humor – Page 25 – The Tao of Bill

Facebook and real friends

“Hi, I’m Bill and I’m addicted to Facebook.” Sorry, wrong meeting.

I have the same love/hate relationship with FB that I have with alcohol. I use both frequently but monitor myself carefully for addiction.

FB has served my generation well because I didn’t have it when I was young so I remember life before it. It allows me to recognize the difference between FB life and real life. There are FB friends and then there are real friends. You can have both on social media.

Here are my thoughts on different types of FB users.

It is very useful and enjoyable to keep up with the lives of people I went to school with or formerly worked with. I like knowing what they are up to, it’s like following their lives.

I hate the vague posts begging for attention. People who put up shit like “grrrr so aggravated!” without explaining why are clearly begging for someone to say “awww what’s the matter honey?” or “I love you sweetie let me know if I can help you.”. Those compliment-baiters drive me crazy.

People don’t need to check in everywhere they go. First of all, nothing says “break into my house I’ll be gone for awhile” like detailing every step of your Tuesday afternoon shopping trip. And I don’t need to see a pic of every meal you eat.

Too much politics and hate. We all have an opinion, it comes down to how we express it. Getting political on FB is asking for trouble because of Facebook Balls, the phenomena in which complete strangers get real tough and mean with you from the safety of their keyboards.

It causes more divorces than can be measured. The tendency to flirt through messenger or reach out drunkenly to the “one that got away” leads to bad things. I know of what I speak. Moral of the story, if you can’t stop, learn how to use the delete button.

I use Facebook to keep up with people. I follow a lot of (credible) news sites. I belong to several pages dedicated to my chronic illness on which I have made some good friends, gotten and given valuable support. I only post positive things that I would want my own mother to see. I keep my content clean and positive and I eliminate those who piss on my threads. Every once in a while, however, Facebook shows you something special.

Sunday I shared a sentimental blog post that I wrote about the anniversary of the passing of my father

https://goodtobealivetoday.wordpress.com/2017/12/03/talking-to-granite/

to Facebook (almost no one on this site read it but I digress). It was emotional and I think it was well-written. It generated a ton of response. Some real love flowed onto my page. It occurred to me too late that such a post can be construed as an attempt to elicit sympathy. NOT what I was going for. I was simply imploring people to tell those in their lives that they are loved…before it is too late to tell them. But I found that there are people on my friends’ list that I thought were only FB friends but were instead actual friends. One response was particularly moving.

As soon as the post appeared on my wall I got an inbox message from James, my former assistant.

“Hey bro, I was just thinking of you and your post popped up. I wanted to tell you how much I miss working with you, you’re one of my favorite people in the world. How are you?”

We went back and forth for a while. I was truly moved by some of the things he said. James was my assistant for 5 years. He was a great, and frustrating co-worker. Intelligent but cocky; resistant to being taught anything but a quick learner when he did; a classic underachiever yet thorough and reliable. I sometimes wondered if he ever absorbed any of the things I tried so hard to teach him. It turns out he did. I am grateful for him as well, he balanced me out. He isn’t just a co-worker or a FB friend. He is an actual friend.

too soon…?

You wouldn’t know by looking at her, she is 5 foot 2 and 104 lbs, but my mom is a real tough woman. Nothing gets her down. After burying her second husband in 3 years she went to a “grief group”. Once. She never went back, she said the people there needed to “get over it already”. I thank God every day that I inherited her ability to bounce back and not dwell on the past. She’s not cold, she just insists on always moving forward. This is a wonderful quality. At least it was until she decided she wanted to date again and joined a dating website.

I am torn by this. She says that she has never been alone and part of her needs a relationship. She’s not looking for a husband, just someone to spend time with. I don’t want to stand in her way but I warned her of what she is getting into. But, convinced that our area is too small for her to meet anyone she insisted. I myself have never done online dating but I know many who do and they have told some stories. I quietly sat back and waited for the storm.

