What happens when you mix Two Buck Chuck Merlot with a Microsoft Word? You’re about to find out.
(By my own choice) I find myself back at the first hotel I was housed in (by employers, thus the passive voice) in 2005 when I started as a traveling underwriter (mortgages, due diligence, in case some insurance recruiter is reading this blog and getting ideas). I’m dealing with some stress from having packed up my car (no room for anyone but me) and about the same time when I first “hit the road.” Unfortunately, in 2005, on May 19 (because I didn’t want to do this to my cats on the birthday of one of them: Samba), I took my three cats to the Ventura County Animal Shelter because I could no longer care for them. And to any trolls/bullies/Fucktards getting ideas from that piece of information: forget it and fuck you; you cannot torture me to even 1/10th of the level I have been torturing myself over it for seven years.
Alcohol is not my coping method of choice (because, let’s be honest, unless you’re dealing with stress through meditation, focus and healthy stress relief, if you drink/drug/eat to deal with life’s hardships, not only are your problems still there when the carb/drug/alcohol wears off, but you have added the side effects of overeating/drinking/drugging to those problems. Wildly inefficient and pretty damned stupid, you know? The whole “One step up, two steps back” scenario). However, the fully-packed car took my mind back to that desperate time in 2005 and the years afterwards when I was rootless, essentially living out of my car (and sometimes sleeping in it) and managing, but only just. I hadn’t thought about this shit in years, but here I am and, here’s the warning, Kids: you have no idea how quickly, strongly and effectively those old, seemingly dead triggers will jump up and try to drag you back into hell.
As a kind of “side” illustration: there was an incident when I still lived in New Hampshire. It was Christmas Eve and I was headed to Burlington, VT (about a 2, 2.5 hour drive) to meet up with my best friend to spend Christmas with her and her family. As I got about 15 miles out of Concord, NH, I noticed that the tachometer was close to the red line, even if I took my foot off the gas. If I tried to put the car in neutral, the engine would rev and it WOULD redline. The accelerator was stuck. I didn’t own a cellphone at that time, it was a Sunday Christmas Eve and if you’ve driven Route 89, you know that except for Concord, West Lebanon and Burlington, there is nothing around. The road was empty that day (because people of common sense were already hunkered down with their families). I couldn’t count on a cop coming by. I figured that I had enough gas to get to Burlington where I could get help, so I drove and prayed that no one would try to pull me over. I got as far as Montpelier, VT and had to go to the bathroom. I pulled off the highway and into a gas station where my brakes were smoking like I’d taken a torch to them. I lucked out and even though he wasn’t supposed to be there, there was a guy in the station who fixed the problem (a cable had come loose). My point is that this happened well over 10 years ago and to this day, if I smell burning brakes, I get shaky and sweaty. You don’t know what lies in wait from your memory and subconscious waiting to pounce. However, knowing that they’re lurking out there is half the battle. Write that down.
I have to remind myself that I KNOW this is temporary. The issues that kept me from establishing a permanent base of operations no longer exist. I am in a position to set up my own home (and according to this morning’s edition of “CBS Sunday Morning”, I am one of 30 some million Americans living on my own. Downside? It can feel extremely lonely and isolated sometimes, especially when I’m worried or scared. Upside? There’s no one to tell me how badly/loudly I snore or criticize my housekeeping (or lack thereof. More lack thereof. I can clean. I just don’t like to) or say things like “I hate the way you blow your nose.” I am actively seeking a new home. 1 BR 1 bath, reasonably close to work (the 100 + mile commute of the past week was a motherfucker). However, if George Clooney wants to take up with me, I’ll let him (he’s mine. I just haven’t told him yet).
In a follow up to a previous blog (Dear E! Online, You Morons), I notice that Robin Gibbs’s death is getting more attention from them than that of Donna Summers. I’ve already ranted: E has truly fucked-up priorities.
I finished off a bottle of Charles Shaw (Two Buck Chuck) Merlot (No, not a whole bottle at one sitting. Half a bottle). Unfortunately, the biggest side effect for me of too much alcohol is a craving for carbohydrates. Wave fried potatoes under my nose and you have my attention. Sadly, there is a Jack in the Box within easy walking distance and I indulged. However, tomorrow is another day, one in which I will be WORKING and I know where the gym is and I shall be fine (and back to eating Paleo).
And that’s it for now…