I just got done broadcasting my half hour radio talk show on Blog Talk Radio for CaimanHunter.com.

What makes this seem silly to me is that I was almost going to complain that I was in pain and very tired and wanted to skip it this week – who would know!

Then it dawned on me. First off, I would know. Next, the 2 listeners that tune in and the 3 or 4 who listen to the show from the archives would soon know. And furthermore, I always feel good about my show, even when the show sucks! (Not that it ever would suck).

The reason I always feel good about my shows is that I got the show because some fancy reptile group gave me the title of “Expert in His Field” for my work with caiman.

I’ve had a couple of articles published about caiman in prestigious reptile magazines; I run a caiman rescue; I was a guest host on a prestigious reptile radio talk show; and then there’s CaimanHunter.com.

And that’s not all I do. Besides for my work with caiman, I write an article for a biker magazine, up until last year I was a guest instructor at Texas A&M Fire School, and I write for this blog every once in a while.

What makes all of these things so special is that until I got in the rooms the only thing I was an expert at was, well, nothing. I couldn’t spend enough time at any one thing because getting loaded was my main priority. And if I was any good at that I probably wouldn’t have gotten sick and tired, or later, sick and tired of being sick and tired!

I joke sometimes that I lead the life of a male lion. I eat, protect my women, mark my territory, and sleep. And it’s partially correct. But today, people ask my opinion – and some of them actually listen to my answers or read what I write.

I think I’ll keep coming back.

I love this program.

When I first came In The Rooms I went through a period of listening to everything and soaking it up like a dry sponge. I shared when I needed to, and always to my Sponsor, but took heart to what people were saying and why they were saying it.

And one of the first things I learned, no matter where I went for recovery, was that I needed to identify with the people who I wanted to help me recover.

What I mean is, if I went to a “turkey” meeting and everyone identified as a “turkey”, and I said that I was a “chicken”, I guaranteed that I would have enough of an excuse, which kept me just different enough, which I could use as my justification to get loaded. If I was at an NA meeting and everyone identified as an “addict”, and I identified as a “junkie” (or anything else), I guaranteed that I would have enough of an excuse, which kept me just different enough, which I could use as my justification to get loaded. If I was in an AA meeting and everyone identified as an “alcoholic”, and I identified as a “drunken slob” (or an “addict”, even, or an “alcoholic and an addict”, or any of the hundreds of different ways that I could make myself just different enough from you, so that I didn’t have to admit that I was exactly like you), I guaranteed that I would have enough of an excuse, which kept me just different enough, which I could use as my justification to get loaded.

The first step started the lesson, and the fourth and fifth step drove it home, that I am to find the similarities, and not the differences, in order to stay clean. Because we are alike; we all did what we did and went through what we went through to get where we got; and we all got here.

And then, recently, something else happened. I started hearing people making themselves different again. They would say, “I am a gratefully recovering addict (or alcoholic) by the grace of god, who I choose to call …” and they would give a religious name to their deity, or they would spout off their religion’s name, or they would sing praises to their religion.

Sometimes I try not to let it bother me. But sometimes it does. And sometimes I couldn’t really be sure why it bothered me, except that I am Jewish, and I don’t believe in their religion or their deity. And that’s when it struck me.

These people are all making themselves a little different. And by doing so, they are making me a little bit different. They’re giving themselves (and any confused newcomer who is forced to listen to them) an excuse. They’re laying the groundwork for someone to use as an excuse that he’s different than the rest, to get loaded. And at any time, since we really are pretty much all alike, that someone could be me.

My meetings are important. It’s how I stay clean. It’s how I learn. It’s how I make it another day without having to use.

And my Program is is important. My “spiritual, not religious” program! It’s how I live. It’s how I can take what I Learn in meetings and use it to stay clean another day.

And I really don’t think I should have to be subjected to someone else’s religious station. I go to shul every Friday night. I have a relationship with the god of our understanding. Do you wanna hear about my prayer sessions? How about my Shabbos mornings when I don a tallit? What about during the week when I wear t’fillin and shuchle when I doven? Do you wanna hear about it in a meeting? In the meeting that you go to when you’re trying to stay clean?