My mother is an attractive woman. She doesn’t look her age and she has a very youthful attitude. Her profile exploded the day it was posted. Men from as far away as Oregon contacted her, opening with lines such as “willing to relocate”. Not one response from anyone less than 100 miles away. Against my advice, she responded to most and gave out her cell # and email. She became as glued to her iPhone as my 15-year-old daughter. She wouldn’t tell me but she was chatting for hours with these guys. She didn’t share what was going on with me until one night when she said “this one says he loves me” and shook her head in disbelief. He loves her, by email. He’s 5 states away.

I had to step in. I asked her to let me use my (quantified) ability to judge a person’s character and assist in the “weeding out process”. In doing so I discovered the real problem; she is too nice to shut someone down. If they email her she will respond. I told her she needs to set parameters. Set a distance requirement, not divulge her cell #. So far she has had 2 lunch dates, one of which was nothing like his profile and the other used a profile pic that was at least 20 years old. She has had 2 “very successful” men find themselves stranded at customs without credit cards asking her for money. To her credit, she eventually told them to stop contacting her but she let it go too far. I had to take the phone from her once to tell one guy that he was to stop calling her or he would have to deal with me. I wasn’t very pleasant and I think he soiled himself.

I am very bothered by this process but I am helpless to stop it. It’s what she wants. I love my mother, I want her to be happy and I won’t stand in her way. But I find myself in hyper-protective mode. She is fairly well-off financially and I fear that someone will take advantage of that. My worst fear, of course, is that someone may harm her. I find that the roles are reversing. She raised me and protected me. Now I find myself protecting her. I can handle the role, but I feel awful bad for the poor bastard that does her wrong.

delays, delays

I haven’t been able to write lately. I wasn’t feeling it. I have been reading the works of the great bloggers that I follow but that’s it. I’m in pain. This is notable because I have a notorious tolerance for pain and I’m still suffering here.

Last weekend I had my youngest son for the long weekend. It was great having him. We were fortunate enough to have a couple of unseasonably warm days so we were outside a lot. Target practice with the pellet guns and yard work. He wanted to learn how to split wood so I indulged him. He’s one of those kids who is immediately good at everything he tries and it wasn’t long before he was splitting logs with the ax with precision and strength. I let him chop while I stacked. But I made the mistake of standing too close and as he struck one log I watched helplessly, as if it was slo-mo like on TV, as a half log shot left and hit me on the left shin. I yelled out initially then curbed my reaction so that he wouldn’t feel bad, it wasn’t intentional. But it hurt like a sumbitch, and it still does.

Fast forward to Tuesday and I can barely walk. The pain is the kind that radiates through the entire body. In addition, I noticed that my fistula, a surgically created port for dialysis, is swollen, red and sore to the touch. I have had it for 8 years, it has never been used because I was fortunate enough to get a transplant without being on dialysis. It has never been swollen, red or sore. I knew I had a problem. So I called my transplant team.

Anything other than a cold or flu goes through my transplant team due to my history. When I explained to them what was going on they referred me to PCP. I questioned them on that, isn’t the fistula a pretty major thing? But they were insistent so I made an immediate appt for the next day. Yesterday I drove 2 hours to meet a Dr. whose first reaction was “why didn’t your transplant team feel that this was worthy of their time?” Facepalm moment. She immediately left the room and called them. I was confused by her urgency. My confusion was eradicated when she came back in. She had told them that I have cellulitis, a potentially deadly bacterial infection, in my fistula. She then told me that they now want to see me. Facepalm again.

I wish that people would just listen to me. I am in tune, I know what is going on with my body. Now I am going to have extra appointments and more driving. Which I can’t do because I’m ordered to have the leg and arm elevated until the antibiotics kick in. I take cellulitis seriously, it almost killed me in 2006. White light, tunnel, the works. A random bed check is the only reason I’m alive today. I’m not going to lie, beyond annoyed at unnecessary delays I’m a little concerned.

when the student becomes the master

“What are you talking about?” I said to my son. “I’m nice as can be.”

