A New Addiction

Well, that last one scared even me.  It was too long ago to remember what I was feeling at the time, so there's no explaining it.  Plus, my brain- and my creative abilities- have hit a wall that I hope is only temporary.  Anyway, this post's about addiction.  I'm struggling with an addiction of sorts, though not in the way you're probably thinking.  I'm addicted to a particular jobs website because I'm having employment issues.  Don't get me wrong- I've got a decent job, but things change, you know, life changes.  I've been poring over job listings, sucking up all the time I'd ordinarily be writing or reading, eagerly rising at ridiculous hours, hurrying to log in and enter all sorts of search terms.  One thing that's become crazy clear: employers should pay closer attention.  With staffing shortages, changes brought on by the pandemic and workers emboldened by new opportunities like working from home, starting their own businesses and the like , it's looking from the amount of time I spend searching like employers aren't catching on and upping their salary game to keep up with what's going on.  In my field of "expertise" which shall for the time be left unknown the salary ranges I'm seeing posted are insulting.  But it's not only in jobs for which I'd be qualified.  All fields seem to be sorely, disgustingly lacking.  Many employers should be embarrassed by what wallet squalor they're offering vs. the qualifications they're looking for.  I don't get it, especially in this age of new flexibility for job seekers.  In my particular field alone there are countless positions requiring degrees and boundless experience, yet offering hourly salaries that would make highschoolers scoff.   

Apple

 i am an apple

You know that saying

i'm sure you've all heard it

or maybe even said it yourself at

one time or another

i have no control over where i landed

or how close to the tree

sometimes when you cut into an apple that appears fresh clean and wholesome you find a small dark spot

a spot of rot so to speak

a spot of rot that should be cut out

the apple is good overall but theres that dark spot and sometimes it grows until the apple should be dispatched discarded and sometimes it just stays the same and no action need be taken

if the apple is never cut into the spot will never be found and the apple will appear insert air quotes here normal

functioning

Ashes Ashes- the inspiration

 A while after moving into the house my wife and I currently live in which, by the way, does have a beautiful fireplace, I realized that there was no clean-out for the ash pit.  Was the cast iron hatch removed and the hole blocked up?  Was there never one in the first place?  Who knows.  Curiosity got the best of me, so one day I removed the wood grate, lifted the lid & cleared the thick cobwebs and cautiously lowered my cell phone through the opening in the floor of the fireplace.  Sure, it was a little discomforting putting my arm down there, but I really wanted to see what it looked like.  We all find beauty in a wide range of shit, and the photos I took of the inside of our ash pit were, in my opinion, fascinating.  And no, I'm sorry to say, there were no bodies down there. 

Inside the actual ash pit.  The white spots are cobwebs

Unless, of course, they're buried beneath the mounds of powdery ash and soot at the bottom.

Ashes Ashes final

 I got sick of her bitching about everything, and she got sick of me just lying around, pissing and moaning.  After a while I stopped going to physical therapy and lied about it.  I knew she'd eventually find out, but I was caring less and less.  I spent more time at Casper's, the shit hole dive bar at the end of our street, just so I didn't have to go home.  I know, I know, home is where the heart is, and all that.  I just couldn't do it.  When I was home, we were at each other's throats almost constantly.  Something had to change, especially with the baby coming.  I just didn't know what.  All I wanted to do was tie one on and forget about everything.

Fat chance.  After she realized I'd drained what savings we had left she blew her top.  She told me I'd either have to get back to work or go live somewhere else.  She told me she couldn't take it any more.  Said she didn't need no slacker hanging around making things more miserable than they already were.  That was the final straw.  

  I'd needed to find a way to get rid of her but didn't honestly want to bury her out where critters would almost certainly dig her up and carry her parts off where someone might find them.  One of the things that struck our fancy most when we bought this house was the fireplace in the middle of the living room.  At the time I hadn't given it any thought, but realized after researching some things that there was no clean-out in the basement for the ash pit.  There was a trap door beneath the grate up in the fireplace, but no way to clean out the ash that got dumped down it.  "Well," I thought to myself, "no time like the present."  

After I'd cleaned up all the mess from her and sealed the chimney down in the basement I headed down to Casper's to think things over.  Any regrets?  Should've used more lime, maybe? I suppose I might be just a little sad, and mostly for the baby.  Will I miss her?  Hard to say.  Let's just allow some time for things to sink in. 

Ashes Ashes part I

Moving to the secluded area out by the lake four states away from both our fucked up families was the best thing we could've done for ourselves.  The toxicity had gotten overwhelming, the family drama nauseating.  We knew no one would ever visit, and that's how we liked it.  We were happy in our own little world out here.  Nothing lasts forever, though.  Sure, we'd joked about it aplenty.  "You know, I could chop you up and bury you out here and no one would ever find you," I'd jokingly said more than once.  She'd just laugh and agree, and everything would be okay.  I picked up work pretty easily when we relocated, and we decided she'd stay home and take care of pretty much everything.  First, she tried to respond with, "well I could do the same to you."  Then, "I guess your boss would wonder where you were, though."  Now, I know for most people, "jokes" like this would make one question the relationship, but we were, well, a little different.  You know, saw things with a twist.  One of the things we noticed when we first met was our shared off-kilter sense of humor.  

