Bleak House Redux

    Everyone thought Eleanor Ellingsworth would live forever. As a grand matriarch of incredible wealth, she led an eccentrically glamorous life filled with Texas oil, natural gas rights, diversified millions, and philanthropic endowments. Nothing she did was small. Even the slightest financial gesture elicited publicity and praise from her grateful minions. Beloved for her patronage, just about everyone in the city, county, and state had profited from Mrs. Ellinsworth’s largesse. Senescence granted Eleanor the wits to conduct her affairs well into her nineties. Not all, however, had an appreciation for her life well lived. Eleanor’s Bleak House relatives had waited impatiently for the date of their legacy lottery to arrive. When her date with destiny finally did arrive, her only son, Edward, feigned the requisite tears while his grieving sisters planned the dolorous event of the season. 

    Grass do not grow fast under her Edward’s feet. The day after his mother’s demise, he backed his truck into her ornamental manor house. Plundering her prized effects was his entitled right under the archaic delusions of being the only male heir. Edward’s egregious behavior was neither shocking nor unexpected to those who knew his history with his mother. After all, Eleanor spent years rescuing him from his bad business acumen, wanton spending, and insatiable drive for recognition only money could buy. Millions had been lost in his pursuit of power, pride, and possessions. From the outside, it appeared as though his mother could not refuse him. Many thought Eleanor was too lenient or too complacent to grasp his avaricious proclivities. So, addled by the tantalizing prospect of pilfering the best of her heirlooms, he dove into her treasure trove without guilt or fear. This while her body was being prepared for burial. 

    His sisters, Elaine and Edith were not so duplicitous. Their mother’s millions did not corrupt their aspirations to be educated and financially independent. Forays into art and interior design supplemented their already comfortable coffers. Since both sisters married well, they took pride in sustaining their families without taxing their mother’s generosity.  Never having to want, however, did not necessarily make them indignant doormats. They tolerated their mother’s financial solecism, reasoning one day their brother and his family’s many promissory notes would come due. Now that mother was no longer in the picture, they dreaded how they were going to deal with their brother’s unrequited rapaciousness. The disdain they felt at the pillaging of their mother’s estate pre-burial left them contemptuous and resolute. Hell hath no fury when it comes to inheritance, money, and family.

    Eleanor’s funeral was surprisingly modest. The crowded Christian church was inundated with perfunctory mourners. Homage to her majesty, the matron of money, was exceeded only by expectations of a gilded postmortem behest. To be seen at this memorial with appropriate condolences could make or break an impecunious non-profit or floundering charity. The family exhibited the appropriate affect greeting the throngs of mourners.

    The trust was two months in the making, requiring several attorneys, accountants, and trust officers. The deceased dowager was not as non-compos mentis as most had thought. Unbelievably, Eleanor’s advanced age remained remarkably unaffected by time, disease, or fragility. Her trust was completed well before she became debilitated by a stroke which led to her death. On the surface, the content of the trust seemed comprehensive, naming Edward, Edith, and a trust officer to oversee its execution.

    Though the sisters were still reeling over their brother’s marauding of their mother’s home, they suppressed their outrage to focus on the divestment at hand. “Why squabble over trinkets when millions are at stake”, they reasoned. First on the disbursement list was Eleanor’s jewelry, overseen by the trust officer. All were surprised by the mother’s concise listing of her precious baubles. There were white diamond tiaras, canary diamond necklaces, lustrous pearls, and gemstones of incomparable worth. Eleanor was exacting in how her lavish collection should be divided. One item, a glistening gold bracelet with many encrusted jewels had escaped the dedicated manifest. Puzzled as to how such an error of omission could have occurred, the heir to this bracelet would have to be negotiated. It didn’t matter. Almost immediately, a squabble between Edith and Edward ensued. A fierce rivalry erupted, escalating Edward’s covetous grasping. Elaine excused herself from the fray. Her erudite artistic sense appraised the bracelet as too garish for her refined taste. As the dispute over the bracelet became frenetic, Edward offered Edith a literal carat to loosen her grip. His quid pro quo: the bracelet for a nine carat canary diamond necklace (valued around $234,000) Eleanor had earmarked for he for his wife. The deal was struck, approved by the trust officer, and the gaudy trinket was bestowed to Edward. In a karmic twist of irony, Edward’s jeweler appraised his cherished bauble as worthless.

