So. It’s New Year’s Eve and we’re back to home at La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. We left Austin early yesterday to try to beat the expected snow, and did—not because we, as a group of three, made a concerted and conjoined attempt at a timely arrival—manage to arrive ahead of the snow. The only reason we beat the snow and slick driving conditions is because the snow didn’t start until after midnight instead of before noon as predicted.
The several times I’ve made that drive alone, it’s taken right at twelve hours—half-a-day at the wheel including breaks to pee, eat and gas-up. With the two asshole dogs I call my Santa Fe family, yesterday’s trip took fourteen hours and a few extra minutes.
“I’m not squating in a patch of goat burrs and tumbleweeds, shithead,” the Squirt informed me when I let her out in Littlefield, Texas to do her business. “You sit and roll your pecker around first and I’ll piss after.”
I bitched at her a few minutes as she listened with a look of undistilled intemperance plastered on her quite cute little face. I wrapped it up with a, “You are sooooo finicky!”
“And you, Bwana Mooner, are an asshole. Remember that time when you sat in a prickly pear cactus?”
She had a point. I’ll not bore you with her point other than to say that she made it and to ask you to think “cucumber-shaped pin cushion”. You can buy my silly fucking book and get the extended version of that story. And a lot more silly shit as well. The book would have made a great stocking stuffer if you’d fucking bought it. Amazon had one listed for sale for ninety-eight-cents. As for condition, the listing said, “New, except for I read the first two pages, has vomit stains.”
“You’ve got a point,” little lady, I told my adorable puppy. “I don’t want to be picking needles from your little tooter.”
I drove from the gas station back into a small, Littlefield, Texas neighborhood to seek an appropriate yard in which to pee. “There!” Squirt shouted, “the one with the big Santa and all his elves.”
The yard we chose was covered with winter-browned Bermuda grass cut at the suggested three inches tall and littered with dozens of those shitty blow-up Christmas characters. Those plastic balloons seem to demonstrate what Christmas is to me—trashy, cheap and stupid—so Squirt’s first choice became mine. Ours.
Squirt chose to pee next to one of the eight tiny reindeer, and the goat dog hiked his leg on an inflated plastic present. Yoda lost his balance and fell into the balloon box and was bounced back onto his ass. That made me start laughing and caused my pee stream to travel from the cedar bush and onto the string of lights running all over the yard.
I was glad the lights were off.
As for Austin, I had a great and terrible time. I got to see the whole family and loved that, and I spent two full days in psycho therapy with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and hate the results. I saw the good doctor to work on my issues with my mother, as directed by God. Not that I’m blaming God for my problems, mind you, but it was Her and His instructions that I “Find a way to love your mother” or words to that effect.
Since I could find no reason to obey God’s instructions much less a way to perfect them, I knew that psycho therapy was my only hope of fulfilling that prophesy. To summarize twenty hours of therapy sessions, please allow me to simply quote the bitch I call my ex-wife number one.
“You must forgive your mother, Mooner. You can never accept her terrible actions and words until you do so. Mother can’t help herself, my dear ex-hubby, it’s just how she is. Forgive her.”
I could have saved myself nineteen hours and fifty-nine minutes of aggravation if I’d have simply replied, “OK, I’ll do that.” Instead, I said, “Fuck that, fuck her and fuck you too!”
Look, I hate that “forgiveness” bullshit. Do you have any fucking idea how much work that takes? How much personal sacrifice it requires to let go of a lifetime’s hurt and pain and tears?
And anger? Ugh.
My sessions were last Wednesday and Thursday, and my last words to my therapist as I left her were, “I still love you, Sammie, have a great New Year, and fuck you—I won’t forgive her.”
I felt sanctimonious and satisfied both. “No fucking way!” I said to myself as I drove home to the ranch. Might have said it fifty times on the way. I stopped over to the Sprouts store to say “Howdy” to the store manager and grab some avocados for dinner. We roasted a goat and half a pig for Xmas and were having leftovers packed in tortillas. When I got home, Gram asked me, “Where’s tha avie-caddies, Mooner?”
“Shit,” I responded. “Shit, shit and shit some more.”
I returned from a second trip to Sprouts just as dinner was set on the table. “Supper cain’t wait on yer lack a tension onna details, sonnyboy. You need ta git ya some therapy, an’ quick!”
OK, stop. I’ve neglected a small detail of this story. You guys know that Don Henley song Heart of the Matter? Fucking ex-Eagle pussy asshole.
When I got into the GTO when I left Dr. Sammie’s place, I put the tranny in Drive and left a scratch of rubber char on the pavement in her lot. “No fucking way!” I shouted, as I looked over my shoulder at her office door. I drove a few blocks and punched the On button of the radio. “And now from 1989, here’s Don Henley.” That fucking song started, and before I paid enough attention, it got to the chorus.
“Forgiveness… Forgiveness… Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore.”
I slammed my hand at the radio to turn it off, missed the Off button and instead turned it up. “There’s a yearning undefined and people full of rage. We all need a little tenderness, how can love survive in such a graceless age?”
I was livid. I pulled the GTO to the curb and made a huge event of turning the radio off. “Mother… Fuck-er!”
I was screaming at the radio. I then drove to Sprouts in a semi rage where I promptly forgot my avocados and purchased three cases of Carta Blanca beer instead. My buddy Henry the manager was off, and likely a good thing. When I drove home, that fucking song was stuck inside my head, like a broken record.
I washed and peeled the avocados and mashed them with garlic, onion and salt and pepper. Everyone was already seated so there was but one chair open for me to park my ass. Since I no longer fully-reside there, my seat at the head of the table is now filled with the ass of the weathered old goat bladder I call Gram.
“Ain’t yer chair no longer, shithead. You done abmolated it when ya moved yer ass over to Santa Fe. Now sit down next ta yer Mother an shut yer yapper.”
“It’s abdicated, Gram, and can’t we trade just seats for tonight?”
All I got was the evil eye in response, so I sat in the chair next to Mother, with Aunt Hilda on the other side. I set the big bowl of green goodness on the table and said, “Let’s eat.”
My mother took the spoon first and put a tiny dollop on her plate. She then took the fork and poked its tines into the dollop, an action that deposited four insy bits of green. She wiped the four drops onto her tongue, made a face and washed her mouth with iced tea.
“I can’t eat that. It tastes like grass paste. Did you ruin all the avocados, Mooner, or might there be a few for some proper guacamole?”
Mother’s words bit into me like a swarm of piranha.
OK, stop. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have a date. That’s right, and actual New Years Eve fucking date! And I’m already late to get ready, so let’s stop here at 1,437 words for now.
Happy New One, Fuck Walmart, and manana, y’all.