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The Diaper Change That Defines
Setting: Hospital Nursery:
When: Birthday 3 Hours Post Mommy Part Egress
Newborn on My Left (removes fist from mouth to address neighbors): Whew! This being born stuff is traumatic!
Baby on My Right (stops newborn wailing): No kidding! I've been screaming for the last hour try to get someone to let me speak to the manager, but I'm being totally ignored. The accommodations here suck! I mean, why were we forced out of our previous suites? I was thoroughly enjoying myself!
Newborn on My Left (briefly removes fist from mouth): Yeah, it was great, floating inside the mommy person, getting room service on demand, and that band the, Heartbeat, talk about relaxing! (fist is returned to mouth)
Newborn Me (drooling a habit that would continue into adulthood): It was definitely a rude awakening. There you are, sucking your thumb, minding your own business, then, BAM! Your living space starts to collapse, your head get's crushed until you think your brain's gonna pop outa your ears, then finally you get squeezed out of a hole that seems waaaay too small to be a fire marshal approved emergency exit.
Newborn on My Right (preparing to resume wailing): Exactly! And would it have killed them to turn up the heat in where ever it was we ended up? And don't EVEN get me started on that bright light! I'm still seeing double!
Newborn on My Left (coos contentedly): Well, at least they got us warmed up pretty quick and our first meal in our new accommodations wasn't half bad and the mommy person seems nice.
Newborn Me (a little jealous): I couldn't tell ya, mine didn't come straight from the tap. I got this stuff that left a horrible aftertaste in my mouth.
Newborn on My Right (gives a sympathetic grunt): I'll be sure to mention it to the manager (starts wailing again) IF SOMEONE EVER LETS ME SPEAK WITH THE FUCKING MANAGER OF THIS PLACE!
Newborn on My Left (startled from dozing off): Hey, here comes a staff member.
Newborn on My Right (quiets long enough to glare at the nurse): Yeah, she's been by once before. Didn't acknowledge my complaining AT ALL. She just checked me over and moved on. Customer service here is extremely lacking!
Newborn on My Left (sighs): Oh good! I think she's freshening me up. I was feeling a little wet down there. (glances down nurse as removes and changes diaper letting Newborn check the wedding tackle) Well look at that, I'm a boy! AND WHAT A BOY! (nurse moves on)
Newborn on My Right (huffs): Well, it's about time! I'm all gooey down there and it is definitely, NOT COMFORTABLE (nurse now changing Newborn allowing for self-discovery) Oh good! I'm a girl and thank goodness! I don't want to be like the daddy person because he always insisted on poking mommy with me in residence. Frankly, I think that's how I got this soft spot on the top of my head! It's simply barbaric! (nurse moves on)
Newborn Me (now curious): My turn! (nurse now changing Newborn Me's diaper letting me glance down) Well, Fuck!
Newborn on the Left and Newborn on the Right (together): What's wrong!
Newborn Me (now doing some wailing of my own): I'm IRISH!
Newborn on the Left and Newborn on the Right (together): OH WE ARE SO SORRY!
Newborn on the Left (sympathetically): Man, I knew life was gonna be hard, but Irish, man, that's just cruel!
Dancing to the Moon’s Song That Only We Hear
Some families are known for their artistic talent, all that they touch is graced with beauty. Some families are known for the music they make, no instrument goes unlearned and no melody is out of reach. A chosen few families are known for having the Midas touch as wealth seemingly falls in their laps with no more effort than taking a breath. My family? We're all bat fucking guano crazy.
A lot of people talk about that one crazy family member who everyone dreads inviting to family functions. In my family, you'd be hard pressed to figure out who that one crazy family member is because we're lunatics one and all. We all dance to the silent song of the moon, a tune that only the true lunatic can hear.
Suicide is an old friend. She's visited my maternal grandfather when she was a child, aunts, uncles, and most recently, a young cousin. The creative type, she used a hose and running car to end my grandfather and a revolver in the mouth to silence my cousin. Her sister, Addiction is more patient and a bit more social. She's always keen to invite her friends depression, anxiety, delusion, and personality disorder along for the ride. Never in a hurry, Addiction is willing to play the long game and has let countless members of my family kill themselves one drink, one white line, one needle, one pipe, and one pill at a time. My family's traditional poison of choice, Alcohol and centuries old Achille's Heal to Irish Catholics everywhere, has put countless generations of my family in the ground well before the age of 50.
For many of us, Depression has been our wetnurse. Held firmly against her breast, barely able to breathe, we have no choice but to suckle at her bitter teat, gulping down self-hatred, and an eternal abyss of gray melancholy hopelessness. Try as we might, we are often too weak to turn our heads to see that there is a world outside of Depression's, firm and cold embrace.
Emotions that spin chaotically like a compass that cannot find true north keeps many of us too dizzy to navigate the world. Lost in the chaotically changing magnetic field of mood that rapidly swings between mania and depression, some of us never feel the firm ground of of emotional and psychological stability under our feet. Instead, our lives are filled with long periods stale, unmoving numb feeling. Suddenly, without any warning of a coming storm such as a stiffening breeze of disorganized thoughts or the darkening of the sky above with clouds of thundering disordinate emotion, we're hit with the battering force of the psychological storm. The manic tempest upon us, we find ourselves in a maelstrom of psychological instability, battered by waves of chaotic, delusional, and self-destructive notions of invincibility. The storm can last moments or days, but when it's over and the stagnant and placid emotional state returns, we find ourselves surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of mania's storm. Relationships may have been torn apart by mania's beating winds and hasty words. It's massive waves of self-destruction undermined freedom as delusional acts of criminality have been placed in the spotlight of the criminal justice system. The calm may allow for some of the damage to be prepared, but it's never fully fixed, and eventually a manic storm will start to form on the horizon of consciousness promising more destruction to come.