There’s certainly a place for religion. It’s just not in my meeting. I love this program.

The following commentary is an edited version of a ‘Note’ I wrote for my Facebook page.  Although the initial information is basically the same, but in a condensed way, I have added a few words at the end for this venue.

You see, I have this neighbor who calls the cops on all of her neighbors, every chance she gets.  She has never knocked on anyone’s door and said, “Excuse me, can you fix (this or that problem)?

She’s called the cops on her neighbor to her right because his dog was barking (which it wasn’t).  She’s called the cops on that neighbor because leaves from his tree fell in her yard.

She’s called the cops on her neighbor to her left and said that he was sexually harassing her, because he glanced her way on his way to drop a bag of garbage in his trash can. She called the cops on that neighbor because she said his dog was barking too loud (it doesn’t!).

She’s put traps in her yard, and baited them, and caught neighborhood cats; and calls animal control to take them to kitty jail. Never telling anyone where their pets have gone to.

If you park your car facing the wrong way, she calls the cops to have you ticketed.

And just recently, she says that she heard me use a curse word and wanted to have me arrested for “assault by obscenity”.

One of my neighbors got a copy of the police 911 call sheet from our block. It appears that Mrs. Seeker (sic) has called the cops something like 81 times in 3 years.

Back in “the day” I would’ve handled things a little different, that I can assure you.  When I was using, I was an angry, spiteful person with no qualms about doing bodily damage or property damage if I felt that I had been wronged.  I didn’t even hafta be correct.  Just feeling wronged was enough to rev my engine.

Don’t get me wrong, pardon the pun, but if someone actually attempted or succeeded in harming my wife or daughter, I can assure you, I could remember how to inflict pain on another human being.  But the thing is, these days, that sticks and stones may break my bones, but asshole neighbors will not live rent free in my head.

One of the greatest benefits I have received over these past two decades is that I have learned that I can write about something, talk about something, think about something and even dream about something; but just for today, I don’t have to act on that thing.  In fact, the dream part is usually its own best reward, because when I dream about doing a “thing” I don’t have to think it through or worry about consequences.

And in this day and age of cameras and video phones, if I real-time did do something, it’d prolly end up on YouTube just minutes before a warrant for my arrest would arrive at my door.

I love this program!

Have I ever told you about my last week using?  Yeah, I thought not.  Recovery is not about the using.  It’s not about the ripping and running.  It’s about the recovery!  But sometimes, like today, there is a comparison to be made from that week to this.

I ran out of friends, ran out of money and I ran out of dope, so I ran out in front of a truck.  Couldn’t even do that right!  But I got home and got to a meeting and I’ve been working the steps ever since.   Sometimes not so easy, sometimes by bare knuckles, sometimes by the skin of my teeth; but always staying clean means it’s always gonna get better.

So I saw my general practitioner, and I saw the kidney doctor; and I saw the nutritionist; and I saw the surgeon; and I saw the orthopedic doctor.  I guess it’s time to put on the saddle.

I need to stay off my feet, eat better and lose more weight.  Someone once told me that nothing tastes as good as being thin feels; but I’m sure they never had a piece of that Boston Crème Pie sitting on my kitchen counter!

But then, admitting that I need to make more changes, I remembered that I couldn’t do it alone, but more importantly, that something like this has happened before.  “This has all happened before, and it will all happen again.”  (Who caught that? Speak up.)

During a commercial I got up and walked to the refrigerator.  Habit, I think.  I opened it, looked in, and thought, “I really don’t need anything right now.  Maybe I can wait another set of commercials; (or another hour; another day).  Just for today I can do without a snack.  And I don’t hafta finish everything on my plate.  And I don’t hafta snack on candy or popcorn while watching a movie.

I lost 40 pounds, but stopped losing; like I hit a plateau.  When I hit that plateau I started snacking again and adding “white food” to my diet again.  “White food” like white bread, pasta, baked or mashed potatoes, long grain white rice, and other carb filled starches.  Just for today I don’t hafta eat those things.

