I had a discussion yesterday I thought I might post about. I still have liquor in my apartment. Right where I've always kept it. I had some wine that I've long since poured out. I was saving it to cook with but eventually it turned bad even for that. But I still have a few bottles of liquor gathering dust at the back of a serving cart in my kitchen.
Some alcoholics feel the need to get rid of all the hootch in the house to avoid temptation. Other people, taking a more militant stance reason that alcohol is a drug and are so committed to being drug free that they refuse to provide it and "enable" others, even guests. A few ex-drinkers keep or buy alcohol for special occasions or holidays. No sense making others do without just because the host is a drunk.
I tell people I keep liquor on-hand for guests as well. I sometimes joke that I leave it around on the off chance I decide to jump off the wagon. The truth is, for me, the bottles are largely symbolic. I keep it in the house as a kind of reminder. That every day I don't just not take a drink. But that every day I can but I choose not to. In an odd but important way, on those rare occasions when I stop to consider the bottles in easy reach, it's an affirmation of my commitment. Rather then an unwanted temptation, it makes me feel good.
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Thursday, February 07, 2008
OK. I've Finally Impressed Myself
I'm thrilled. And a little stunned, actually. Also, I can't believe how fast it went by. Seriously.
Today is the first anniversary of the day I stopped drinking.
One year ago today I walked across town and in to an AA meeting on the far west side of Greenwich Village. I was not afraid. I was sad and scared and at once without hope and hopeful that I would find a way out of the mess my life had become. Little did I know I would change everything I had come to believe was true.
I had known for some time that things had gone horribly wrong. For the first time in over 40 years I actually contemplated ending my life. This is a monumental admission for someone like me. I always believed that life, that my life, was something worth living. I always had hope. I could always find the joy. Now, for the first time in my lifetime, being here, being anywhere, was no fun at all. I was physically exhausted and emotionally wrecked. Every day became a chore to get through and an exercise in futility. I was devoid of hope and without passion. Tragically, I had lost the ability to laugh. My sense of humor, my weapon and my lifeline, was lost to me. I only ate to live.
While my physical health had yet to deteriorate, my mental health was rapidly crumbling. I was plagued by phobias, irrational fears, a deep sense of foreboding and an inability to see in to any possible future. I had a series of panic attacks, and my social anxiety progressed from quirky to an inability to make or maintain even the simplest conversation or relationship. I literally could barely speak in intelligible sentences at times. The only emotion I could access besides despair was rage. But it was the rage I had turned inward upon myself that would almost prove to be my undoing.
I was (and am) tens of thousands of dollars in debt, as my disconnect with reality caused me to live far and away beyond what my limited earning power had become. I was reduced to a series of jobs that, without realizing it, I took thinking I could hide away and be left alone. Work became a means to an end, and finally even that facade crumbled. My ability to hold down even a menial job disappeared as I started spiraling more quickly. That in turn triggered more fear. Ultimately, my fear of losing absolutely everything finally helped to override everything else.
In the meantime, I did seek help or attempt to help myself. I quit smoking in reaction to how badly I was feeling physically. And it worked. For a time I felt better. Or, as I came to realize much later, I felt less bad. Later, I blamed a lot of my physical difficulties on being HIV+. In some cases that was true. To this day I still get nauseous from my medication most afternoons. I spoke openly to my doctors about my panic disorder and greedily gulped down whatever medication they prescribed. For a time I felt better. Yeah, it was actually less bad again. I managed to squeak a whole 'nother year out of drinking with my General Anxiety Disorder diagnosis. I finally even went in to therapy, which I found enormously beneficial. But here's a tip: therapy might help, but it won't make an alcoholic who doesn't want to discuss his alcoholism significantly better. Although it did serve to highlight how desperately hopelessly unhappy I had become. I still couldn't see what the problem was, and I couldn't conceive of a solution. I guess I didn't want to.
I still don't remember what it was that made me make the trip across town that day. Like every other major obstacle I've forced myself to tear down in my life, part of it seems to be as simple as finally being ready. But part of me thought maybe I would find or prove that alcohol wasn't really the cause of my problem. And that turns out to be true. Alcohol and my alcoholism was in reality a symptom of a much larger problem. A manifestation of my fear. Of all my fears. An outward expression of my rage and my desire to destroy myself. Whatever it was that propelled me, while it wasn't immediately apparent that day, within a week or two I knew I was exactly where I belonged. I listened to people that were nothing like me describe a litany of ways we were exactly alike. Every panic attack, every shame filled instance of bed-wetting, every episode of sleepwalking, every night spent week after week after month in a living room lit by a flickering TV screen and a few candles, alone in the company of a bottle of booze, every fear and insecurity and recrimination large and small was reflected back at me. Very quickly, and for the first time in years, I began to feel hope.
Coming up next ...
My recovery so far.
Today is the first anniversary of the day I stopped drinking.
One year ago today I walked across town and in to an AA meeting on the far west side of Greenwich Village. I was not afraid. I was sad and scared and at once without hope and hopeful that I would find a way out of the mess my life had become. Little did I know I would change everything I had come to believe was true.
I had known for some time that things had gone horribly wrong. For the first time in over 40 years I actually contemplated ending my life. This is a monumental admission for someone like me. I always believed that life, that my life, was something worth living. I always had hope. I could always find the joy. Now, for the first time in my lifetime, being here, being anywhere, was no fun at all. I was physically exhausted and emotionally wrecked. Every day became a chore to get through and an exercise in futility. I was devoid of hope and without passion. Tragically, I had lost the ability to laugh. My sense of humor, my weapon and my lifeline, was lost to me. I only ate to live.
While my physical health had yet to deteriorate, my mental health was rapidly crumbling. I was plagued by phobias, irrational fears, a deep sense of foreboding and an inability to see in to any possible future. I had a series of panic attacks, and my social anxiety progressed from quirky to an inability to make or maintain even the simplest conversation or relationship. I literally could barely speak in intelligible sentences at times. The only emotion I could access besides despair was rage. But it was the rage I had turned inward upon myself that would almost prove to be my undoing.
I was (and am) tens of thousands of dollars in debt, as my disconnect with reality caused me to live far and away beyond what my limited earning power had become. I was reduced to a series of jobs that, without realizing it, I took thinking I could hide away and be left alone. Work became a means to an end, and finally even that facade crumbled. My ability to hold down even a menial job disappeared as I started spiraling more quickly. That in turn triggered more fear. Ultimately, my fear of losing absolutely everything finally helped to override everything else.
In the meantime, I did seek help or attempt to help myself. I quit smoking in reaction to how badly I was feeling physically. And it worked. For a time I felt better. Or, as I came to realize much later, I felt less bad. Later, I blamed a lot of my physical difficulties on being HIV+. In some cases that was true. To this day I still get nauseous from my medication most afternoons. I spoke openly to my doctors about my panic disorder and greedily gulped down whatever medication they prescribed. For a time I felt better. Yeah, it was actually less bad again. I managed to squeak a whole 'nother year out of drinking with my General Anxiety Disorder diagnosis. I finally even went in to therapy, which I found enormously beneficial. But here's a tip: therapy might help, but it won't make an alcoholic who doesn't want to discuss his alcoholism significantly better. Although it did serve to highlight how desperately hopelessly unhappy I had become. I still couldn't see what the problem was, and I couldn't conceive of a solution. I guess I didn't want to.
I still don't remember what it was that made me make the trip across town that day. Like every other major obstacle I've forced myself to tear down in my life, part of it seems to be as simple as finally being ready. But part of me thought maybe I would find or prove that alcohol wasn't really the cause of my problem. And that turns out to be true. Alcohol and my alcoholism was in reality a symptom of a much larger problem. A manifestation of my fear. Of all my fears. An outward expression of my rage and my desire to destroy myself. Whatever it was that propelled me, while it wasn't immediately apparent that day, within a week or two I knew I was exactly where I belonged. I listened to people that were nothing like me describe a litany of ways we were exactly alike. Every panic attack, every shame filled instance of bed-wetting, every episode of sleepwalking, every night spent week after week after month in a living room lit by a flickering TV screen and a few candles, alone in the company of a bottle of booze, every fear and insecurity and recrimination large and small was reflected back at me. Very quickly, and for the first time in years, I began to feel hope.
Coming up next ...
My recovery so far.
Monday, February 05, 2007
The Truth Shall Set Me Free
February 5, 2007
To whom it may concern,
As you may know, I missed a regularly scheduled shift this past Sunday, Feb 4. And I failed to call out for the time lost as well.
Recently, it has become increasingly obvious to me that I have an alcohol abuse problem. Coupled with an ongoing battle with panic disorder and other medical issues have made it tough. But I believed that I could take charge of the situation alone and that everything would be fine.
On Saturday night, Feb 3, my intent was to enjoy a couple of drinks and go to bed early. Instead, I proceeded to have far more than I intended or was advisable or healthy. While I did get some sleep, I came to the realization that I was in no condition the next day to leave the house, much less deal with the public or possibly climb up and down ladders. I understand I had the option to call out. But I’m not a very good liar, and I wouldn’t know what to say. So I opted to just return to bed and sleep it off.
It should be noted, I have never had anything to drink on the clock or on the premises. I have never come to work directly from a bar or a party, etc. But I have never had my alcohol use directly interfere with my ability to work, until now. In addition, I feel that it’s caused some of my interpersonal skills to suffer and my ability to communicate effectively has been damaged. This is unacceptable to me, and I am embarrassed by my behavior and loss of control.
It seems apparent to me now that I’m going to have to take stronger actions and get some assistance to address the underlying panic disorder and my alcohol abuse problem. It’s actually a welcome decision, as I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to compartmentalize the issues rather than deal with them. So, beginning tomorrow I will be attending an outpatient program for people with alcohol abuse problems. I will continue with that for as long as it takes, until I have the skills to cope with my life and my issues in a healthy productive manner. In addition, I have a regularly scheduled appointment with my Healthcare Provider on Friday Feb. 9, at which point I intend to inform her of my difficulties, and work with her to adjust the medication I currently take for panic disorder.