“Dad, all I’m saying is you seem different. Less patient. You’re not the same. Just pointing it out.” This came out of left field to me. My youngest son and I were in a Wal-Mart checking out car stereos, having a great time and he drops this on me. Apparently, I had made quite the facial expression when a toddler in the next aisle let out a blood-curdling shriek. I explained to him that it wasn’t that I was angry at the child, or the parent for that matter, I just have a very low tolerance for loud noises.

“It’s not just that.” He informed me. “You were wicked inpatient in the supermarket and hardware store today. It’s not like you. You’ve always been the guy that smiled at people and let little things go.”

He was right. Well, mostly correct. I suppose that in my transition from a fast-paced area to a relaxed community I have not yet adapted to the difference in pace. I still walk fast and when shopping, for example, I am all business. People up here tend to move slowly, stand obliviously in your way and I guess it shows on my face. It’s not that I’m not nice to people, I just get annoyed at the aloofness of people. I can see how it would look otherwise. Annoyed at first, I quickly realized that this was a teachable moment. Even for this old dog. The kid is sharp and I admire the hell out of his ability to just speak his mind.

The student becomes the master.

I suppose I could take this opportunity to call this a parenting victory. But it’s not. He’s just a very smart, observant and very chill young man. He was up visiting me for the long weekend. His 18th birthday was the day after Thanksgiving and I was getting him some speakers for his car. Because we don’t spend much time together anymore, we are not as used to each other as we were. He saw a change in my behavior and he called me on it. I could be angry but I’m not. I needed it.

I have taken some hits lately and I’m really trying to be that positive guy that everyone counts on to be in a good mood. But it’s become a job. He reminded me to be the person that he apparently looked up to.

As we were leaving the store he told me to meet him at the front of the store, he was going to use the bathroom. I sat on a bench and waited for him. When he came out, I stood up and looked him in the eye and said “You’re right.”

“About what?” He asked.

“About me not being as nice as I used to be. I’ll work on it.”

“Good ’nuff” he said and turned and started walking towards the door. I watched the handsome, 6-foot tall young man with the hat turned backward and confident yet easy-going gait and thought to myself I did something right with that one.

Day 16…a letter to my family

To my Family:

This coming Thursday is Thanksgiving. It is one of my favorite holidays. It was always one of the three days of the year that we sat down as a family for a meal. Because of your mother and I’s career choices, the family dinner was never a part of our family routine.

Every Thanksgiving in recent memory has typically been a stressful letdown in some fashion. Mom would decline her mother’s invite to her beautiful condo and an amazing spread because her mother “stresses her out”. The end result would be you not seeing your grandmother on a holiday. I would wake up early and get the bird in the oven and prep everything else for the meal. Mom could be counted on to yell instructions that I didn’t need from the bedroom without getting out of bed. Once she did get up she would criticize the way I did everything. Kids, you would be in the living room trying not to notice the rising tensions in the kitchen as I simply tried to be a good dad and make a nice meal. You knew Mom was aggravating me but you don’t dare to say anything for fear of setting her off. Thankfully, the guests still willing to come to our house will arrive and everyone will act cordial.

Appetizers would be served, I would pour the first of many cocktails that I would consume that day. Mom would be busy trying to be nice to my mother, who has never been anything but nice to Mom. I would poke my head into the living room periodically to see how everyone is doing while the meal progressed. When the turkey came out of the oven, we would gather everyone to the table and sit.

You kids would start eating until I remind you to wait. We never ate together as a family, and never said Grace so it’s not your fault. You just forgot that your mother would insist that we all go around the table and say what we are thankful for. When it is my turn, you will all make fun in anticipation of mine because one year I made the mistake of being sincere and loving and was mercilessly teased about it.

We would all eat too fast and run out of awkward conversation too soon. You kids would leave the table before I wanted you to, my fault for wanting to savor the rare moment of having all of you together and in front of me. Mom would have a panic attack on dishes and start cleaning the kitchen. The remaining of us would nurse our cocktails or coffees then retire to watch football.

