Friday, December 31, 2004

Happy New Year's

If someone had told me 7 months ago that I'd have a couple hundred, okay, dozen, people I've never met reading my private thoughts which I intentionally posted on the internet for the entire plant to read I would have told him/her to quit being so greedy with that smack and share it with the rest of us. Yet, here I am.

December '04 has to be the most demanding month I've ever had, yet I suspect the next 12 could easily top that. Here's to hoping our next 12 months together will be as exciting, or more so, than then last 7.

Take care, guys. Drive safely. I'll see you all next year.

Thursday, December 30, 2004

Something's gonna pop

Something’s been on my mind lately. Every time I look at her I think about it. She’s so beautiful, even after she barfs. I realized last night when I waited until I could get home to talk to her before deciding whether to pay down my mortgage to get out from beneath the PMI payment or put the extra cash into savings for the babies that I valued her opinion on major decisions. Not just on which socks match which slacks.

But this morning she inadvertently confirmed it for me. Just before dawn I heard her jump up and run to the bathroom. HOORAHRARRORORAHRAAH...BLAH. PTOO. “Jay?”

I'm coming, I'm coming. Shit I was tired. I got up and snatched a towel out of the hall closet and walked into the bathroom with it. “Let me wet it.”

“No, honey, I’m fine. You overslept. You need to get up or you won’t have time to run.”

Do you have any fucking idea how many years I fantasized about this woman before finally having the nads to ask her out? I compared her to my ideal partner, wishing each woman I came across had plenty in common with that Jasmine woman at the office because damn wouldn’t that be fun? Hot, smart, level-headed, hot. And here I stood, clad in the underwear she bought for me while she hunched over the sink rinsing the vomit out of her mouth with that green ethanol she calls mouthwash, pregnant with my babies and worried about me missing a run. Her, Jasmine, not some knock-off impersonator I hoped would resemble the real thing like that artificial crab meat you can buy at the supermarket for $3. So why won’t I marry her? What in the hell am I waiting for, a fucking flash fire in my front yard that singes my nearly dead grass so that it reads, “She’ll do, go for it.”?

I’ll tell you one thing. She fucking deserves better than me, that’s for damn sure. But I’ll leave that decision up to her. In the meantime, I’m willing to bet $4000 that she’s foolish enough to settle at the least. I ordered her a ring today. I chose an Eternity band like this one with 3.25 carats. I know it isn’t two months salary, but I don’t think she buys into that bullshit. She doesn’t wear much jewelry and I thought this was tasteful with enough carat weight so folks don’t apologize to her when they see it.

The jeweler agreed to meet me on New Year’s Day when I get back from my old man’s place to pick it up. I’ll ask her then.

Somebody pass the Tums.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Vidor + 4 drunk boys = Trouble

In high school we had a saying: Don’t fuck with Willie. We said it almost as often as we sang our alma mater on Friday nights.

Willie was a big, beef eating diesel of a boy. His skin was blacker than night and he had a death wish throughout most of our high school lives. On weekends, when my old man was working and my mom let me sweet talk her into letting me go out, Kelly, Jason, Willy and I would head out and immediately be up to no good.

The night of “the keg incident” we’d gone across the border to Hebert’s Grocery (again, for you yanks, it’s pronounced A-BEAR’S). Back in the back of the tiny store was a window with a guy on the other side making underage boys like ourselves very happy. Four mega sized Adios Motherfuckers later we peeled out and headed back to Texas. Kelly and Willie were in Kelly’s latest loaner Corvette and Jason and I were in Jason’s piece of shit pick up that could rattle the paint off a house.

Alcohol does things to a man. Mostly make him stupid. And stupid is as stupid does, that night. Willie decided he wanted to go to the Taco Bell. But not the nearest one, no, no, he wanted the one in Vidor.

Oh, hell no. “You’re fucked up, man. We ain’t going to Vidor.”

“I’m hungry!”

“For a noose?”

I remember looking at Jason and he smiled and shrugged. “The boy wants to go to Vidor, let’s go.”

Shit. It was a fucking bad idea. Vidor is where the Klan is. And I don’t just mean a group of Klansmen residing in the city, I mean the whole god forsaken city. Even the police. Fucking Montel Williams did a whole show on the racism in Vidor which only advertised to the rest of the haters out there that there was a safe haven for them right here in East Texas. Hell, the Klan posts a fucking sign at the Wal-Mart announcing meetings so nobody misses one.

We pulled up in the Taco Bell and Jason opened his glove box. “Put these on. Keep your mouth shut.” He gave me two cheap men’s rings. I put one on each hand. Jason had relatives in Vidor. He didn’t share their views, but it gave him insight on how to handle the mentality.

We were the only ones inside when we ordered, but halfway through the meal, because Willie insisted on eating in the dining room, we had visitors. Three white boys pulled into the parking lot driving a pick up with a keg in the bed. They came inside and immediately set eyes on Willie. That motherfucker I swear nibbled his taco from that point on. “Eat, bitch.”

“Man, my belly hurtin.’”

Jason balled up his paper and glanced at Willie, then me, then Kelly. He held up three fingers, then four. Outnumbering them didn’t matter one bit when the cops would arrest every damn one of us. No cop in his right mind would believe we just stopped in for something to eat. Blacks don’t just stop in Vidor. I don’t care if they’re diabetic and chancing a coma if they don’t get some fucking OJ in the next two minutes, they don’t stop in Vidor. And it’s like that to this day.

We got up to leave just as the Vidorians’ order was ready. Willie swore he didn’t move first, but it happened so fast I couldn’t tell. One minute we were almost home free, the next we were ripping one skinny white boy after another off of Willie while he tore into the biggest one who’d been eyeballing him the hardest. The wiry son of a bitch I got stuck with kept drilling me in the chest until I finally got a knee into his gut. All I can remember thinking is “Oh, Jesus, not the face, don’t hit me in the face!” I could hide the bruising on my body, but a busted lip and black eye would generate a whole new shit storm at home that would make this one pale in comparison.

The one Jason had lost his nerve and ran to the other end of the dining room which freed both him and me up to get between Willie and the fucking moose he was brawling with. The cashier told us she called the cops, which was not good news for us no matter who started it. It took all three of us to drag Willie out of there.

Once we got outside Jason, Kelly and I all ran for our rides, but Willie took a detour.

“What the fuck are you doing? Come on!”

Willie had jumped into the back of the white boys’ truck and was pushing the keg out to the end of the bed. Then he jumped down, slid the keg off onto his back and walked it one agonizingly slow step at a time to Jason’s pick up. We dropped the tailgate and he set the keg down, shoved it back and lifted the gate.

“Souvenir.”

Jason called him a name not even I would repeat, but it was the first time I’d ever heard Willie laugh. I mean laugh hard. When we got out of there and hopped back onto the highway I told Jason. “I’m fucking glad he’s on our side.”

Jason looked at me in all seriousness and said, “Can you tell my pants are wet?”

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Uncle Daddy & Aunt Momma

I don’t think you grasp just how hillbilly my childhood was. I’m not talking about swimming in the rat infested bayou (pronounced BYE-YOU for you yanks who don’t know any better), or mowing our back yard with a Suburban or having spool races on those gigantic wooden spools my old man would bring home from the paper mill, or spending two months trying to housebreak a pig. No, that’s just superficial shit. The real meat and potatoes of true hillbillyhood goes much deeper than that.