As to my future at the ########## #####. If it’s possible, I’d like it to continue. Work is important to me, and I find this work challenging and rewarding. On the good days, I left the store with a feeling of accomplishment and pride. I’ve enjoyed getting to know many of my co-workers. I’ve learned a lot and I’m eager to learn more. I feel that, healthy and 100% present on any given day, I have much to contribute in the way of astonishing the customer. And I hope I still have that opportunity.
Thank you for your attention in this matter.
Sincerely,
Tom
To whom it may concern,
As you may know, I missed a regularly scheduled shift this past Sunday, Feb 4. And I failed to call out for the time lost as well.
Recently, it has become increasingly obvious to me that I have an alcohol abuse problem. Coupled with an ongoing battle with panic disorder and other medical issues have made it tough. But I believed that I could take charge of the situation alone and that everything would be fine.
On Saturday night, Feb 3, my intent was to enjoy a couple of drinks and go to bed early. Instead, I proceeded to have far more than I intended or was advisable or healthy. While I did get some sleep, I came to the realization that I was in no condition the next day to leave the house, much less deal with the public or possibly climb up and down ladders. I understand I had the option to call out. But I’m not a very good liar, and I wouldn’t know what to say. So I opted to just return to bed and sleep it off.
It should be noted, I have never had anything to drink on the clock or on the premises. I have never come to work directly from a bar or a party, etc. But I have never had my alcohol use directly interfere with my ability to work, until now. In addition, I feel that it’s caused some of my interpersonal skills to suffer and my ability to communicate effectively has been damaged. This is unacceptable to me, and I am embarrassed by my behavior and loss of control.
It seems apparent to me now that I’m going to have to take stronger actions and get some assistance to address the underlying panic disorder and my alcohol abuse problem. It’s actually a welcome decision, as I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to compartmentalize the issues rather than deal with them. So, beginning tomorrow I will be attending an outpatient program for people with alcohol abuse problems. I will continue with that for as long as it takes, until I have the skills to cope with my life and my issues in a healthy productive manner. In addition, I have a regularly scheduled appointment with my Healthcare Provider on Friday Feb. 9, at which point I intend to inform her of my difficulties, and work with her to adjust the medication I currently take for panic disorder.
As to my future at the ########## #####. If it’s possible, I’d like it to continue. Work is important to me, and I find this work challenging and rewarding. On the good days, I left the store with a feeling of accomplishment and pride. I’ve enjoyed getting to know many of my co-workers. I’ve learned a lot and I’m eager to learn more. I feel that, healthy and 100% present on any given day, I have much to contribute in the way of astonishing the customer. And I hope I still have that opportunity.
Thank you for your attention in this matter.
Sincerely,
Tom
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Now That's Gay ...
Well Done!
In Other News ...
I was feeling a might peckish all day today. I was sluggish and running a slight fever off and on. Wickedly dehydrated as well. Perhaps from all the drugs and alcohol this weekend. Ya Think? A hot shower helped as did a fresh juicy orange. Still, I couldn't wait to get out of work. The temperature is set to drop about 30 degrees in the next 48 hrs. But tonight it was over 50 degrees in the middle of January. Jet enjoyed an extra long walk. I was so baked not fried this weekend I forgot I bought bread and porkchops and Milkbones so I bought them again the next day. Grocery store blackouts are so unattractive. Fortunately, I didn't forget sucking off that hot man on Saturday morning at the gym. If they grab you by the hair it means they're gonna call you, right?
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Continuing The Valley Of The Dolls
I'm on my 2nd Bloody of the afternoon and I'm looking for a redheaded stepchild I can berate for being worthless.
In the meantime:
Some pornstars are teaming up for an anti-meth campaign. They've also got a link to a harm reduction site called Tweeker.org, which I absolutely love. Tons of great links and information. GO!
Tim Gunn from Project Runway has reportedly inked a deal for a new series on Bravo. They're saying it means he won't be back for the next season but I'm not getting that.
I may be poor white trash but at least I'm not rich and fat with a double chin, a bad dye job and an oily obnoxious brother.
In the meantime:
Some pornstars are teaming up for an anti-meth campaign. They've also got a link to a harm reduction site called Tweeker.org, which I absolutely love. Tons of great links and information. GO!
Tim Gunn from Project Runway has reportedly inked a deal for a new series on Bravo. They're saying it means he won't be back for the next season but I'm not getting that.
I may be poor white trash but at least I'm not rich and fat with a double chin, a bad dye job and an oily obnoxious brother.
Just Call Me Neely O'Hara
Well, the lidocaine has worn off. So has the clonazepam. Mostly. I passed out for about four hours from the stress and the pharmaceuticals. Turns out the dread was for naught. The root canal didn't happen. It seems that the tooth is in such bad shape that it may not survive the procedure. So after I doped myself up and then let them numb the (almost) entire right side of my face, my dentist simply put some sort of a support cap behind my tooth until next week. If it doesn't improve, the new plan is to leave it be, since it's not infected and not causing me any pain. Sort of my preferred plan all along. Whatever they did do, I'm not in the least bit of pain, and plan on working out tomorrow as planned. Bonus - because the root canal didn't happen, they made the visit free. Saving me 100 dollars I couldn't afford. I stopped in to work on the way home, and bought about 20 dollars worth of crap I didn't need. A reward for my bravery. Plus I was high. Went to the drugstore and re-stocked the cleaning supplies.
Supposedly, my new roommate(s) are moving in tomorrow during the day. I hope that Jet and Tails get along. I'm hopeful, because at least they're the same age. The dishes are done and the kitchen is clean. Tomorrow I'll wash the living room floor, just to create a nice impression. I'll have a couple more cocktails, wash the last one back with 1/2 an Ambien (it's Valley Of The Dolls Day here in Gramercy-off-park) and start anew.
Unless I come up with a new plan, I have 26 dollars to spend until Tuesday. Hmmm...
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Midnight On Friday
And I just popped a turkey meatloaf in the oven. Fuckin' hot, huh? I'm also enjoying a bottle of wine.
For those unaware, every year after the 3rd Thursday of the month a marketing trick, I mean tradition, takes place. Millions of bottles of frog juice wash ashore here in America. And nobody likes to be marketed to like New Yorkers. Thus, the signs go up all over town "Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive". I know the "e" needs one of those accent thingies, I don't know how. I usually just ignore the hype as I do prefer my Pinot Grigio or a robust Merlot.
But today I was in TJ's Wine Shop picking up some Barefoot and "two buck chuck" (for COOKING) and what did I come upon? Cases and cases of Beaujolais. Directly in front of me. It appears that Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive (accent thingie) ici, aussi. How could I resist? My verdict? I can't compare it to the well-regarded 2003 because it's my first bottle but while I'm sure it goes well with both turkey and turkey meatloaf, it's also enjoyable if you're just making a turkey meatloaf for later, instead of just getting drunk at a gay bar. I multi-task like that. Cheers.
For those unaware, every year after the 3rd Thursday of the month a marketing trick, I mean tradition, takes place. Millions of bottles of frog juice wash ashore here in America. And nobody likes to be marketed to like New Yorkers. Thus, the signs go up all over town "Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive". I know the "e" needs one of those accent thingies, I don't know how. I usually just ignore the hype as I do prefer my Pinot Grigio or a robust Merlot.
But today I was in TJ's Wine Shop picking up some Barefoot and "two buck chuck" (for COOKING) and what did I come upon? Cases and cases of Beaujolais. Directly in front of me. It appears that Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive (accent thingie) ici, aussi. How could I resist? My verdict? I can't compare it to the well-regarded 2003 because it's my first bottle but while I'm sure it goes well with both turkey and turkey meatloaf, it's also enjoyable if you're just making a turkey meatloaf for later, instead of just getting drunk at a gay bar. I multi-task like that. Cheers.
Monday, July 03, 2006
I'm pretty much recovered ...
from my (alleged) drunken, drugged up night of frivolity. Unfortunately, The Hellcat was not so lucky. He finally crashed with a combination of Ambien and a couple other sleep-inducing pharmaceuticals only to wake up several hours later to find that his dog, who has been recovering from an injury, got some sort of bug and shit, way more shit than such a little dog should have in him, all over the bed, the mattress and The Hellcat. The dog tried to cover up his accident by moving sheets around, which of course only spread the disaster. Quote The Hellcat: "I felt like the bread in a poo sandwich." He got up, disgustedly cleaned up a little but was so grossed out he jumped in a scalding shower. While he was in there, the dog pissed on the living room floor. Good morning.
I on the other hand woke up with only a mild case of post cocaine-use depression. But I remember what that was like so I was able to ride it out without much fuss. Today I'm back to "normal" and I plan on doing some shopping, picking up a book that was ordered for me, stopping by the gym for some cardio and if there's time going to an outdoor movie showing. Not sure if we'll bring wine but cocaine is not an option.
I on the other hand woke up with only a mild case of post cocaine-use depression. But I remember what that was like so I was able to ride it out without much fuss. Today I'm back to "normal" and I plan on doing some shopping, picking up a book that was ordered for me, stopping by the gym for some cardio and if there's time going to an outdoor movie showing. Not sure if we'll bring wine but cocaine is not an option.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
No I Didn't
Get drunk on white wine and vodka/sodas with The Hellcat. Nor did I do bumps of cocaine and stay up until 4 am singing karaoke via The Oxygen network. Because grown men don't do that.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
WSIWYG - Greetings From Gaytown plus, My Dog's First Gay Bar
Tuesday found me hiking downtown to the Bowery Poetry Club for the annual all-singing all-dancing gay edition of WYSIWYG. I love that they've moved from the old PS 122 location, as it's now great writing and entertainment WITH A BAR. I'm much more motivated to arrive early now. I always love the way gay edition of WYSIWYG, but this year was particularly good. I won't review every performer, but I will highlite my favorites. Greg Walloch was milk out the nose funny. Huh-larry-us. And if you head over to Curly McDimple's site Ham & Cheese on Wry, she's posted the peice she read. It's funny in print but her delivery was retardedly good. I can see why she's been nominated for blog awards. I'm so jealous. One of my absolute favorite bloggers Joel Derfner didn't disappoint on any level. I wish I could tell you more about what he read but unfortunately when he took the stage all the blood rushed out of my ears and into my penis. The picture does not do him justice but here you go...