We kept to ourselves, didn't care to meet any neighbors or make friends, and life went on.  At first everything was good, we managed to put a bit in savings, and we'd settled into a nice quiet existence.  Then I got careless while moving some equipment, you know, trying to be all macho in front of the younger co-workers and all.  Then the baby came along.  Ordinarily that'd be fine, but with the mounting out-of-pocket shit, my physical therapy and whatnot, and being out of work for so many weeks well, things just kind of piled up.  

Mmm, Poppycock

 I suppose the worst part was his screams.  God, he was so fucking annoying, like a little kid who skinned his knee on the playground.  Big brother thought he could force me to scratch his back the way dad made us do his, but I wasn't having it.

I was trying to enjoy munching on the container of Poppycock that was typically reserved for the best-behaved of us, but since my brother and I were the only ones home and our father was out on one of his benders and likely wouldn't be back for another day or so, I decided to grab it from where it was hidden behind the flour and sugar up in the cupboard and claim it for my own.  The screaming had subsided for a bit, but I guess he thought dad might be home, so he started up again.  His fingernails lay in a grisly pile on the bathroom floor where I left them.  Why should I have to clean up his mess?  I'm the one who did all the work, what with having to find a decent pair of pliers, tie him down and all.  He even gave me a few bruises in the process.  It wasn't as bad as when I cut his dick off.  Oh, he'd made fun of me one too many times.  Told all his asshole friends my uncut little cock looked like a baby elephant trunk.  

You know, Poppycock sure blows Crunch 'n Munch and Cracker Jack out of the water, what with the thick caramel coating, the pecans and all.  This shit's delicious. Anyway, back to his dick.  So enough is enough, I thought, and when he was asleep I rolled over, sat on his chest so he couldn't move, and used mom's pinking shears to cut it off.  They sure were pink after that, let me tell you.  I'd be willing to bet he'd never make fun of my pecker ever again.  The screams came again, and he was really getting on my nerves.  It was almost as godawful as when I started slicing across his fucking forehead.  All I wanted was his scalp.  I had no intention of taking off his whole head or anything.  "What do you thing I am, some kind of animal?" I said as he groggily opened his eyes and realized what I was doing.  I'd put some of dad's pills in a spoon, crushed them up and put them in his Kool-Aid at snack time, so he was out like a light.  For a while, anyway.  Up til then I'd only imagined what it would sound like, so when I started pulling the hair and skin back over his noggin' the tearing sound almost made me gag.  It kind of came off in pieces, and I got bored and ended up leaving jagged parts attached by these weird little strings of meat and blood and stuff.  It was kind of gross, if you ask me. The whole point was to embarrass him like he did me when dad cut my hair funny 'cause he was drunk.  I had to go to school like that, and boy was I fuming.  "Not gonna make fun of me again, are 'ya?"  I said.  I got no response because I think he passed back out or something.  

Anyway, as I sat back and gave brief consideration to cleaning up the smears, splats and drips all over the place by now, I polished off the whole can of Poppycock.  I know, I know, you're thinking, "Boy, this guy's got no self control.  You'd think he'd save some for later."  I guess this is why mom used to say we couldn't keep stuff like this in the house.

Moving Day

When I was in grade school my father told us we were going to be moving to a new town.  He said we were buying an ice cream shop with a house attached in the hills of Berkshire County in Massachusetts.  After I made this announcement at school, Randy, one of my closest friends, made me a wooden sign and said all I'd have to do is paint our house number on it once I knew the address.  The sign was simply a stake painted gold with a dark purple arrow-shaped piece of pine nailed to the tip. 

This move never happened, and I'm sure this was one of many schemes my father dreamed up over the years in his maggot-infested mind.  

One day I did something bad.  I had a Suzy Homemaker oven on top of a low dresser in the bedroom I shared with two brothers.  Why it was in our room and not our sister's room across the hall, I don't know, and why it was atop a dresser I'll never know.  I know these things didn't really get hot enough to "bake" anything in, but I ended up melting something plastic inside the oven and filling our soiled laundry- toy- and cat shit-strewn bedroom with acrid smoke, which drew the ire of my father.  He charged up the stairs and, seeing the sign my friend made, grabbed it and started whacking me with it, the blows landing wherever he could reach as I cowered in the corner.

Long story short, he broke the sign on me, so it was just as well that we never actually moved.