Next door to us, and by that I mean the house a couple of acres over, was a family of five. The wife was 300 lbs and scraping the bottom side of 5 feet tall. Her teeth were rotten, nothing out of the ordinary, and her hair was a lovely bottled blonde. The husband spoke no English. Nothing you’d find in a book, at least. “Uh, mmhu uhuo ouhhm uhhhm.” Ignorant bastard. And if his crippled linguistics was not handicap enough that motherfucker had an afro bigger than that Justin kid from American Idol a few years ago.

On a side note, one summer I was showing off for a girl, being the man and shit. I was about 10 and she was an older woman, maybe almost 13. She had boobies. I was sitting on my bike on the bridge over the gully, which is a not so fancy word for "shit river" since there was no city plumbing out there. In an effort to show off my skills I was balancing my bike while sitting still, my feet up in the air. Unfortunately, I was not as cool as I thought, lost my balance and fell 15 feet to land face first in the River O’Shit flowing beneath in a humiliating, squishy splat. It was Dufus from next door who heard the commotion and jumped the fence line, climbed down into the gully and scooped me and all the liquefied fecal matter up into his arms. He carried me a ½ mile to my house, talking the whole way. “Uh, mmhu uhuo ouhhm uhhhm.” I didn’t understand one goddamn word he said, but nevertheless I was grateful for the rescue even though nothing could salvage my pride.

So back to the proof of hillbillyship, the wife’s sister and that woman's husband decided the New Yorker lifestyle was just not for them. Too many hookers, they said. Can’t say that I blame them. Who wouldn’t envy all that we had?

The husband stayed behind in NYC to finish up his notice at his job while the sister and her two urchins moved down ahead of him, staying with Dufus and Dumbo next door. One thing led to another and baddabing-baddaboom the sister was banging Dufus behind her sibling’s back. Well, of course she was. Look at him. He was a fucking lady killer with that ‘fro and “Uhh, mmhuh uhhh umhm” sweet-nothings shit he was always mumbling. We all saw it coming the day the sister was spotted nude sunbathing on the kids' trampoline in the front yard. Now I don’t want to plant the wrong impression here. The sister had just as many rotten teeth as Dumbo. She was skinny, but it didn’t matter if she was lying on her front or back, it was all the same, if you know what I mean.

So Dumbo comes home one day to find her Romeo ram shafting kid sister in a slow comfortable screw up against the wall. Shit hits the fan, shots are fired and naked people take off in both directions down the street. But time heals all wounds and eventually things settled down. Brother-in-law found out about the affair and didn’t bother leaving NYC after all. Dumbo divorced Dufus, which freed him up to marry the newly divorced sister. So now, these two kids of the sister’s and three kids of the husband’s are cousins/siblings. Uncle Daddy, Aunt Momma and Cousin Brother/Sister. Oh, but it gets better. Sister and husband have a child of their own. Nobody in the whole fucking family knew whether the baby was a cousin or brother so they called him Bubba-cuz.

Dumbo went on to live the wild and rowdy lifestyle of a newly unshackled woman for about 10 years. I’m not sure if she ever remarried, but I heard about a year ago she was killed in a car accident. She left life insurance for her three kids. One bought a new trailer home, one bought new boobs, and the boy lost his share at the casino in Lake Charles, La in a matter of weeks. Now that’s one fucked up hillbilly family.

In light of my childhood exposures, makes me seem all the more impressive, huh? It's all relative.

Monday, December 27, 2004

Butt popped

I think my two year old niece is on crack. Don’t tell her mother, it’ll break her heart. Saturday Jazz and I kept Kadybug so that Julie could buy Dad some groceries and shit to help him stay off his feet. For the record, my old man went to work Christmas Eve. Yeah, worker’s comp until April my ass. I knew that surgeon had no fucking idea who he was messing with.

So back to the crack fiend, Julie dropped her spawn of Satan off at dawn, or perhaps 11am, but it felt like she’d been here since dawn by the time she went home at midnight, or 6pm. Whatever. I have never seen a child so argumentative, so absolutely certain about what she wants in all my life. There is no negotiating, no compromising. And that kid’s lungs are impressive at the least, fearsome at the worst.

“Kadybug, that’s Uncle Jay’s marker. Let me have it.”

As I stood there with my hand extended I saw her eyes shift to the side to see if I was going to wait for her to follow instructions.

“I see you looking at me.”

She grinned and stuck the marker behind her back, which did little to hide it considering I was standing beside her and not in front of her.

In my infinite wisdom when I finally got the marker from her through a barrage of screaming, fighting and crying (and that was mostly from me) I placed the marker on the uppermost shelf above my desk. Stupid. Two hours later I glanced around.

“Where’s Kadybug?”

Jasmine was lying limp on the sofa with a half eaten package of saltines and a washcloth. Fat lot of help she was. She shrugged and pawned off the responsibility of my niece totally onto my shoulders. Um, can you not see I’m busy playing with my new CDRW Player/Alarm Clock/Radio/Toaster oven?

Fine. Forget it. I’ll go find her.

“Kadybug, where are you at?”

“I right here!”

And right there she was. Standing on top of my desk, covered in blue marker stripes…along with my wall, shelves and cheap particle board desk. Her clothes, her hands, her legs and her arms. “What the fu…sonofa…, get down, now!”

When I reached for the marker she yanked it all over the place, dodging my hand. “Stop it! Give it here! What’s that smell?”

“I have poo poo!”

Oh, joyous day!

Everything Kadybug says is full of excitement, as if it’s the best possible news she could have delivered. I couldn’t fucking believe she climbed onto my desk and up three shelves to grab that marker. I grabbed her under her arms and whisked her colorful ass to the bathroom.

I unbuttoned the little dress Julie made such a big deal about this morning and hoped Cheer with Colorguard would erase all evidence of neglect on my part before Julie got back. “Raise your arms.”

I pulled the knob on the tub to start the water, then yanked the tabs on her diaper in time to catch a reminder whiff of the gift within. “What is that? Oh, shit! What do they feed you?”

“I eat carrots!”

Jesus, by the truckload? I picked her nasty ass up and hauled her to the kitchen and put her on her knees in the sink. “Be still, Uncle Jay’s gonna spray your hinny.”

“Spray my hinny? I eat carrots!”

No shit. After the rear end debacle, Jasmine managed to catch up with the action and offered to bathe her and try to scrub off the blue marker. I tossed her dress and little white panty hose things for babies into the washing machine with two cups of liquid Cheer and hoped for the best.

Jasmine got most of it off the blue-eyed monkey and I was ridiculously relieved to see it all gone from the dress. Once it dried I got her dressed and Jasmine refixed her hair.

“She is so bad.”

“I not bad!”

“You are, too.”

“No! I! Not!”

“And you’re pleasant, too.”

“I not peas-sant!”

“You’re so compromising.”

“I not com-pro-mining!”

“You’re such an angel.”

“I not a angel!”

Jasmine threw the hairbrush at me and told me to grow up. That’s bullshit. She started it. When Julie got there Kadybug looked like the angel that she was not. I was super uncle and nobody could prove otherwise. But Kadybug wasn’t finished with me yet. She brought me down with an innocent, toddler fart.

“Uh, oh! My butt popped!”

My sister asked her, “Do you have poo poo?”

Kadybug replied, “No, I have o-shit!”

Oh…shit. I have since been relieved of my babysitting duties after all. Thank god.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Merry Christmas


Have a good one, folks, to you and yours from me and mine.

Special wishes go out to Savannah. Not even my old man is as tough as she is.

And to the donor family who has a tree and presents, but no 3 year old to enjoy them.





Friday, December 24, 2004

History doesn't repeat itself

My dad is like stone. Thursday morning, after the swelling in his foot came down enough for him to focus on anything else, I told him about the babies.

