Men are funny. Funny ha-ha AND funny bizarre. They are hard-wired with so much shit that I believe they should still be dragging their knuckles. Ever since I was a little one, I’ve had negative and positive experiences with the species. My father, obviously, was the first in a series of men that would bend and shape me as if I was Playdough in a jar. It wasn’t too far along the shelf life of said matter that things went awry. But I’m not going to ramble about my disenchantments. I simply need an outlet for my surge.
Testosterone has its place. A necessary evil. An excuse to procreate. But listen here, fellows. You can endear yourselves to me more by participating in reality than you can by the opposite. Case in point;
A temp. Temporary worker. Labor pool. Paid daily sort. Vagabond-ish.
He spends an inordinate amount of time debating and disputing my every task or suggestion for him.
“That’s not 3ft, it’s 4ft.”
“It’s not a hard drive, it’s a computer.”
“The esthetics would be better if you’d just line up the products like such…”
“You can’t work the drill.”
Geezuz H. Christ
I’m done with you. You silly,obsequious, fools.
I believe that with all of the sperm that we have stored, and the technilogical advances in the taking out of garbage, we gals shall rule the earth with dignity, kindness, intellect and respect. Leave the men to an island somewhere to burp the alphabet.
Excepting, of course, those hand picked man-servants that can be classified as eunuchs.
Just kidding.

It takes me years sometimes to get over and beyond the hurdles of hurt that I suffer. Suffer oftentimes, by my own actions, or lack thereof.
With Saxony, it took three. With Annie, my hurting comes and goes. Depending on the situation or with whom I’m reminiscing. On a professional level, I can chuckle and joke and remember fondly all the days she made us laugh, made me proud. On a personal level though, my wing was not large enough for me to take her under. And this is still ouchy.
We met during my ugly-days, as I like to call them. Wasn’t long before I was shuffled off to Navarre. She, very much my staunch defender. Annie and my sis drove there and back as my escorts of devotion. After Navarre, things were altered. I was altered. The capacity in which we needed to be in each other’s lives hadn’t quite fell into place.
Until…she lost her job. And found one with us. Now listen when I tell you that I really loved Saxony. But it was quite different with Annie. Annie had a spark. Lit up the fires under everyone’s asses, too! She could walk into a room and BAM! Kick it up a notch. Don’t mean to plagiarize you-know-who, but you get the point. She also possessed a kid-like persona that made you just want to make sure she was allright. Take care of her. Protect and nurture. I need those kinds of people in my life. They make up for my lack of child-rearing opportunities. There was/is always someone present like that for me, despite the fact that I never want any of them to leave me completely.
But Annie’s absence still leaves a mark. A scar. We all miss her. Miss her laughter, her good moods, her quickedness in catching on. But I miss her the most, I think. I wanted so much for her to replace me. To follow in the natural order of things on the corporate ladder. But again, I was foiled. I cannot speak for her.
And now I realize that I never could. But the, “What might have been’s,” still echo like a booming cacauphony in my ears. We never know how life turns out. Until it turns out. I won’t ever forget her, though. Whether or not we cast an eye upon one another again in this lifetime.
I can’t forget Annie.
And somehow I know that she can’t forget us either.

The letters.
I went to a treatment facility in Navarre, Fl. Full of fear, remorse and pity. I didn’t know what would become of me. I’d lost my long time pal known as sobriety, and surely the “Company” would leave me also. Couldn’t blame them, really. I’d wasted the gift. I received two letters then. Yes, actual letters. The kind that our children and grandchildren know little of. The kind of letter that takes ink. A desk and chair. Thought and concern. One, from my boss, JVB. A card that expressed heart-felt concern. Handwritten. Sentimental, even. The second, a shock. Our “Company” H.R. lady, Charlotte. A piece of paper, inked with cursive. A story, of sorts. Informing me that life is about getting back up on the horse, not staying down. Not signed formally. Or on the “Company” letterhead, but personally. I broke down, lost it. The kindness was overwhelming me. I wanted to be punished. To be abandoned. It’s what I deserved. But that didn’t happen. Not at all.
They cradled me then, the “Company.” It was during that time that life came back. That saving Dee was important again. I endured that time. Got out, got back into the swing of life. But my guilt permeated every waking moment that I spent doing “Company” things. Like a teeter-totter, were my emotions. Things wouldn’t go how I thought they should, and I’d accredit my relapse for it. After all, I screwed up, I deserved some injustice, right?
Until the day that I stood back up. Yes, people. I stood up again. Held my head level with the faces of those whom I’d felt lower than, less than. They made that possible. They provided the playing field. The “Company.” My saving graces. I hear funny, ironic type things often now. Recruiters that say, “Well, you have been with this company for a decade or so, it may show a reluctance to move forward, to change.” Or, “You’re not making x amount? well you should compare that with other companies who are paying more.”
I listen. Sometimes, I even hear them. But eventually, I laugh.
Because the real meaning of this story is about substance. Fiber. You can sing your songs about this dollar or that amount of time, but it doesn’t matter. My “Company” took my beatings. Was my voice when I couldn’t speak.

