Random God Thoughts

Would it be blasphemous to classify religion as my hobby?  Okay, then… perhaps the study of religion works better?

I am fascinated by religion.  All types.  I grew up in a conservative Presbyterian church.  I ran around insinuating that my Jewish classmates were hellbound, unless they accepted Jesus as their messiah.  Even better, I pointedly told at least one Jewish classmate that he was brainwashed by his religion… and if he would simply look at the evidence, he would know Jesus is who He says He is…

Yeah, I was totally popular.

Anyway, the conservative, condemning religion bit was really a mindf*ck when I realized I was gay.  Quick karmic boomerang, perhaps?

Since then, I have explored Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, paganism and garden variety spirituality.  I am currently reading the Qur’an.  And Seeds, by Thomas Merton (Catholic monk).  And Conversations with God, by Neale Donald Walsh. So, yeah, there is a lot swirling in my head about God, the human condition and love vs. fear.

Spirituality also drives the AA program of recovery.  One of my favorite things about AA is their insistence that you choose a God of your own understanding.   I don’t have to buy the Christian concept of God.  I don’t have to agree with your understanding of God.  I can even believe that any conception of God we have is inherently too small for God… and that is cool, too.  I can continue on my journey to discover more about God without any rush to pin things down.  How arrogant to assume I could pin God down anyway…

I do not believe that we are all “wretches,” lowly groveling creatures that live in sin from the moment we are born.  I do believe that our attachments drive us away from God.  We grasp on to the impermanent, seeking security.  Letting go allows us to explore our connection to the divine.  Of course, letting go is easy in theory…

It seems as though we stray further from God when we allow fear to drive our decisions.  In order to begin to find God within, we must choose love and compassion.  Conversations with God claims that every decision can be boiled down to fear vs. love.  Compelling thought.  But overcoming the fear to get to love can be a struggle.

My friend’s facebook page states simply that “Love Wins.”  Right now, that is what I believe.

Patron Saint

At some point between coffee and my bagel this morning, I noticed Brown Dog excitedly eyeing something on the kitchen floor.  I have to admit I was a bit trepidatious… I mean, my lackluster housekeeping skills meant that it could have been…well… almost anything.

I stopped Brown Dog right before she pounced on an itty bitty little frog.  Dang.  This little guy was too cute!

After shooing the pups outside, I assessed the situation.  I am not known for my bravery when dealing with small, slimy creatures…so, just picking the little guy up was not an option.  But I managed to (rather quickly) pull the ninja cup move.  Okay, okay.  It wasn’t that ninja.  I just put the cup down, tapped his butt and made him jump inside.

I took him right out to the front porch.  He sure did look dazed.  I wonder if Brown Dog had pawed at him once or twice before I intervened.  But he hopped away, so I am guessing he is alright.

The moral?  I am the patron saint of all things small and green that enter the Pea/Monkito household.  Saint Pea… I am beginning to like the sound of that…

And the Beat Goes On…

Here I am, thirty minutes before class starts, wondering if I have enough material to last for four hours. That’s right. FOUR HOURS. Doing anything for a four hour stretch can be a struggle. Marathon teaching relies on seizing teachable moments, on impromptu connections to the material… on, well… bullshit (sometimes).

And, yes, I taught at my primary job this morning. Why, yes, I DO have to create entirely different lesson plans for tonight’s class, as it is for a completely different university. No, no… I don’t mind. Really.

What? Oh, yes… my tutu? Yes, I have that in case I run out of material. I figure I can always perform part of the Nutcracker for them…

Daily Inventory

Yesterday, someone mentioned keeping a daily journal of positive and negative events.  The thought behind this practice being that it becomes easier to see patterns of behavior that need to change (and to notice what makes us feel more fulfilled and rewarded) when looking at small segements of time, rather than looking at an entire lifetime and trying to pick out these patterns.  Rather practical, I thought.

Might try it… But, no, you may not see it.

Saturday Goofiness

Holy Saturday!

Attended a 9 a.m. yoga class, during which the instructor seemed to think it possible for me to balance on my hands for extended periods of time.  That, by the way, is not currently possible.  Much balancing on one foot, and twisting my body like a pretzel, though… yep, and all before 10 a.m.