“Dad…it’s still early, but…it looks like Jasmine and I are going to have twins.”

Absolutely ZERO response. He sat there, on one end of the sofa while his leg extended the length of it. Jasmine and I were sitting on the bench seat from his van. My old man redefines frugal. If you looked it up in the dictionary the fifth definition would simply read “Robert.” The bench seat and two bucket seats from his ’86 model minivan, the same one I spent hour upon hour in while on vacation, are removable and double as the “recliners” and a “love seat” in the living area of his trailer home.

Yeah, a trailer home. It was on the land when he bought it. He didn’t care. He just wanted to be as close as possible to John Henry when he bought it. Wednesday night when I pulled up into the driveway I sat there with the engine running in my 2002 model vehicle and I looked at the place, run down, weeds, dirt and rust. The trailer isn’t worth more than $5k. How many people can say they live in a home worth no more than $5k? I sat there, in his driveway, and looked at the place and realized…it’s no better than where I grew up. My old man hasn’t changed. I have.

He pushed me into college and gave me the lecture of my life when I told him I planned to join the Air Force. But sometimes I feel like he resents it. I feel it every time he climbs into my pick up, every time he comes to my house (which is modest in my opinion, but perhaps part of the problem) and especially when I’m at his house and he’s making excuses for the coffee pot that won’t heat up or the toilet that requires you to jiggle the handle after you flush or the bathroom door that has no knob, only a hole you have to put your finger through to slide the latch into place.

We grew up in a little two bedroom house up on blocks with several acres of livestock. Julie and I shared a room, we had no choice. The floor in the living room rotted through and the carpet was the only thing keeping folks from touching the ground. It stretched downward and caused us to tell folks we weren’t allowed to have friends over because my mom was afraid they’d twist their ankles. Prefacing the problem with “Watch your step, the floor is rotten” was not an option. Instead, nobody was invited over. It was easier that way.

My old man worked 75 hours a week. I shit you not. Forty hours at the paper mill and 35 at the place he’s still employed through. Growing up, I never thought I’d be good enough. I could never be humble enough to pacify him. The slightest arrogance would set him off and I’d get the ass whipping I deserved.

I have two kids on the way. All the shit I’ve heard says spankings are what lead to serial killers. But I’m not a serial killer. I took a few in the ribs, ass and face and I turned out okay. I think.

Should I hit my children? It’s nobody’s goddamn business what happened between me and my old man but ours. But am I a better man for it? He never scarred me physically. I recall a time I laid on the floor of my bedroom closet while he kicked me over and over in the ribs and I cried, 12 years old, and wondered why Mom was letting it happen. But I lived.

She’s fucking pregnant. Jasmine is pregnant. She’s having TWO kids and they’re both mine. I’m a daddy.

I don’t want to kick my kids. I don’t want to hit them at all. Maybe things will change when they are 6 or 7 years old, but for now I hope to prevent history from repeating itself. My dad’s a good man, he is, I swear it. Things changed after Mom died. He changed. The first time he told me he loved me I was 29. I just stared at him. It took me 6 months to say it back.

This morning when I handed Jasmine a wet washcloth for her face after she threw up I thought about all of this, all at once, and decided. I can be a good dad.

Ho, ho, ho!

It's Christmas Eve. For those of you using IE you should be listening to my all time favorite Christmas song by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Firefox does not have a music player embedded in it so if you want to hear the music, well, you can get off your ass and go buy the damn CD.

Oh, all right, click here to open a separate window and have it playing in the background.

For the kiddies, and me up until three years ago, here is the 2004 Norad Santa Tracker. Have a great Christmas, God bless us everyone, bah humbug, and gesundheit.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

Machismo is in the DNA

Perhaps a smoky casino was not the best place to bring a puking mother-to-be. Hindsight is 20/20, my friend. She made me promise to stay and play, I struggled but managed to agree, while she went back to the ‘chalet.’ For reference, if you make a reservation in Louisiana for a chalet, keep an open mind. The fancy French word can’t change the fact that it is a one bedroom trailer home parked in a large trailer park next door to a casino. Regardless, it was actually much nicer than a hotel room and was only $29.

I finished up $140 and decided to call it a night before that icy craps table beckoned to me. Good thing, too, since Julie rang me up at the ass crack of dawn to tell me my old man was in the ER back in the largest city nearest his hicktown. Foregoing our second gambling day Jazz and I made the drive back to the hospital he was in.

My old man hasn’t taken a day off since Mom died in May last year. And he rarely took time off before then. Even during the summer when we went through that shit with his cancer he worked partial days. So when he was standing about 10 feet off the ground yesterday and his ladder just slipped out from beneath him, it never occurred to him to go home for the day. He landed hard, the wrung smashing into his heel as it collapsed horizontally. The talus was shattered and his tibia/fibia shit (can’t remember what the surgeon said) was flush making that leg 2 inches shorter. So what did that motherfucker do?

He kept on working. He limped for a while until the pain became “uncomfortable” and then he crawled. He said it was the size of his head last night. He even showed up for work this morning until his boss told him he couldn’t return without a doctor’s release. That’s why the trip to the ER. Nothing was going to keep him from working. He’d get the stupid, fucking piece of paper and he’d go back to work and there was nothing that sack of shit could do about it.

Until he got the news. When I showed up an anesthesiologist was right behind me. They were prepping him for surgery until the doc showed up and said the swelling so fucking ridiculous he’d never be able to close the wound. So they sent him home and told him to elevate it for 5 days. We brought him back to his place, Julie picked up his scripts, and got him settled in. After 15 minutes his ignorant ass got up and started hopping to the kitchen.

“You better be taking a piss in the sink.”

“I’m making you two some coffee.”

Goddamn hard-headed son of a bitch. “Sit the fuck down!” I had to literally push him out of the way to make the coffee myself. A few minutes later I came back from the bathroom to find him on his motherfucking knees crawling back from the kitchen. “What now?”

“Forgot my glasses.”

I looked at Jasmine but she was too busy trying to hide her smile. About that time my old man’s cousin called. Now that was an interesting damn conversation. My old man doesn’t wear sunglasses, coats, use umbrellas, or hold a phone to his ear. It’s “girlie.” So when Cuz called he put it on hands-free and we all got to hear the conversation.

Cuz: What happened?
Dad: Hurt my foot.
Cuz: Julie says you shattered it.
Dad: Maybe.
Cuz: You went to the hospital?
Dad: Yep.
Cuz: Pussy. Did I go to the hospital when I drilled a hole through my finger?
My dad looked at us and explained that Cuz had been drilling something from beneath and the bit came up through the wood and went straight up through his finger and out the nail before he noticed.
Cuz: They put on a cast?
Dad: A splint. No cast till surgery.
Cuz: Hell, Uncle Herbert, he got some metal we could’a used. It’s all rusty, but hell, I got a wire brush.
Dad: I don’t want to be a cripple like Cyril.
I assume Cyril is a man who works at the fire department with Cuz.
Cuz: Yeah, you know how Cyril got that bad hip, huh? Well, Tommy, he was making fun of Cyril the other day. They can only replace one hip at a time, ya know, and now Cyril got one good hip and one bad hip still. Tommy said one hip walks faster than the other and so when Cyril walks he goes in circles like this and then he showed us.

There is no mercy for the weak in my family. You dead yet? No? Then get your ass up and get some work done. The sun’s already up. I gave Jazz the once over and pointed out to her, “He’s your babies’ granddaddy.” If that shit don’t scare her off, nothing will.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Leave your mother alone

I had a word with the children this morning. My incredibly selfless idea of treating my exhausted, nauseated, bloated girlfriend to the casinos purely for her own poker enjoyment has been delayed by the humanoid leeches. They have sapped the joy from her body and replaced it with cranky irritability.