But, His Hands

 The hands were what got me worked up the most.  I know they've got to work with what they're given, but surely the embalming process pretty much does all the work.  Am I wrong?  Extreme decomposition can be challenging, I'm sure, but I didn't think this was the case.  When I met two of my siblings and my brother's best friend in the funeral home's parking lot I'd asked for a few minutes on my own before they entered, a request they granted me.  Nervously, I approached the casket, the tip of my youngest brother's nose now coming into view.  As the remainder of his face met my stare I think I let out a breathe I wasn't aware I'd been holding.  They did a great job with his face and hair, and his suit was meticulous.  His hands, though, looked bloated, sausage-like.  "Comfortably Numb" came to mind, that line in the first chorus, specifically.  A sister, breaking our agreement, walked up behind me silently.  "He looks good", she whispered.  I'd cried a little, swiped at my eyes, said, "But, his hands-".

Flashback a few days.  Another brother, oldest of what started out as eight of us, douche of douches, impatient, holier-than-thou, self-important, spouted, "Why should the fact that my brother took his own life inconvenience my employer?".*  Getting back to work was furthest from my mind, but I guess others had different priorities.  We were sitting in a large circle, the funeral director and our mother at the head.  I wondered what mom felt when she heard her eldest spawn blurt such shit, cringed at what the director thought.

Flash forward a week or more- I don't remember.  It's now been about 14 years if I'm not mistaken- the above mentioned sister and I were the only ones who, for closure or whatever the fuck reason, requested to see the photos the police took when they found my brother's body.  It took some nerve but I sat at that desk for what seemed an eternity, staring at the image of him lying on his side, his hands under his cheek, eyes closed, like he'd just fallen asleep.  Which, I suppose, was the case, only he'd had help.

- An excerpt from a memoir that'll likely never be written because I'm a lazy procrastinating fuck.

*Verbatim, I swear, in case this ever ends up in court.  

Marvelous Memories of Youth

When I was a teen in the 70s two uncles- one a pedophile drug addict and the other somewhat normal- ran a night club in a refurbished barn in a tiny town you probably never heard of.  I washed bar glassware, swept up closing time debris and mopped up beer, puke, jiz- whatever all that shit was that gave the concrete floor its texture.  I restocked the beer coolers, helped in the kitchen and even ran the lights once or twice for bands no one ever heard of or ever will.   I guess child labor laws weren't a big deal at the time, and I often stayed until the last patron stumbled out. The Marvelettes- or at least that era's line-up, played one night.  To a typical horndog teen these three beautiful ebony women were untouchable goddesses, and I'll always remember sitting at the bar (yes, at about 15 years old) at the end of the night, mingling with the ladies and their manager and pretending to be an adult.  Suddenly, one of the gorgeous ladies sidled up next to me and asked if I wanted a beer, and signaled the bartender- my uncle- for a bottle of Heineken.  After popping the cap and setting the bottle down on the bar he turned away, and ********** slid the bottle toward the edge of the bar, held it low in front of me and pulled my t-shirt out.  She teasingly slid the beer up my chest under my shirt, poking it out through the neck of my shirt, and had me sip it that way.  Not exactly discreet, I know, and I'm not 100% sure my uncle didn't see what was going on, though he never acted on it.  After another round my uncle made it clear I needed to head home, so I said my goodnights, dug my bike out of the bushes by the dumpster and pedaled the five or so miles home, weaving back and forth over the white line along the edge of the road.  After undressing and climbing into bed I thought back through that night's events and those three beautiful women, which lead to multiple rounds of vigorous masturbation.  

Inspiration

 

The inspiration for "The Objects of My Desire" is a now-closed department store I once worked at in one of many small, crumbling industrial cities you can find scattered throughout New England.  The original store was built and opened in the 1880s, and did, in fact once house a hotel on the upper floors.  My mundane job had me rolling my janitor's cart throughout each floor, cleaning, polishing, vacuuming and removing trash as needed, and I hadn't been at it long before I got severely bored and dared to explore the upper, long-disused floors.  The eeriness of these darkened corridors as I tip-toed through massive cobwebs was chilling, and the brass numbers were indeed still attached above most of the doors.  If ever there was a Twilight Zone moment in my life, this job- and this store- would have to be my #1 choice.  I wasn't there long, and was only part-time, but the store that time forgot was like something right out of the fifties.  The room where I found the mannequins piled atop one another- some fully intact, others missing parts and pieces- was real, but rest assured I did not have my way with them. 

The Objects of My Desire- Conclusion

     The creaky freight elevator, down in the back of the store and out of sight levels off at #4 and comes to a slow, groaning halt.  Carefully I open the inner gate, then raise the outer steel door with the tiny, smudged window and roll my cart onto the dark, wide planks carpeted with decades of dust, pausing briefly to make sure I’m alone.  With the exception of my footprints, it appears as if no one has been up here in years, and the room that contains the mannequins is just down the corridor and around the first corner from the elevator.  The first rooms I pass contain dusty shelving units, jewelry display cases, and old office furniture.  The lighting on these floors is poor, and my skin prickles at the eerie shadows that line the wide corridors. 

