Surfing the web the other day, I stopped by this page to see if some person of import had deemed it germane to leave a comment on my most recent declarations. I found one which irritatingly enough was listed as anonymous, and caused some feeling in me demanding a reply. Given that it is an anonymous comment, reply comments do not create an automatic reply emails as a result of my riposte. It has given me some deeper thought in the ensuing days, hours, and minutes. It irked me and I feel need to expound on that irking.
The comment suggested that my recent post’s in this “It’s Mommy’s Fault” genre had been motivated by an article on a website where a woman enlightened the cyberverse on the affliction she called “Shopping Addiction.” I was of the belief that this malady had a twelve step program associated with it that deals with obsessive shopping. I returned to the cyberverse for insight as to this particular program. Wikipedia did not list it but did have thirty two others and six “programs partially patterned after Alcoholics Anonymous.” 12step.com did not have it, but suggested that there were over 50 distinct programs using the twelve steps. Another site claimed that there are thousands. I did find a “Shopaholics Anonymous” run by a lawyer with a whole slew of letters behind his name and the promise of relief, but no reference to any kind of steps. I retreated from this website because I got the feeling that at some point in the investigation I would have gotten to a page that would want me to enter a credit card number. So much for the investigation into the unrestrained and hysterical compulsion to spend money…it is a week before payday, and I think I need a meeting.
I put a stop to this pursuit as I found myself obsessing over the search and truly did not wish to bother my sponsor with this banal pursuit while he was in the middle of providing sustenance for his family. I did find the humor in it, however. One enlightening entry by way of a question on Answerbag.com – “How do I get over my addiction to chocolate chip cookie dough and strawberry cheesecake Ice Cream?” Really now. What kind of a sick son-of-a-b*tch would want to give up any kind of ice cream? (And so enters my Dear Sainted Mother)
The one piece of information that returned me to reality and the underlying principle for this page came, once more, from Answerbag.com. The question; “How many 12 Step group are there?” The answer; “Just 12 to many.”
Now let us get to the crux of the situation. The person commenting on my page implied that my inspiration came from, or was in reply to, some external stimulation garnered from some kind of nonsense analogous to that which you are currently reading. It made me think that my ramblings are not being taken seriously, or that I have little by way of imagination. The idea of such a shallow point of view on my prose could funnel into that most wondrous of places a fellow such as myself might find himself. That lonesome station along the train tracks of intelligent thought where one gets to be, wait, listen for it, IRATE .
Well, incensed, infuriated, or just plain mad will not do for the stream I am writing having to do with my Mother Dear. I liken many of my experiences to something that had creation in the lessons learned at that great woman’s skirt because it is what I am made of. I was sculpted by my experience and much of that I alternately blame, or regale you with originated from the groundwork laid by my Dear Sainted Mother in the chiseling of the persona that is T. Lloyd Reilly. Therein lays the rub. I do not try to be more or less then the way I happen to be at the moment. I could write for decades on the memories of my mother, but only do so as a means to and end. It is up to the reader to discover whatever that might be. “I am what I am and that’s all that I am” is my motto. I have played many roles in my life, and hope to have the opportunity to star as many more. Each day is a new discovery on this journey and a true thinking man does not have to plagiarize ideas.
When I speak of an addiction to shopping, I mean shopping at those fickle sisters that reside in my home town, Wal-Mart South, Wal-Mart Southeast, and Wal-Mart West. Ruminations on the world of the Sage from Bentonville exist for the purpose of giving location for the greater experience of circumnavigating the complex world we find ourselves in. I do not go to the mall because of the prices they charge. I do not buy groceries at other food chains because the same prices can be had at my Mercantile-Of-Choice, and I get to see more people and, thereby, find revelation and insight. I once met a Leprechaun in Wal-Mart, and I do not care if you believe me. I once met the woman of my dreams at a Wal-Mart, and it turned into a nightmare. I once met Jesus Christ in a Wal-Mart, and he told me to smile at all the children I meet in the world. I once met Popeye in the mirror in the restroom, and, given that I was taught how to properly shop, it was all Mommy’s fault.
Peace
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