’s been a week since I last showed my face around here. A lot’s happened. I’m pretty sure what got me off track was tackling my taxes last Thursday. I’s expecting to get a little to little-lot back. Worked six months, got taxed at my Project Manager salary, did take the early (way early) distribution on the IRA but I instructed Putnam to go ahead with the witholding. I assumed I was covered, safe from my addict self and addict ways. Bingo.

In fact, federal witholding they did. Ten percent penalty they did not. Nor did they state or city witholding, and in the NYC, that’s an unpretty penny for sure. By late morning I was almost another $2K in the hole. I was already walking a fine financial line. This was the debt that broke the addict’s back and I was despondent. It meant I had to get my ass back into the job market just when I was getting into a productive swing; everything else would have to go back on interminable hold.

I got depressed about it. Really depressed. Despite two Prozacs and two Wellbutrins. They were no match. Luckily I had my ladies. The old, straight-laced ones. Pretty much my only friends in Arizona: my mother and her almost lifelong friend (who, incidentally, takes so many supplements—like sixty a day—that her hair’s fallen out). We planned another matinee and sweet pork afternoon.

Nobody knew what we were watching. Mom got a recommendation from her trusted sources and off we were. It was Thursday, my day off, so I was allowed. Opening scenes have Matt McCaugnaheyheyhey (sp?) wiggle-wagging under the sheets with some dame. It turned my companions into Scarlett Johansens. “Risque” was a word I heard used. It didn’t bother me, but the fact that it was about loser 30-somethings still living at home did. Seemed like a targeted message from ma, but she swore up and down it wasn’t. I believe her. Despite my incessant teasing, I think she enjoys my company. Matthew, though, at least he’s attractive (hot!), smooth as fudge, and a yacht broker. He gets Sarah Jessica. I’m a bit (quite!) further down the loser ladder.

Friday Buddy and I start intermediate. Charlie, the new teach, kicks bumbum.

Saturday, who knows? The ol’ short-term memory won’t allow that kind of extraneous information, but I can tell you that all along I’m having the drug dreams. One’s a meth dream. In another my dealer’s nabbed. In a G-rated short, I’m hiding a half-smoked ciggy between my shorted thighs. And in another episode, I’m hiding bags of coke in my sexy negro Roger’s closet. They’re all reality show spinoffs, but that one takes its cues from when I was passing through the city right about two years ago. Hit Rog up for accomodations. His roomie was off on vacay so I crashed in his bed. Saw very little of my host and spent more than enough time trying not to snot up the roommate’s black and showy sheets.

And all of this is in fact significant, I found out. Sunday was markd by little more than the chuging up of a black speckled hemoGLOBin on the 100th day of my new fangled sobriety, but Monday was my monthly with Doc B. I said I was ready to leave the Prozac behind and lower the Well-B’s. He agreed on the Prozac. Can’t tell you how happy that’s made me. But I got to stick with the Wells until my “cravings” go away. Then we’ll go with a stimulant for the ADDDDD…

What counts as cravings, I politely inquire. Those times when I experience just a touch of high nostalgia though I’m sure I have no desire to cross that terrain again? Yes. And the dreams.

The dreams are a subconscious manifestation of my desire?

Apparently.

Interesting.

I need to think on that a bit.

Meantime, Tuesday, the fine faculty female from the school district I visited a while back called and said they want me to tutor the city’s children. Wednesday I’m filling out applications and discovering that I need substitute certification to fill this four-hour-per-week jobette and that that requires finger printing, a $60 fee, a $52 fee, letters of recommendation, official transcripts, orientation, application and so on through both state board and local district bueracracies. School’s out first week of June. That’s a tone of running rigmarole for what will amount to about $250 minus gas at $2.50 a gallon. I’ve left two messages saying, in effect, “call me back and try to talk me into it, but I’m thinking no.”

But here’s the cool thing. I tell my mom I’m going to look for a job (as an excuse to get the classified from her steely grip) and she’s concerned. She sees that I’m just starting to get some traction on this recovery business and would like to see me solidify habits and accomplish more of my goals for heading back in. She’s afraid of a relapse. I’m not. But I do critically wantneed a little more time to blather on like this and type in my notebooks and write another bad novel. (What confidence!) So, she called my brother who manages her modest portfolio to see if she could help temporarily. Looks like she can. I’ll have a lot to pay back, but it’s better to owe mom than the IRS and American Express. Bless her.

What else? Grandma and Grandpa came yesterday. That’s cool. Dog park people are buggin’. Buddy met a sheep the other day. Tonight I meet up with a woman-girl to practice Spanish and English. She the latter, me the former, all at the same time. That is if I got a hold of her in time.

10-4, over and out.