I don’t hafta eat sweets today.  I don’t hafta have a snack today.  I can eat two vegetarian meals a week, it won’t kill me.  In fact, it’ll probably do the opposite.  I can take advice.  I can listen to other people’s experiences.  I can forge a program that works for me.  I can use all of those silly adages that worked for me before – One day at a time, I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired, just for today, if I don’t pick up I can’t (eat it), think it through, if it doesn’t get better in 90 days I can always get my misery back, you hafta be willing to put in the effort – and then I know I can lose more weight.

Not a diet, but a change of eating habits, along with getting back to the gym and the pool and staying off my leg as much as possible, and I can recover.  It works if you work it!

I love this program.

With 3 grown boys and an infant daughter, Terri and I have grown pretty good at adapting, inventing and improvising.  So every once in a while it amazes us both that we are both free at the same time, with some free time, and we know just what we want to do with that time – go grocery shopping.  Okay, maybe there’s something else we do, too, but this story is about grocery shopping!

So, as it goes, we get the baby, head to the truck, strap her in, settle in, put on our seat belts, and get the hell away from the male child-lets!  Anyway, we’re in the grocery store, pushing the cart, laughing with the baby, tossing some necessities in, and I see a young man, standing in front of the milk refrigerator, looking at the prices, checking his wallet, looking at the prices again, checking his wallet again, looking at the prices of other size milk containers and then just staring and standing.

It wasn’t all that long ago that I was a hate-filled, cynical, selfish, OCD, SOB, who cared little about people I passed in the real world, who I never planned on seeing again.  But it was painfully obvious that he wasn’t interested in milk for himself.  This young man, wearing a local store chain staff shirt, was there picking up milk for someone else; my bet, his pregnant or breast feeding wife or his infant or toddler baby.

And I realized that I had a few dollars in my pocket; that my wife and I were eating just fine; and it wasn’t all that long ago that I was a dollar short, a day late or in desperate need; and someone grabbed my collar and helped pull me up.  I asked my wife to watch our daughter and the cart and told her I would be right back.

I walked over and asked the young man if he was a little short.  He looked puzzled.  I pulled a five out of my pocket and handed it to him.  He looked at me, even more puzzled.  He said, “But….” and nothing else came out, as he stared at me and then the fin in his hand.

I told him that it was fine.  I said, “Get what you need, and one day, if you ever have the chance, help someone else and pay it forward.”  And I walked back to my wife, who was watching the whole thing, and she just smiled, without saying a word, and pushed on down the next aisle.

My life was not always a bowl of cherries.  Hell, even the pits would have been a welcome uplift, sometimes.  But my wife and children have never seen me loaded.  I’d been clean for a good number of years before I ever met my current wife, or my boys were even born.  They never knew me, except for the occasional ‘father-being-an-asshole’ routine, as that mean, angry, SOB.

When we finally got out to the truck and packed the groceries in the back bed, I said something silly like, “I needed to make sure I was all even up on my chances to get into heaven.”  And again, Terri just smiled and said, “You have nothing to worry about, dear.”

I love this program!

Once again I see how my life today is so much different than it was back when. F’rinstance, thirty eight years ago, I would get on a subway train, each morning, going from home, in Jackson Heights, Queens, to the 205th Street stop, in the Bronx, in order to go to school, at the Bronx High School of Science, wearing a yarmulke and a talit katan (with the fringes sticking out of the bottom of my shirt) in subway cars that also held the anti-Semitics from Jerome Avenue and Clinton High School. And I guess avoiding getting jumped by more assholes than I can handle by myself was my biggest problem of the day.

But that only lasted until I woke up one Saturday morning, dying for a cheeseburger, grabbed a handful of change, jumped on a bus, and went down to Hamburger Express for a “Bacon-Double” with cheese.

Then, twenty-seven years ago, I couldn’t keep a relationship with a woman that wasn’t sick and twisted (and even those didn’t last long); and my problem of the day was how to convert energy into cash, so I could cop, and get loaded.