“Honey, it’s after 10. We should get on the road.”

“Bite me.”

I suspect the invite was not sincere. Obviously, it was time to show off my inborn parenting skills. I crawled on top of Jasmine and put my ear down to her belly.

“Do you mind?”

“Shh.” Why are women’s bellies always so noisy? Gurgle, gurgle, splish. I explained to the children in no uncertain terms they were to settle down in there or I would turn this uterus around and they would have to stay home. Dammit, I am their father and they’ll listen to me.

“Jay…”

She was impressed. I could tell by her tone. “Yep?”

“Get off me before I knee you.”

Yeah, 32 lovely weeks to go.

Damn, she's lucky to have me.

I will learn to enjoy Ivy’s existence. Sometimes for no good reason you just want to whip it out and piss on the first bastard to come along. But you can’t because that’s wrong and you know you’d feel guilty afterwards. Besides, it’s illegal to urinate on a passerby in some states. But Ivy fills that passerby role quite well, metaphorically. Plus, I think her dick might be bigger than mine which definitely drives me to get the best digs in.

The rest of Saturday night was spent exchanging barbs under our breath. Whenever Jasmine went to the bathroom, walked too far away to hear, or napped, which is quite freaking often, I might add. Jesus, how much sleep does a woman need with two pinto beans leeching off her vitals? Good god, woman, you’re not building a ballpark up in there. Damn attention hound.

I also learned who Matthew is. He’s some loser she dated about three years ago. The sorry jerkoff can’t hold a job from what I hear. He was a firefighter for a while, then the precinct 3 commissioner for a few years, then the youngest mayor ever in Yada-Yada-Ville and apparently pushing for a spot in the state legislature next term. Unstable bastard. And then there’s some shit about owning a small plane he flies himself, probably because he can’t drive as good as me. And I bet he’s never come in second in a “Hottest Ass” competition at The Longhorn, either, uppity bastard. Yes, ma’am, Jazz got herself the cream of the crop right here. You should all be so lucky.

I bought Jasmine diamond earrings today for Christmas. I went directly through a discounter. They’re just small studs, nothing dangly. She’s not the dangly, big ass J-Lo hoops type. And before I forget, I’m taking her across the border for a little R&R (poker & craps) so I won’t be blogging again until maybe Wednesday night or Thursday morning. Go read my archives or some shit and pretend it’s like the first time. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll wonder how the fuck you ever stayed on board this long. Sheer boredom, my friend. That’s all I can gather.

Monday, December 20, 2004

Nothing says lovin' like buns in the oven

Poison Ivy was the little twat I expected her to be this weekend, right up until she crossed a line with Jazz. We went out for breakfast Saturday morning. Jazz had already tossed her daily cookies before we left, discreetly so her sister and her fiancé would not overhear. But something about the smell of the IHOP sent her running for the ladies room ten minutes after we arrived.

Now you would think this might be a red flag, but surprisingly, nobody caught on. Jazz and I even exchanged looks. She wanted to tell them that afternoon after they’d had time to catch up, but still had time to discuss it. Sometimes flying by the seat of your pants works out better than all the planning in the world though.

Ivy started with, “I saw Matthew two weeks ago. I told him you’d be in town this weekend.”

I wouldn’t have paid any attention to her remark had it not been for Jasmine’s reaction. I don’t know any of their friends from the past or even the more distant family members so hearing an unfamiliar name is no big deal. But for Jazz to inhale and sit up straight made me take pause.

I glanced back and forth between the two women trying to figure out what was happening. Ivy kept eating, but Jasmine was stiff and staring her little ass down.

What in the hell? Who’s Matthew?

“Look at me.” Jazz said. Her voice was low and angry and all three of us looked at her like a bunch of fearful schoolchildren, though obviously it was only Ivy that she was interested in. “I have never disrespected Gary. Dammit, you had no right to do that to me or to Jay.”

Whoah. “What did you do, punk?”

“Go to hell.”

“Stop it!” Jasmine snapped at her sister.

What the fuck is going on here? Jazz was glaring at Ivy, Ivy was glaring at me, I didn’t want to be left out of the fucking loop so I turned to glare at Gary who was blissfully cramming forkfuls of French toast into his mouth faster than he could chew.

Ah, Jesus, would somebody fill me the fuck in? “Hey, honey,” I whispered as if they couldn’t hear me from across the table, “Is that an ex-boyfriend?”

I was ignored, no surprise. Talk about disrespecting a man. My pride had little time to lick its wounds when it escalated and imploded.

Ivy rolled her eyes. “There is no reason why you can’t just say hi to the man, Jassy.”

“There are three reasons why I’d rather not,” she used her fingers to tick them off, “Jay is the biggest one whether you like it or not and the twin babies I’m carrying are two and three.”

Holyshit, she told her! Yeah! YEAH! I wanted to jump up and point at Ivy and yell “In your face, beeyotch!” followed by the touchdown dance. 'We are the Champions' blared through my head.

But what I actually did was sit in my chair like the good little boyfriend I have been trained to be and enjoy the stunned looks on their faces. Damn! Jazz didn’t even break it to them easy. She dropped the motherload on them all at once. No Vaseline for you, baby, just take it! Don’t fuck with my woman.

Just another day at the IHOP.

Friday, December 17, 2004

Stick it where the sun doesn't shine

We have a tradition here in the office. We all buy gifts for the ladies. All of them. Not just our own sales assistants, but also the ladies in the cage as well as female management. We’re pretty clearly divided here in this office. The women run the operations side, the men run the books. The women, in turn, will usually get small gifts for the brokers they work directly for and also for each other.

This year I grabbed a box from the copy room and put it under my desk. As each lady delivered her gift this week I thanked her and dropped it in the box. Next week I will take the box to Julie’s house and “Viola!” instant Christmas gift. Since I don’t even bother to take the “To Jay” name tags off of them it’s pretty easy to figure out where I did my Christmas shopping. My sister expects no more of me and I enjoy this low standard I’ve set for myself.

Well, as it turns out, Jasmine found the box of gifts beneath my desk here at work. It’s none of your fucking business how she found it so don’t fucking ask.

“Are these your Christmas gifts from us?”

“Yep.”

“Why haven’t you unwrapped any of them?”

And a split second before my mouth opened I hesitated. Oh shit. Have I ever regifted Jasmine’s gifts? I’ve been doing this for years and I know she’s been here roughly three years. Son of a bitch, she’s gonna rip me a new one.

“I, um, those are the ones that I…” Quit staring at me! If I say I’m going to open them later she’ll expect me to and then what the fuck do I do about Julie’s gift this year? Shop? Fuck that. Have you seen the Wally-Mart masses out there? I think they sacrificed a plastic reindeer last night as a gift to their wholesale shopping gods. No way in hell do I want to be caught up in that mess. “Well, Julie-“

“You’re regifting our gifts?!”

“Shhhh!” Jesus, woman, what in the hell is she trying to do to me? Sarah’s sitting right fucking there for Christ’s sake! “No! I’m putting aside one or two.”

She yanked the box out and pointed at each package as she silently counted them. “There are a dozen gifts in here, Jay. Did you even look at mine?”

Fuck…me. Ah hell, this is gonna hurt. Each morning this week I came in to find a stack of three or four gifts on my desk, all cutely wrapped with ribbons and bows and fancy tags and I just swept them off into the receptacle below and shoved them all under my desk.

“I…yes, I looked at it.”

She stood up straight and crossed her arms. “What did I get you?”