     Finally, my destination.  “Hello my friends,” I whisper.  “I’ve come back.”  They are all silent, but I know, deep down, that they’ll be happy to finally have identities.  I pull the things I previously collected from the office supply section out of my cart, and set to work, cutting and taping, and before long they all have their faces on and I grow excited.  Pleased with my work I open the lower storage compartment of my cart and remove the cordless drill and hole saw bit I removed from the maintenance shop in the basement, and grab the bottle of lotion I snatched from Cosmetics off the top of my cart.  I set these aside on a pigeon shit- covered shelf nearby, and walk among my friends, my gorgeous co-workers, laying them down, one at a time, promising them I will be gentle.   

     Only a select few- the ones in the more active poses- will do, since the ones simply standing upright don’t excite me, and these chosen ones are my girls.  After the drill quiets each time, I listen for approaching footsteps, and grow more aroused once I realize I am still alone.  I end up with five, to be exact.  Their names aren’t important.  Four of them, young, smiling, overly made-up, work in different clothing departments, the fifth, I’m not ashamed to admit, is probably in her fifties and reminds me of my mother.  I think she does payroll.  I’m not sure.  They look so beautiful and helpless, staring at me, watching as I undress and reach for the cool, viscous gel that will ease my efforts. 

The Objects of My Desire- part 1

   Light bulbs and bubble wrap.  Mannequins and long-neglected, antique display racks.  These things and more are left to rot in the rooms throughout the dusty fourth and fifth floors.  Items once inventoried, now forgotten, shuffled off to the upper reaches of this century-old downtown relic.  The main display floors, beginning with the sidewalk-level ground floor and up through the third, offer furniture, clothing and accessories no one will ever buy.  Perhaps in previous decades, but not these days.  “How does this place stay in business?” I often ask myself (as many other people do, I’m sure).  During my shifts I see few shoppers.  I roll my janitor’s cart through the different departments, wondering where the paychecks even come from. 

     The upper floors are haunted, I’m sure.  The building used to house a hotel, and the tarnished brass numbers are still mounted over many of the doorways, the smooth, dull finish on the well-worn oak looking much the way it did a hundred years ago.  A downtown staple, Winthrop’s is a destination for old ladies, mostly.  No young person in their right mind would shop here now.  This place is a throwback to another time, a dinosaur.  The few young girls that work here- some hot, some not so- are snotty, and offer better customer service to their cell phones than their customers.  My camera- my phone- fits perfectly in my shirt pocket, well-hidden.  They don’t know they’re the subjects of my project, the objects of my desire. 

     At home, in my little rented room down Main Street, safe from people and trouble, I log onto Walmart’s photo site and create their life-size faces.  All of them.  Even the old ones that have worked there since the forties and fifties, the smelly ones that still douche and wear the perfume that the stinky old ladies wore decades ago.   

Counterpoint III (finis)

Damn fool couldn't even tell me where he put the mail.  For years now, we've set the mail just inside the front door on the side table.  Same.  Damn.  Place.  For.  Years.  I'm not perfect.  I have my own ailments and shit to deal with, but come on.  How much is a woman supposed to tolerate?  What am I supposed to do, pay someone to sit here with him and watch his ass all day? Hire a babysitter?  I mean, it's like living with a child again, and I already aced that exam years ago.   What's next, diaper rash, ointments and thumb-sucking?  I mean, come on.  Been there, done that.  I'm maxed out.  I've exhausted my patience.  I know it's wrong but don't care.  Dan next door's been a godsend. He and I have struck up a relationship and it feels good to get some of those feelings back if you know what I'm saying. If it wasn't for Dan I'd surely lose my shit.  Mama needs a stuffin', and the fuckwit doesn't even have a clue what's going on.  Doesn't know enough to question my "night out with the girls" schtick.  In some ways I guess I should be grateful he's such a feeble-minded idiot.

I can do this.  Make it look natural.  It'll look like apnea or something, or he just simply stopped breathing during the night.  It happens.  I am so done.  I'll wait until he's asleep.

I'll tell you this- it most certainly is not the way it's portrayed in the movies and on television.  He struggled, boy did he struggle.  And it was anything but quick.  It was all I could do to hold the pillow still, and at one point I thought for sure he'd actually overpower me.  It took him, like, five minutes, it seemed.  After he stilled I maintained pressure just to be sure.

I'll let him be until morning.  Say he must've passed in his sleep.  I'll be able to put on a more convincing show after a decent night's sleep.  