(picture removed per request)
Joe Jervis, Rod Townsend and Greg Walloch
Moving right along, I was informed that there would be a little after gay-say at Nowhere, a bar I have on my emergency martini list. Location, location, location. But I had a couple priorities. Namely I'd only had a slice of pizza and a Snapple in the last few hours and I knew I had a dog at home with his hind legs crossed cursing me out with doggie swear words. Ever the multi-tasker, I decided to grab some sushi on the way home and then bring dog and bar together for two, two, two treats in one. I hadn't counted on the fact that either Tuesday nights there have really taken off, or the bar was crazy busy because it's Pride week, but either way the joint was packed, so Jet and I took over the little alcove in the front. I enjoyed a couple of Stoli/sodas and Jet got tons of attention and all the popcorn he could scarf down.
Monday, June 05, 2006
It Started With A Phone Call
About a month ago, I got hired as a manager at East Of Eighth restaurant in Chelsea. I had passed it many many times and was aware that they featured an occasional drag show, and had a bit of a gay following based on, if nothing else, it's location. I had never gotten around to eating or drinking there. I interviewed just once, with the owner/GM, Micky Feldmen. My interview went well and I was offered some training shifts, with the understanding that someone else was interviewing and they were bringing him in as well, so my job was by no means secure. Several days of training ensued, and when that was complete, I was given a schedule. As it turns out, my rival just never showed at all. I was replacing a manager who was well liked. He had resigned as he found his schedule and other responsibilities he had taken on were taking up too much of his time.
My training consisted of 3 shifts with 3 different managers. While they all had slightly different styles and things they emphasized, I fully understood what my responsibilities seemed to be. I started working on my own and was closing four nights a week. Some nights, the daytime manager would leave me a note regarding something I had forgotten, or something that needed to be taken care of. One night, the owner expressed some annoyance that I had failed to leave some notes in the log book regarding how the night went, show attendance etc. I never did it again. I had previously expressed I was finished in the restaurant/bar business, but if I had to have a job, this was a good one. The pay was fair, the food was good, and while I was having some trouble juggling the job, my gym schedule and the new dog, I was confident It would all work itself out. I genuinely liked most of the staff I was working with.
About two weeks ago, the other night manager, who has worked there off and on for over 7 plus years, announced that he was resigning his position as well. I was a little distressed that people were jumping ship all over. Especially because everyone had remarked as to how long much of the staff had worked there. I chalked it up to the business being in a state of flux. It happens periodically. I came to work the next day, and was immediately called into a meeting with Micky. He informed me that Greg was leaving. I explained I had already heard from Greg. I asked what we would be doing. Micky explained that he needed me to change my schedule. He wanted me to work weekend days and two nights a week. They were going to be moving our catering manager into the restaurant manager job five nights a week and hire a new catering manager.
I expressed that I was hardly locked in to my old schedule, having only done it for a couple of weeks. I stated that I would be happy to make whatever changes Micky needed me to make. Indeed, I immediately started calculating how I could make use of only working two closing shifts a week, and how I could incorporate the changes, such as having my weekend nights free for the first time in years. I was excited at the possibilities.
I finished my work week last Sunday. As I previously posted, I was doing a happy dance that the transition to my new schedule meant that I would be off all week. I was supposed to come back to work Friday morning, work during the day with Micky, and get instructions regarding opening the restaurant, banking, change etc. Saturday morning I would start my new schedule.
Tuesday evening I returned home and picked up my phone messages. That's when I got the phone call. It was one of the waiters from the restaurant. He expressed how bad he felt that I had been fired from my job and how wrong he thought it was. As if it had already happened and I knew about it. Of course, it hadn't and I didn't. At first, I was unsure what to do. I listened to the message three or four times, trying to figure out if maybe he misdialed, or was reponding to a rumour. I had no inkling that I was about to be fired, and I couldn't imagine what for. Indeed, I was just starting to get more comfortable, and was eager to start my new schedule and responsibilities.
Finally, I decided to call Micky directly. I called him on his private cell. He asked how I was. I responded "You tell me, I just heard a phone message consoling me because I had been fired." He asked me who the message was from and I resisted telling him. I asked again if it was true. He said it wasn't. I repeated myself and asked if everything was OK. He said it was. I asked if I was still meeting him on Friday to train for the day shift. He said yes. I asked what was going on, and he said people were spreading rumours. Confused but feeling a little better I hung up.
I related the story to The Hellcat later that night. We both agreed it was extremely odd. I told him I had decided to go to the restaurant the next afternoon, to find out, if nothing else, why a rumour was circulating that I'd been fired. That's a pretty specific rumour. So that's what I did, right after lunch.
I asked where Micky was and found him myself. I asked to speak to him privately and he agreed. It was then I asked for an explanation for the phone message. It was then he admitted that he was "letting me go." And that's when I felt I was punched in the gut. He explained that the original manager I had been hired to replace had a change of heart. Apparently, he wanted his job back. Or more specifically, I think he wanted my new schedule. I'm speculating, but it seems likely. It was pretty obvious to anyone that my new schedule was a pretty easy work week. He explained that he really liked the other manager. He had told him if he ever wanted his job back he could have it, apparently the rest of that sentence being at my expense. He then went on to inform me that he hadn't really been happy with my work. That the previous manager had been more hands-on. He would jump in and do things where I seemed to just "hang around the front door". I guess if you call taking phone orders, taking reservations, keeping an eye on a bar that is hemmoraging cash, answering questions, giving directions, cleaning up the new outdoor section, seeing that the bathrooms were clean and voiding checks that need it hanging out, then yeah, I was just sitting on my ass. To say I was surprised was an understatment.
I expressed my disappointment. As I said, I was just starting to get comfortable. The guys from SIN came in that weekend for brunch. Despite the fact that I had closed the night before and had to work again that night, I made a trip in to the restaurant that afternoon, on my own time and without being asked, so I could meet the guys and make sure their experience was a good one. I thought a gay men's social group was an extremely important resource for us if we were looking to expand our customer base. I thought it would help us if they knew they had a HIV+ manager on board. I think I wondered aloud why nobody had ever said a single word about how I was doing my job. Now that some time has passed, WHY THE FUCK didn't my boss tell me if he needed me to do something or be a certain way? So that I could, you know, do it. Or be it. How in the world can you fire someone for not doing something, if you haven't asked them to do it in the first place? It's sooooo passive/aggressive, and I'm p/a personified.
Now that some time has passed, I went from feeling like shit to being really quite pissed. I was basically used. I showed up for training. I guess I got the job because I was the only one who had. I was given minimal direction if at all. I was allowed to work for weeks. I was asked to change my schedule and obliged quickly and willingly. I was getting along well with the staff. Then as soon as the guy I replaced changed his mind I was kicked out. Oh, he did offer to give me a recommendation. Like "Oh, yeah. Tom worked for us for a month but we weren't at all happy with his work and fired him. By all means, give him a chance." Asshole.
So there you have it. Kind of back to square one. The bills are paid up. My credit is still in good standing. I'm not without resources, and there's dog food in the cupboard. We'll be fine. But right now I'm mad, embarrassed and feeling like shit about myself. Which sort of explains why I got so drunk Friday during the Blog-a- palooza event I woke up physically injured. P.S. I didn't fracture a rib, I'm just a little dinged up. I have no idea what I'll do next. Maybe I just want to make drinks and be left alone to play with my dog.
My training consisted of 3 shifts with 3 different managers. While they all had slightly different styles and things they emphasized, I fully understood what my responsibilities seemed to be. I started working on my own and was closing four nights a week. Some nights, the daytime manager would leave me a note regarding something I had forgotten, or something that needed to be taken care of. One night, the owner expressed some annoyance that I had failed to leave some notes in the log book regarding how the night went, show attendance etc. I never did it again. I had previously expressed I was finished in the restaurant/bar business, but if I had to have a job, this was a good one. The pay was fair, the food was good, and while I was having some trouble juggling the job, my gym schedule and the new dog, I was confident It would all work itself out. I genuinely liked most of the staff I was working with.
About two weeks ago, the other night manager, who has worked there off and on for over 7 plus years, announced that he was resigning his position as well. I was a little distressed that people were jumping ship all over. Especially because everyone had remarked as to how long much of the staff had worked there. I chalked it up to the business being in a state of flux. It happens periodically. I came to work the next day, and was immediately called into a meeting with Micky. He informed me that Greg was leaving. I explained I had already heard from Greg. I asked what we would be doing. Micky explained that he needed me to change my schedule. He wanted me to work weekend days and two nights a week. They were going to be moving our catering manager into the restaurant manager job five nights a week and hire a new catering manager.
I expressed that I was hardly locked in to my old schedule, having only done it for a couple of weeks. I stated that I would be happy to make whatever changes Micky needed me to make. Indeed, I immediately started calculating how I could make use of only working two closing shifts a week, and how I could incorporate the changes, such as having my weekend nights free for the first time in years. I was excited at the possibilities.
I finished my work week last Sunday. As I previously posted, I was doing a happy dance that the transition to my new schedule meant that I would be off all week. I was supposed to come back to work Friday morning, work during the day with Micky, and get instructions regarding opening the restaurant, banking, change etc. Saturday morning I would start my new schedule.
Tuesday evening I returned home and picked up my phone messages. That's when I got the phone call. It was one of the waiters from the restaurant. He expressed how bad he felt that I had been fired from my job and how wrong he thought it was. As if it had already happened and I knew about it. Of course, it hadn't and I didn't. At first, I was unsure what to do. I listened to the message three or four times, trying to figure out if maybe he misdialed, or was reponding to a rumour. I had no inkling that I was about to be fired, and I couldn't imagine what for. Indeed, I was just starting to get more comfortable, and was eager to start my new schedule and responsibilities.