My wheels spun for all of five seconds as I tried to recall seeing her wrap any gifts this week so that I could guess and save my worthless soul. Nothing came to mind, not one damn thing. I don’t remember her shopping, wrapping or toting anything in this week.

Wait one damn second. She hasn’t fucking bought anything! She said so yesterday morning when I was half assed paying attention to her on the drive in. That’s bullshit! That’s fucking entrapment!!

And that’s when I recalled the ink pen. She gave it to me last year. It wasn’t wrapped, just had a ribbon tied around it. I kept it because I had dirty fantasies about putting it some place I never thought I’d have the pleasure of being myself. I won’t lie, in my dirty mindedness I even sniffed the pen once just in case she’d put it there herself and was sending me a secret message. Where the fuck is that pen?

Ah, ha! Top left drawer, right where she’s standing. The arrogance oozed from my orifices as I brushed her back with a flick of my hand. I pulled open the drawer and grabbed the ink pen, holding it like a mighty staff above my head. “Nothing this year, but you gave me this last year.”

Hark! The herald angels sing! The sky broke apart and the sun shone down on me as her mouth dropped open and a chorus of Hallelujah went off in my head. Try to trick me, you sneaky incubator of my genes, and you get what’s coming to you. “Now get out of my office before I throw you down on my desk and make a scene.”

She grinned but was speechless. That’s right. I am the man! She walked out and returned to her desk, arms still folded. I glanced at the pen, savior of my hide, and thanked the porn gods for making me such a nasty fuck. And just in case something might have changed, I sniffed it again before putting it back. Damn. Still nothing.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

A lesson in how to properly trash someone

The great Eleanor Roosevelt once said "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." I love that quote. Therefore, when my opinion pisses people off I feel secure enough in the fact that I am deep down a good person, perhaps a little too deep, but c'est la vie. I mean no harm and quite frequently you will catch me apologizing in my comments for this or that. Regardless, I have my opinions.

So when someone dedicates a post to me and my ignorance, I am amused. I've been called an Ass many a time and that pattern shows no evidence of changing. But what one should learn is that if you are going to quietly trash a man without addressing him directly and then include a photograph so everyone knows the face of the bastard of which you speak, don't be so fucking lazy that you use a direct link to his profile photo's URL. Copy that son of a bitch onto your hard drive and host the motherfucker yourself or shit like this is inevitably going to happen.

**UPDATE** 1:50PM Cent
The photo has since been switched out. If you would like to see what I changed it to before it was discovered by the blog owner you can click here. WARNING - Rated X.

The rules have changed

Hey, why the hell didn’t somebody warn me about some of the bullshit rule changes that occur when a woman moves in? You fucking bastards, you knew! You all fucking knew! Show me a goddamn handbook for proper toilet seat etiquette. If the rule was “Lid down when you’re done” I could understand that. Why is there a lid in the first place? There’s a damn ½ inch gap all the way around the bottom of the seat, what good does it do to top it off? But why is it necessary to put the damn seat down? I’ll be right back here in two hours, shit. We have two bathrooms. Go girlify the other one and leave this one the hell alone.

That’s monkey crap right there. Any woman who drops her panties and sticks her naked ass somewhere without looking deserves a coochie dunk in an icy cold basin. Do you not check the surroundings before you release the crotch monkey to play with the undergrowth outdoors? Hell yes! Shit, you probably sweep the area clear even, just to be sure you don’t find yourself with a pair of fang marks in your left cheek and up shit creek when you can’t find anybody to suck the venom out your ignorant ass. If it means that much to you, look before you sit. What if the tables were turned? Do you think I could get away with pissing all over the seat because I forgot to look before I whipped out the hose and started spraying the son of a bitch down?

I’ll tell you something else, I don’t need my toilet paper on a spinning spool. It was doing just fine on the side of the bath tub. Always within arm’s reach and a quick, dust-free dispensing.

And don’t get me started on the curtains that cover up my front B speaker on the surround system.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Jiminy Fucking Cricket

I shoved my keys in my pocket and tapped Sarah’s desk on my way by. “Going to lunch.”

“Okie dokie!”

I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Sarah in a bad mood. On the way past Jasmine’s desk I winked, ignoring her suspicious look, and headed to my truck.

Just where the fuck do you think you’re going?
To lunch.
Bullshit.

My building is one of only three tall office buildings allowed in our heavily restricted commercial area. God forbid the buildings interrupt the view of the lake, river and ice rink next door, all man-made and under heavy refrigeration in this 60 degree weather. Some new additions were made to the mall recently, couple that with the new waterfront property and this place is a fucking zoo. I knew when I got in my truck there was no way I was heading north to become part of the herd.

That was my excuse, at least, for heading south instead.

Wait a second… Are you… Jay, listen to me-
I cranked up the stereo. “Fuego, fuego, the roof is on fire, we don't need no water, let the motherfucker burn…” Sorry, conscience, I can’t hear you. I’m busy singing.

I got down to the street I was looking for and made a right turn. An awakening began to occur. Where am I going? When I saw the store sign I was not quite as determined to step on the gas as I was before. I petered along at a hair-blowing 38 mph for about two blocks then slapped my blinker on.

Blink-a, blink-a, blink-a.

You got to be fucking kidding me. Donoho’s?
They sponsored the lights outside the office. I’m just curious.
Yeah, can I get some fries with that shit sandwich, buddy?

I parked my truck and killed the ignition.

Put that back. Put the fucking wallet back!
I’m just gonna look.
Your eyes don’t work without a debit card? Put the wallet back in the glovebox, bitch!
Don’t make me get you drunk.

“Good afternoon, sir. What can I show you today?” I checked out the salesman and knew I was in the wrong kind of place. Damn! That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a salesperson in Armani. Bet the son of bitch has Bruno’s on under there, too.

“I’m looking for a Christmas gift for my girlfriend.”

Tell him how you knocked her up with twins. Ho, ho, ho!

The man behind the counter swept his arm to the right. “Both of those cases there are full of wonderful gifts for your girlfriend.”

I glanced past all the sparklies to find more and more sparklies. Jesus, what am I doing?

“Sir, will this be a ‘special’ Christmas gift?”

No, you pansy twat. Back me up, Jay. Tell him!
“Maybe, I…I don’t know yet.”
GASP!

“Let me show you this one.”

While I stepped on the throat of my struggling conscience, I watched the man pull out a platinum ring with a large square diamond and rectangular ones on either side. My hands never left my pockets as he twisted it from side to side showing me the “fire” and telling me about the “cut and clarity” of it.

He held it out to me and by natural reflex I reached for it.

Don’t touch – too late. Sucker. Grab your ankles while you're at it.

It was very sparkly and shiny and surprisingly heavy. The moment was more surreal than anything I’d ever experienced. I’ve never shopped for a ring before. I’ve seen thousands on the hands of other women, half of which I hit on before I noticed. But I realized at that moment as I turned it and saw the flashes of red, blue and gold inside the center stone, that I’d never held a diamond ring in my whole freaking life.

“How much?” I asked.

“$11,700, sir.”

JEE-ZUSS!

At first I smiled, and then I chuckled before I could stop myself. “Eleven grand?”

“And $700, yes, sir. That stone is a VV1 clarity and nearly 2 carats,” he defended.

Holy mother of Christ! And will it wipe my ass for me when my arms are sore and get up and make me breakfast in bed and tickle my balls when I’m feeling a little frisky? Because for nearly 12 grand I can buy a mail order bride who won’t hesitate.

Dude, don’t let him talk down to you with his gibberish. Throw it in his face and walk out of here. Let’s go, man, throw it. Throw it!
A $12k projectile?
Fine, fucker, set it down gently. Then run, stupid!