Paranoia III

Now I'm really getting fed up.  Even the slightest little slip gets an eyeroll, a groan of disgust , dirty looks.  A day doesn't go by when I apparently say something that doesn't make sense.  What do you want, I get confused easily.  I think she's at her wits end with me forgetting things, almost constantly having to remind me she'd already told me something I don't remember her saying.  So I forgot to make the oil change appointment.  Is it the end of the world that I threw away the invoice for the new furnace we supposedly had installed?  Are library fines really all that dire?  The lamest conversation draws ire and huffs of disgust or something.  I can't always remember her name.  So sue me.  Tonight we had an argument over whether or not we'd already watched a particular episode of some stupid fucking program we were watching.  I got mad and said I was going to bed.  I feel like a child, and want to be alone.  I climb into my bed in my room down the hall from hers.  Yeah, we've been sleeping separately for some time now.  "You move around too much," she squawked.  "And you hog my side".  I swear, she complains more now than she ever has.

I may have dozed for a while, but my door just creaked open and I see her silhouette tip-toeing into my room.  She's holding a pillow close to her chest, and it reminds me of an earlier, more enjoyable time in our marriage when we'd strip each other naked and get all silly and have pillow fights.  Of course, I think it often lead to some good sex, at least for me, and the feather mess wasn't too bad to clean up the next morning.  Maybe there's hope yet.  Maybe she's remembering how much fun we had at one time and wants, really wants to get some of that back.  I'm gonna stay still and quiet and make her think I'm asleep.

Down in the Dark

Wow.  I dug this one out of an old writing folder.  Apparently I wrote it at a bleak time.  I don't remember writing this, honestly.  Not sure what was going on at the time.  It's only about a one minute read. Have a nice weekend.

 I don’t like feel-good.  Feel-good makes me want to cry (out) or, worse, hit somebody.  Far as I’m concerned feel-good is for pussies and losers.  Day after day I’m drilled with goofy, sappy shit about positivity and goodness.  At school, at home, at work- everywhere I look there’s happy sunshine shit being spooned over me like chocolate syrup and I’m an ice cream sundae. 

     If I want something that makes me feel good I’ll create it or surround myself with it.  If I woke up every day and felt “Gee, today I want to be happy,” I’d make myself do it.  What I want is to be left alone.  What I want is to be allowed to feel what I want to feel, not what everybody seems to want to make me feel. 

     This is why, I’ve decided, I don’t much care for people in general.  I was brought up force-fed with feel-good shit day after day after day, and I’ve about had enough.  There’s enough of that in the world-most of which is fake, by the way- to last several lifetimes.  When I get to work everyone is all “Hey, how was your weekend?” and “Well good morning there, sunshine” and it makes me almost want to puke.  It’s as if everyone is medicated, under the influence of any of the overabundance of “happy” pills that are prescribed much too readily. 

     In my world, misery reigns.  In my world sadness, hatred and mistrust are the ruling emotions.  Are these even emotions?  States of mind, more likely.  Oh, imagine if the world was the way I want it to be.  Everyone walked around frowning and miserable.  No one said “hi” to anyone.  They didn’t give each other the time of day.  Imagine that, if you can. 

     Happy makes me sick.  Happy makes me want to throw up.  Happy causes more problems than anything else.  Happy is fake, and is the root of most evil.  Next time one of your co-workers says something frothy and superficial to you try this:  Stare at them, as if they just turned into a leprechaun or something.  Shake your head, maybe even roll your eyes, then just walk away.  Don’t respond verbally. 

     Make them think twice next time, it should.   

On Proudly Displaying One's Handiwork

The orderly, if that's even a real word, came in this morning and gave me a shot of something.  He said I'd been out of line.  I only had a dream.  It made me cry, but I'm okay now.  My memory is this:  Daddy got mad at something I did and needed to punish me for it.  I don't remember what I did, but I sure do remember the punishment.  It's probably the seed that sprouted into what I am today.  I did a bad thing, and daddy made me go upstairs and take all my clothes off.  He said I better hurry up.  He came up and beat me with something hard.  My ass cheeks were glowing and hot to touch, and he went back downstairs to finish his coffee with mommy.  He called me downstairs and said not to get dressed, so I headed down slowly one step at a time because my behind was sore.  He called me into the kitchen so he could proudly display to mommy his handiwork.  I didn't cry.  I promise.  I didn't know how to be embarrassed of my nakedness in mommy's presence.  I spun around at daddy's direction.  Mommy just sat there, crying and helpless as usual.

The orderly had to remind me that I was here because my daddy wasn't any more.  He said I did another bad thing and mommy was alone now.

I think I'm ready to be good now.  Is it lunch time?  I'm hungry.

(the orderly shit's made up, though the memory is real.  The storyteller's not in a facility or anything.  Don't want anyone taking things too seriously.)

Counterpoint (Paranoia II cont.)

 As if I didn't have enough to deal with, this moron groped our daughter-in-law at the dinner table.  Like I don't have my hands full already.  I swear, I'm going to have him put away somewhere if this shit keeps up.  He tried to say he was mistaken, that he thought I was next to him.  Why the hell would he even try to feel me up at this point, never mind at the fucking dinner table?  It'd only lead to disappointment as usual, if you know what I mean.  I'm getting tired of making excuses for him.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, in sickness and health and all that shit.  Whatever. 