I knew for sure I was going to be fired at one point. Just prior to returning from my short-term disabilty. The VP of operations came down from Ohio. This is it, I thought. Game over. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. I couldn’t whip out my get outta jail free card…

Lunch at Sonny’s bbq. He looked at me. Right in the eyes. He said; “Dee, you have been loyal to us for 10 years now. It’s time for us to be loyal to you.”

I guess I’m grateful that God doesn’t afford me the vision to see around corners. I’d have cheated myself every time…

The facts, as they appear to me most often, are these;

1) Piss on the recruiters who say longevity equals fear.
Longevity, my friends, equals far more than the recruiters could comprehend. It equals faith. And hope. And heart and soul.
2) Fall down once.
See where it takes you. See what humility means to you.
3) Don’t be ashamed of mistakes.
You just never know what or where you’ll find yourself without them.
4) Let people love you.
At least until you can love yourself. Without the love of others, I’d not be writing this stuff down.
5) Be loyal.
Give every ounce of every fiber that you can muster. It counts. Really, it does.
6) Teach someone else what you have learned, be a mentor.
Spread your information around. Even the bad stuff. It makes a difference.

The “Company” is still there. And so am I.
I need them, folks. Need them, want them.
But today I can tell you this:
They seem to need me, want me, too.
Thank God.
My “attitude” is so different now. I’ve received promotions for it, not fired because of it.
A gift.
I’ve grown up in this place, and continue ad infinitum…
All the while they stood by me, waited and watched and witnessed.
My “Company.” 13 years ago…

Ok. So where was I?
Oh yes, the personal side of life. The one where you get blindsided by the beauty of another.
Wham! There it is. In your face. Breathless. That’s the day that my sobriety began to eyeball its way south. Little did I know…
I’m a strong woman you know. Was then, too. Or so I thought. It had been eons since romance had tempted me with its rose-colored vases filled with red-colored roses. I fell for it. Fell hard and fast. Fell head over heels and back again. Or did I? Was I simply lured by the the idea of something new, something exciting? No matter. I gave up then, my routine. My meetings, my friends, my course, my on-trackedneness. My world as you knew it. The things that mattered began to seem oh so immaterial to me. Except, of course, the “Company.”
In A.A. they teach us that the order of recovery happens as follows;

1) You put down the bottle.
2) You believe that your mind is out to get you.
3) You begin to have faith that a Power greater than you can restore…

During relapse it happens backwards.

1) You lose contact with the Power.
2) You think: “Hey, maybe I’m not an alcoholic.”
3) You pick up that first drink.

And so I did, dear readers. Pick up. I hadn’t had a drink since I was 23. I wanted passionately to be that glamorous-type you see in the magazines. Pinky out, Cosmopolitan lifted to my lips. Ha ha. I was NEVER an elegant drinker.
I fell to the stereotypical illusuion. They say that alcoholism is a progressive disease. I never believed them. Until I realized that MY disease had been doing push-ups in the parking lot the whole time I was sitting through those hour-long meetings. Getting fit. Getting ready. Waiting…
Then came yet another promotion with the “Company.”
I shall never forget that day…It’s branded into me. Branded into those that love me, too.
My alcoholism prevented me from doing what the “Company” expected of me. Panick, I did. It was in S. Florida that my disease knocked me for one Hell of a loop.
Treatment. The crutch for those not strong enough to see…The mockery I’d made for so damn long.
You’d think by this point that I’d just give up. A 28 day treatment stay for such a vain girl? However could I bear it? However could I face the “Company” and all its history with me? Shame was a word imbedded into my heart. And to this day, it’s hard to re-live.