If I was able to get this far without Mom telling me to “go fuck myself” about something then I was in the clear. She was full and content and it would be at least an hour before she started complaining about how fat she was.

The rest of the day would be smooth. Our guests would leave and we would all go our separate ways.

That is how most Thanksgivings went. Incredibly, I wish this year will be the same.

This year we will be at a restaurant because we don’t have a home together anymore. We haven’t been together as a family in almost a year. We will get a big table. Mom and I will pretend to get along and awkwardly smile over our wine glasses knowing that we just talked about divorce but we aren’t going to tell you kids about it yet. We will have a great meal and then go off in three different directions.

This is our life now. Everyday life is hard enough. Holidays just suck.

I wish more than anything that things were different. That we were the happy family that I always wanted. I am thankful that I have such a wonderful relationship with you, my children even though our family dynamic stinks. Maybe you know, maybe you don’t but I stayed for 10 more years, and holiday seasons, than I ever thought possible just to extract as much joy as I could from them.

My happiness will never matter as much to me as yours. I hope that your memories of our time together will include some happy ones, that your idea of family is a healthy one despite your own experiences. If you have good memories then I will have succeeded as a husband and father.

Day 15… A letter to my community

Dear small New England Town:

There was a time when this town was my only vacation outlet. As a child, I spent every weekend of the summer here. We had a campsite in one of the campgrounds right on the banks of the lake. I spent some of the best times of my life in that campground. Sun-soaked days on the lake, campfires at night. I learned to do so many things and made so many friends. I fondly remember the excitement of everyone showing up at the beginning of the season after a long winter. Anticipating the fun ahead. Bittersweet memories of late summer nights, lying in the field and gazing at the stars knowing that the summer was almost over and school would soon start.

As I grew older, and my family moved on from a campground to a house I visited less. I was a young guy with a job, the occasional girlfriend, and friends. All of which made the 2-hour drive less desirable.

When I got married and had children we came up as often as we could. My children always loved it up here. They got to do all of the things that I did as a child. Just not as often. We were limited to day trips, and only if the weather was projected to be nice. We felt that other than the beach there is nothing to do here.

When Dad retired Mom and Dad made a life up here. They turned a small Chalet into a much larger, year-round house with a garage and a lawn. They became full-time residents here in 2001. I didn’t know how they did it. Other than the beach what was there to do here? I could never grasp the pace. With the exception of the 4th of July parade, the town seemed pretty dead.

I am now a full-time resident of this town and I will be for the foreseeable future. While I was driven here by less than ideal circumstances, I have to admit I love it here. The town is beautiful. The air is clean. The people are nice. The buildings are old. And the pace is just the way I like it.

I have come to the conclusion that my body has been breaking for a long time. I blame it on trying to maintain a pace that I am not capable of anymore. The hustle and bustle of my former life were killing me and I am not cut out for it anymore. I don’t know how I managed so long. But my new pace will extend my life.

I can’t step outside without childhood memories washing over me. When I sit by the lake I still see Dad’s smiling, tanned face as he drove the boat. Mom in tow on waterskis smiling from ear to ear. At night, I take a deep breath and savor the smell of wood-burning stoves. I still look up at the starlit sky, but now I see hope.

I will experience my first winter in this wonderful town. I am here for better or for worse. I plan on enjoying it. Getting involved in the town. I want to meet as many of the people as I can. I want to be accepted, for I am now a resident, not just a seasonal visitor.

Day 14…a letter to my favorite professor

Dear Professor “AARP”

I want to thank you for the “elective” that I stumbled over and loved the most.

It was registration day, the second half of my Junior year of college and I needed a fifth class. I saw “Geriatric Psychology” on the list of courses with openings and I thought what the hell? I registered.

Little did I know that you, the professor, were “Geriatric” as well. A very dapper, very vibrant but clearly elderly gentleman was teaching a course on the psychology of, well, himself! I knew I was in for a fun ride.