Mental illness in my family is most dangerous to the individual. We are our own worst enemies and rarely does irreparable damage occur beyond the self. The trust of others may be bruised and battered, relationships may be torn, and good will may hemorrhage after being cut by addiction's sharp edge one too many times, but it's never fatal. All of this can be repaired with a little time and a lot of distance.
The mental illness that is our birthright has committed the ultimate act of violence against another just once. A cousin, smart, talented and possessing a great talent with electronics entered the military during the Viet Nam war. His talents recognized, he was assigned to intelligence. It was only when the prerequisite psych evaluation was completed that this cousin was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Discharged honorably, the cousin was given a legion of pills and sent home. Now, at that time the treatment for serious psychological disorders with medication was still in its infancy. As a result, the side-effects of these meds were almost as brutal as the mental illness they were supposed to treat. So, as many people with serious mental illness do, this cousin being tortured by the medication's unwanted effects, stopped taking them. Staying with his mom at the time, she noticed that he wasn't taking the medication and confronted him about it. Tragically, in his precarious, delusional state, the cousin thought his mother was threatening his life, and in a paranoid act of self-defense, he beat her to death with a baseball bat. For once, the criminal justice system got it right and instead of prison, the cousin was hospitalized. Eventually, the medications would improve and the cousin would stabilize to the point that after 20 some years he was offered the chance to explore a return to the outside world. Terrified that he could do harm again, the cousin refused. I never met him, but I was told that he died in that hospital after more than 40 years, guilt kept him a prisoner longer than his crime ever could.
So, mental illness has written much of my family's story and the endings are usually clothed in the trappings of Greek tragedy. However, change has managed to sneak into the narrative. Addicts have found recovery, jobs, and purpose. Medications and commitment to therapy seems to have created a bit of a strain with our decades old friendship with Suicide and she hasn't sent a RSVP to anyone in over 6 years now. Many of us are still being weaned off of Depression's teat, but with a little help we've grown strong enough to turn our heads away from the poisonous nipple. Slowly, we've all come to realize that there is sweeter sustenance in the world to be had and hopefully we'll all walk away leaving Depression's poison filled, sagging, pasty, and chapped breasts behind.
To Err is Human. To Forgive Isn’t Always Necessary
There's a lot of baggage behind the idea of forgiveness. If you're to believe the many Oprahisms, forgiveness is universally healing. Well, that's a mile high pile of horse shit. Let the punishment fit the crime.
Granting forgiveness should only be done when the person in question is truly sorry, the wrong was done without malice, and lastly, when the offender is going to prove themselves worthy of forgiveness by striving to never commit the offense again. Truly evil acts don't deserve forgiveness. Instead of offering undeserved forgiveness, the wronged party should strive to understand what happened, mourn the loss, and commit themselves to making sure that others don't suffer from the same wrong inflicted on them.
I'm sure many of the Nazis at the Nuremberg Trials begged for forgiveness as they faced justice. Of course, many would argue that they were following orders. However, participating in the systematic murdering of 7 million plus innocent men, women, and children doesn't deserve forgiveness. It deserves a noose. Forgiveness is born of compassion. Where the FUCK was the Nazis compassion when they turned on the gas chambers, opened fire on unarmed people, and stacked the bodies of human beings like cord wood in the concentration camp ovens? True compassion is saying, "No" to the command to butcher human beings. I'd rather recognize the innocent humanity of others and take a bullet than turn the knob on the gas that killed innocent people who were promised a shower. This level of evil goes beyond any reasonable expectation for forgiveness. All any victim can do is honor their dead and fight to make sure that this never happens again. One can accept reality and heal without offering forgiveness to those who don't deserve it.
My wife would say that my views on forgiveness were born from my childhood. My parents asked for forgiveness for exposing me to drugs, poverty, physical, emotional, and psychological abuse. The problem is that there's always a, "But" thrown in providing them with a get out of the consequences of irresponsibility free card. Adults have a choice, children don't. My mom suffered as a child from abuse and mental illness. That didn't give her license to have children she would then neglect, fail to take care of, and expose to abuse. There is no excuse for an adult to inflict harm or allow harm to be inflicted on their children. None. So, both of my parents have been told that they're not forgiven. However, I have accepted their fatal flaws and refuse to let their failures as human beings to permanently color my life beyond my childhood. Sorry, not sorry they're not forgiven. You reap what you fucking sow. Needless to say, warm, fuzzy Hallmark moments don't happen for me and my parents.
As a substance abuse counselor I saw a lot of guys who were truly sorry and committed to leaving addiction and all the hurt that goes with it behind them. Many of these guys would achieve solid recovery. However, sometimes the damage done to their family relationships was irreparable. Changed or not, their family was done with them. Ultimately, the recovering addict's attempt to make amends didn't have to be accepted by those the addicts had wronged in their addiction. As hard as it is this was, it was a possibility they had to face. A big part of my job was helping them to see that their loved ones have the right to deal with the wounds the addict's addiction caused the best they can in the way that works for them. If that meant a forever closed door, so be it. The addict could quietly make amends by leading the best life they can in recovery while helping other addicts avoid the permanent loss of their families.