Paranoia II (sorry folks, you'll have to hit "Older Posts" if you need a refresher)

 The kids were over for dinner a day ago, a week ago- who knows.  My son's wife sat next to me and I mistook her for my own wife and touched her breast during dessert.  I didn't think anyone noticed and I forgot we were at the dinner table. Talk about a firestorm.  My wife called me a fucking freak, smacked me in the side of my head and sent me to my room.  I couldn't say goodnight to the kids.  Now my son isn't talking to me.  His wife is furious and says I'm a pervert.  My wife hates me and I think she's plotting ways to get out of our marriage.  I don't remember where my son and his wife live so I can't even write to him to apologize, and I surely can't ask my wife.  Sometimes I'm just confused.  Is that a crime?

Eggshells

 Sorry, I took a break for a while.  Anyway, I'm frightened by the sight of blood.  Some people grow out of it, some don't.  I even tried being an EMT many years ago, hoping it'd help me get over it.  Throughout my formative years mother, God rest her soul, would leave  sanitary napkins- sometimes folded, sometimes not- on the edge of the bath tub during the night.  I'd come downstairs either first thing in the morning or in the middle of the night to pee and would find what I thought at the time were bandages, thinking that someone had gotten injured while I was asleep.  As with everything else growing up I never discussed this, never asked about it.  Father was a psycho, mother was meek and frightened and my siblings and I never talked much about anything.  Everything was a secret, everything was taboo, no one dared talk about anything or ask questions.  Father, when he was around, exploded at the slightest provocation and was always over eager to find the nearest prop to beat us with. Mother even got in on the beating game, but felt guilty afterwards.  One night when I was probably about 8 or so we'd heard mother and father yelling and banging things around, and when I crept downstairs under the guise of having to use the bathroom I saw broken glass on the kitchen floor, mother staring into the bathroom mirror holding a bloody towel around one of her hands, crying and father sitting at the kitchen table with a cold, vacant sneer on his face. As with every other similar incident I didn't dare question anything.  I simply slunk out of the kitchen and went back upstairs.  I hadn't had to pee, but I think I remember waking up in soaked sheets that next morning.  

Ned- A Love Story and a Reunion of Sorts

 Ned traveled up north this past weekend to visit his long-lost son.  Ned and his wife enjoyed the long ride, only feeling the urge to strangle each other four or five times the whole way there and back.  "It's only eight or nine hours each way," Ned said.  You know how a confined space on wheels with one's significant other can be, especially when the purpose for your travel arrangements is to see the biological product of only one of you.  Anyhoo, the visit went fairly well.  Ned and his son had a fantastic time.  Ned's wife only felt just slightly ignored.  Ned and his wife stayed in a chain motel, which was basic but clean.  Ned's wife pulled a disinfectant wipe cannister from their suitcase and proceeded to wipe down every possible surface, then sat to remove her shoes.  The night was uneventful, the sheets were clean, they had no sex, and they didn't fight. The next morning they showered, Ned managing to rub one out while his wife took her turn, packed everything up, and checked out.  Before leaving Ned had to take a shit, and when he sat he made a mental note of the low slung, shallow design of the toilet.  After creating waves and splashes in the bowl he thought to himself "I'm so glad I don't have a large penis.  I'm almost touching the bowl as it is, and I can't even imaging being hung like a bull and trying to take a shit without tapping against the porcelain."  

It was good to see his son, and Ned's wife bit her tongue and made nice the best she could, thankful once again that she never cared to have children of her own.  She pretended she didn't see the wad of bills Ned stuffed into his son's greedy paw or hear the son's whispered "bitch" comments.  The return trip home was bland and uneventful, and they returned, physically drained but happy that another day had passed where one of them didn't try to kill the other.   

These Eyes, Oh These Eyes

 I'm due for a visit to an eye doctor.  

I've made us move so many times my wife is about to explode.

She has handled all insurance, medical, address change, relocation-related shit and everything else all these years.

I make the money but can't be happy with whatever job I'm working at any given time.

This last time would be the last, I said.

I'll retire from this one, I said.

I promise we won't move again, I said.

My eyes seem to be getting worse.

My right one has had floaters for some years, and lately my left one has had a foggy area.

Together, these spoil my love of reading.  Large print books make it slightly easier, but the limited selection at the library is depressing.

Just the mention of a new doctor's appointment sets a storm a-brewing.

The insurance is shit.  Out-of-Pocket is my new cringe phrase.

Just venting.

No need for concern or serious replies. 

Thanks. 

Childhood Chores

 The beauty mark stood out from dad’s pale, pulpy skin.  It marked the doughy, nearly-hairless flesh just below his left ass cheek, and looked like a coffee-colored continent. The fact that you couldn’t avoid looking at his balls made this particular chore all the more disgusting.  The backrub part was tolerable, my finger joints, elbows and shoulders aching beyond belief by the time he instructed me to stop, and I think my lower back problems these days can be attributed to the arching I was forced to do at that time because I was so small. 