Twenty-six years ago, it was how to stay clean “just for a few more hours”, or “until this overwhelming desire goes away”, or “until I could get to a meeting”, or “until I could stop sweating and puking”.

Today, my biggest pet peeves involve traffic. I hate stupidity; I hate erratic drivers; I hate those who would fail my “Nerf ball test”; and I loathe people who talk on their phones or worse yet, text, while they’re driving from here to there (I just want to mention, too, that I just used “their”, “they’re” and “there”, in one sentence; and I’m fairly certain I used all three correctly. Although that peeve doesn’t involve traffic – but could be considered part of my peeve of stupidity).

Stupidity is self-explanatory. If you miss your exit, go to the next – don’t stop in the left lane and try to cross three lanes of traffic so you can get to your overpriced cup of coffee on time. And asshole moves like that.

Erratic driving, the way I see it, happens when you’re going the speed limit, put on your cruise control, set up in the middle lane, and start cruising down the road; then you come upon a vehicle in your lane, driving slow enough that you’re seeing their rear bumper coming up fast, so you put on your signal, move left into the passing lane, and as you’re about to overtake their rear bumper, while you are still set on your cruise control, they speed up so you can’t pass them. Assholes.

Or the car in front of you slows down below the posted speed limit, in a curve that you know you’ve taken every day for the last five years at the posted speed or above (but only by an mph or two, Your Honor, I swear), so you move around him, continue through the curve, still set up on your cruise control, but as you exit the curve, they speed up, pass you on the straight-away, and get in front of you again.

Assholes.

My “Nerf ball test” may sound a little funny, but stay with me; you’ll appreciate it. I believe that every person who goes for a driver’s license must take my Nerf ball test. And if you’re over 70, you need to take it every year. What happens is, while you’re standing in line at the DMV, the officer behind the desk, as one of his duties, needs to take a Nerf ball, call on a person in line, and toss the Nerf ball at their face. If their reflexes are so bad that they can’t catch the Nerf ball, or at least block it from hitting them in the nose, they are not allowed to get behind the wheel of a four thousand pound vehicle on any road that I may be driving on while on a motorcycle or while in any other vehicle that I may be using to take my daughter to school.

Listen, a Nerf ball can’t travel that fast; it won’t hurt you if it hits you; and there is no reason that anyone, no matter how uncoordinated, should not be able to at least block it from hitting them square in the grill. The elderly people that I see getting in cars at the supermarket, the JCC, or at Walmart, should not be driving. They can barely walk, they can’t hear, their reflexes are non-existent, and they have arthritis so bad that they can’t grasp the steering wheel. But they’re allowed to get behind the wheel of a car? Not in any land where I would be king!

And last, but certainly not least, is using a phone while driving. I read an article that said that texting while driving was 2000+ times more dangerous than drinking and driving. I can believe it. At least when I was loaded I “tried” to pay attention to the road. Texters are actually moving forward, in traffic, with their eyes on the seat to their right, where their phone is, with one hand completely off mission, along with their brain. That’s not a typo. 2000 times more dangerous. Not just, “there were 4 close calls today involving drinking and there were 80 involving cell phone use”; no, not even 800; it was 8000 (plus) close calls, accidents or fatalities attributed to cell phone use while driving.

Almost always, I would see a car zipping down the passing lane, all of a sudden slow down, and when, while set up with my cruise control at exactly the speed limit (I swear, Your Honor), overtake them in the middle lane, glance over, and find them using a cell phone. Hey asshole – get off the phone and drive!

We watched a lady, trying to do the right thing, trying to use her voice actuated hands free phone, talking into the phone, and then looking down at the phone, making adjustments with her right hand, then talking into her phone, again, three or four times before giving up. Need to keep our distance from that one.

Hell, I can have both hands on the wheel, pay attention to everything in front of me, and because of my past jobs and businesses, having put 36-40 thousand miles a year on my vehicles for over 20 years, giving me at least 3-4 times more experience behind a wheel than most Americans; like having 60 to 80 years of experience rolled into 20; be using the OnStar hands free, voice activated, built in sat-phone that came with my truck, and still miss my exit if I’m talking to my wife. Get off the phone and drive. Or get off the road and phone. And pass me a Nerf ball.