Forgiveness is a precious gift that not everyone deserves to receive. True evil is unforgivable and sometimes no amount of forgiveness can heal wounds. I would argue that we shouldn't strive to forgive everyone, just those whose actions are born of one human mistake. Even the drunk driver whose one mistake kills an innocent might be worthy of forgiveness, but it's not for them to ask for or assume that it'll be granted. All they can do is never repeat the wrong. The consequences of ignored human frailty and irresponsibility when visited on innocents who don't have a say in the matter are just as unforgivable as a cold blooded murder. In short, no one should weigh themselves down with the priestly obligation to blindly offer forgiveness for any and all sins that are confessed to them. In fact, many wrongs don't deserve forgiveness, they deserve Old Testament level wrath. Now, if I could just figure out the whole fire and brimstone thing before the next family reunion.
Here I Sit Broken Hearted: The Case for Toilet Paper
We've become indifferent to the simple things in this age of high technology where everything is smart, artificially intelligent, or Bluetooth enabled because technology takes care of everything for us. Worried about water, turn on the faucet and there it is. Worried about sexual frustration? Just hit the, "Ride 'Em Cowgirl" setting on a vibrator and the need for a man goes away. Well, what if something so tried and true, barely improved upon, and so ignored suddenly disappeared? What would the world be without toilet paper?
Sure, it's funny, no TP for the bunghole...he-he. In fact, we had a near miss during the pandemic when people would hoard Cotonelle and get in fights over the last package of Charmin. Even Costco's unprocessed Kirkland brand, it'll give you ass splinters TP disappeared. Still, in the back of our minds, we knew we'd get our toilet paper back. Until then, we just used coffee filters and anything with Donald Trump's picture on it to cleanse ourselves. Of course, toilet paper returned after a lot of arguing over drinking bleach versus getting vaccinated, and our butt napkins became plentiful once again. Still, what if society collapsed and TP became extinct?
To see how we'd survive today, let's explore how people survived without TP prior to its invention in 1857:
Prehistory: Most likely humanity began its bum-wiping with what was available, which meant rocks, plants, and water. One can imagine that using rocks was uncomfortable and likely the cause of the first ever case of hemorrhoids. Plants? Plants were good, well unless you accidently reached for poison ivy or a Venus flytrap to wipe. Of course, the consequences of using poison ivy was A LOT of discomfort. The consequences of using a Venus fly trap? The first (and likely only) botanical castration and/or circumcision in human history. Water was good, but during the ice age, using water would likely result in hypothermia or frostbite to the No-No place. Later, mastodon hides were likely employed. Oh, it was soft and all, but it was also attached to a 5 ton+ killing machine, thus hard to get. Once obtained, the user then had to worry about giving fleas and ticks access to VERY sensitive areas of their body.
Classical Period: It is believed the ancient Romans used a communal sponge dipped in vinegar for cleansing. Although it did the job, we can't ignore the icky, COMMUNALITY of the method.
Dark Ages Forward: After the fall of the Roman Empire, it's assumed that all manner of plants, cloth, water, and bare hands were used in the wiping of the soiled southern orifices. All in all, it was likely a smelly, unsanitary, and unpleasant experience.
Sadly, humble toilet paper rarely enters the discussion as to what are some of the greatest human inventions. Still, life would be very different (and uncomfortable) without it. So, maybe toilet paper needs to be considered as one of the greatest human inventions. Oh, I wouldn't rank it #1, but maybe #2?
Adulthood Versus Waking Up All Sticky
I'm a bit slow on the uptake and it's taken me 30 plus years, but I've recently come to the conclusion that adulthood isn't as advertised. Now, I don't want to complain, but of course, I will. When we were kids adulthood seemed to be the pinnacle of existence. Of course, I thought they were exaggerating whenever an exhaustion laden adult muttered, "Wait until you're an adult." To us jobless, brand new body, bill-free, nothing to really worry about other than why we've been waking up all sticky in the morning us, being a grownup seemed to be too cool. The adult exhaustion we witnessed was always chalked up to how much fun they were having as grownups. After all, for grownups there's no bedtime, no school, and you theorize that waking up sticky in the morning has something to do with what you saw portrayed on Cinemax when you were supposed to be in bed. Well, frankly, now as an actual adult I am a dissatisfied customer and want a refund. For recompense I will accept:
1. The total return of my metabolism. I used to be able to eat a supersized everything with ice cream for desert and maintain a svelte, 150 pounds bod with no exercise. Today, all I have to do is walk past a donut and I gain 5 pounds.
2. The ability to stay up until 3 am and still wake up fresh as a donut right out the fryer after just a couple hours of sleep. Hmmm 2 donut references in 2 sentences. I must be hungry.
3. The ability to fuck more than once a night and for longer than 2 minutes. Okay, for the sake of transparency twice a night used to be only occasionally doable. It took some preparation on my part. I just had to meditate for an hour in the light of a full moon, eat a pound of raw liver, drink 6 raw eggs, and be blessed by the spirits of Barry White and Marvin Gaye two hours before the rendezvous. If I could accomplish this modest list of prenookie activities I could successfully complete 2 ugly bumps. Now, duration that never exceeded the 250 second threshold, but it was still longer than 240 seconds, damn it!
4. Delusional, Disney character-like optimism. I used to truly believe that everything was going to be okay, no matter what the circumstances. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING! We're facing a world where a convicted felon could possibly become the Commander and Chief of the most sophisticated military to ever exist. As a felon, he can no longer own a firearm, but as president, he'll be given access to the world's largest and most lethal nuclear arsenal! Even worse, a lot of his followers want to deny women the right to make decisions about their own bodies. I guess that falls in line with their leader who thought he could just grab a woman by the ___. So, apparently not only do women not have the right to govern their own bodies, they also don't have the right to be protected from sexual assault. I was stupid to be optimistic, but at least I could exist in the warm fuzziness of my delusion. The adult world is fucking scary! I want my fucking delusional optimism back!
