Inconvenient Libido - Whores for Gloria

A friend recommended this book : "Whores for Gloria".  Being the irreverent book-loving sort, generally I read most things that are recommended by friends.  But I do NOT recommend this one - unless you need to kill off or disable an inconvenient libido.

Bizarrely, the book cover quotes a NY Times review " a lyrical poem of the streets".  One of two things went on for that reviewer: first option - this quote is wildly out of context and the full sentence would have read something like " the pulverizing depravity, the portrait of utter despair,  and the vast and varied sexual violence take this book far away from being ' a lyrical poem of the street'". OR the second alternative, the reviewer went to very different poetry class than I did.

More importantly, when I reported back to my friend that I wasn't sure I was still speaking to him after he put me through this very ragged 150 pages -- I did allow that if I ever needed to "corral, restrain or kill off an inconvenient libido, I knew just the book I would reach for".  Never has so much sex been less erotic than in "Whores for Gloria".

Good thing, actually, as I have an inconvenient libido - the one that exists when you are not dating anyone, not cohabitating or married. But if need be, I guess I could read this book again.  Yes, that's the review I would put on the cover:  guaranteed to make abstinence very, very appealing.

 I know that there are many people who are comfortable and at peace living sexless lives, but I am not one of them. Wait - there was one period of time when I was quite content to be sexless - that would be called marriage.

Hanging Up the SCUBA Gear

Finally decided.

Hanging it up. I have done my last SCUBA dive. That is such a tough sentence to write.

While I will go to some lengths to avoid giving in to fear, and I have so much trouble acknowledging that there are permanent effects of the SCA, that there are things I cannot do - I need to let this go.

The cardiologist initially said no, not ever, not one single dive. And he is a diver, so he understood the enormity of that statement; he understood what "he" was taking away from me. Under some pressure, he relented, checked with Medtronic (Skippy's manufacturer) and said perhaps I could dive to 30 feet. Being who I am, I leapt at that door-open-a-crack and started hatching a plan.

I knew I would have to lie to a dive operator; even in Cozumel where safety is not a top priority, I think they would balk at taking down a diver with a defibrillator. And I didn't want to go back to Mexico; I wanted this precious dive trip to be to Little Cayman. (Population: 100). Just one more time on Bloody Bay Wall.

But then I also had to come up with a dive buddy who would be uber-attentive, just in case. My first choice bowed out after a bends episode. Second up is a Richmond friend who is a diver and an MD and an inordinate risk-taker. Even he got cold feet. What was I thinking? What kind of favor is this to ask of a friend? (See the last post on this blog - I can be an ass.)

Then I thought maybe I'll just be a volunteer diver at our local aquarium - last week, I went down to talk to them about it. But I've decided. No - I don't want my last SCUBA dives to be in 25 feet of water cleaning fish crud off the walls at an aquarium. That is just too depressing - I came to accept that this idea was more depressing than simply not diving again.

So today, I made my first step - I called to arrange servicing of my equipment so I can sell it. I have a Caribbean trip planned later this year, but it will be the trip where I learn to love snorkeling.

I need to let it go. It's unseemly at best to whine about this. 98% of SCA people just die. Of the 2% who live, so many have severe physical limitations and/or varying levels of brain damage.

And me, the SCUBA whiner, I have enough brain cells left to pass the damn South Carolina bar exam (took two tries, but passed it).

I'm letting it go. I am now officially a former SCUBA diver.

Good Days But I Am An Ass - The Cleat Board

Until today, it's been a good week - played hooky one day last week for a long, long outstanding boating day. Loved it. And I passed some exams; actually both Skippy and I did.

And the good days continued. The other day, a friend made me a "cleat board" - yes, in the photo, that is a "cleat board". I suppose it might be hard for some to understand how touched I was - seriously. I adore this friend and the fact that he understood and wanted to help with my deep dread of having to learn knots. (That part of my brain just isn't there. Or if it is there, it doesn't work.   And I can't blame the Sudden Cardiac Arrest (SCA) - it's been going on for years.)

So I have to learn knots, and I have a friend who made me a cleat board. THAT, in my book, is an excellent day.

And then I became an ass. This may sound odd for a grown up adult, but I do not understand the rules of social drinking. Haven't been one, don't know many - most of the drinkers I have known have been problem drinkers, not social ones. I so like this person, he is important to me; I want him to like me. Simple, we learned this in what - 4th grade? But I f'd up. I fear that in my feeble attempts to 'fit in' I committed "social-drinker-violations"; I just don't know the rules.