This is my problem today. I’m not interested in getting loaded; I wanna be allowed to slam a 25 pound sledge hammer into the front bumper of any car in which the driver is using their phone, so the air bag will slam it smack into their face.  How times change!

I love this program!

I was asked, as an expert in my field, to do a prime time radio talk show, as a panel guest, on Caiman, for Reptile Radio, a leader in online reptile education and conservation. And to prepare for the show, it was suggested that I do a practice show, on my own, about Caiman, in an off-prime hour of a mid-week, work day.

Well, I did the research, read the hints and suggestions, reserved a time slot, pre-recorded an intro and outro. Printed off a list of talking points. Printed out a subject to talk about and the supporting information for that subject. Searched my web site (caimanhunter.com) for information relative to my subject and left those pages’ tabs open, for easy access.

Then, when time counted down to “lift-off”, I went from a to z through my lists and the show went off without a hitch. I even had one call-in. A lady called and asked a valid, appropriate question, and I was able to locate the appropriate answer from within caimanhunter.com, and give her the straight dope. I even asked her, when I was through answering, to which she answered in the affirmative, if my answer answered her question.

During the show, I included the call-in number; I included all my talking points – the URL of my website, the members of CaimanHunter, what’s going on with us at this time, the financial situation, my “Show Number One” story line, I remembered the intro, and I remembered not to say, “Um” and “uhh” between every sentence.

It occurred to me, just as I was signing off and saying good-bye, thinking about the upcoming “spotlight” show and possible weekly editions of my personal, private talk show, that this would never have happened, back in the day.

Off the top of my head I can think of a number of reasons that this would never have happened if I was still ripping and running or getting loaded or using.

I never could have become “an expert in my field”; I never would have been asked to do a show; I never would have been trusted to do something on my own; I never would have remembered to reserve a spot for anything; I could never have sat still long enough to pre-record an intro; I couldn’t have printed off a list of talking points, let alone come up with any; all of the subject matter I knew involved me, mine and my drugs; I could never have stayed on point with a lady caller – I’d've offended her, the other listeners, shown my immaturity, or done something to ruin the call-in; and I couldn’t put complete sentences together, let alone refrain from, “Um”‘s and “Uhh”‘s.

Yeah, I’d say it’s safe to say that getting clean, staying clean and celebrating recovery has made a responsible, productive member of society out of me.

I love this program!

If You Have A Weak Stomach – STOP READING NOW!

Again – if you get queasy, easy, or you can’t stomach the graphic, do not read any further!  The following story is considered “disgusting” by some, “TMI” by others and has been banned in 12 countries.

I warned you.

Turn back now, if you know what’s good for you.

This is your last warning!

Well, okay, if you’re still with me, I might as well go ahead and tell you the story.

I went to see the doctor the other day.  And as these appointments go, seeing how I’m over 50 now, the nurses do, what felt like, an hour long triage before letting the doctor know I was here.  Triage is the before-you-see-the-doctor meeting you have when you first get to the hospital, doctor’s office, emergency room or outpatient clinic.  They take your vitals, ask how you feel, ask if there’s anything new, ask what you want to speak to the doctor about – like they get to screen whether or not the doctor will allow you to ask the question – and generally see to it that you will have to repeat everything, verbatim, once the doctor finally arrives.

Then, in walks the doctor, and he proceeds to ask the exact same questions, spending almost the entire time typing into the computer, instead of looking at me.  When he finally does look at me, he’s on point, but it’s still not a comfortable feeling, nor does it instill confidence in his doctoring skills or abilities.

To be fair, his boss makes him enter every last bit of information, so that there is a record – of everything – in case someone should have a problem or make an accusation.  Which, of course, I think sucks.  I’d rather have the doctor look at me when he talks and not type into the computer while I’m talking; just like I get mad at my children for doing.

Then comes the question, “Have you ever had a colonoscopy?” and I answered, “No.  I’ve been using the ‘cards’.”.