5. A better world. My parents are from the dried out, recreational drug using burnt out, and totally hypocritical hippie generation. I was told that all of they're tree hugging, sticking flowers in the barrels of guns at anti-war protests, and supporting Dr. King gave me a better world to adult in. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? After they were forced to take a shower and get jobs these hippies created and/or invested in polluting, wasteful, and in many cases, death causing corporations that see profit over human lives. As to supporting Dr. King? They did and got bored when he was no longer there to eloquently call for a true brother and sisterhood of humanity on the evening news. That's why African American men are STILL being killed by police officers for misdemeanor crimes without any kind of trial. That's why the first African American first lady of this country was often called a, "Monkey" by those good conservative Christians who watch FOX News. Better world? Fuck that and fuck them! I was lied to. It's a good thing I have no say over what kind of nursing home my parents are going into at the end of their lives because if I did I'd find the closest thing to a medieval dungeon and toss them in there.
Adulthood as a product is probably the worst scam ever perpetrated on humanity and just about everything we're promised is a bunch of bull fritters. It's all cost with little benefit masked in the promise of pleasure, freedom, and independence. Don't believe me? Well consider the following:
Sex. Advertised in the media, sex is all passion and pleasure, just 2 beautiful people spotlessly giving in to their carnal nature. Everything is perfect, there's no sweating, or bruising from an enthusiastic, but poorly planned thrust, and the act is completely devoid of any kind of biological aftermath. The afterglow period is portrayed as two naked bodies lazily entwined. You never see the more realistic post coital wipe down, search for a towel to cover the wet spot, or the hushing involved when there's children in the next room.
Driving. Sure cars are great, but they're hungry beasts devouring a huge chunk of time and money. As to the promise of freedom? Have you ever been in California's Bay Area traffic? Believe me, there's no freedom there. You're trapped and surrounded by thousands of other people who're just as trapped as you while your means of transportation can only move a few feet at idle instead of the advised speed limit. However, owning a car provides a good lesson about the real world. It is by owning a car that one realizes that car insurance is the only thing you'll ever purchase that you'll need to prove that you really need to use when the time comes. So, you're paying for something that you must have but never use, and when you do need it, you need too prove it while also proving that someone caused you to need it and not vice versa. Of course, later on, you'll probably get penalized in the form of higher rates for using it, sometimes even when you're not at fault.
Power. They say we're in control and have a say in how things are run. After all, we get to vote for our leaders, right? If that's the case, why do I feel dirtier than a prostitute after a 12 hour night of servicing a Teamster convention when I vote? I always want a shower after filling out my ballot and should probably be checked for crabs just to be safe. God bless America!
Children. Oh they're cute and there is a strange compulsion in many of us to have them. Too bad you don't get to check out the fees like you do when buying a house prior to committing. What's worse, the fine print is written in invisible ink that only gradually shows up at certain predetermined times. Some revealed fine print include:
a) the first diaper explosion where you can only watch in shock and awe as that sweet little one expels a lava flow-like, seemingly endless amount of what can only be described as sphincter sludge.
b) the moment you realize that some of the standard equipment you're fond of on mommy is being sublet for up to 2 years by your wee little bairn.
c) the last little bit of fine print explains the need to have whispered, quiet as a church mouse sex or no sex at all for the next 18 years.
The Body: Now, due to a disability my body hasn't ever operated at peak efficiency, but when did my body start snapping, popping, and crackling like firecrackers on Chinese New Year when I get out of bed? I never used to pay attention to all those commercials for home modifications for the elderly. However, given the symphonic cartilage cacophony that happens every time I move now, I think I may just need one of those walk-in bathtubs or chairs you ride to get up and down the stairs without the need for that age old cry for help, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" Side bar: Thanks to the wonders of medical science, a pill can now be used for the very specific cry for help of, "I've fallen and I can't get it up!"
Finances: Get a college degree they say, you'll be better off than working a high school diploma only job, they say. Are you kidding me? Plumbers, truck drivers, electricians, UPS drivers, and some girl who'll show off her earlobes on Only Fans make waaaay more than I do and didn't have to go into debt up to their nipples to do it. I don't need to be rich, but shouldn't I make as much as the guy who unplugs your toilet after your 3 year old tried to flush an entire package of his mommy's sanitary napkins? I think so AND at least I have the wherewithal to keep my pants pulled up so no one has to see my tooshie trench.
There. I've pled my case. I want to go back to when I was 17 years old when everything worked, I didn't have a fucking clue, and I actually knew why I would wake up in the morning sticky.
A Perfect Day: When You Don’t Have to Change Your Underwear Every 30 Minutes
I'm boring. I guess you could say that I set the bar too low as to what I see as a, "Perfect" day. Some would even argue that I don't even pick the fucking bar up off the ground, but it's my perfect day, so there.
Boring though it may be, to me a perfect day is static. I get to sit in my chair and read while my wife reads beside me. Meanwhile, our 4 kiddos are actually getting along and entertaining themselves. Dinner arrives via pizza delivery and we dine in front of a Disney movie. After the movie, I rough house and tickle our 5-year-old until it's shower and bedtime. Finally, with the kiddos in bed, I ask my wife if she's in the mood for a little rough house and tickle. The day at an end, we fall asleep knowing all is right with the world, or at least in one house in the center of Stanislaus County also known as the sphincter of the galaxy.
