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.