    When details of the trust were finally divulged, old Eleanor pulled out one last technical knockout. A provision included that any family member who had borrowed money and never repaid her would have this amount deducted from their share of the estate. For years crafty Eleanor kept all those promissory notes with the trust officer. Additionally, if any of the heirs fought the estate, they would be automatically excluded from any inheritance. Her daughters had not borrowed money without repaying their debts, so they remained unaffected. Edward, on the other hand, had borrowed millions. The trust officer estimated his grand multi-million inheritance to be worth slightly under $500,000.

    His dropped jaw was not suspended for long. Immediately a cadre of attorneys were assembled for the lengthy skirmish ahead. Court battle after court battled ensued. The attorneys, acting as professional codependents, were thrilled at the accumulation of the legal costs which unintentionally made them the true heirs of Eleanor’s estate. As of this date, the combat continues.

Voyeurism's Karmic Consequences

Beginning as a curious peek

No harm I thought could come

Engaging my pleasure sneak

For stories ripe to plumb.

Little did I expect to attract

Pathology worse than imagined

Souls unhinged and terribly cracked

Tragically leaving me saddened.

A lesson taught by careless obsession

Spying on human defects and frailty

Toying without any thought of discretion

Tempted my false sense of security.

Barbs prurient, disgusting, nefarious

Infected my quixotic spirit’s affect

With their intent so edgily precarious

Ended any further voyeuristic contact.

Cure for the Frigid Cold

Chipotle Chicken Rice Soup

Ingredients:

-Cubed chicken breast

-Minced Garlic

-Onion

-Chopped Cilantro

-Two to three cups of Shredded Carrots

-Half a cup of chopped red or green pepper

-One can of garbanzo beans

-One can chipotle pepper in adobo sauce + two teaspoon of the adobo sauce (watch out-chipotles are very hot! Only add one cut up to the soup.)

-¼ to ½ cup of fresh lime juice

-Two cups cooked brown rice

-Two cartons + one 14oz can of chicken broth

Stir fry the chicken cubes first then add the garlic, cilantro, and onion. Add the shredded carrots and pepper.  Once the carrots are cooked, add the garbanzo beans.  Pour in the chicken broth and add the brown rice. Finally, add the chipotle pepper, 2 teaspoons of adobo sauce, and lime juice.

Treading Water in the Outer Limits

What was your day like today? Mine went something this:

The good news is the camaraderie I have with my friends.

So when you get this sinking feeling:

Remember tomorrow is another day.

Atira's Astrological Agenda

Born: September, 20^th Century, Minnesota (USA)    

 

 Sun = Virgo (earth)

 Moon = Scorpio (water)

 Ascendant =Taurus (earth)

Atira’s double earth (Virgo & Taurus) combined with a   

watery Scorpio moon makes her:

-an insightful pragmatist (AKA Behavioral Psychic)

-an industrious utilitarian (AKA CIA Operative)

-an investigative researcher (AKA Wiki Expert)  

                      

In general, Virgos are glowingly admired for their perfectionism, analytical skills, & critical thinking.

                      

Atira also heralded from a parochial background where the nuns who taught her were somewhat strict. Not surprisingly, their influence led her to study abnormal & aberrant behavior in college.

                            

Atira’s double earth combo is compatible with her strengths of Input, Intellection, Ideation, Strategic, & Relator. When not engaged in inconsequential cogitation, Atira can be found:

-secretly penning manifestos

-creating politically incorrect governmental guides and forms

-commanding an apocalyptic cult

-divulging sensitive information to Tea Party anarchists

"To say Virgos are good at fact-finding almost understates the case, since Virgos revel in their exacting behavior and are a whiz with detail. Virgos are an asset in the workplace as they can be counted on to get things right the first time, every time.”