So, perfect days are rare, if they happen at all. In order to face this sad reality my suggestion is to adopt the outlook of Monty Python and, "Always look on the bright side of life." Life sucks a good deal of the time, but it you think about it, it could be a lot worse. In fact, when I'm feeling that things couldn't get worse I remind myself that:
1. I could've contracted leprosy after coming into contact with an armadillo (yes they're carriers). With no one around to drive me, I make my way to the emergency room on foot, with bits of me falling off like breadcrumbs along the way. Though I'm thankful for the shade trees that line the sidewalk on my journey, I get bitten by a flea that happened to fall off of a squirrel as it scurries above me in one of the cool shade producing trees. Of course, with my luck the flea happens to be carrying the plague (yes squirrels are potential plague carriers), so now I'm literally falling apart and succumbing to the black death. Finally as I am within crawling distance of the hospital (my leprosy inflicted legs having fallen off somewhere between Main St. and Delbon Ave), I get bitten by a rabid fox. So, now I'm a leper, who's dying of the plague and unable to communicate because I'm also foaming at the mouth. All I could hope for under the circumstances is that someone gives me the Old Yeller treatment and puts me out of my misery.
2. As part of my routine checkup, I could've been referred to my health insurance's preferred provider at San Quentin prison's, Inmate Vocational Training Program for a prostate exam.
3. I might've been wrongfully accused of being a terrorist and taken in for questioning. Now, instead of waterboarding me (California's always in near drought conditions and no one should be wasting water) to get me to talk, maybe the CIA would strap me to a chair, place headphones on my ears and play a nonstop playlist of Taylor Swift, Nickleback, Justin Bieber, with a mixture of country music thrown in to really increase the pain. I'm not a psychologically strong person, so I'd probably end up in a drooling, catatonic state after 5 minutes of such treatment. Jokes on them! The natural 10 point reduction in IQ points caused by exposure to country music would leave me with maybe 3 IQ points left. So, not only will they not be getting any answers, they're stuck dealing with a human with the mental capacity of macaroni salad.
4. I might've accidentally gotten lost on my way to a work related home visit only to find myself in a trailer park who's toothless, banjo playing, meth addled residents view the movie, "Deliverance" as a romantic comedy. I don't wanna squeal like a pig!
5. I could've accidently found myself at a NRA convention. Although, it wouldn't be all bad. Even though I consider myself to be phallically challenged in terms of both length and girth, I'd be hung like a bull elephant when compared to the actual NRA members in attendance.
6. Maybe, after a trip to Baja California, I realize that I made a big mistake. It seems that I accidentally ingested some of Tajuana's infamous and infectious brownish-gray water. With this realization, I find myself in a remote and deserted rest area bathroom crying out in misery as my souvenir case of dysentery sends every ounce of water and waste in my body exploding and gushing down the toilet at a velocity that nearly cracks the porcelain with each twisting stomach cramp. Days later, perhaps someone would stumble upon my dried up husk in that nameless rest area toilet stall. The poor schmuck that finds me beholds my now complete dried out, mummified corpse still sitting on the toilet with my pants around my desiccated ankles. Holding me in place, my rigor mortised hands still cling to the toilet paper roll on the stall's eastern wall and the ass gasket dispenser on the stall's western wall. It is obvious that I was trying to brace myself as my life literally went down the drain, yet another miserable victim of a Tijuana margarita born anal avalanche.
7. A massive solar flare could strike the Earth boiling our atmosphere, leading to a total extinction event. The only living things to survive being cockroaches, lawyers, record company executives, and Keith Richards.
These are just a few examples of things worse than a normal, commute traffic, the kids wanting everything, and work suffocating the life out of you kind of day. So, I can't really say that perfect days exist. However, days that feel like a kick in the baby maker with white hot steel toed boots are common.
Now, a bad, definitely not perfect, having a white hot poker shoved up your anus level day is a lot like kicking heroin which I was privileged to witness many a time as a substance abuse counselor. It feels like you're going to die, your bowels turn to water as you cling to the toilet boil trying to catch your breath while you simultaneously throw up and shit yourself. Your body aches, and you shiver. Each second is agony. However, like kicking heroin, having a bad day is rarely fatal. Stay hydrated, keep a bucket near your head, and make sure there's no obstacles between you and the nearest toilet. Eventually, you'll come out the other side of it. Just make sure that you thank the person that had to clean up the messes you made along the way.
Stocking the Pantry
If necessity is the mother of invention then poverty is the abusive alcoholic step-father that forces you to do whatever it takes to avoid a beating. Growing up poor provides me with a constant reminder that if I want to eat, have shelter, electricity, healthcare, and running water then I'd better get up and go to work. Having a family only intensifies this motivation. I don't want my kids to experience the same misery that I lived through when I was their age. The thought of my children being hungry, homeless, and sick is enough to get me out the door everyday.
My wife and I don't have the same point of reference when it comes to what gets us going every day because she grew up in the protective bubble of the middle class. Her parents both worked, owned their own home, and though far from wealthy, my wife and her brother were never made to go without. So, she doesn't understand what makes me go to work when I'm sick, exhausted, or decide to put off taking a vacation until there's a little more money in the bank. I'm glad she doesn't and I'll be fucked everyway to Tuesday before I let her and our kids experience what has motivated me throughout adulthood.