Finally, I decided to call Micky directly. I called him on his private cell. He asked how I was. I responded "You tell me, I just heard a phone message consoling me because I had been fired." He asked me who the message was from and I resisted telling him. I asked again if it was true. He said it wasn't. I repeated myself and asked if everything was OK. He said it was. I asked if I was still meeting him on Friday to train for the day shift. He said yes. I asked what was going on, and he said people were spreading rumours. Confused but feeling a little better I hung up.
I related the story to The Hellcat later that night. We both agreed it was extremely odd. I told him I had decided to go to the restaurant the next afternoon, to find out, if nothing else, why a rumour was circulating that I'd been fired. That's a pretty specific rumour. So that's what I did, right after lunch.
I asked where Micky was and found him myself. I asked to speak to him privately and he agreed. It was then I asked for an explanation for the phone message. It was then he admitted that he was "letting me go." And that's when I felt I was punched in the gut. He explained that the original manager I had been hired to replace had a change of heart. Apparently, he wanted his job back. Or more specifically, I think he wanted my new schedule. I'm speculating, but it seems likely. It was pretty obvious to anyone that my new schedule was a pretty easy work week. He explained that he really liked the other manager. He had told him if he ever wanted his job back he could have it, apparently the rest of that sentence being at my expense. He then went on to inform me that he hadn't really been happy with my work. That the previous manager had been more hands-on. He would jump in and do things where I seemed to just "hang around the front door". I guess if you call taking phone orders, taking reservations, keeping an eye on a bar that is hemmoraging cash, answering questions, giving directions, cleaning up the new outdoor section, seeing that the bathrooms were clean and voiding checks that need it hanging out, then yeah, I was just sitting on my ass. To say I was surprised was an understatment.
I expressed my disappointment. As I said, I was just starting to get comfortable. The guys from SIN came in that weekend for brunch. Despite the fact that I had closed the night before and had to work again that night, I made a trip in to the restaurant that afternoon, on my own time and without being asked, so I could meet the guys and make sure their experience was a good one. I thought a gay men's social group was an extremely important resource for us if we were looking to expand our customer base. I thought it would help us if they knew they had a HIV+ manager on board. I think I wondered aloud why nobody had ever said a single word about how I was doing my job. Now that some time has passed, WHY THE FUCK didn't my boss tell me if he needed me to do something or be a certain way? So that I could, you know, do it. Or be it. How in the world can you fire someone for not doing something, if you haven't asked them to do it in the first place? It's sooooo passive/aggressive, and I'm p/a personified.
Now that some time has passed, I went from feeling like shit to being really quite pissed. I was basically used. I showed up for training. I guess I got the job because I was the only one who had. I was given minimal direction if at all. I was allowed to work for weeks. I was asked to change my schedule and obliged quickly and willingly. I was getting along well with the staff. Then as soon as the guy I replaced changed his mind I was kicked out. Oh, he did offer to give me a recommendation. Like "Oh, yeah. Tom worked for us for a month but we weren't at all happy with his work and fired him. By all means, give him a chance." Asshole.
So there you have it. Kind of back to square one. The bills are paid up. My credit is still in good standing. I'm not without resources, and there's dog food in the cupboard. We'll be fine. But right now I'm mad, embarrassed and feeling like shit about myself. Which sort of explains why I got so drunk Friday during the Blog-a- palooza event I woke up physically injured. P.S. I didn't fracture a rib, I'm just a little dinged up. I have no idea what I'll do next. Maybe I just want to make drinks and be left alone to play with my dog.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The Good News
I had fun last night. The bad news, I may have drunkenly fractured a rib. The good news, I fractured a rib on the other side when I was a kid so now I'll be slightly malformed but matching. Ouch.
Oh, and I went to bed (passed out) without taking my meds. First time in 3 years I missed a dose. I think I may be "acting out."
Pretty much word for word, why I stand by my review. "Feh."
Oh, and I went to bed (passed out) without taking my meds. First time in 3 years I missed a dose. I think I may be "acting out."
Pretty much word for word, why I stand by my review. "Feh."
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Blarg Hop Wrap Up
It says something about how determined I am to overcome my social anxiety, as well as a complete dearth of cool gay friends, that I launched myself out onto the streets of Manhattan during the birth of a blizzard, but there you have it. Besides, as I was reminded by The Ex, we Buffalo boys aren't the least bit intimidated by a freakin' snowstorm. So, properly outfitted to battle the elements I made my way from my castle high atop Second Ave. down to Christopher St. I arrived at Pieces about 10 after 10 and the festivities seemed in full swing. After gamely entering and surveying the scene, where over 30 mostly male and mostly manly men gay Bloggers (I know) had gathered and were chatting amicably, I suddenly found myself in the grip of performance anxiety. So I left. I glumly headed back up Sixth Ave. alternately berating and comforting myself.
This is the gaggle of Bloggers I bravely faced.
I got about 3 blocks away when it seemed I managed to talk myself in to returning, but in reality I only managed to get myself within a block of the place before I turned around again. I know. I'm a mess. But fear not, all is not lost. I did in fact manage to talk myself in to one more attempt. Deciding that the worst that would happen is I would have a drink alone. So once more emboldened, I returned to Pieces and sidled up to the boys, quickly ordering myself a drink, in order to be committed as long as it would take to suck that (hee) down. The problem? Except for the mastermind that conceived (guffaw) the idea, I couldn't pick out a single familiar face amongst my fellow fag Bloggers. Worse, shortly after I managed to get a space at the bar and enjoy a drink, some unrecognizable signal made everyone put their coats on and head for the next stop on the train to Drunkville.
I left as well, but again headed in the opposite direction. You'll be happy to know that by now, even I thought I was being ridiculous and ended up circling the block, hooking up with three or four people inside the 7th Avenue entrance to Stonewall. What stopped them in their tracks was the fact that there was a 10 dollar cover. At Stonewall? During a blizzard? At Stonewall? What the fuck? What genius had that idea? In any case, after a quick consult to a handy Palm of some sort, it was agreed by me and my insta-friends that we would head to The Duplex and re-join the party there. Of course, it turns out that was the party as en mass, everyone decided that a 10 dollar cover at The Stonewall (!) was enough of a reason to pass.
By the time I arrived the crush at the bar had subsided and I got myself a drink right quick. I observed what I assumed were the "Duplex regulars" looking downright pissed off at this seeming invasion of bookish-looking older men. Pissing people off frequently is enough motivation for me to push on. Presently, someone else inquired if I was with The Bloggers. I responded I was but that beyond Joe himself, I didn't recognize a soul. A few moments later, and introductions were made. It was then I had finally made Joe's acquaintance. I attempted a bit of small talk, badly, but chat I did. I repeated how intimidated I was being in a group of people I didn't know. He rattled off the names of about six different Blogs that I confess, are probably extremely well written, but I had never heard of until he mentioned Richard's site. Finally, someone I'd heard of. He pointed him out across the room and I made a note to myself to be sure and say hi. After a few more drinks.
Next stop was The Monster. I always enjoy The Monster, especially if I've got a hankering for foreign tourists with loose morals. Nothing says suck me like a fucked up German on vacation. More people chatted me up and I was feeling, if not comfortable, at least less clenched. Being on my third (or was it fourth?) drink certainly helped. Joe led a bunch of the men downstairs to The coffin-like dance floor below the piano bar. I've always liked that room as well. It's dark and very ... forgiving. Dancing ensued. I saw it, I didn't actually do it. Eventually, we left for Boots & Saddles.
She was the token girl, and very sweet, and has some hilarious recollections of the night.
If I'm remembering correctly, and from here on in that's questionable, Boots has had a makeover and now goes by the moniker B&S. Sort of like when Splash became SBNY only with far, far, less money and more blonde wood. I actually enjoyed the old gals new face and started getting downright, well, friendly is the wrong word but I started meeting quite a few people I wouldn't be able to recall the next day. At some point, I think it was Joe, someone bought me a drink. Oh, the humanity. Ty's went by in a blur. But that may be where I introduced myself to Richard. We had a short conversation about that ridiculous "cartoon controversy" but I readily admit, I was struggling to form complete sentences. Onward!
I don't think he was blurry, I think it was me.
I've been to The Hanger many times and I'm always comfortable there. The pool players take the game there a tad seriously for my taste. Pool is supposed to be for fun, isn't it? But despite the blizzard now in full rage outside, it was warm and friendly inside. I did get scolded for snapping a picture of the gorgeous Go-Go Man, but it was worth it in the name of journalism.
The things I do for you.
By the time I came to on the couch the next day, I had a sense that I had accompanied the group over to Chi Chiz but I couldn't be sure. For the first hour I couldn't even find the television remote, let alone my coat or camera, but eventually I located everything (!) and as I gulped down buckets of water followed by ibuprofen chasers, I discovered photographic evidence that I was, in fact, inside Chi Chiz at least long enough to snap a picture. I did recover enough memory fragments to recall walking all the way home. Mercifully, I was by now immune to any effects of the cold or snow.
photographic evidence found the next day.
I found out days later that an attempt was made to finish up the Christopher St. crawl at The Dugout, but they were closed due to a little thing called a blizzard, but I'm pretty confident my "get home you drunken asshole" alarm went off and I hightailed it out before that happened. All in all, I had a pretty good time and I'm so glad I went, even if the actual going took a bit of an internal struggle. Everyone I met was so nice and ummm hairy. And a big peace the spork out to Joe, the madman architect of the mayhem. A picnic in the spring, perhaps?
This is the gaggle of Bloggers I bravely faced.