As he turned over and detailed how he wanted his legs rubbed thigh-to-toes his penis flopped side to side, nesting against his thigh. 

We never really talked about it, but I’m sure my siblings felt the same way I did about having to “massage” him.  Either we were too embarrassed to share or we just didn’t feel the need.  Like so many other fucked up things it was just part of life. We took turns over the years, being summoned into the dark of their bedroom.  Mom was too scared to say it was wrong.  I know she had to endure much, much worse.  I know there are so many things we never even knew about. Sadly, we never will. 

A Sad Face Navel and A Realization That I'm Comma Happy

 So while wiping my butt the other day (oh, come on, don't get all "ewww!"  Butt wiping is no more disgusting than thoughts about drugging your soon-to-be-ex's pillar-of-the-community father, stripping him naked and photographing him in compromising positions with dolls, small woodland critters or what have you and then blackmailing him.  We all have them, right?)  So anyway, I'm standing there, wiping my butt and I looked in the oversized vanity mirror that, unfortunately, faces the toilet, thinking about how my navel resembles a big frown.  Over the past several years my wife has  managed to get me to shed 50-70 pounds, and what used to be a normal bellybutton is now all saggy and droopy.  Sure, I could work out to get rid of all that extra flesh that once contained bulbous rolls of fat, but I'm not the workout type.  So here you have it.  Stare at it in wonder or look away, disgusted.

In a brief bout of whim I added the eyes.  Thankfully, the bout passed quickly.

Our Migraine-Inducing Bathroom Floor

 Yeah, so when I sit for my, uh, morning constitutional this is what I look at.  These inch and a quarter hexagons are what I see every morning, and when you look at them-even for only a few seconds- then look anywhere else in the small room you can see the pattern on every surface.  My migraines are random and I've yet to determine a single trigger, but these certainly come close.  Mind you, it's not worth breaking the lease, and I've come to accept things as they are. "Don't look at the floor," you say.  "Look somewhere else," you add.  Easier said than done.  It's like that accident thing- I can't not look at it.  Life goes on.

It Was a Good Thought

You don't know me personally so this likely won't mean anything to you, but I now wear a cardigan to keep warm.  It's an age thing, in my mind.  One of several issues my mind has with growing old(er).  I've never been one for sweaters of any sort. In my youth I always thought only old people wore them. Anyway, I was standing there peeing the other morning, noting how the unbuttoned corner flap of the red cardigan I was wearing blocked my view of my wrinkly ol' mister softy, and I had an extremely bizarre thought.  "You'll have to use this thought for a future blog post," I told myself.  We all talk to ourselves while we're peeing, right? The problem is that I can't for the life of me remember what, exactly, that thought was.  It was a good thought, a great idea for this blog.  At the time.  Would've made for an awesome post.

Moving Mountains

 Every day my job requires that I scoop up dog shit.  Mountains of it.  Most days there's only one, but Monday mornings bring a whole range.  This dog is a Great Dane.  Close your eyes and try to picture the biggest turd you've ever dropped.  Now multiply that by at least five, and you have a pretty good idea of the size of these things. Usually they're pretty firm, but now and then they can be, well, a little soft.  No matter, it's in my job description so I do it.  Lately, with these frigid fucking temperatures the piles are pretty stiff, so they're easy to pick up.  A while ago the poor creature wasn't feeling well and the shit was pretty soupy.  I still have to scoop it up, though.  Most days the shit's on a concrete slab, but lots of times it's on the loose stone that surrounds the concrete.  When I scoop the shit from these stones the stones come up with it, so I suppose it's only a matter of time before my employer has to buy more stones. I don't know which is worse- the smell of the shit, or the combination of the smell of the shit and the "scent" of the bags.  I don't know what the manufacturer is thinking, perfuming dog shit bags.  It doesn't do anything for me.

Hindsight

 

I used to find it fucking funny to lock my siblings in the basement.  I had to babysit five younger brothers and sisters growing up.  "Preteen" and "Responsible" aren't two words you'd frequently find together. I probably should've still had a babysitter myself.  Mom naively thought I was mature and responsible at the time.  Our cellar was a hoarder's dream, smelled like cat shit, cat piss & dead cat, and had too many windows.  I hated going down there myself at night, especially with all those windows.  Gave me the creeps.  Between the windows and the shadows behind the old oil-fired, moving van-sized furnace it always felt like I was being watched. I think that's why I got such a thrill out of locking them down there.  Years later I often fantasized about luring my father down there (all it would've taken is a bottle of booze or my aunt), violating him till he bled out with a nail-studded baseball bat I made as a teen and burying him under all that shit.  Might've made up just a little for all the beatings and for his role in my mother's death (just my opinion).  Ah, hindsight...