In contrast, I often struggle to understand how my wife can be so confident that things like food, clothes, and medical care will just be there. This certainty makes it easy to forget that for a lot of people the basic necessities of life are almost never a given and having enough is a constant worry. For example, she and my daughter love to go to thrift stores in search of unique or vintage clothes. Now, I have nothing against thrift stores or those who shop in them, but I FUCKING REFUSE to wear anything from a thrift store. My wife doesn't understand why and has even suggested that I'm a bit materialistic and maybe a smidgen elitist. Well, what she doesn't understand is that she chooses to buy clothes at thrift stores. If she or my daughter can't find something in a thrift store they can go to a department store and get what they want. I didn't have that extra option. It was find it at a thrift store, or go without. Besides, thrift stores today are a lot different than when I grew up. The thrift stores of my youth were places where those who lacked and who had no other choice could keep themselves clothed. As a result, the offerings were usually old, thread bare, horribly outdated, and rarely fit my slight, disabled frame. So, it's not a matter of being materialistic or elitist. It's a matter of avoiding memories where my poverty meant that I had to exist in clothes that were old, ill fitting, and provided yet another reason to be picked on by my classmates on the playground. Now, even though my clothes are always purchased new, I don't buy expensive designer duds. So, I may have only clothes that were bought new, but they're modest and practical. It is a compromise that I can live with.
It always cracks me up when my wife says that she has to go to the store because there's nothing in the house for dinner. Well, there's probably not a large variety of the lean meats, bread, fresh vegetables, and cake for desert available that her upbringing promised would always be there. So, upon entering the kitchen I can usually throw something together with what we have on hand. Left over chicken, a few tortillas (an inexpensive California food staple almost always found in our homes) and a bit of cheese becomes quesadillas. Some Spam (when did Spam become expensive?), a bit of onion, some bell pepper, a few eggs, and some left over boiled potatoes becomes a stir fry. Grind up some graham crackers, heat up some canned pie filling, combine and top with whipped cream and you've got desert. Growing up, a trip to the store was problematic because the walk to the store (no car and no money for gas anyway) coupled with the scant food stamps with which to purchase those few extra items needed for dinner meant you made due with what you had. As a result, dinner might be beans, rice, and a canned vegetable, or pancakes with government commodity peanut butter. Contrary to my wife's experience growing up, a trip to the store for porkchops wasn't usually something we could just do.
Now that you're probably good and depressed it is probably pretty clear why I get up every day. I refuse to let the twisted wreckage of my past shadow my family's present. Always going sucks, but going hungry sucks worse.
All By Myself
To those of us who suffer from social anxiety, being in the presence of others can truly be Hell.
Side Bar: You almost always here that people suffer from social anxiety. It makes me wonder if there are people who actually enjoy social anxiety.
Anyway, I have always suffered from social anxiety or at least I can't recall ever enjoying the nausea, heart racing, panic I feel when being around more than a few people. Even when I was little I hated things like school assemblies, large birthday parties, and things like little league. I come by it honestly because my mom has social anxiety that actually developed into agoraphobia when she was a kid. So, my dislike of large groups of people definitely has roots in genetics.
Another thing that really contributed to my social anxiety is being disabled. When you walk with a halted gate, one side of your body is significantly smaller in both length and musculature, and you only have full use of one hand, you kind of stick out. Unfortunately, growing up in the 1980's orthopedic bracing was nearly impossible to hide and lucky me, I got to wear a Forest Gump style leg brace attached to what can only be described as old man shoes. So, self-conscious. I always felt that there was a spotlight pointed at me allowing everyone to see how different I was. Now whether or not people really noticed didn't matter, for all know the vast majority probably didn't take the time to notice. That didn't matter because it was my belief that people were noticing my physical disability that increased my anxiety.
Of course, some of the most observant people on Earth are children and there was no escaping their spotlight. Unfortunately, recess and PE in elementary school became a daily misery. I never played with other kids really and spent a lot of time alone. As one can imagine I was bulled, but I had one thing going for me there. I'm one of those wallflowers whose unique ability to disappear into the crowd rivals that of the chameleon and octopus. You couldn't be bullied if you couldn't be seen. So, I blended in amongst the stale shelves of the library or slipped into corner of the playground where no one played. When forced into a situation where I had to participate in a physical, team activity I was always picked last. These little instances of rejection made me turn further into myself and increased my dread being in group activities even more. Highschool was pretty much the same situation only throw in raging testosterone in the other guys and the bullying became a bit more dangerous.
I blame myself for a lot for my social anxiety. Maybe if I would've joined the recess games of soccer, basketball, or touch football I might have been a little bit better at sports. By no means would I be a jock, but I could've gotten a little better thus get picked next to last instead of absolute last during PE. In elementary school I realized early on that most of the time I was smarter than the bullies. As a result, I might've been able to talk or joke my way out of the bully's crosshairs. Thankfully, in high school I weaponized my sense of humor which allowed me to outsmart the bullies or at the very least, be seen as funny enough to enjoy a little bit of the grace that my other classmates were able to offer. I did have a few friends in high school and did some socializing, but I always felt like a nun watching an adult film be made in person, totally out of place and a bit afraid of any backsplash of residual body fluids that might fly my way. So, my inward turned self allowed my anxiety to thicken as it simmered during that 4 year prison sentence also called high school.
After high school, my social anxiety made me its bitch and I didn't put up much of a fight. I wanted to go to college. In fact, I lived right across the street from the local state college, but I became nauseous just walking on campus. The thought of being around so many people terrified me. Being on the sidewalk that bordered the school made my pulse race, I'd breakout in a sweat, and I would have to talk to myself until I was away from the school to keep from having a full on panic attack. I lived alone because I felt that I would be seen as a pathetic weird guy and no one would want to live with me. Dating? What dating? You have to be able to talk to a girl you're interested in to date. I clammed up whenever I was near a girl I was interested in.