I got about 3 blocks away when it seemed I managed to talk myself in to returning, but in reality I only managed to get myself within a block of the place before I turned around again. I know. I'm a mess. But fear not, all is not lost. I did in fact manage to talk myself in to one more attempt. Deciding that the worst that would happen is I would have a drink alone. So once more emboldened, I returned to Pieces and sidled up to the boys, quickly ordering myself a drink, in order to be committed as long as it would take to suck that (hee) down. The problem? Except for the mastermind that conceived (guffaw) the idea, I couldn't pick out a single familiar face amongst my fellow fag Bloggers. Worse, shortly after I managed to get a space at the bar and enjoy a drink, some unrecognizable signal made everyone put their coats on and head for the next stop on the train to Drunkville.
I left as well, but again headed in the opposite direction. You'll be happy to know that by now, even I thought I was being ridiculous and ended up circling the block, hooking up with three or four people inside the 7th Avenue entrance to Stonewall. What stopped them in their tracks was the fact that there was a 10 dollar cover. At Stonewall? During a blizzard? At Stonewall? What the fuck? What genius had that idea? In any case, after a quick consult to a handy Palm of some sort, it was agreed by me and my insta-friends that we would head to The Duplex and re-join the party there. Of course, it turns out that was the party as en mass, everyone decided that a 10 dollar cover at The Stonewall (!) was enough of a reason to pass.
By the time I arrived the crush at the bar had subsided and I got myself a drink right quick. I observed what I assumed were the "Duplex regulars" looking downright pissed off at this seeming invasion of bookish-looking older men. Pissing people off frequently is enough motivation for me to push on. Presently, someone else inquired if I was with The Bloggers. I responded I was but that beyond Joe himself, I didn't recognize a soul. A few moments later, and introductions were made. It was then I had finally made Joe's acquaintance. I attempted a bit of small talk, badly, but chat I did. I repeated how intimidated I was being in a group of people I didn't know. He rattled off the names of about six different Blogs that I confess, are probably extremely well written, but I had never heard of until he mentioned Richard's site. Finally, someone I'd heard of. He pointed him out across the room and I made a note to myself to be sure and say hi. After a few more drinks.
Next stop was The Monster. I always enjoy The Monster, especially if I've got a hankering for foreign tourists with loose morals. Nothing says suck me like a fucked up German on vacation. More people chatted me up and I was feeling, if not comfortable, at least less clenched. Being on my third (or was it fourth?) drink certainly helped. Joe led a bunch of the men downstairs to The coffin-like dance floor below the piano bar. I've always liked that room as well. It's dark and very ... forgiving. Dancing ensued. I saw it, I didn't actually do it. Eventually, we left for Boots & Saddles.
She was the token girl, and very sweet, and has some hilarious recollections of the night.
If I'm remembering correctly, and from here on in that's questionable, Boots has had a makeover and now goes by the moniker B&S. Sort of like when Splash became SBNY only with far, far, less money and more blonde wood. I actually enjoyed the old gals new face and started getting downright, well, friendly is the wrong word but I started meeting quite a few people I wouldn't be able to recall the next day. At some point, I think it was Joe, someone bought me a drink. Oh, the humanity. Ty's went by in a blur. But that may be where I introduced myself to Richard. We had a short conversation about that ridiculous "cartoon controversy" but I readily admit, I was struggling to form complete sentences. Onward!
I don't think he was blurry, I think it was me.
I've been to The Hanger many times and I'm always comfortable there. The pool players take the game there a tad seriously for my taste. Pool is supposed to be for fun, isn't it? But despite the blizzard now in full rage outside, it was warm and friendly inside. I did get scolded for snapping a picture of the gorgeous Go-Go Man, but it was worth it in the name of journalism.
The things I do for you.
By the time I came to on the couch the next day, I had a sense that I had accompanied the group over to Chi Chiz but I couldn't be sure. For the first hour I couldn't even find the television remote, let alone my coat or camera, but eventually I located everything (!) and as I gulped down buckets of water followed by ibuprofen chasers, I discovered photographic evidence that I was, in fact, inside Chi Chiz at least long enough to snap a picture. I did recover enough memory fragments to recall walking all the way home. Mercifully, I was by now immune to any effects of the cold or snow.
photographic evidence found the next day.
I found out days later that an attempt was made to finish up the Christopher St. crawl at The Dugout, but they were closed due to a little thing called a blizzard, but I'm pretty confident my "get home you drunken asshole" alarm went off and I hightailed it out before that happened. All in all, I had a pretty good time and I'm so glad I went, even if the actual going took a bit of an internal struggle. Everyone I met was so nice and ummm hairy. And a big peace the spork out to Joe, the madman architect of the mayhem. A picnic in the spring, perhaps?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Ow. I Feel Great!
So, as predicted by the guy that came up with the cockamamie (giggle) idea in the first place, last nights Blarg Hop along Christopher St. resulted in a rare (for me) hangover. I've begun to rally and I've set about pulling some pictures off my digi and putting together a post about it. In the meantime, here's a picture from the corner of Seventh and Christopher, sometime after 2 am. I think.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Thanks. - A Report From Thanksgiving Day
So the holiday came and went. Wish I had an interesting story or two to relate. If possible, the day was even more uneventful than it normally is. I stayed in bed 'till a little after noon. Missing by quite a bit the Thanksgiving parade. Not that I would be caught dead anywhere near the actual live parade. I made that mistake once before many years ago. Like any large free event that takes place in Manhattan, you need to arrive at the location, in this case anywhere along the parade route, hours and hours beforehand. I don't wait well and I don't do cold. So it goes without saying I don't wait in the cold. Ever. But I do enjoy watching it on TV. Assuming I'm up. You can't ask for a better view.
Since I snoozed through the parade and The Ex was down in Ft. Ladida attending the White Party, my options were limited to whatever fun I could cook up with The Hellcat. The problem with that plan is that The Hellcat has been something of a poop lately. First it was a bad reaction to antibiotics, as he was being treated for a "possible" case of (applause) the clap. I say possible because the boyfriend du jour came down with it for sure, so The Hellcat's Dr. decided to dose him just to be safe. In any case, as they always seem to do, the antibiotics made him nauseous and listless. Then it was a toothache. Or rather, an entire set of teeth ache. Unfortunately, although it seems The Hellcat has, in fact, stopped using meth (it's been well over 6 months if not closer to a year) he's paying the price for years of using. In this case, between the constant grinding of the teeth caused by the meth and the bad oral hygeine also caused by being too high to take care of yourself, The Hellcat has cavities that need filling, broken teeth that need repair, as well as at least one root canal he's going to have to suffer through. Besides all that he seems to have lapsed into his own trough of depression, the upshot of which is he doesn't leave his room for an entire day (except to walk and feed the dog) or he leaves his room only to relocate to the couch and repeatedly fall asleep, only rising to eat junk food or do dog maintenance. Showering and/or bathing seem to be a low priority. This has been going on for over two weeks. It's sad, but also annoying. Even when I was at the bottom of my depression I managed to rally and get out of the house every day, if only for some aimless shopping and a meal at the corner diner. It's depressing having a depressed person lie around the house all day. Particularly when he seems to not want to do anything to address the problem.
So it should come as no surprise that The Hellcat finally rolled out of bed after 3 today. He fed the dog, ate a bowl of cereal and retreated back from whence he came. He did manage a "good morning" but no mention of whatever tentative plans we had to grab some brunch or make a meal.. Not that I was expecting it. I had already gone out the night before and purchased all the fixin's for a big breakfast. In fact, I was just sitting down to the sale circulars from the daily papers and a heaping plate of scrambled eggs w/salsa, a big ole' ham steak , some toasted onion pita and some fresh fruit when he stumbled through the kitchen. And as much as I meant my previous statements that I try to treat a family holiday like Thanksgiving as just another day, it would have been nice if an effort had been made on his part to spend an hour or two with me before I had to go to work. Instead, I spent the afternoon with the TV off puttering around the Internets, paying some bills on-line and shaving my legs. I intended to go see Harry Potter or Rent, but my legs had gotten pretty overgrown. I'm sort of kidding. Besides, by the time I would have had to leave for the movie I had started feeling a little rundown myself. I was running a slight fever and had a headache. So I saved my energy and headed out into a cold and blustery Thanksgiving night to work. The Hellcat was still napping. He had been up a grand total of 10 minutes.
Work was fine, albeit slow. Our regular drunks were in attendance, and I did get a real turkey dinner courtesy of our restaurant next door. Unfortunately, whatever was ailing me had moved into my digestive tract. I didn't get sick, but I did make several hurried trips to the bathroom. If ya' get my drift.
As a matter of fact, between the (literal) pain in the butt I was experiencing, add in the fact that I overall felt like shit, mix in a dollop of feeling all alone and lonely and you have the recipe for me finally jumping off the wagon. I got home and I was cold, I was tired, work bored the crap out of me and my innards felt like they were about to burst outward. So I mixed me a vodka/soda... The earth continued to turn. I didn't go all Days of Wine and Roses and progress right to the rubbing alcohol. I watched the final episode of Rome (loved it!) and then channel surfed 'till about 6 am. I had two drinks, I made myself a third, but I never made a dent in it, instead drifting off to sweet merciful slumber. My "Thanksgiving holiday" coming to an end with a whimper. Actually, the whimper was coming from me. But nothing a good nights sleep, a gallon of Immodium and a giant tube of Preparation H couldn't cure. How was your holiday?
Since I snoozed through the parade and The Ex was down in Ft. Ladida attending the White Party, my options were limited to whatever fun I could cook up with The Hellcat. The problem with that plan is that The Hellcat has been something of a poop lately. First it was a bad reaction to antibiotics, as he was being treated for a "possible" case of (applause) the clap. I say possible because the boyfriend du jour came down with it for sure, so The Hellcat's Dr. decided to dose him just to be safe. In any case, as they always seem to do, the antibiotics made him nauseous and listless. Then it was a toothache. Or rather, an entire set of teeth ache. Unfortunately, although it seems The Hellcat has, in fact, stopped using meth (it's been well over 6 months if not closer to a year) he's paying the price for years of using. In this case, between the constant grinding of the teeth caused by the meth and the bad oral hygeine also caused by being too high to take care of yourself, The Hellcat has cavities that need filling, broken teeth that need repair, as well as at least one root canal he's going to have to suffer through. Besides all that he seems to have lapsed into his own trough of depression, the upshot of which is he doesn't leave his room for an entire day (except to walk and feed the dog) or he leaves his room only to relocate to the couch and repeatedly fall asleep, only rising to eat junk food or do dog maintenance. Showering and/or bathing seem to be a low priority. This has been going on for over two weeks. It's sad, but also annoying. Even when I was at the bottom of my depression I managed to rally and get out of the house every day, if only for some aimless shopping and a meal at the corner diner. It's depressing having a depressed person lie around the house all day. Particularly when he seems to not want to do anything to address the problem.