Mom's Boyfriend

 I don't know why, but when I was younger it bothered me that my mother had a boyfriend and he'd come over late at night and they'd go into her bedroom and shut the door.  I was never sure what they were doing in there. I was pretty stunted regarding all things sexual.  Anyway, one day I stuffed fresh batteries in my portable Panasonic tape recorder and went outside.  I plugged in a  microphone and dangled it by my feet as I walked around in the dry leaves.  My bedroom was right over my mother's, and late one night, after my mother and her boyfriend went into her bedroom and closed the door, I opened my window and tore a hole in the screen.  I had this large metal loudspeaker wired up to the tape recorder, and dropped it through the screen on a length of wire.  I stopped right about where I thought her window was, then pressed play.  I don't know if they ever heard my footsteps.  She never said anything about it.  Not sure what I got out of it, either.

Counterpoint (Paranoia I cont.)

I'm his wife, not his babysitter.  I've pumped out, raised and waved off two spawn over the years, and here I find myself practically having to raise another one.   Only this one's a grown man.  Having to leave him notes for even the simplest thing is getting old real fast. And don't give me that shit about aging, early onset this, that or the other.  It's all horseshit.  I'm about the same age and I don't have a problem remembering anything.  And passion?  Don't even get me started on that.  Mister Softy- we've given each other pet names over the years- wouldn't even know how to fuck me if I crawled to him, begging for it.  At this point I'm about like a wrinkled paper bag anyway. Reminds me of those "Fire Danger" warning signs at the state park entrance.  I'd have to have one tattooed on my fucking belly these days.

I've given up so much.  But whatever.  Lately, when he walks in the door all I can do is look at him, hoping he'll be better, then look away once I see that blank gaze. 

Grandpa Died and I Laughed

Story:  Things told to me that are one person's view and are likely slanted

Fact: Things I know from personal experience

 Like so many parts of my life that exist only in stories I learned one day recently that (Story) father had died in the care of a sibling who (Story) didn't love him; who (Story) was an addict; who (Fact) was angry and had this powerful need to prove something.  Father, absent even when present, was (Fact) a sickly, mean, alcoholic, abusive, depressed psychotic poor excuse of a man.  Nonexistent to me for decades now.  It was during a telephone conversation with my youngest son from prison (him, not me)- the first time we'd spoken since the last time he was on the high side of one of his meth slopes & valleys (several years ago now)- when I remembered and casually mentioned it.  "Oh, I forgot.  Your grandfather died."  I laughed.  "Oh, umm, okay," he said.  And then he laughed.  

Things I've learned over the years come only from siblings and assorted others, but I also learned late in life to take everything with a grain of salt.  My wife forced me to see things this way.  The drama, depression and addiction has steered my family for years, and until my wife's lesson I'd just taken everyone at their word.

The same, I suppose, goes for mother.  I'm told (Story) she died a few years ago.  At least two siblings (Story) saw her after she passed, but (Fact) I never got to. The funeral director was so ired by my obnoxioux family that (Fact) when I contacted him to request a visit to pay my last respects he (Fact) said he didn't want me there.

I've (Fact) never seen an obituary for either parent.  

Funny, I was told once by an old family friend that (Story) my uncle was actually my father.  But that's for another post.

My Friend Tom

Tom's my good friend.  Not my best friend, just good.  I've known Tom for 6 months, and yesterday I read an article about Tom.  The article says Tom did a bad thing.  Tom dropped a litter of gerbils down a well.  He took the gerbils from his daughter's room, placed them in a brown paper bag and went out in the back yard and dropped them in the well.   The plywood over the well wasn't attached, just laying over the well, so it was easy to move.  Who even has a well in their back yard any more?  Was there water in the bottom of the well, or was it just a dried out well?  If the well was no longer in use shouldn't it have been covered or filled in, or whatever you do with a disused well?  I'm wondering if Tom ended up replacing the plywood since it was pretty well weathered and warped and the layers were all peeling the way plywood does when exposed to the elements.

Paranoia I

The notes are all over the place.  She leaves them for the stupidest little thing.  

"Tie your shoes"

"Don't forget the trash"

"Lunch is at 1:00"

"Scoop the litterbox"

I don't think there's anything she hasn't left a note about at this point.  I know I forget things.  Doesn't everybody?  I fight saying things like "I feel old", or "I really feel my age today".  

Sometimes I swear I did a particular task, only to have her fume and not talk, and when I finally get her to open up find out I didn't do it.  But I think I did.  This happens more and more. 

Sometimes I think she's trying to make me think I'm losing it.  I'm not sure yet how that would benefit her.  We count on my income so I need to keep working into beyond retirement. So that can't be it.

Now and then I'll come home early and she'll just look at me, like "oh, you're home."  Makes me wonder what she was in the middle of.  Is she planning something?  Is there something she doesn't want me to know about?