“Perhaps I should let her choose it herself rather than make a $12,000 guess.”

The man nodded. “That’s the decision most men come to. We’ll be delighted to help the two of you when you return.”

Yeah, you hold your breath.
Let's go before you decide to buy her a fucking Hummer.

Female body builders make me flaccid

Occasionally during the wee hours of the morning I will catch a competition on channel 298, purely by accident. Every sinewy limb, every grotesquely distorted quad, popping bicep and broad, muscular back all displayed in 52 inches of high definition, beeyotch. It’s like a freakish combination of porn and Predator wrapped up into one painful to watch telecast. Any woman who could double as a muscle cadaver while still alive is not someone that gives me a rise. More aptly, she scares the holy bejesus out of me. At no point should I ever be able to say to my girlfriend, “Put me down!”

That aside, even the weakest of them would give me a run for my money on the machines. This year’s heavyweight champ and overall Ms. Olympia is Iris Kyle. It takes some getting used to, but after watching her flex her shit for the better part of two hours I was able to remove my hands from my face and forget that she once had breasts and functioning ovaries. My mom used to bang a broom handle in the corners outside to knock down cobwebs. Chances are good that woman’s uterus will need a good banging should she ever decide to use it, you know, as a pouch to store her protein powders in or some shit like that.

By the end of the competition, I was pretty damn certain I could take her ass on for a shameful public whooping. I’d use a roundabout kick to knock her top heavy beef carcass off balance and run like hell before she snagged me with her massive Popeye forearm and dragged me down like a steer in the rodeo, tongue extended and squealing like a bitch.

On another note, since we are avoiding the topic of my eminent fatherhood today, I found a site called BlogExplosion that’s pretty cool. It’s supposed to generate traffic to your site which it does admirably, but more importantly it has a queue of pretty interesting shit like DaTaste.com which had me rolling. I considered stealing his photos and claiming them for my own since we have the same name, but fuck it. I’m too lazy for that sort of deviance.

***UPDATE***
I was publicly scorned for this post. Not that I give a damn, but it's too funny not to mention. Be sure to read my follow up post which includes a link to the female body building website where the contrary opinion was posted.

Monday, December 13, 2004

Eye for an eye

The Scott Peterson jury just voted unanimously for death.

Poison Ivy

Some people just look better with duct tape across their mouths. My kid pseudo-sister-in-law is one of them. Ear to ear, baby, and stretch that shit tight so her teeth leave dents in the backside of the lips.

The phone rang tonight and I answered it. It’s my fucking phone, that’s what I do.

“What are you doing there?”

Just what I need, her. “Paying the mortgage.”

“Where is my sister?”

Abrasive little shit. “In the bedroom cleaning my ejaculate off her belly. Want me to get her?”

Silence. I am the master of barb exchanges. Don’t fuck with me.

I walked into the kitchen and dropped the phone on the island so that it clattered loudly in the little scorpion’s ear. “Your sister.”

“Be nice,” Jazz whispered to me. I had the decency to look shocked, but I knew the witch would tattle on me as soon as Jasmine said hello.

That’s a bunch of monkey shit, right there. Be nice, my ass. To her? She’s a spoiled, loud-mouthed, vain, I’m-gonna-be-an-actress/model/celebrity someday, waste of amalgam tooth fillings. It is beyond me how she can be from the same set of parents as Jasmine, who in case you haven’t noticed is not only full of grace and poise, but she likes my tight, little ass and that right there is her most endearing quality.

After a half hour or so Jazz came into the living room where I was lying on the couch, sulking. I bent my knees before she sat on my feet and waited for the eminent reprimanding.

“You told her I was wiping off cum when she called?”

“No.” For one quick second Jazz looked hopeful. “I said ‘ejaculate.’” Hope shattered.

Needless to say I have been banned from answering my own phone for the time being. You know, the one I paid $200 for last year? Yeah, can’t touch it. And lucky me, the plans were made as to what time we would be driving in this Friday to spend the whole, glorious weekend with Poison Ivy and her fiancé in their new home. I think I’ll bang her older sister in a couple of the rooms while I’m there as a silent revenge.

Then again, we’re going over there to share the joyous news. Now that brings a smile to my face. Ah, it's great to be family. Suddenly, I can't wait.

Thursday, December 09, 2004

Savannah Smiles

Savannah got her liver today. Angi's blog has the details.



Savannah & the turtle


A special thought goes out to the little girl whose life was selflessly exchanged for three others today. I'm sure her parents are dealing with a lot right now.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Is that a yes or no?

One in 3 women will be raped in her lifetime. My first girlfriend was that one. I had no idea until we’d been together a few months. We were fooling around, wrestling on the floor. We’d done it dozens of times before, but this time I had a good angle and managed to flip her onto her belly and pin her down. She fucking spazzed out. One minute she was laughing and giggling and the next she was frantic and screaming. It scared the shit out of me.

I pushed up and she flipped over beneath me and started whipping my ass as if we’d never met before, both fists and feet all at once. I’ve never seen anyone cry like that before, not to this day. I didn’t know what I’d done to her but it must have been fatal by the way she was acting.

I remember it took her what seemed like hours to calm down. She finally confided in me what had happened to her. Apparently, up until the very moment I pinned her down, she’d convinced herself she wanted it and that it was a big mistake afterwards. I guess it was easier to swallow from that perspective. She said the position I held her down in was the same, face down with me on her back, and she suddenly recalled fighting and screaming ‘no.’ There were two of them and they each had a turn while the other held her in place. They were her neighbors, young men she knew and obviously trusted. She’d snuck out of her parents’ house and gone to hang out at their place. I never asked her what possessed her to do that. I felt that would add insult to injury. It didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t consent.

It affected her in many ways. I could never walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her. There was no spooning allowed with me in the back. She was usually on top during sex and I could never put my weight on her when I was on top. She seldom left her house after dark, which made dating pretty tough to do. In a crowd she was fine, but if she was alone with a man, such as one day after class when she asked our English professor for help on her paper, she’d have a panic attack, hyperventilating, frantic, the whole nine yards.

She and I dated for many years and in the end simply realized we had different goals. She never wanted to leave the small town we grew up in, I was seduced by the city lights and buzz of the metropolis. She wanted kids right away and a husband to take care of her, I wanted a partner and a friend and eventually kids. We never argued. Just grew apart. I believe we would have split sooner but I had a hard time leaving her. The vulnerability just never went away.

I like wrestling with my girlfriends. More so now than before because I want to know the other person isn’t helpless. And I don’t ever do it without thinking of that November day in 1990 when I witnessed the emotional scar another man had left after a fun night went too far.

I’m of the opinion that a woman has the right to walk naked before me if she so pleases. Yeah, I’ll look. Hell, who wouldn’t? But I don’t touch, ever, without explicit consent. Sure, no means no. But I’ve heard no mean yes before. And silence means yes sometimes, but it also means no at other times. Women bat their eyes and stare and touch and hell, that chic at the pool hall a few weeks ago patted my crotch right in front of everyone 10 seconds after we met. Don’t care. I don’t make a move until I get it in plain English. Usually, that’s in the form of “Are you sure you want to do this?” It’s a yes or no question and has generated a surprising no a couple of times that put things into perspective, for both of us.

Lizzie works as a counselor at a high school now. I saw her at my high school reunion a few years ago and she said she volunteers for the Rape & Suicide Prevention hotline. In light of all the people she helps now I asked her if she would undo it if she could. She told me no, which surprised me. That’s when she told me the 1 out of 3 statistic.