Tricks Gay Men Can Teach Straight Men About Women

     After my disappointing one-time foray on Craigslist, I began to examine if my idealism about friendship with a straight man my age was too far-fetched to have a basis in reality. Was I fishing in the wrong hole (no double entendre intended) with the wrong bait? From the responses I got from my horny married men I sensed that, besides from being sexless, they desperately craved warmth, affection, and a connection unavailable in their present circumstances. And of course, they wanted lots of hot sex. Though clueless as to how their secret quest for sexual satiation was probably unconsciously alienating them from the very tenderness (and copious sex) they sought, I was struck that we did have a common goal: wanting a strong connection with another being who values our presence in their life and shows it.
     I am a fruit fly and have no qualms about it. I love my gay men friends.This probably confounds most straight men, but any woman who has a gay man in her life can heartily attest to why gay men make such great friends. First of all, I want to dispel the notion that women like gay men because they are just like their girlfriends. FYI: my girlfriends do not reek of testosterone and have penises. Secondly, the gay men I know tend to treat their women friends respectfully, enjoy witty banter, and are willing to share their intimate emotional life (for the good and bad). Finally, when we congregate we are funny, silly, jocular companions who have an ability to connect. And no, I don't have sex with my gay men friends.
     At work, I have a gay coworker who literally has a gaggle of women following him wherever he goes. I have never seen anything quite like this. Women of all ages and types flock to him.  Of course, it doesn't hurt that his handsome Latin looks and phermonal cologne add to his seductiveness. But what makes him truly attractive is how he interacts with women. For example, whenever he sees me he hugs me tenderly and sings silly romantic songs to me about being the love of his life. This in the middle of a busy Public Health hallway with a woman 15 yrs his senior. His unabashed willingness to act like a romantic fool with a straight women is beyond belief, but it works. He exudes a magnetism because of his passion for life and genuine happiness to interact with you as if you were the only woman on earth. Last week I told him I wanted to bottle him so we could make millions on his effervescent fervor. Joy always attracts. If he were a straight man, I would not hesitate to do him on his office desk. Awakening this kind of passion in a celibate spinster is a testament to the captivating power of enticement. Bill Clinton move over, you've just been usurped by charmer of unparalleled proportions.
     So, what can a straight man learn from a gay man about women? Plenty. Learn the lost art of how to woo a woman sans the gonad-centric approach. For those not in agreement, there's always a myriad of online sites to help you get laid.
   

Drunken Danse Macabre: A Tale of Two Departed Alcoholics

John
A chronic alcoholic, a phone call, the police, and devastating news: the formula of tragedy. Found dead in his apartment at forty-seven years of age, John’s death was not a surprise. His lifelong alcohol and drug induced pseudo-nirvana had ended. Any hope for a spiritual awakening, possibility of treatment, or stint into sober recovery disappeared with his body on the coroner’s table. Because of the condition of his body when it was discovered, the requisite autopsy was performed. Confirmation from his postmortem revealed what his family and friends suspected: death from hepatic cirrhosis. John’s last deadly dance with alcohol culminated in bloody vomit, an alcohol level of .39, and a lone body of man on a bed putrefied by alcohol and drugs.

The son of a friend, John’s descent began in his adolescence when he first became infatuated with intoxication. His joyride was not just about getting high but getting wasted. Devoid of inertia or brakes, John’s escalating behavioral and legal entanglements left his parents few choices. Outpatient counseling was ineffective in reducing his ardor for mind altering substances. The last straw, an admission to a reputable treatment program, only seemed to instill the temperate life was not for him. It also introduced him to better connections for more exhilarating highs.

As he progressed through adulthood, the pace of his imbibing intensified, producing a litany of repercussions. Alcohol fueled accidents, jail terms, financial ruin, and deteriorating health bounced off his impenetrable armor. These warning signs were either summarily dismissed or denied. Avenues providing him with additional treatment options were fiercely rejected.

It would be easy to dismiss John as a pathetic drunk, habitual druggie, or low-life derelict. Despite his propensity for getting obliterated, he was well liked by those who knew him and valued by his employer. Even the cops in the small town where he lived would sometimes transport him home from the local tavern when he "overindulged". His kind and helpful demeanor made it easy to overlook his obvious "problems".

The denouement of John’s alcoholism was a silent heartbreak whose recourse hardened his family’s Achilles heel. Throughout their ordeal his family tried to hold onto his fundamental decency, hoping he might bottom out and come to his senses. No one ever believes Dr. Jekyll will permanently become Mr. Hyde. Insurmountable odds ultimately eroded their suspension of disbelief.

While Al-Anon provided them tools to counter the insidiousness of codependency, it could not completely eliminate the stinging scourges incurred by John’s progression into addiction. Fortified by John’s inability to become straight, the family resolved not to be dragged down by enabling the disruptive chaos of his plight. To insulate themselves from the wake of alcohol’s sequelae, they practiced detachment. This meant they no longer implored, berated, condemned, or punished him. They let go of having any control over the circumstances he created. There were no more interventions, rescues, bailouts, or financing of his predicaments. He alone faced all the consequences of his actions.

Needless to say, sometimes they would not see or speak to him for years. During the last year of his life John had phoned them sporadically, attempting through his profound alcoholic haze, to reestablish communication. Knowing his addiction was in its final stage, they patiently listened to his incoherent ramblings. There was nothing more to say or do. Their stoic acceptance of his addictive apocalypse validated it was only a matter of time before an ominous call could be expected. Weeks later when the toll of his death knell sounded, years of rehearsed requiems gave them the strength to gracefully handle his interment. If there was a silver lining in this sad tale, it would be that his family expected this communiqué ten years earlier.