You insisted on being known as “Professor AARP”. It broke the ice a bit. You spoke to us at great length of what it is like to be old. To feel minimized, irrelevant, past one’s prime. The significance of a driver’s license and how it ties into one’s independence. Asking for help with tasks that were once easy. And on a more intimate note, you made us think about how much advancement people your age have witnessed in your lifetime. I don’t think my classmates had thought much about these things until they met you.

As far as I was concerned, you were preaching to the choir. I have always enjoyed the company of older people. As a child, my Grandparents took me frequently to their events and their friends loved me. I was fascinated by their tales, by what they had seen in their lives. I love the stories of how “it” used to be. Dating was called “courting”. They “went steady” with their favorite “gal” or “guy”. Their music. The fact that they wore suits to go the supermarket.

You were no exception. When I asked you to join me for a coffee in the cafe one day after class you said: “why do you want to hang out with an old guy like me.” I told you that I saw no such guy. We talked many times over coffee that semester. You were at the tail end of your career, bordering on retirement. This was the last time you would teach this class because it was being dropped from the curriculum. You found that very telling in and of itself. I told you how much I was enjoying it. I think it mattered to you.

It was just an elective, but you sir were not just a professor. You were a very nice man with a refreshing outlook on life that many could learn from. I can’t speak for everyone but I certainly learned a lot from you. I still, to this day have many elderly friends. I think of you often as I spend time with them. You were a friend.

I suspect that you have been gone for at least 20 years as I write this. Clearly, you made an impact on someone.

A grateful student.

Day 13…a letter to my body

Dear body:

We need to come to some kind of an understanding. We can go around and around about who started it but it doesn’t solve anything. You were broken at an early age so I gave up on you. I didn’t ask for a failing body, I didn’t inherit it. I didn’t ask for it. It just happened. So as I ate junk food, boozed and generally abused you I did it out of sheer frustration for being dealt a shit hand.

You have to admit it, eventually, I came to terms with our differences and began to treat you better. I began to feed you better food, less booze and I even exercised you.

In our 30’s I took great care of you. But you were already broken. When we were 31 we got cancer. We worked together to kick it out for good.

When we were 40 we got a staff infection that almost killed us. If not for a routine bed check on the 6^th floor we would be worm food right now. Do you know that I actually left you for 4 minutes? But some yelling doctors got us together again.

In our late 40’s you decided that you needed spare parts in order to continue running, Somehow we got you a new kidney part and you loved it. Sure you tried to reject it a couple of times, that’s normal. But I fed you drugs that made you stop. For a while you worked with me. Then you allowed the original defect to come back in the replacement part. Even after being so nice to you for 4 years you let me down again. Now we are sick again. The Dr said today that the new part only has 30% functionality left.

I am proposing a truce. If I promise to continue to give you good food, plenty of exercise and sleep will you make an effort to make that 30% last as long as possible? You see, there are so many things that I want to do and many important occasions, still unplanned but I hope to see them in my daily planner, at which my presence will be requested.

I don’t like our relationship, but I’ve come to grips with it. As I said I don’t blame you. Please work with me, consider my proposition carefully. I am sincere on my end. All I need is time. Precious time. I can think of a few people that will also be eternally grateful.

Respectfully,

The soul

Happy pills

Does life imitate art or does art imitate life? Or to rephrase the question does TV imitate my life? I jest of course, but sometimes a show really hits home with me. Last night’s episode of Bull was no exception.

The show, if you have not watched, is about a “Trial expert” who specializes in selecting and reading jurors for lawyers. The cases are usually interesting. Last night’s episode dealt with a case against a Big Pharma company and the practice of drug trials. At stake was the case of an otherwise happy young man who committed suicide shortly after taking an experimental antidepressant as a paid trial. My attention was held hostage to this subject. I have a small history with this.

