vacuum-cleaner cord, the AA batteries, and the pink feather duster), we knew she could tough it out. I got a special chuckle out of the candy “shrapnel” stuck to my shoes for the next two days.

Olga recently informed us that she’s voting for Dennis Kucinich in 2008. Our girl is such an idealist!! She was recently voted “most likely to run into a burning building just for the fun of it.”

In October, Mel was on Neighborhood Terrorist Patrol and alerted us to a major threat across the street: an Islamic extremist masquerading as a plastic scarecrow. Mel growled at that evil-doer scarecrow every day for two weeks—when he wasn’t busy protecting our home from those hippy-liberal, acorn-smoking squirrels trying to molest our bird feeder. Mel was recently voted “most likely to bite you when startled.” We sleep better knowing that Mel is on the job—although we always leave on a night-light.

Wheeler continues to eat, sleep, and complain. She reminds us of a cactus with fur. We’ve enrolled her in snowboarding lessons beginning in January—won’t she be surprised? Kitty-bunga!

The year 2007 has been a tremendously prosperous one for Casa de Kendall-Watts, if by “prosperous” we mean “dodging foreclosure.” Otherwise, not so much: If manuscript rejections were diamonds, Tisa would be a wealthy woman. Of course, without the rejections, I’d make some money so either way—it’s a confusing metaphor. Lori’s job is imploding but in a good way. Stay tuned for some abrupt career changes in 2008!

In other news, Lori and Tisa are both entering menopause! At the same time! Together, we’re laughing, crying, screaming at clueless pedestrians and salesclerks—what a whacky time we’re having. Each day we give thanks for modern chemistry and our deluxe heating blanket with dual controls. Anyway, all I really want for Christmas is a few more exclamation points, since I seem to be running low!!! Here’s wishing YOU a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year!!!

Lori, Mel, Olga, Wheeler & Tisa

Recycled Birdhouses

Here is my latest obsession: building birdhouses. Made from salvaged wood and hardware dug out of the donation bins at the builder's junkyard. OK, so the wood is just really old fence boards headed for the dump, but it got me to thinking--why are we cutting down trees for new wood to build birdhouses? Wouldn't the birds be happier if we used old crappy wood and left the trees alone?