Nick
Addiction-backed expiration creates an eerie déjà vu among its survivors. John’s waltz with morbid addiction awakened memories of my friend Clare's ex-husband Nick, another departed habituate. A co-member of the dead-at-forty-seven club, Nick’s alcoholic bungee jump occurred twenty years earlier under similar conditions.

Born in the same small northern Minnesota town where John died, Nick’s journey with addiction also began as a teenager testing his penchant for intoxication. Everyone admired Nick’s charm, humor, verbal acumen, and intellect. Conversant as a renaissance man, his breadth of knowledge captivated anyone in earshot. He didn't fit the stereotype of an alcoholic. Acts of immoderate consumption spaced months apart made it seem that he had nothing more than a recreational problem. His drug of choice was beer. Yes, beer.

When Clare first met Nick he had been in recovery eleven months following an arrest for his first DUI. Motivated by "hitting bottom", he voiced being bone-tired of enduring the guilt, humiliation, and utter despair inflicted by alcohol. Genuinely contrite after this brief incarceration, a spiritual awakening inspired him to pledge no further recurrences. His humility and dedication to recovery overrode any reservations Clare had about being in a relationship with him.

Cautioned by his family and friends of his struggles, Clare disregarded their forebodings. She focused on supporting his sobriety by not becoming his unwitting alibi. For awhile it seemed to work. Armed with a false sense of confidence, Clare was certain she could leap the hurdles before her. So she leapt by getting married. Little did Clare know she would be hurdling over her own anger, frustration, and exasperation.

Initially Nick maintained sobriety by following his version of the AA program. Living with a binge alcoholic, Clare attempted to balance the hope of sustained abstinence with the hard reality of the chemical’s allure. There had been a couple of lapses but Nick rebounded with a mea culpa desire to stay sober. Recommitting to the AA principles, his "birthday clock" reset as did an expectancy of continued abstinence. But there was a problem with Nick’s "program"-he was following his own abridged interpretation of AA. Multiple rationalizations for this, including no connection to a sponsor, reinforced delusions of self-control. To admit being powerless over alcohol contradicted his entrenched autocratic ideology. This lone ranger regimen quickly sabotaged his fragile recovery and propelled Clare into Al Anon.

As time advanced, further slips became all-out benders. Frightening pathological symptoms emerged. Descending into the torment of addiction, antagonism erupted toward anyone or anything interfering with his drunken "danse macabre". He became fluent in the language of denial and blame. A cynical defiant stance intertwined with shameful despondency. Emotionally labile, one never knew which Nick you were addressing. Legal skirmishes became frequent events without fear of consequences. When not drinking he was recovering from drinking. Five rehab admissions ostensibly punctuated his inebriant bouts with dry drunk moratoriums. Dreams of Nick ever living a life in recovery vanished like the contents of his cherished bottle of beer
.
The journey of final stage addiction subjects those in its cross hairs to abject anxiety and dread. Worry for the addict, their safety, and for potential victims caught in their wake can be a consuming obsession. What would be compassionate and merciful in a healthy relationship is almost always enabling and detrimental when dealing with a terminal addict. Any rationale used to rescue them from their free fall serves only to prolong the pandemonium. Defying reason and logic, their decline is an unremitting vortex of spiritual, emotional, and physical ruination. Horrific is too inadequate of a word to describe the powerlessness of witnessing the addict’s depravation
.
The decision to end their relationship after seven years was the result of an epiphany. Worn down by her numerous attempts to salvage their relationship, Clare suddenly realized that Nick did not have a problem with alcohol. She had the problem with Nick’s alcohol. Nick never got past the first step in AA. Clare finally surrendered. Nick’s life was no longer in her hands. Divorce gave her the detachment to release him to his karma, whatever that was to be. She relocated to another state to protect herself from the ongoing drama. Geographical distance allowed her to emotionally move on. The healing began as she refrained from indulging in the shamed-based dialogues and unrealistic expectations driving her misery. As her life progressed, his life ebbed.

Predictably, when Clare's marriage with Nick dissolved, the legal system became his primary codependent. It was the eighties and addiction recovery was still in its infancy. Though Mothers against Drunk Driving had campaigned to show the human and financial cost of driving under the influence, the courts faltered enforcing tougher sanctions for habitual offenders. Astonishingly, Nick skated through his DUI court appearances with light jail sentences, court ordered rehab, and probation.
His adroit handling of recidivism’s revolving door masked his steep decline and chronic medical problems. Once proud of his honed body builder frame, alcohol induced diabetes ravaged his physique while beer-swilling marathons decimated his brain. Mr. Hyde completely forgot who Dr. Jekyll was. "Gravely disabled" was the operative phrase to characterize his level of functioning. Family and friends finally distanced themselves from him, seeking protection from his destructive spiral.