So he says , “Can I set you up with an appointment?”
“Can’t I still use the card?”
“I suppose.  But you’ll be asleep, you won’t feel it.”
“Yeah, but we’re still talking about shoving a camera up my ass, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything that you see to make you feel that a colonoscopy is necessary, besides for my age, based on risk factors?”
“No.  Not at all.”
“So, can we use the cards this time and we’ll see about the other when I get to know you better.”

Well, the doctor giggles; he finishes the exam; walks out of the room; the nurse returns; the nurse hands me the “card”, and then she says, “Goodbye”.

When I get home, I see that the card they gave me is different than the last time I had this.  For those of you who aren’t old men who see their doctor regularly, let me explain.  This “card” is a 3 x 5 postcard looking thing with three dime-sized circles, somewhere near the middle of the card, cut out of the card, with another piece of index card plastered to the back.  And it comes in an envelope.  And there are three wooden sticks in the envelope, with the card.  And the directions on the card say that when you do a number two, you need to take the wooden stick, take a sample, and smear it on the card in the first circle; and then on consecutive movements, use the second stick for a second sample in the second cut out and the third in the third on the third.

And then place it back in the envelope and return to the VA as soon as possible.  It is, after all, time sensitive and a human sample.

However, this card was different. Let me explain.  No, wait….let me show you:

(See picture here:  http://bamrubenstein.caimanhunter.com/images/pooppacket.jpg )

Place paper in toilet.  Drop your poop on the paper.  Reach in and take the paper out before it sinks.  Collect your sample. Put the poo back in the loo and flush.

Let me just go over this again for you, in case you weren’t paying attention.

First, take a piece of paper that comes in the envelope along with the other supplies that you get for this lab experiment.

Second, make sure when you dump, that your excrement lands on the paper and not in the water.

Third; quickly; jump off the toilet, spin around, reach into the toilet, grab the paper on both ends so the poop doesn’t slide off the sides, – and do this before the paper sinks into the toilet, due to the added weight of your crap – take it out, run over to the sink, use the “new and improved collection receptacle” – which, by the way, is a test tube looking thing that is actually flat on one side, with a removable cap, which doubles as a collection stick, with the stick under the cap like you would find in a rubber cement bottle – cover the glue brush entirely with the “sample”, close the lid, run back to the toilet, drop the rest of the sample and the paper it rode in on into the toilet, and finish your business.  And be sure to flush.  I would add, “Be sure to wash your filthy hands you dirty, stinking ape!” (Thanks Mr. Heston)

And then do this again for the next two consecutive dumps.

It amazes me, after all those years of not caring what I did, who I did it to, or what it was that I was doing, that these things are the most important complaints I have.  Or that I care about my health or self.  Not for nothing, but it might be easier, faster and cleaner for me to get the colonoscopy next time.

I’m just sayin’.

Boy is life different these days. I dropped the baby off at day care and headed over to the ‘J’ to go for my morning ’30 minute bike ride to nowhere’. Afterwards, after just coming off an eight day flu, I decided to skip the pool and head home, where I would flip the A/C to “Blizzard” and take my daily afternoon nap – well, it’s not my fault that firefighters get used to napping in the afternoon! What else is there to do once the trucks are washed?

So there I was, getting ready to jump on the 45 connector off the 1, going north, when all of a sudden, right in front of me, cars come to a screeching halt. As I pull up to the stoppage, a man starts directing traffic around some road carnage. I roll down my window and ask, “Does anyone need any medical attention?” and the guy says, “Yeah….I think that lady probably does” and points to a tiny box of crushed metal.

I pull the truck off the road, grab my trauma bag and head over to the wreck. I ask if I can get in to the patient and the other good Samaritans make me a path. As I drop my trauma bag and open it up to slap on some gloves, my next closest assistant decides to hide his little red first aid kit and ask for a pair of gloves. The stuff just comes right back.