Later, Monkito and I went to our local health food store (boy, I am sounding really granola right now), and they were giving away free apples!  Apples!  My favorite fruit.  I picked green … you know, to spice things up.  I am usually a loyal Gala apple eater.  I did, however, have a lot of problems removing the “5 Fruits and Veggies Daily!” sticker from my apple before I ate it.  I endured much mocking from Monkito, who–of course–didn’t have a sticker on her apple…

As we were cruising toward the afternoon showing of Where the Wild Things Are, Monkito took off her hat and began running her fingers through her hair.  “Pea, there is something in my hair…”  Yep, that’s right.  The sticker from her apple, stuck right in her bangs.  Sweet.

And finally, for your enjoyment, two gems from the GLBT AA meeting this evening:

I once got kicked out of Barnes & Noble for putting all of the Bibles in the fiction section.

AND…

My boyfriend left me for Jesus.

Got to love those gay boys…

A Week in the Life

Today marked the final day of student conferences for the semester. Thank God I love my students, because this week was one-on-one overload. Some of the highlights:

One girl, after our discussion of her work on Project 3, proceeded to shoot the sh*t with me for fifteen minutes until my next appointment showed up… she was bored, you see. Ennui runs deep in these kids.

Another student stared at me the entire conference. Except for “uh huh,” she uttered not one word. Awkward.

I met one girl’s boyfriend (she brought him with her to the bookstore, but shooed him away for her actual conference).

Another kid rehashed his donating plasma debacle (which we had bantered about in class the week before).

Several of my students played a prank on one of their friends (who is also in my class), telling him that the day he missed class we did an in-class assignment worth 50% of their grade… and there are no make-ups. This kid is freaking out but won’t ask me about it… guess he should have come to class.

I found out that several of my students plan to take one of my 1102 sections in the Spring (a rather hearty compliment).

And, finally, I determined that any sane person can be driven to the brink by Barnes & Noble playing the same CD on a loop. Pick another damn cd! That’s all I am saying.

Picture Pages

Monkito doesn’t like to have her picture taken.  Me, I ham it up for the camera whenever possible.  But we all know I behave like a fruitcake half the time.  I respect Monkito’s dislike of the camera, but there are certain times that pictures can’t be avoided.  Yesterday was just one of those days:  Picture Day at work.  Monkito’s worst nightmare.

I did what I could to ease her pain.  I washed all of her favorite work shirts, so she would have a wide array of choices on Picture Day.  I told her (quite truthfully) that she looked adorable (hmm… maybe she was going for suave or classically composed, instead of adorable?  Hard to tell).  But then, I had to send her on her way.  She had to face Picture Day alone.

As anticipated, she hated the pictures the photographer took.

Pea, my head looked like it had just come out of the birth tunnel… it was all distorted off to one side.

I barely heard the end of her sentence through my peals of aughter.

The WHAT??  It is a birth canal… not a tunnel!  Dude, you totally need an anatomy lesson.  A tunnel!  Ha!  And, fyi, your head is NOT distorted to one side.  Don’t you think I would have noticed by now?  A tunnel!  AWESOME!

So, it turns out that the birth tunnel subverted the horror of Picture Day.  I totally launched into my banter about making babies and storks and Volvos.  And, just like that, Picture Day forgotten!   Ahh, the miraculous powers of the female reproductive system.


Admitting

With a new sponsor comes new homework assignments.   Since the 12 Steps aren’t ever actually complete in the “check them off and forget them” sense, my sponsor decided we would start at Step One and work them all again.  Totally cool.  Most folks work the steps in their entirety every year anyway.

Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol,  that our lives had become unmanageable. (See why folks joke that the first step is admitting that you have a problem?  Because it IS actually the First Step!  Clever, no?)

Last night, at the behest of Senorita Sponsor, I wrote out at timeline of my drinking career as part of my First Step homework.  Somehow, I underestimated how depressing revisiting the First Step would be.

I mean, doesn’t it sound fun?

Starting with your first drink, list the ways in which drinking has negatively impacted your life and the ways in which you strove to protect your addiction.

Exploring the chaos and destruction that I left in my wake as a result of drinking… a virtual party, right?  Guaranteed to pull up some rather wicked memories, memories that I apparently had worked pretty hard to compartmentalize and push way to the back of my mind.

Regardless how difficult it can be to dredge through some of my past actions, the behaviors that these memories bring to light serve as a guideline for things I need to cut the hell out.