“Because of me, it’ll never happen to those other 2 women.”

Admirable, but I can’t say that I could be that selfless if it were me. If the twins are boys, I’ll teach them to know better and always ask the same question I do before initiating something with someone new. If they’re girls, I’ll teach them the proper response to that very same question is to say no, kick him in the nuts, and run like hell before he catches his breath. I may or may not teach my boys to wear a cup before asking. We’ll see. There’s a lot to be learned from a good, swift kick in the nuts sometimes.

Deadly afro

For one semester back in college I was sure I’d be the first man killed by a psychotic sleep walker. I had two roommates, Darren and Bobby. Darren was never around. He paid his rent, but his girlfriend had a place of her own paid for by Daddy Big Bucks. Bobby was always fucking there. Homeboy had no other place to be. He had a blonde afro the size of Epcot Center, and it was on purpose. He had it permed every couple of months. Even had a mustache like Magnum P.I. But he paid his share of the rent and managed to make my Milli Vanilli style look good and that was all I cared about.

I was up flipping channels on the boob tube at 2:00 one morning when I heard his shower come on. I thought it was odd that he’d get up in the middle of the night to shower, but maybe he’d been spanking the monkey and forgotten to use a sock to avoid the mess. It happens. He got up at 6:00 and showered again. I asked him why his ass had to use up all the hot water when he’d just showered a few hours before. He said I was full of shit. Why would he get up in the middle of the night to take a shower?

Whatever, bro.

A few weeks later I was up again watching TV when I heard shouting. Bobby’s door flung open so hard it hit the wall and he ran into the living room screaming. “He’s in my bed! He’s in my bed!”

Bullshit. Who in the hell would get into Bobby’s bed? He stood in the corner, whining and shaking his left arm with his right hand. Crazy bastard. I reached around the wall and flipped the light switch without going in, just in case he wasn’t out of his goddamned mind after all, but when I looked in there was nothing but a pile of crumpled sheets.

“Dude, there’s nobody in here.”

“I felt him, I felt him! I touched his arm.”

I was later able to discern that he had fallen asleep on his arm, it went numb, and he touched his own hand thinking it belonged to another man in his bed. By morning, Bobby had no recollection of the entire thing.

The day Bobby brought a 9mm back to the apartment I nearly shit my pants. “What in the – Fuck no! Uh uh, no, bitch. Take that shit out of here.”

He said he needed it for his protection.

“From what? You're the weirdest fucker in the whole complex."

He insisted he needed the gun for his safety. He put it in his nightstand in his bedroom and told me where I could find it if I ever needed it. Yeah, when hell freezes over. Which I hear happens once every three years or so, but nonetheless.

A few days later it was just after midnight when Bobby’s door creaked open. I looked up and saw four fingers, an eye and part of a ‘fro showing through the narrow gap in the doorway. The eyeball started roaming all around the room, not looking at anything in particular, then it and the ‘fro slowly disappeared behind the door, the fingers slipped back inside, and the door closed gently.

I went to my bedroom, locked the door, and didn’t come out until the sun was up. By noon, Mr. Bobby had a new place to live. I’ve lived alone ever since.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

I wanna talk about me!

Fraternal means it’s wide open regarding the sex. The uterus is very stretchy. Vaginal secretions are normal and expected. (Gross.) Colostrum will leak from the nipples. Tender breasts occur in the majority of women. Expected weight gain is about 35 pounds. Full term is 36 weeks for twins. C-sections are customary but avoidable. Epidurals are recommended. (No shit.) People will offer unsolicited advice. (The hell you say!) Severe pain at 6 weeks could indicate an ectopic pregnancy. Uterine pain is normal as tendons stretch. (Oh god…please…stop.) Seven pounds of the weight gain are permanent. Babies are born with brown fat. There is a cheesy coating. (STOP!)

I’ve fucking had enough! I don’t want to know any more about women’s bodies and the miracle of childbirth.

“Jay, listen to this one-“

“No! Fuck no! I’ve had enough. Let’s talk about my nuts for awhile. Or this bump on my tongue. What’s that? Let’s talk about me, let’s talk about us, let’s talk about the state of the union. I don’t give a fuck! Let’s just not talk about this anymore. Anymore! Do you hear me? No more! I love you, Jazz, I love them, but I’m fucking fed up, I tell ya. Fed up!”

When she didn’t move, but just sat there on the couch with her legs crossed and that purple book in her hands about expecting when you’re expecting, I felt my anger ebb away until nothing but guilt remained. Oh god. What have I done?

She gently closed her book, set it on the coffee table, and stepped up in front of where I was standing. “Jazz, I’m sorry-“

“You’re right.”

“What? I’m what?”

“No babies tomorrow. Tuesday will be the non-baby day. No uteruses-"

“Shouldn’t it be uteri? You know, like cacti?”

“Shut up, Jay.”

“Ok.”

“No talk of the babies or moving in together or my body or anything that isn’t 'us' centered. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Blessed Tuesday. Finally, a day to be human again and not just ‘the father.’ I plan to make the best of it. I’m going to tell her all about how my sorry fucking team lost last night in fantasy football because that bastard picked up 50 points in the last half of the game and the crucial 6 points in the last 2 minutes of the game. Then I’m going to tell her what all I want for Christmas. And then I’m going to tell her about how I volunteered to host a poker night this month. She’ll be thrilled.

I tried to embed a song, but blogger doesn’t do that. Tripod by Lycos does. In fact, Tripod does a lot of shit blogger doesn’t do. That’s how I got the favicon for this site. If your bookmark doesn’t show a blue “J” then you must be using Internet Explorer, unsecure piece of shit. You’ll have to rebookmark it for the J to show up. For those of you using Mozilla’s Firefox that are cool like me then you’ve already seen it. I noticed 25% of my hits came from people with Firefox browsers so I tried it out and can’t believe I didn’t hear about it sooner. It fucking rocks. Thanks for cluing me in, you secretive bastards.

So back to Tripod, the song can be found on this site.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Your place or mine?

Today was the 30k race in Sugar Land. I lost nearly a minute per mile average. It’s a long damn race, 19 miles. Those last two miles burn like hell. The only consolation is knowing I can quit before 20 miles when the wall kicks my ass.

For nearly 3 hours I ran and I thought. I thought about why that bag pipe guy is brought in to play at every damn race. Why a bag pipe? Why not a saxophone or drums? I thought about the babies and whether they are boys or girls or one of each. I thought about floor plans, both at my house and at Jazz’s. I thought about Murphy, back at home under the cottonwood tree. I thought about Sarah’s upcoming vacation and wondered how Jasmine and I will work together when she covers me during Sarah’s absence. I thought about Pop Rocks candy and wondered if they still make that stuff. I thought about my little sister Katy. And about Mom. And how she must have felt when she found Katy in her crib that morning.

Funny how I never thought of that before. I just grew up knowing at one time I had a baby sister, and before I was old enough to retain memories, she was gone. I used to pride myself on being sensitive to others. For being able to put myself in their shoes when trying to understand them. My ex-girlfriend told me once that I had my head up my ass. I told her that was because it muffled the sound of her voice when she was bitching. Yet I never stopped to wonder what she meant by that.

I’m curious now as to how many people I’ve been insensitive too. Not so much that I’m going to sit down and make a list, but I’d like to run a few names through my head from time to time to remind myself that I’m prone to narrow-mindedness.