I glance around and see that there’s no car fluids leaking and no unwanted heat sources, and we’re far enough out of the flow of traffic, but I notice that there’s a big hole in the windshield just right of its center, the entire rest of the windshield is ‘spider-webbed’, the air bag is deployed, with blood on it, and there are tiny shards of glass all over the lady.

I get one guy to hold c-spine; I get another to pass me gauze and tape from my bag. I adjust and fit a collar on the lady, after asking if I can touch her, in order to check for injuries. I go head-to-toe feeling for step-offs, abnormalities, bumps or bruises, checking pulse, heart rate and looking for where the blood is coming from, along the way.

I lean back and direct a third guy to call 911. “Make sure someone has called or you call them yourself.” And I remembered to introduce myself; and to ask her for her name, if she knew what day it was, where we were, and what had happened to her.

I got the bleeding stopped, the patient calmed and the scene contained.

Fire and EMS arrived with a back board and gurney; and I was happy to let them take over command of the scene. As I stepped back and gave a report to the incoming Medic, the second Medic gave me a replacement collar, for the one I used of my own, and some anti-bacterial rubs to clean off random blood spatter that may have gotten up my arms or past the gloves.

I breathed a little slower, stepped back and thanked the other guys for all their help. Then the primary medic came over and thanked me and told me that they appreciated what I had done. Imagine that!

I love this program!

This morning I woke up a little earlier than the rest of the house. I’m still getting over one helluva flu. For the past 8 days I’ve been beaten down with a cough, a headache, a sore throat, a low grade fever, aches and pains and the occasional upset stomach, just to round things off.

So this morning was sort of a nice re-introduction to my life, with the minor changes that it has taken on over the years. I rolled out of bed after waking up. I slid into a pair of warm footwear to head to the bathroom. I finished my business and washed my hands under a faucet with running hot and cold water. I brushed my teeth and then brushed my hair, using two different types of brushes!

After getting dressed, in a bit of a hurry, I bounced around the house a little, pitching in where necessary. Stuff had to go out to the truck, stuff had to come in from the truck. The baby had to be dressed and watched, then washed and re-dressed – or something like that; and the boys had to be woken and told to do their chores if they wanted a ride or to borrow the other truck.

Quick fast-breaking foods were gobbled as we set alarms, locked doors, loaded into the trucks and headed out into the world.

My first stop was droping my wife at work. She works a mile from the house. She sometimes rolls out of bed and actually lands at her desk. Sometimes she even rides her scooter to work. Today, she rode with me.

Then we went across town to the baby’s day care. Dropped off the car seat, the baby, some jars of baby food, a couple of changes of clothing, and after taking a few minutes to chat with the ladies at the front desk, headed back into the sunlight.

I next pulled into the “J”. The Dell Jewish Community Center. Home to 3 religious groups, 2 schools, a Jewish “Y”, a soccer field, a pool and numerous other meeting facility and community show-off stuff.

I dropped off my youngest boy, who got a job working at the J’s day care and school, and then went around the corner to the Orthodox Temple and laid t’fillan.

From there I went back around the corner the other way, jumped on a stationary bike for 30 minutes, skipped my morning swim, took a nice long shower, got dressed and headed back across town, where I parked in front of Terri’s office and took a 30 minute nap, waiting for Terri to come out for lunch, so I could drive home, have her drop me off, and she can take my truck back to work.

Once home, I had some motorcycle club business to attend to, did some online stuff, kicked off my shoes and relaxed in front of the TV until Terri came home from work at the end of her work day.

We picked up the baby, picked up our son, grabbed a bite to eat, went over to the shul for a Judaism 201 class on the upcoming High Holy Days; had a ‘job interview’ with the Hazan – he said, “Takiah, T’ruah, Shvarim, Takiah G’dolah”; and I answered with my shofar – got the “job” blowing shofar for Rosh Hashanah, and headed home to put everyone to bed.

I went non-stop from morning ’til night; I seemingly got nothing ‘accomplished’; and yet, I feel completely satisfied with my day, my life, my family, my home and where I am in my skin.

I remember a time that I went non-stop from morning ’til night; seemingly got nothing accomplished; and this is not then!

I love this program.