After the segment in which a witness, another recipient of the trial, testified of experiencing suicidal thoughts (with no previous history) I was in the full throes of a flashback. On the first commercial break, I said to my mother “that happened to me.”

My mom turned, looked at me quizzically and said: “what happened to you?”

“Suicidal thoughts while on an antidepressant”. I embarked on explaining this statement before the commercial break was over.

When I was in my late 30’s my blood pressure became an issue. My kidneys were failing and my marriage was in a shambles and I was a complete stress case. My doctor warned me that if I didn’t find a way to calm down and be selective about what I get aggravated about I was going to die young. She suggested a little helper in the form of a mood stabilizer. I was very resistant, I am very anti-Big Pharma and am of the mindset that a medicated life is not real life. I am sure I will piss someone off here and I am not trying to. Some people need it. I didn’t think I did. But I wanted peace at home and to live past 40 so I agreed to try Lexapro.

I tried it. At first, I didn’t notice any difference in my demeanor. Then gradually I noticed that people started telling me to smile, to cheer up. They told me I looked mad. Then I noticed that while driving I became fascinated by highway guard rails. In particular, I was fixating on what it would be like to hit one at 70 plus miles per hour. Suicidal thoughts are not me. At all. Something was wrong.

I have been through some shit in my life, more than anyone’s fair share, and I have never ever thought of taking my own life. I push on, I deny reality, I hope for better days but I could never do that to my family. But every single day guard rails were calling my name. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to recognize it as a problem. One afternoon as I was driving past a particularly inviting stretch of guard rails I grabbed the bottle of evil little pills from my briefcase, rolled down my passenger window and fired the bottle out the window.

My mother was very taken back by my story. I probably shouldn’t have burdened her with it but I have this new, annoying habit of sharing my thoughts with people.

The bright part of the story is that there are some good shows on television after all. I just wish they would stop hitting so close to home. It affects my mood. I wonder if there is a pill for that?

Just people, that’s all

“I love the Dollar Store.I don’t have to get all dolled up like going to a Wal-Mart”

anonymous internet meme.

I admit it, I am a Wal-Mart shopper. I see no need to pay more than I have to for toilet paper and socks. Yes, Wal-Mart doesn’t pay its employees very well and their lack of benefits may indeed be a burden on our health-care system by forcing workers into state exchanges. I always look at the flip side, they give a lot of people jobs that they might not otherwise be qualified. Yes, some of their employees are not qualified for much else. I said it. I just see people working which makes me happy.

I stopped in Sunday afternoon to use their coin machine. I had an ashtray full of change to cash in. Their machine takes 10% but I don’t care I’m not rolling coins. It occurred to me as I walked in that the holiday shopping season was in full frenzy and I had possibly made a mistake. As I waited for the machine to count my change I scanned the checkout area and it wasn’t too bad. I grabbed my receipt and headed for the line.

As I stood patiently in line, looking out of place I’m sure with no items in my hand, the woman in front of me abruptly spun around and said: “Savers is half off today.” She was clearly hammered, three sheets to the wind drunk.

I politely replied, “then why are you here?” I actually had no idea what “Savers” is.

She went on to explain that it is a store and that she had already been there, and called me “silly”. I looked politely around as she was talking and people were staring at her in righteous disapproval. Judging.

“My name is Janet, Merry Christmas!” she said thrusting her hand towards me. I introduced myself and returned the greeting. Janet motioned to the man behind her, who was dutifully emptying his cart onto the register belt as her husband. She went on to explain how she and Earl have no family and they will be celebrating early this year. Ignoring the opportunity to tell her it looks as if she has already started celebrating I let it go. Instead, I told her that she should be able to celebrate any way she wants to.

They checked out and started to leave and Janet turned and said goodbye to me. Once again everyone looked at this clearly intoxicated woman with disdain. I didn’t. My takeaway was that she was friendly and nice. Who am I to judge her? Unless she is driving of course. I wished her a Merry Christmas again.

Wal-mart is full of people, regular people who for the most part lack pretense. I’ll take that any day.