For instance, after college (but before my drinking had crossed that alcoholic line), I had already developed this self-centered, arrogant attitude that allowed me to continuously justify my behaviors to myself, not matter how atrocious.  And believe me, I spent a lot of time justifying.  In fact, according to the philosophy of me, I didn’t do much wrong.  If people could just understand the position I was in… This attitude aided and abetted my alcoholism later on.  Justification is dangerous for me.  Taking responsibility for my actions–all of my actions–keeps me on the straight and narrow.  No justification here, folks!

As I wrote out incident after incident that showed my drinking progressing to its lethal potential, I remembered that I don’t ever want to be that person again.  Alcoholism had taken me to a point where my actions were eating away at my soul. I couldn’t be who I wanted to be with a drink in my hand.  But I had no idea how to change.

There was a point where I couldn’t imagine not drinking.  I had no idea how people made it through a day without a drink.  Remembering that utter hopelessness makes it real again.

Sometimes it is good to remember, even if it hurts.  The hurt that memories can cause pales in comparison to the havoc that would result if I picked up a drink.

Thank God I don’t ever have to be in that place again.

Craving

Yesterday, as I listened to Brad Paisley on my commute to my second job, it hit me… I really wanted a beer. Cheap and domestic, in a bottle, please. Maybe the country music prompted the urge… I gained notoriety for my country music jukebox runs when I was drinking. Or maybe the rustic, country setting on my drive to New Port Richey, reminiscent of Tallahassee, reminded me that I like beer. Either way, the urge was strong. I remembered the way the bottle felt when it touched my lips, icy from the cooler, and that first long sip, crisp and exciting.

Fortunately, yesterday marked only the third time I have run up against this kind of craving. I hear that some folks battle that longing feeling daily at the beginning of their sobriety. Shitty.

In times like these, a good AA calls her sponsor. I am not a particularly good AA. I parked my car and walked into my classroom. I moved on with my life and, just like that, craving gone.

Don’t get me wrong, I will tell my sponsor how I felt. We will inevitably discuss the haps in my life that put me in that boozin’ mindset for a minute (dude, that sentence is awesome!). But, as it is, I stand reminded that I am one decision away from drinking. I am never going to be “above” this. I will always rely on my higher power to get me past the urges and on the program to keep me honest. Not a bad gig, this maintenance program.

And today, today I am just focused on my next cup of coffee. Keep ‘em coming, barista!

Will the Indignities Never Cease?

I rolled out of bed at 6:45 a.m. to prepare for my saline ultrasound.  Okay, I guess I wasn’t “preparing.”  Not like I had to do much to prepare my uterus to be invaded by large syringes filled with saline.  But my psyche, oh my psyche needed to be prepared.  The truth: I was scared.  Vivid recall of my HSG experience did not serve to abate my fears.  That test hurt like a sonofabitch.  Since no one indicated whether or not this test would  cause great “discomfort,” I immediately assumed the pain would be debilitating.  You know, because I am optimistic like that.

As I inched down I275 in rush hour traffic (my appointment was downtown at 8:30 a.m.), I became more and more nervous.  Monkito couldn’t accompany me, as she had her own fun doctor’s appointment this morning that couldn’t be rescheduled.  Alone and incredibly nervous, I attempted to welcome in the morning with a little Band of Horses … but turned the music off when I almost got run over by an F 150.  Nothing about the morning was worthy of Band of Horses, anyway.

By the time they got me into the exam room, I was seriously considering a breakdown.  I wondered how often they had women walk out from the exam room crying, telling them that this bullshit was just too much.  Yeah, they have probably seen it a million times.  This trying to get knocked up stuff is not for the faint of heart.  It takes perseverance and tenacity, I will tell you that much.

The doctor finally made it into the room, and I started chatting and asking questions.  I do this lately when I am nervous.  I get real glib and rather witty.  It seems fake to me… but it works.  I become instantly less nervous.  Maybe its that “act as if” thing the AAs are always on and on about.

Anyway, turns out saline ultrasounds don’t hurt any more than a regular ultrasound.  For the uninitiated, that is not at all.  But, just so you know the extent of the indignities, when I stood up after the procedure, saline came rushing out of my …. well, you know. Ew.

And, in the best news of the day, my uterus is ready for any future occupant… and I won’t even request first and last months rent… Come on, baby… Ready when you are.