Until…a letter…a letter from my immediate supervisor and the H.R. lady, Charlotte…

…Stay tuned, if you wish.
More will surely follow.

In A.A. we protect anonymity. Not simply because we’re scared of the media, but if we fall, (and we do) it doesn’t reflect badly on A.A. as a whole. So in the spirit of that sentiment, I am going to refrain from mentioning the “Company” name which employed me 13 years ago. 1993. October 4th. One month to the day after my 27th birthday.
My sobriety date was September 12th, 1990. That will become relevant later on. So keep it in mind as I proceed. Anyway…
October 4th, 1993. I had recently moved to Jacksonville on the coattails of a relationship with a more significant title and income. My prior occupations had included everything from nanny to waitress to gas-jockey. None ever lasted more than a year. My “attitude” always got me escorted out of the building, or had forced me to leave before security arrived. I began working at an import store a mile from the new house. I was not big on driving more than a few miles from my safety zone. The pay was, I think, $4.25 per hour. Wow. As it happened, my mother, who was then residing in Minnesota, told me that the place of her employ; the “Company,” had a store in St. Augustine and her manager knew the manager there. He was hiring. Go for it, she said. She, after all, was happy with her job.
So call I did.
Someone asked me recently if I believed in fate. Sometimes I do. And this is one of those times…hear me now.

(more…)

I had dinner a few nights ago with friends. Among the attendees was a 92 year old woman. It was a lovely meal, genuine conviviality and all the pleasantries. The conversation took a turn towards my sleeping patterns of late.
I need to give a bit of history here…

(more…)

I love my tastebuds. They are one of my favorite humanistic gifts. They please me like almost no other part of me. I wouldn’t trade the other 4 senses for them, mind you. But they encompass so much of my life. My social skills, my culinary vocabulary. Everything, it seems, revolves around the next gathering of plates. And palates. My finicky fetishes are accomodated by a host of well-wisher. Food-pushers, as I like to call them. I can think of at least three off the top of my head that can cook their asses off. And one, in particular, whom should replace that spazoid Rachael Ray. She’d show her exactly where to stick her 30 minute meals.
Aaaahh…my tastebuds. I love you. Never leave me.

Ha ha. Say THAT 5 times fast.
I can have a friend now. Really, no joke.
I’m not “IN” love with her anymore, I say.
“How do you know, Dee?”, they query. How do I know?
Let me tell you the story…

“IN” love, I’ve been.
None of that smirking from the peanut gallery whom assumes I’m an island…you know who you are, too!
In the 80’s. She rode her motorcycle in a purple dress. I spent insane amounts of time trying this way and that to convince her that she should be with me. Only me. Forever. Let your hands be like glue, I pleaded. She eventually complied on the very same night that I passed out in her shrine. Don’t bother to tell me that God is without humor. Laughing His ass off that night… Waited a teenaged eternity for that moment…
Jingly-jangly-what-nots hanging from every angle. She smelled nice. Like…uh…patchouli.
Dead things hung from her ears. Ha ha. A private joke. If she reads this ever, she’ll chuckle.
What is the word that you want to use that describes the most beautiful creature that you have ever seen? I was 18 then.

(more…)

Really. I love it. I love grits and cornbread and peas with black eyes and fried green tomatoes and the accent that trips me out. The live oaks and beaches and palms.
I do not much care for its ignorance, though. Sorry folks. Get your gun down off of the rack in your confederate flag-clad pick-up and shoot me. But it won’t do any good. Intelligence is coming. And the Mason-Dixon line is IMAGINARY!
Sorry to burst your bubble. They didn’t teach us much about the lower states in Vancouver. My grandmother spent the winters here in Fla-Ra-Da. But I must tell you that we learned more about U.S. history in Canada than you learn here. Maybe because we’re skeered of y’all. But never in my life have I heard and seen such racial partisanship. Shed more than 13 tears over it, too. That just flew right over the heads of you good old boys, I’m certain.
Jacksonville is the “Bold New City Of The South.” What the Hell does that mean? Bold? You mean fast forwarding itself past the decades of racism and ignorant hatred? Hmmm…I wonder. I’m here to change you. One mind, one heart at a time. It’s the only logical explanation I can muster. And I ain’t just whistling dixie.

Here it is. Straight from my guts.

(more…)