So it should come as no surprise that The Hellcat finally rolled out of bed after 3 today. He fed the dog, ate a bowl of cereal and retreated back from whence he came. He did manage a "good morning" but no mention of whatever tentative plans we had to grab some brunch or make a meal.. Not that I was expecting it. I had already gone out the night before and purchased all the fixin's for a big breakfast. In fact, I was just sitting down to the sale circulars from the daily papers and a heaping plate of scrambled eggs w/salsa, a big ole' ham steak , some toasted onion pita and some fresh fruit when he stumbled through the kitchen. And as much as I meant my previous statements that I try to treat a family holiday like Thanksgiving as just another day, it would have been nice if an effort had been made on his part to spend an hour or two with me before I had to go to work. Instead, I spent the afternoon with the TV off puttering around the Internets, paying some bills on-line and shaving my legs. I intended to go see Harry Potter or Rent, but my legs had gotten pretty overgrown. I'm sort of kidding. Besides, by the time I would have had to leave for the movie I had started feeling a little rundown myself. I was running a slight fever and had a headache. So I saved my energy and headed out into a cold and blustery Thanksgiving night to work. The Hellcat was still napping. He had been up a grand total of 10 minutes.
Work was fine, albeit slow. Our regular drunks were in attendance, and I did get a real turkey dinner courtesy of our restaurant next door. Unfortunately, whatever was ailing me had moved into my digestive tract. I didn't get sick, but I did make several hurried trips to the bathroom. If ya' get my drift.
As a matter of fact, between the (literal) pain in the butt I was experiencing, add in the fact that I overall felt like shit, mix in a dollop of feeling all alone and lonely and you have the recipe for me finally jumping off the wagon. I got home and I was cold, I was tired, work bored the crap out of me and my innards felt like they were about to burst outward. So I mixed me a vodka/soda... The earth continued to turn. I didn't go all Days of Wine and Roses and progress right to the rubbing alcohol. I watched the final episode of Rome (loved it!) and then channel surfed 'till about 6 am. I had two drinks, I made myself a third, but I never made a dent in it, instead drifting off to sweet merciful slumber. My "Thanksgiving holiday" coming to an end with a whimper. Actually, the whimper was coming from me. But nothing a good nights sleep, a gallon of Immodium and a giant tube of Preparation H couldn't cure. How was your holiday?
Friday, November 18, 2005
How Dry I Am
Well, it's been four weeks since any form of the demon alcohol has passed my lips. Two more days and I will have reached my goal of one month. I originally mentioned I would do 60 days, but that just smacked of fanaticism. Is that a word? Anyway, I'm in no hurry to break my liquor fast. I've given myself permission to enjoy a glass of wine or two assuming I'm off for Thanksgiving and I find myself cooking or out to dinner on the holiday. We haven't gotten a straight answer from the owners about whether or not we'll be open. I suspect we will be. It doesn't really matter one way or the other. I don't celebrate Thanksgiving as a rule. It's a family holiday in my mind, and since I don't have much in the way of family around, running about trying to "invent" a family and celebration has always felt a bit desperate to me. Of course, that whole statement sort of speaks to an issue I've been dealing with in my therapy sessions. The fact that I have quite a bit of trouble forming intimate relationships, be they friendship or sexual, with anyone. But that's a subject for another day.
Coincidentally (?), I'm pleased to report that I'm feeling worlds better, fucked-up-in-the-head wise. Things aren't perfect. Some of the issues I've been grappling with regarding my above mentioned intimacy problems, my unresolved sense that I've wasted a huge chunk of my life, as well as my fears for my future are all still bubbling beneath the surface. But I no longer feel overwhelmed by it all. I'm no longer experiencing the day to day fear and extreme anxiety, a sense that I am powerless and incapable of facing even the simplest challenge. If I wasn't expressive enough in describing how much I was struggling, I would say that was the most frightening, most frustrating part. The fact that I'm a control freak is well documented and freely acknowledged. So when I felt that I had lost control, of everything, my emotions, my reactions, my ability to reason, well, let's just say I will do whatever it takes to avoid going back there again anytime soon.
So, winter fast approaches. The change of seasons usually makes me feel rather melancholy. I mourn the passing of another summer and wonder, aloud and to myself, how I will slog through another season of cold air and grey skies and (if you're me) really cute sweaters and the opportunity to layer brilliantly. But this year is different. I am renewed. My sense of balance has been restored. I have hope again. And sometimes, hope is enough to keep you going. Stay tuned ...
Coincidentally (?), I'm pleased to report that I'm feeling worlds better, fucked-up-in-the-head wise. Things aren't perfect. Some of the issues I've been grappling with regarding my above mentioned intimacy problems, my unresolved sense that I've wasted a huge chunk of my life, as well as my fears for my future are all still bubbling beneath the surface. But I no longer feel overwhelmed by it all. I'm no longer experiencing the day to day fear and extreme anxiety, a sense that I am powerless and incapable of facing even the simplest challenge. If I wasn't expressive enough in describing how much I was struggling, I would say that was the most frightening, most frustrating part. The fact that I'm a control freak is well documented and freely acknowledged. So when I felt that I had lost control, of everything, my emotions, my reactions, my ability to reason, well, let's just say I will do whatever it takes to avoid going back there again anytime soon.
So, winter fast approaches. The change of seasons usually makes me feel rather melancholy. I mourn the passing of another summer and wonder, aloud and to myself, how I will slog through another season of cold air and grey skies and (if you're me) really cute sweaters and the opportunity to layer brilliantly. But this year is different. I am renewed. My sense of balance has been restored. I have hope again. And sometimes, hope is enough to keep you going. Stay tuned ...
Friday, November 04, 2005
Two Weeks
and not a drop to drink. This despite an admittedly difficult to fight off craving for a glass of wine. Or three. I feel like I've left the habit breaking portion of this lesson and have moved into the character building section. The one where I set a goal and tenaciously hang on, keeping my eyes on the prize. Ultimately, I would like to be able to split a bottle of wine with a humpy date and, well, hump my date. I'd like to be able to meet friends out for brunch and get a Sunday afternoon buzz on Bloody Mary's. I'd like to be able to have a couple martinis before dinner and laugh and talk and relax and have that be the end of it. So I need to spend some more time building my resources so I don't fall back into my old anti-social ways. I'm learning all over again how to be comfortable in my own skin. To overcome my innate sense of shyness and just to relax and have fun again. I used to be a ton of shits and giggles. I lost that quality somewhere along the way. I miss it.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
What An Odd Feeling
After months of turmoil, I suddenly find myself in the proverbial lull. I went to my therapy session yesterday and remarked on how utterly unremarkable I was feeling. For the first time in weeks I had no real agenda, nothing that felt like a pressing need for me to discuss. It seems between the medication and the lack of alcohol I have finally managed to acheive what feels like a shocking level of "normalcy". Of course, once I got to talking I did manage to re-visit some familiar themes. Like how I have no real interest in living with The Hellcat or The Ex anymore. It's not that they're bad people. Far from it. At their core I would say they are both pretty good guys. But they share a similar trait. They are both completely thoughtless. And by that I mean without thought for the people around them or for their environment. Beyond the basic comforts I mean. On more than one occasion I have attempted to not scrub the toilet or wash the kitchen floor or disinfect inside the microwave. I have managed to go weeks on any number of these tasks, only to break down in utter disgust at the sheer filth the both of them are willing to put up with. Whereupon I do it myself. Still, it amazes me that two grown men can live this way on a daily basis. I would love to be a fly on the grease covered wall when I do finally leave these two to fend for themselves. The Hellcat I'm not so worried about as he seems to have a knack for finding people to clean up after him. The Ex is in for a rude awakening.
Halloween came and went. I got so busy puttering around the house taking care of this and that that it was after 10:30 before I realized I could still make it out to any number of bars or events and get some pictures. Between not even considering making up a costume and given that I have a few weeks to go on my pledge to dry out I decided to skip the frivolity and took a trip to Baskin/Robbins instead. A scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate peanut butter was all the celebrating I would need. I spent the night cleaning up my PC and laptop. Deleting files, organizing photographs and downloading some new software. You may have gone out and got laid but I defragged two, - count 'em two, hard drives. Party on, dude!
And finally, from the Dept. of What The Hell?: there's this.
Halloween came and went. I got so busy puttering around the house taking care of this and that that it was after 10:30 before I realized I could still make it out to any number of bars or events and get some pictures. Between not even considering making up a costume and given that I have a few weeks to go on my pledge to dry out I decided to skip the frivolity and took a trip to Baskin/Robbins instead. A scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate peanut butter was all the celebrating I would need. I spent the night cleaning up my PC and laptop. Deleting files, organizing photographs and downloading some new software. You may have gone out and got laid but I defragged two, - count 'em two, hard drives. Party on, dude!
And finally, from the Dept. of What The Hell?: there's this.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
I Quit Drinking.
You read that right. Now before any of you do something rash and sell your stock in the USA distributor for Stolichnaya, know this. It's temporary. At least I think it is. The plan is to go 30 days without a drink. We'll asses the matter then.