Now, I think I'm introverted by nature, but even introverts need friends, but I was paralyzed by my social anxiety which kept me in the shadows. So, my social anxiety grew and eventually it invited it's friend, clinical depression to join us. Being around more than a handful of people became overwhelming to the point that I was starting to feel like I couldn't force myself to go to work. If that happened, I'd end up homeless with social anxiety and clinical depression. My thoughts grew darker and as time passed it became more and more difficult to find reasons to continue being above ground.
After a brief stay at a happy fun time hospital and a prescription for a drug store worth of medications I had to make a decision. The social anxiety and depression were keeping me from finding friends and meaningful relationships. Of course, the loneliness fed the social anxiety and depression. I was caught in a circular fuck on the way to self-destruction. So, to pull myself out of it, I challenged myself. After work, I would go for a walk around the college across the street from my apartment complex a few times a week. It wasn't easy but it wasn't walled away in my one bedroom with just books and music for company. I stuck myself out there and made a couple of good friends which several years later would lead to me meeting my wife.
Oh, I still have social anxiety. I hate all staff meetings where I'm forced to sit in a room filled with people I don't know for hours. In addition, I'd rather have a lit flame thrower shoved up my ass and then have the trigger pulled than do one of the icebreaker activities management always fucks us with during these meetings. While everyone is in line to grab their catered lunch I immediately disappear into my car so that I can ground myself enough to make it through the remainder of the meeting. I don't grab my lunch because the anxiety driven nausea that has been building for hours makes eating inadvisable. Finally, I don't do clubs, weddings, family picnics, big events, or even events hosted by the agency I work for. My wife calls me the antisocial social worker and I'm okay with that.
I still have social anxiety and probably always will. As a result, to some extent Hell will always be other people. However, I have managed to stop feeling sorry for my inbred ass long enough to gain a few coping skills to make it possible for me to function. Ultimately, I've reached a stalemate with my psychosis which allows me to have friends, a job, graduate from college, and have a family. Just don't invite me to any weddings, family reunions, Tupperware parties, or bar mitzvas. Save your stamp, email, or group text because I won't be going.
Unboxing the Absurd
Thinking Outside the "Box"
I've never understood the reasoning behind the saying, "Think outside the box." I think most of us think outside of the box. As far as I can tell, the only people who think inside the box are the unfortunate homeless souls who use cardboard boxes for shelter. Sadly, there probably isn't much to do except to think inside the box when one is forced to use corrugated material for shelter.
Now, if housing prices in California continue skyrocket beyond reason I may be considering the cardboard box option for my family. In anticipation of becoming a member of the corrugated community, I've been checking out various types of boxes and locations where to set up housekeeping (boxkeeping?). I've come to the conclusion that Samsung appliance boxes are the gated community level of cardboard housing options because they're reenforced for maximum structural integrity and often have Styrofoam pieces inside that can be made into throw pillows. Amazon boxes are probably the working class housing level of boxes. They come in many sizes, but because of the rough treatment they receive from the delivery drivers they're often pretty dinged up. I guess the single-wide mobile home level of boxes would be the produce boxes you find in the dumpster behind Safeway. While they're reasonably sturdy, they're often a bit wet inside and smell like rotten tomatoes.
Of course, when it comes to where you live location is everything. So, I think I need to find a decent sized alley with a bit of an overhang for those rainy days. Ideally, the alley would also include a water spicket for sanitation purposes, an external power source, and a downward sloping gutter leading to the sewer system at the far end which would function as the commode.
Jack in the "Box"
As far as I can tell, Jack in the Box is the only fast food restaurant chain that caters exclusively to the stoner population. In fact, the menu appears to be designed with the cannabis connoisseur in mind. It's high in grease, low in nutritional value, has a salt content that exceeds that of the Pacific Ocean, and staddles that razor thin line between actual food and "Well, I don't think it'll kill me right away if I eat it." Really. I don't know what that filling is in Jack in the Box's tacos, but I'm fairly certain it's not meat. If I had to theorize, I'd guess that the franchise has mastered the art recycling newspaper and tire rubber, combining both into a meat-like substance.
Now I would argue that the employees of Jack in the Box are so used to the marijuana infused state of their customers that they would be absolutely fucking gob smacked if someone came into the restaurant that didn't appear to be easy baked. Once observed, I could imagine the cashier running to the manager in a panic to tell them, "Man, there's someone at the register that doesn't reek of sativa and has normal sized pupils! They're even paying with a debit card and not with change from the ashtray. I think it's the fucking health inspector!"
The First "Box"
To my knowledge, the exact date or era where the box was invented is unknown. However, I have a theory. I think the first box was created by the first Neanderthal who was unfortunate enough to get kicked out of the cave by his live-in girlfriend. Seems he was caught flirting with one of those stuck up, bitchy homo sapiens. Sadly, admitting that her mother was right after all, the girlfriend who gave him the best 5 years of her estimated 25 year lifespan sends him to hunt and gather for himself.
"He's got some nerve!" She sobbed to her girlfriends as they gathered dried mammoth dung for their fire (with left overs for salad). "Like he even has a chance with one of those homo sapien bitches! They think they're so much better because of their larger brain pan, absence of a massive brow and a lack of hair on their backs. Well, that son of a homo habilis can just chisel himself something to carry his arrow heads, mammoth tooth collection, and his skid mark streaked loin cloths in because he won't be painting any hunting scenes on the walls of my cave anymore."