Jasmine’s due date is July 28th. We were told to expect them to be delivered a few weeks earlier than that to be on the safe side. They aren’t real to me yet. Jazz even admitted they aren’t real to her yet either. Regardless, I’m trying to do a better job of seeing things from her perspective. I was completely blown away with the comment that Jazz probably factored out in her head what it would be like to pay the mortgage, a car note and daycare for 2 kids on her income should I bail. Once she said she was keeping the baby(ies) I just looked at it from a we/us point of view. Hell, I can’t lie about wanting to have kids some day. I’ve written shit about it lots of times. It never occurred to me to bail.

Even after the race today, I’ve been very introspective. Jasmine wasn’t feeling well this morning so I went alone to the race. When I got back she was still in bed, upset to her stomach. It was an hour before I made the connection that it wasn’t the flu. Oh yeah. The babies. I almost forgot. See how easily it slips my mind? Later on she went Christmas shopping and I watched one game after another, not even shouting at the television when the fucker fumbled and cost me 2 points and the game in fantasy football.

Jazz will be moving into my house all month. We’re going to keep her house for the time being, possibly rent it out so the mortgage is covered. Her floor plan is better in her opinion, but my dog is buried in my back yard. She’s just going to have to compromise. I told her she can throw out anything of mine that she wants. Hell, I don’t have shit anyway other than a recliner and that huge fucking television. Which, in case you’re interested, is so wide I can have 2 different 30” diagonal screens side by side and literally watch two full size games at once. I’m so fucking the man. Yet my alarm clock is on a rickety metal stand with absolutely zero bedroom furniture other than a metal bed frame and the king sized mattresses where the king sized Jay-loving is performed. Ah, the memories.

We’re going to Cruella’s weekend after next. That would be Jasmine’s sister for those of you who missed that post. She and I get along real good. I’ll have the pleasure of witnessing the moment she learns that I have soiled the virgin uterus of her older sister. I can feel the love already.

Friday, December 03, 2004

A prowler

I kept hearing noises this morning in bed. At first I thought it was a dog and then as I woke up a little more I remembered…I don’t have a dog. What the fuck is that?

I sat up and looked around the room, holding my breath so I could hear it better. It was a shuffling sound coming from outside. Oh, I’m about to kill me some motherfuckers up in my yard. I slipped out of bed.

“What are you-“

“Shh! There’s someone in our yard.” I whispered.

“You’ve lost your mind. It’s probably a o’possum.”

Yeah, you hold onto that, dear, until he breaks in and shoots my ass then plunders yours. “You’re probably right, baby.”

I walked slowly toward the window, the shuffling still really soft. Then it touched the bedroom glass. “Stay in bed!” The last thing I need is some silly woman running around the room screaming.

I crouched down and rushed to the side of the window, then quickly yanked back the curtain and used the element of surprise to scare the holyshit out of the motherfucker. “Get the fuck back! Get the fuck back! Motherfucker! Raaarrrrrr!”

Through the window I saw the vines rustle and then something shot out and stopped quickly in the center of the deck and looked back at the window.

Meow.

Jazz snickered.

It was Juicy’s cat, Shasta, from next door. Fucking cat.

I got back in bed despite the barest of humiliations. Even a little crook would have been nice right there to keep me from looking like a retard. I didn’t speak a word, just got in bed and turned my back to the wench, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to resist for long. Then finally, in the sweetest, calmest of voices, she said, “Get the fuck back? Get the fuck back, motherfucker? Raaarrrrr?” Then started laughing.

That’s the last time I read Jack’s blog before bed time.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Insecurities?

Jasmine: So how do you feel about all of this?
Me: All of what?
Jasmine: The war in Iraq. The babies! What do you think all of what? God, Jay!
Me: Oh. Sorry.
Jasmine: …..hello?
Me: What?
Jasmine: Forget it.
Me: ….Jazz?
Jasmine: What?
Me: I love you.
Jasmine: Shut up.
Me: And I love our babies.
Jasmine: Really?
Me: Really.
Jasmine: ….
Me: …..
Jasmine: You would never leave us, would you?
Me: Never.
Jasmine: …I love you.
Me: Shut up.

Apparently the amazingly confident woman who mesmerized me for the last several years has begun to dissolve into something slightly more vulnerable. She's been here every night since last Tuesday, not really wanting to go home.

Tomorrow night I will broach the subject of living arrangements. I don't like her wondering about stupid stuff like whether or not I'll walk. She's got more important shit to worry about. Like, how in the hell did that lemon-sized lump get between her hip bones when she's lying on her back? She should have that looked at before it gets any bigger. Could be malignant and shit. You never know.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

Qué será, será

The Spanish have a saying that means "What will be, will be." No matter how hard you try, how hard you pray, or how badly you want something, sometimes...what will be, will just fucking be.

Jasmine's eyes were puffy this evening, even though she looked fine otherwise. I think she'd been crying, but lately that doesn't seem to be unusual. We were back in the same lobby at roughly 5:00, maybe 5:10. I was a little late, get off my ass. We were waiting all of six seconds before the door opened and a woman in scrubs was calling us back again, dejavu.

Jazz was asked to take off her pants this time and lie on the table with a paper sheet over her. There were no stirrups this time, I checked. And the room was no bigger than my closet at home. Plus, it was dim which seemed less intrusive somehow. I gave Jasmine a kiss and stood between the table and wall, facing the big thingamajig standing beside the table with a TV monitor attached.

When the sonographer came back in she pulled out this long ass wand, lubed it down and up she went. Jazz gasped and told her it was cold. That must suck.

The sonographer, Neesha, fished that wand thing around with her right hand while using her left to type stuff in, click buttons, spin a big mouse ball, and mumble technical shit to the girl looking over her shoulder. It just looked like a bunch of blobs to me. Was that a kidney? I kept waiting to see the baby, but it's like she didn't care about trying to find the baby. I kept wondering what in the hell she was looking for, a kitchen sink?

And then I saw movement. "Is that it?" She ignored me. Was it alive? But I couldn't ask that out loud. She was quiet, the sonographer, and pointing at the screen to the other girl, talking her fancy medical talk that was as clear as pig latin to me.

Whatever it was, it was moving. But it didn't look like...anything. It was this weird spinning or something. A little speck that was fluttering in place. She moved the wand, shit swirled all over the place, and then it reappeard. They talked some more and I heard her say, "Bee."

Bee?

That's when she flipped the switch on the sound and looked at me and Jasmine. The room was filled with a booming, pulsating swish that sounded like a freight train or a police siren without the pitch.

Jazz beat me to it. "Is that my baby's heartbeat?"

"Yes, it is. You're between 5 and 6 weeks along."

Damn, that far? And it's alive, too. With a beating heart, just like a real live person! Get the fuck out of here! Shit, it's about the size of a pea. I could tell Jasmine was floored. Looking back now at her behavior, I think she had convinced herself it died.

"So it's okay?" Jazz asked.

Yes, everything was ordinary. The sonographer explained that she couldn't find a reason for the bleeding, so there was no way to know what exactly was causing it, but that it's normal for some women to have periods every month throughout an entire pregnancy.

It has a heart. That beats. With blood! I can't fucking believe that shit. We didn't even know about it until last week and now it's alive. Sort of like a tapeworm. Eww, creepy. Suddenly, I was very disturbed by the thought of it...inside of her...leeching off of her nutrients like a parasite. God, I'm glad I'm not a woman.

Neesha, looked at me. "Congratulations, Dad. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a financial advisor at Big Investment Firm."

She smiled warmly. "Oh, I see. Sounds like you're making pretty good money."

Well, aren't we forward today? "Better than most," I replied humbly, managing a discreet smile.

"Oh, shit." Jasmine whispered.

"Good," Neesha said, as she adjusted the wand and shit swirled across the screen again. "You'll need it."