Why return to the days of prohibition? Because I'm stubborn but I'm not stupid. It occurred to me that while in the midst of treatment for depression, it may not be the wisest choice to continue to go to bed every single night with a belly full of a known depressant. And that's what I've been doing. Every night for years. I compartmentalized my drinking, just like I do every other aspect of my life. Work has a box. My sex life has a box. There's a box for creative pursuits. It stands to reason I'd construct one for drinking. You see I never drink during the day (the rare Sunday brunch being the exception). I don't do Happy Hour. I rarely drink before midnight. But every night, starting around 2 am I would get that itch. That urge. Somewhere a Stoli bottle (or Kettle or Svedka) began to call me.
"It's the end of the day! ... Finish up!... Drink me!" Not the whole bottle of course, but I've been known to make a hefty dent.
Over the course of the last few years, I further withdrew and turned my drinking into a ritual I preferred to pursue alone. Sure, I would have a couple of drinks at the end of a shift. Or I'd head out to Nowhere or The Urge or even (shudder) Spl ... sorry, SBNY on occasion. But that was always the prelude to my drinking alone time. I would turn out the lights, light several candles, find an interesting movie or TV show (As my therapist pointed out, it has all the makings of a hot date. Minus the man, of course.) and then .... woooosh! Up goes the wall. After that, nothing registers. Nothing gets in. No problems at work, no fights with The Ex, no sink full of dirty dishes courtesy of The Hellcat. Nothing. It would all just melt away in a haze of ice cubes and lemon twists.
Trouble is, after awhile, nothing really can get in. That includes other people. I spent the last year of my life working 50 hour weeks with the same people day after day and I never really felt like I got to know any of them. And I don't think I let them get to know me. I'm making the same mistake at my new job. My relations with everyone there are very surface, very non-committal. Part of that was borne out of me taking a new job while in the midst of an emotional crisis. I pulled back to try and mask the difficulty I was having staying focused. But part of it is due to the person I've become. The person I'm no longer enjoying being.
So it was in this spirit, and with the intent of taking advantage of the fact that I had a therapist to lean on, and anti-depressants to make me feel more stable, that I decided to address a part of my life that I have been reluctant to face down. Mind you, after much introspection I've reached the conclusion that alcoholism is not the problem. Alcohol abuse, however, is a symptom. A symptom of my need to feel in control. Yes, I realize the irony in the feeling of ceding control to the alcohol as representing me feeling in control. I didn't say it was logical. All I knew was that for one hour every day at the end of the day I had my spot on the couch, in the night, with the lights out and the candles burning. And I had peace. I had my space. It belonged to me.
The thing is, I can still have that if I want it. Minus the alcohol. And the dry mouth in the morning. And the lack of dreams at night. And the coffee shakes from too much caffeine. And the depression. And the lack of confidence borne from me needing a nightly crutch to hobble into slumber. Ironically, the control I'm feeling from not going to bed drunk at night supersedes the old control issues by a mile. Who knew?
Listen, I'm sorry if this all seems rambling and incoherent. This is the first time in 20 years I've felt this overwhelming desire to change the course of my entire life. The fact that I'm willing to even be this honest about my relation to and abuse of alcohol is a major achievement. I'm sort of still working a lot of it out in my own head. Hence, the disjointed post.
But there you have it. My first week without alcohol. I feel worlds better in the morning. And the dreams, good lord the dreams. This afternoon I knew it was time to get up when I dreamed that I lived with The Ex, The Hellcat, The Ex's friend Ron and the little sister from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Not the actress, the character.
I'm not sure where I'm headed with all this.
Why return to the days of prohibition? Because I'm stubborn but I'm not stupid. It occurred to me that while in the midst of treatment for depression, it may not be the wisest choice to continue to go to bed every single night with a belly full of a known depressant. And that's what I've been doing. Every night for years. I compartmentalized my drinking, just like I do every other aspect of my life. Work has a box. My sex life has a box. There's a box for creative pursuits. It stands to reason I'd construct one for drinking. You see I never drink during the day (the rare Sunday brunch being the exception). I don't do Happy Hour. I rarely drink before midnight. But every night, starting around 2 am I would get that itch. That urge. Somewhere a Stoli bottle (or Kettle or Svedka) began to call me.
"It's the end of the day! ... Finish up!... Drink me!" Not the whole bottle of course, but I've been known to make a hefty dent.
Over the course of the last few years, I further withdrew and turned my drinking into a ritual I preferred to pursue alone. Sure, I would have a couple of drinks at the end of a shift. Or I'd head out to Nowhere or The Urge or even (shudder) Spl ... sorry, SBNY on occasion. But that was always the prelude to my drinking alone time. I would turn out the lights, light several candles, find an interesting movie or TV show (As my therapist pointed out, it has all the makings of a hot date. Minus the man, of course.) and then .... woooosh! Up goes the wall. After that, nothing registers. Nothing gets in. No problems at work, no fights with The Ex, no sink full of dirty dishes courtesy of The Hellcat. Nothing. It would all just melt away in a haze of ice cubes and lemon twists.
Trouble is, after awhile, nothing really can get in. That includes other people. I spent the last year of my life working 50 hour weeks with the same people day after day and I never really felt like I got to know any of them. And I don't think I let them get to know me. I'm making the same mistake at my new job. My relations with everyone there are very surface, very non-committal. Part of that was borne out of me taking a new job while in the midst of an emotional crisis. I pulled back to try and mask the difficulty I was having staying focused. But part of it is due to the person I've become. The person I'm no longer enjoying being.
So it was in this spirit, and with the intent of taking advantage of the fact that I had a therapist to lean on, and anti-depressants to make me feel more stable, that I decided to address a part of my life that I have been reluctant to face down. Mind you, after much introspection I've reached the conclusion that alcoholism is not the problem. Alcohol abuse, however, is a symptom. A symptom of my need to feel in control. Yes, I realize the irony in the feeling of ceding control to the alcohol as representing me feeling in control. I didn't say it was logical. All I knew was that for one hour every day at the end of the day I had my spot on the couch, in the night, with the lights out and the candles burning. And I had peace. I had my space. It belonged to me.
The thing is, I can still have that if I want it. Minus the alcohol. And the dry mouth in the morning. And the lack of dreams at night. And the coffee shakes from too much caffeine. And the depression. And the lack of confidence borne from me needing a nightly crutch to hobble into slumber. Ironically, the control I'm feeling from not going to bed drunk at night supersedes the old control issues by a mile. Who knew?
Listen, I'm sorry if this all seems rambling and incoherent. This is the first time in 20 years I've felt this overwhelming desire to change the course of my entire life. The fact that I'm willing to even be this honest about my relation to and abuse of alcohol is a major achievement. I'm sort of still working a lot of it out in my own head. Hence, the disjointed post.
But there you have it. My first week without alcohol. I feel worlds better in the morning. And the dreams, good lord the dreams. This afternoon I knew it was time to get up when I dreamed that I lived with The Ex, The Hellcat, The Ex's friend Ron and the little sister from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Not the actress, the character.
I'm not sure where I'm headed with all this.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Coming Out Again, Again!
Last night. Two shows back to back. An evening with Air Supply. I needed insulin by the end of the second show, it was that sugary sweet and feel-good. How in the world our on crack bookers decided to follow that with Masta Killa on the same night is absolutely beyond me, but there you have it. Fortunately for me I was excused from the mayhem as I was scheduled to open and work the day shift today. So in hindsight it probably wasn't the best idea for me to agree to meet The Hellcat (who had eagerly joined in for the sappy goodness that was Air Supply) for cocktails at the scene of my old crimes, but after insuring that a chance and unwanted meeting with Jabba The Drunk (That's a looooong way back to link but I'll try.) wouldn't occur, we were on for cocktails at The Clownhouse.
Now the last time we attempted to visit our old friends, after splitting two bottles of wine on the Great Lawn during a philharmonic concert, it ended badly. I remember shots flowing freely, well, remember is an exaggeration. I was told after the fact. All I know is I went from the club to the next day as one continuous memory. I was out talking and the very next memory is when I awoke the next morning. I was feeling bad about my adventure with extreme drinking 'till I managed to touch base with The Hellcat later that day. Somehow after we got separated, or rather, I got drunk and up and left, he somehow made it back down to the castle high atop Second Avenue. Trouble was, he left his bag with house keys at the Botoxed Frownhouse. It was after 5am and I wouldn't hear the buzzer and The Ex is more than a titch deef. So he plopped down on the front stoop to ponder his fate. Whereupon he fell fast asleep. Only to be awakened by the neighbors' dog, down for his morning pissoir, excitedly licking his face. Said naighbor was attached to said dog and offered assistance which The Hellcat happily accepted. By now it was close enough to his actual morning time that The Hellcat managed to roust The Ex and shuffle off to some non-cement shut-eye. My working theory is we got slipped a mickey. The alternative being we're boistrous, overgrown fratboys.
At any rate, I was determined to enjoy a couple cocktails and toddle on home. The Hellcat ordering up shots of my old buddy Jose to begin the evening notwithstanding. I must say, extreme drinking-wise I did OK. I remember all that was said and done. We managed to excuse ourselves after 3am but well before last call, buzzed, only a $20 spot poorer (love that) and brimming with confidence or liquor fueled bravado (pick one) that four to five hours of sleep would more than suffice. It was not without a touch of horror that I was awakened by The Hellcat (no, not licking my face), explaining that the maddening noise that was annoying me was actually the alarm clock going off the past 20 minutes and I was about to be running quite late. I dutifully put back on all the clothes I had shed four hours ago right down to the underwear. I made a pot of coffee and gulped down a cup as I rinsed off in the sink. It was the start of a magical day.