Grim reports from distant relatives described his rapid deterioration. Psychologically Clare prepared an obituary, waiting for his corpse to catch up to the funeral. Like John’s family, she awaited "the call".
Nick’s final days were spent in a small town in Idaho working pick up construction. Ironically, alcoholism had little effect on his strong Midwestern work ethic. The day Nick died was actually one of the few days he called in sick. He was discovered dead in a trailer house by a supervisor suspecting something dire about his absence. When 911 could not revive his depleted body or battered spirit, a coroner rendered the final verdict. Clare never learned of the exact reason for his demise, nor did she ask. Suicide by addiction is not recognized as a cause of death unless the patient leaves a note.
Notification of Nick’s death elicited an empty sadness tinged by relief. Grateful his suffering had ended quietly, Clare was also thankful his exit did not include additional victims. The last vestige of her sorrow was grieving for the future with him which never actualized. Making an appearance at Nick’s memorial was unnecessary-Clare had mourned his passing years ago.

An alcoholic, a phone call, the coroner, and grievous news: the conclusion to the throes of chemical dependency. John and Nick’s alcoholic folie a deux exemplifies the rule rather than the exception. The American Society for Addiction Medicine has classified addiction as a chronic brain disease, not an implication of poorly controlled will power or moral failing. This is their epitaph. 

What You Cannot See Can Kill You

Luke Jerram is an incredible glass sculptor whose sculptures portray the beauty of deadly viruses. For those who believe natural and herd immunity can protect you, these are out there waiting to find you. Best wishes for health during the upcoming severe H1N1 pandemic flu season, especially to those betting on your fitness, youth, or 'I've never had the flu' delusions.

Adventures in Craigslistland

     Whether it was the winter of my discontent or a crazy whim to warm up to something other than the cold, I decided to post an ad in Craigslist hoping to attract male friendship. In my idealism I sincerely hoped, like Abraham vacationing in Sodom and Gomorrah, I might find at least one straight man worthy of my desire for compatible platonic companionship. As this was the very first personal 'Strictly Platonic' ad I had ever placed, I was uncertain of what the response would be. Here is what I posted:

"Proud Minnesotan (and long-time San Diego resident) desires stimulating conversation, incisive wit, and true friendship. Looking for a like-minded baby boomer man who is spiritual, humorous & likes engaging in vibrant intellectual discourse (without taking oneself too seriously). A positive outlook is a must. By positive outlook I mean witty, pleasant, creative, drama-free and open to friendship with a women of diverse interests. By friendship I mean mutual affection arising from esteem and good will. Though liberal in philosophy, I am flexible as long as you're not a Tea Party serial killer, a current or ex-AIG executive, or cannot intelligently distinguish a moderate liberal from a Communist, Socialist, or Marxist. Those dancing with excessive-compulsive disorder, wanting sexual anesthesia, and/or are grappling with post-traumatic divorce syndrome might find someone more suitable outside the 'Strictly Platonic' section. Email me and tell me why you would make a good friend."

       The Tea Party devotees were the first to respond. Peeved by my liberal humor, they exercised their first amendment rights by rebuking me in Palinesque fashion. This lent confirmation to my suspicion that a number of them suffer from osteoporosis of the funny bone. Fortunately, I set up a Craigslist email address so they could not trace me and exercise their second amendment rights.
      Following the charming vitriolic ramblings from my Tea Party fans, came the respondents bereft of marital affection. Somehow from my posting they deduced that my desire for platonic friendship was a conjugal opportunity to be rescued from wedded anhedonia. From their  narratives, I  garnered an epidemic of wifely antipathy was rampant in the region. The irony of duplicitous behavior contradicting the tenets of friendship seemed to escape them.
     Finally came the replies from men describing their excellent libido and turbo-charged sex drive. Obviously 'friendship' meant consequating their rapacious urges-and immediately was not soon enough. A couple of them were able to hang in there for a few amicable emails before tiring of friendly banter. One friend wannabe lost interest when I failed to respond to his request for a massage and home cooked meal.
    Not surprising, none of these requests for friendship ever culminated in an actual face-to-face encounter. My request for 'mutual affection arising from esteem and good will' was met with rejoinders that made me question whether men could even read. All of this left me rethinking that a current or ex-AIG executive may not be so bad and "strictly platonic" really means sex.