I fear I made him feel lousy; I didn't understand that it was NOT OK to rib about forgetting details of things that occurred while over-drinking. I didn't get that it is NOT OK to rib about his apparently making a choice to limit what he drank yesterday. But I should know. I am an adult. AND I object when people rib me about drinking too little. I should have known.

All that adds up to - I am an idiot. I was an ass. I probably succeeding in both making him feel lousy and making myself less likable. And I don't know how to fix it.

I'm hoping it comes to me.

One Word - Two Possibilities

The word "besotted" is a wonderfully old-fashioned word; it just doesn't come up in general conversation or even in much writing these days. And to add to its charm, it has two distinct definitions.

Here is my fear.

Two definitions: 1) infatuated, 2) dulled with drink.

Here is my fear. One relationship; two people; both definitions accurate.

Staying Off Those Roads - John's Quote

Was out with a friend (J.) last night. Got to feeling somewhat contemplative about - what else - the SCA. I guess it's either that or affairs of the heart, so it's the SCA today.

I had my arrest in the ER. I had gone in after awaking with an odd sensation in my chest. I got there with about 1o minutes to spare and then ----sudden cardiac arrest. The hospital is on Wrightsville Avenue. So much for background. (Oh, my friend had had a few beers; I was on driving duty - for a change of pace; that's normally his job).

In my contemplative moment, I commented to J. that Wrightsville Avenue is one of my favorite routes towards the city. BUT that sometimes when I drive past that hospital, I find myself anxious all over again about what had happened there.

My friend leaned in, looked somewhat quizzical and said -

"Just don't drive on Wrightsville Avenue".

Out of the mouths of beer bottles........

New Favorite Cartoon

I have accepted that surviving Sudden Cardiac Arrest (SCA) has numerous consequences. My humor probably has never been 'mainstream' or of the Reader's Digest variety. Always been a little edgy. Not a Jay Leno fan, but yes to Craig Ferguson, Jon Stewart, Lewis Black.

But now, at times, the humor is downright macabre.

My new favorite New Yorker cartoon:

Man opening his apartment door to the hallway after someone rang his doorbell.

There stands the spectre (specter??) of death - you know the image: a hooded cape-like garment and the scythe or machete or whatever it is.

Death is handing the man a note of some sort.

Caption: Don't freak out, it's just a 'save the date' card.

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I like it so much, I've ordered a copy so I can mat and frame it.

I am Happy - Who Knew THAT Would Happen?

OK, so maybe the one year anniversary of the Sudden Cardiac Arrest (SCA) is not a total bust. I realized today that I am happy. Actually happy. I wake up happy.
How did that happen?

Reason # 1 -  my heart is still beating - that's a plus to be sure. The implanted defibrillator has not fired.  Another major plus. 2- I bought some new furniture a while back; it was delivered yesterday, including a quite funky chair (photo above). Love it. Love the whole room, actually.

So, heart, chair --- oh yes,  love it here in my new home town. It is what I had hoped it would be when I selected it a few years back - fun, lively, and soothing to my jagged soul.

My home is peaceful. A year ago, it was anything but peaceful. My heart had stopped, I had a defibrillator implanted, my alcoholic ex was out of sobriety and apparently had been (on the sly) for quite some time. Had been before we moved, so pretty big lie there. Betrayal. My days were filled with raw fear about the heart, the long healing on the defibrillator Skippy, the need for a 2nd cath, loathing the ex, waiting for him to move out and just fear, fear, fear. And  no driving for 90 days. Very few friends here as I had just moved. Lots of visitors, but few local friends.

And now, one enormous year later - my home is peaceful, I have stopped wasting energy loathing the ex and now just wish him health, albeit from a distance. I have friends both here and in far places. I get to the beach probably 3 times every week. My dog, Stella, is aging at 13, but still a joy. Dogs are allowed back on the beach now after a long summer of banishment. We walked an hour+ yesterday - it was like a doggy parade down there.

And one more - I have enough of a crush on an OMD (object of my desire guy) that regardless of what does or does not happen with him, I am confident I will be able to love a man again. And I had my doubts; I wondered if I were so broken after decades of loving or attempting to love an alcoholic who couldn't stay in recovery - I thought I might really be tapped out.
But what a joy - I'm confident again.

So why am I happy? The heart still beats, I will love again, my new home town is a joy in so many ways, I am finally done with the ex, I have an OMD, my dog is alive and puppy-happy, I have friends I love, my home is peaceful.

And I just love that chair.