I did arrive at work somewhere in the neighborhood of a half-hour late. Late being a relative term in the morning, as I see no real correlation between arriving at 10 or 10:30 when all you do is open the safe and give out banks and make a list of who is working. It's not a challenge to get it done in plenty of time. Still my boss would disagree and considering she was on the premises due to the fact that her production company was running the show this afternoon, she took it upon herself to start my day for me. For the record, I was still drunk. The first clue being when I got on the ground to unlock the front door and just laid there for a few minutes, making unfunny jokes to the retail girl. It seeemed like a good idea at the time. Still, I managed a modicum of decorum and felt rather confidently that the day would proceed as expected. That's about when I realized I had come to work without my medication. Noon was approaching and it was time for the kool-aid. I had left it in the fridge at home. I'd been on the god-damned pills just over a week and I was about to miss a dose already. Fan-fucking-tastic. This in addition to the day last week when I woke up and couldn't remember if I had taken meds the night before or just meant to and forgot. Turns out I did it and forgot. Taking medication twice a day every day is a little bit harder than I expected. There are no consequences if I miss a dose of anything else prescribed for me daily. Until now. Now I could develop resistance. Now if I let the level of medication in my blood stream get too low, it won't work anymore. The viral killing field in my system will be devoid of soldiers on horseback.
I was unsure what to do. Finally, after much debate, I approached my boss.
"Um, I take some medication. Every day. And I forgot it at home. And I think I need to run home and get it."
She made that face people make when your distress somehow pains them.
"Can't you send somebody? Send (the hostess)."
And at first, I considered it. I really did. I even approached one of my employees and told her I was sending her to my apartment.
But before that I dialed my home. Hoping against hope that The Ex would be up before noon or that The Hellcat hadn't gone back to bed. I was disappointed on both fronts. And the reality of this undertaking began to sink in. You can't just hop on a subway and pop over to my apartment. I live in that no man's land section of Manhattan that isn't really serviced by the subway. You have to take a train near my apartment and then walk the final 15 minutes. That's true no matter what station you select. So whoever did this would have to take the subway, figure out what was the correct direction to my house and then walk there. Then walk up five flights to my apartment. Then go to my refrigerator and get my HIV meds. Being careful to get the correct HIV meds, as The Hellcat and I store our Kool Aid on the same shelf. Ain't that cute? And then someone would have to go in my room. And determine which of the four pill bottles they discovered there was the right one and not the Viagra. Then back out the door and down the stairs and to the subway and back to work. And still, I thought it might work. I called The Hellcat and left a message, explaining what was happening. And as the words were leaving my lips I knew it wouldn't work. So I interrupted myself.
"Fuck it, I'm coming home. Never mind."
And I went to my door staff and said exactly that.
"I forgot some medication that I need and I'm running home to get it. I shouldn't be gone more than an hour."
They promised to handle whatever came up and really, we all acknowledged, what really could happen as we were loading an audience for a children's puppet show that has never drawn more than 100 adults and children.
So that's what I did. I went home. I got my medication. I changed into a pair of black jeans for good measure. I returned to the club. The puppet show had begun. All without incident. At least, that's how it seemed to me.
It wasn't until at the end of my shift that my boss confided she had to speak with me. I assumed the worst because the worst keeps happening these days. I imagined she wanted to fire me. Or send me to another club. A whole host of awful scenarios ran through my head all at once. Curiously, it hadn't occurred to me that my unexpected absence was an issue.
"I need to ask you... it's a personal question but I need to ask you, what medication are you taking that you had to get?"
And there it was. Left or right. Blue shirt or brown? Make a choice. I barely hesitated. I guess too much has happened for me to back away now.
"I'm HIV positive." Her eyes widened. She hadn't expected that. I continued,
"It's OK, I've been positive all along it's just that until recently I've been maintaining with diet and vitamins. But that's not working anymore and now I'm on more powerful medication and I have to take it and I can't really miss a dose or I could develop resistance."
And there it was on the desk between us. My reality. My struggle. My war. My little war. And the implication that it takes precedence over a ridiculous puppet show that 35 people are coming to. Which of course, it does, although she's loath to admit it.
"Well of course, if it's serious about your health, I'm not unreasonable. I mean, if it's your life, I mean of course...." she trailed off before recovering enough to turn the conversation onto my other shortcomings as a nightclub manager. A subject I know all too well about, as well. We were back on common ground.
Now the last time we attempted to visit our old friends, after splitting two bottles of wine on the Great Lawn during a philharmonic concert, it ended badly. I remember shots flowing freely, well, remember is an exaggeration. I was told after the fact. All I know is I went from the club to the next day as one continuous memory. I was out talking and the very next memory is when I awoke the next morning. I was feeling bad about my adventure with extreme drinking 'till I managed to touch base with The Hellcat later that day. Somehow after we got separated, or rather, I got drunk and up and left, he somehow made it back down to the castle high atop Second Avenue. Trouble was, he left his bag with house keys at the Botoxed Frownhouse. It was after 5am and I wouldn't hear the buzzer and The Ex is more than a titch deef. So he plopped down on the front stoop to ponder his fate. Whereupon he fell fast asleep. Only to be awakened by the neighbors' dog, down for his morning pissoir, excitedly licking his face. Said naighbor was attached to said dog and offered assistance which The Hellcat happily accepted. By now it was close enough to his actual morning time that The Hellcat managed to roust The Ex and shuffle off to some non-cement shut-eye. My working theory is we got slipped a mickey. The alternative being we're boistrous, overgrown fratboys.
At any rate, I was determined to enjoy a couple cocktails and toddle on home. The Hellcat ordering up shots of my old buddy Jose to begin the evening notwithstanding. I must say, extreme drinking-wise I did OK. I remember all that was said and done. We managed to excuse ourselves after 3am but well before last call, buzzed, only a $20 spot poorer (love that) and brimming with confidence or liquor fueled bravado (pick one) that four to five hours of sleep would more than suffice. It was not without a touch of horror that I was awakened by The Hellcat (no, not licking my face), explaining that the maddening noise that was annoying me was actually the alarm clock going off the past 20 minutes and I was about to be running quite late. I dutifully put back on all the clothes I had shed four hours ago right down to the underwear. I made a pot of coffee and gulped down a cup as I rinsed off in the sink. It was the start of a magical day.
I did arrive at work somewhere in the neighborhood of a half-hour late. Late being a relative term in the morning, as I see no real correlation between arriving at 10 or 10:30 when all you do is open the safe and give out banks and make a list of who is working. It's not a challenge to get it done in plenty of time. Still my boss would disagree and considering she was on the premises due to the fact that her production company was running the show this afternoon, she took it upon herself to start my day for me. For the record, I was still drunk. The first clue being when I got on the ground to unlock the front door and just laid there for a few minutes, making unfunny jokes to the retail girl. It seeemed like a good idea at the time. Still, I managed a modicum of decorum and felt rather confidently that the day would proceed as expected. That's about when I realized I had come to work without my medication. Noon was approaching and it was time for the kool-aid. I had left it in the fridge at home. I'd been on the god-damned pills just over a week and I was about to miss a dose already. Fan-fucking-tastic. This in addition to the day last week when I woke up and couldn't remember if I had taken meds the night before or just meant to and forgot. Turns out I did it and forgot. Taking medication twice a day every day is a little bit harder than I expected. There are no consequences if I miss a dose of anything else prescribed for me daily. Until now. Now I could develop resistance. Now if I let the level of medication in my blood stream get too low, it won't work anymore. The viral killing field in my system will be devoid of soldiers on horseback.
I was unsure what to do. Finally, after much debate, I approached my boss.
"Um, I take some medication. Every day. And I forgot it at home. And I think I need to run home and get it."
She made that face people make when your distress somehow pains them.
"Can't you send somebody? Send (the hostess)."
And at first, I considered it. I really did. I even approached one of my employees and told her I was sending her to my apartment.
But before that I dialed my home. Hoping against hope that The Ex would be up before noon or that The Hellcat hadn't gone back to bed. I was disappointed on both fronts. And the reality of this undertaking began to sink in. You can't just hop on a subway and pop over to my apartment. I live in that no man's land section of Manhattan that isn't really serviced by the subway. You have to take a train near my apartment and then walk the final 15 minutes. That's true no matter what station you select. So whoever did this would have to take the subway, figure out what was the correct direction to my house and then walk there. Then walk up five flights to my apartment. Then go to my refrigerator and get my HIV meds. Being careful to get the correct HIV meds, as The Hellcat and I store our Kool Aid on the same shelf. Ain't that cute? And then someone would have to go in my room. And determine which of the four pill bottles they discovered there was the right one and not the Viagra. Then back out the door and down the stairs and to the subway and back to work. And still, I thought it might work. I called The Hellcat and left a message, explaining what was happening. And as the words were leaving my lips I knew it wouldn't work. So I interrupted myself.
"Fuck it, I'm coming home. Never mind."
And I went to my door staff and said exactly that.
"I forgot some medication that I need and I'm running home to get it. I shouldn't be gone more than an hour."
They promised to handle whatever came up and really, we all acknowledged, what really could happen as we were loading an audience for a children's puppet show that has never drawn more than 100 adults and children.
So that's what I did. I went home. I got my medication. I changed into a pair of black jeans for good measure. I returned to the club. The puppet show had begun. All without incident. At least, that's how it seemed to me.
It wasn't until at the end of my shift that my boss confided she had to speak with me. I assumed the worst because the worst keeps happening these days. I imagined she wanted to fire me. Or send me to another club. A whole host of awful scenarios ran through my head all at once. Curiously, it hadn't occurred to me that my unexpected absence was an issue.
"I need to ask you... it's a personal question but I need to ask you, what medication are you taking that you had to get?"
And there it was. Left or right. Blue shirt or brown? Make a choice. I barely hesitated. I guess too much has happened for me to back away now.
"I'm HIV positive." Her eyes widened. She hadn't expected that. I continued,
"It's OK, I've been positive all along it's just that until recently I've been maintaining with diet and vitamins. But that's not working anymore and now I'm on more powerful medication and I have to take it and I can't really miss a dose or I could develop resistance."
And there it was on the desk between us. My reality. My struggle. My war. My little war. And the implication that it takes precedence over a ridiculous puppet show that 35 people are coming to. Which of course, it does, although she's loath to admit it.
"Well of course, if it's serious about your health, I'm not unreasonable. I mean, if it's your life, I mean of course...." she trailed off before recovering enough to turn the conversation onto my other shortcomings as a nightclub manager. A subject I know all too well about, as well. We were back on common ground.
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