Given no other choice, the poor shmuck who let his good eye wander towards a female of a superior species chiseled something to carry his stuff in. Once finished he filled the very first box with his shit a d left the warm cave behind. Stepping out into the ice age cold he realized that he'd made the biggest (and second to last) mistake of his life. It's almost a mercy when he became cave bear chow after he made the mistake of wandering into what he thought was a vacant cave. A few months later, while gathering berries, his former girlfriend would find her former beau's dried bones stacked in a pile under a tree just a few miles from her cave. Seems that the bear found the caveman's box quite handy when tidying his den and put it to good use. Not wanting the remains to go to waste, the ex would unknowingly fashion his bones into a back comb, a necklace, and after grinding some of his bones into a paint she would write the Neanderthal equivalent of, "Live, Laugh, Love" on her cave wall. Ironically, her Neadershmuck ex boyfriend found his way back into her cave after all.
Dad’s No Fun
My older three kiddos recently told me that I'm no fun. This didn't come as any surprise because I think that the default setting for teenagers is to operate under the assumption that their parents aren't really human and we know nothing, we have no other purpose than ruining their fun, and we should consider it an honor to take on the role as their personal financiers for things like cell phones, vehicles, and any form of entertainment that they desire. What did surprise me is the reason they gave. They were watching a horror movie and talking about ghosts. Well, I told them that I don't believe in ghosts, bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster, alien abductions, or that Donald Trump is a genius and savior of our nation. My three cum fruit were absolutely shocked and dismayed (well except about the Trump thing). So, I proceeded to tell them why I think ghosts and these other things don't exist. I didn't have to explain the Trump thing though, that is pretty fucking obvious.
Hauntings/ghosts: If one is to accept folklore, ghosts are usually spirits who when alive experienced some traumatic event, betrayal, murder, etc. that prevents the recently living-challenged individual from finding rest or traveling to the great beyond. Now, it's a historical fact that until recently people almost always died in their home surrounded by family. In fact, one's own children and entire extended family often lived within just a few miles of each other. Of course, this meant that there was avoiding the need to invite crazy uncle Bob to Thanksgiving. So if you died and became a ghost you'd likely be unable to escape the relatives be they good, bad, indifferent, or in the case of my family, bat guano fucking nuts. Now, I guess a spirit might want to haunt their relatives if they were the agents of foul play or somehow responsible for their ghostly state. HERE is the problem.
If you haunt the people who did you wrong and they also happen to be relatives, when they die, they too may become spirits. The end result, you're stuck for fucking eternity with the people you thought death would be an escape from! So, a smart ghost would chill and play the long game hoping that the rest of the family has the decency to die of normal causes and choose to be buried in the cemetery behind the church. What about the movie "Poltergeist's" building on a Native American burial ground thus incurring their spirits wrath reason for haunting someone, you may ask? The circumstances are similar, the poltergeists just aren't related to the people they're haunting. Think about it. If you're pissed that someone built a single level 3 bedroom, 2 bath home with a spacious open floor plan (close to shopping and excellent schools of course) on your grave, do you want to run the risk of having them as neighbors forever if your haunting leads to their demise? Probably not. So, if ghosts exist, they probably aren't going to make waves by causing the walls to drip blood or suck a child into the television because eventually and with a little luck, the unwelcomed will move on leaving the ghost to enjoy the peace and quiet.
Oh, and before you toss out the idea of those ghost hunter shows? They can't verify anything. Also, they've likely signed Non Disclosure Agreements saying that they won't reveal the very mundane tricks and special effects producers throw in to make the ghost hunting look legit.
Bigfoot: I used to live in Sasquatch country and it didn't take me long to realize something. Those who claim to have seen bigfoot or are hunting bigfoot are likely the same folks who think professional wrestling is real and that Elvis is alive and living quietly in an Alabama trailer park somewhere. Besides, given all the clear cutting we've done in bigfoot's habitat, old Squatchy's probably having a hard time finding places to hide and enough berries and raccoons to eat. Unfortunately, if bigfoot exists, the poor missing link's probably going to have to get a job delivering for Amazon if he wants to keep himself in twigs and berries. So, no, it is highly unlikely that bigfoot exists. Although, some of the Amazon deliveries left on my doorstep look like they've been stomped on or used as a place for a little urinary territory marking by some form of nonhuman large primate, so maybe I've judged too soon.
Loch Ness Monster: Three word reasoning for this one. SCOTTLAND'S FUCKING COLD! If I were a large aquatic, prehistoric creature like Nessy, I would've headed for the Bahamas centuries ago. Sorry, there's no Nessy and if she did exist, she's probably sunning herself off the coast of Jamaica right now. So, they're looking in the wrong place.
Alien Abductions/Visitors: This is the easiest one to explain. I actually believe that life exists on other planets. Given the vastness of the universe, it's statistically probable that we're not alone. As to visiting us, well, Dr. Hawking noted that it is doubtful that there is a power source capable of providing enough power and speed to make intergalactic travel feasible. It simply takes too long to get from point A to point B. In addition, he argued that we wouldn't want to be visited because any beings that expend that much time, energy and resources to get here probably aren't making a neighborly visit. The best case scenario? We may become intergalactic pen pals with the other lifeforms out there. Besides, if you had the ability to travel lightyears and explore the wonders of the universe, would you really come here? That's like being told that you can go anywhere on Earth for free and choosing Modesto, California. Now, if you're not familiar, Modesto is best described as the overwhelmed septic tank of this trailer park of a planet.
So, I guess my kiddos are probably right and I really am no fun. Still, I think that there are enough real, quantifiable wonders and verifiable terrors on our little planet to keep us busy. Who needs Sasquatch, aliens, or ghosts to add excitement to our lives? Of course, I didn't get to go into this much detail with my cum fruit because they have an almost supernatural, unexplainable ability to totally ignore me.