Thinking Of Beej; RIP Polly


So. I awakened this morning at 2:30 am Mountain Standard Time, my head full of the normal ADHD-fueled swirling thoughts as usual. I wake most nights about that time to go into the bathroom to pee and also to assess whatever dreams have inhabited the swill filling my skull to that particular point in the night. As is typical with most of my normal rituals, my middle-of-the-night ritual is a planned routine—a somewhat complex set of steps that must be taken, in order.

Wake; ask myself where I am; realize I’m in bed; move Yoda from his nesting place in my armpit; sit up and scratch balls; stagger to the bathroom; check for night wood to avoid peeing on the floor; sit and pee while recounting my dreams. Should I miss any steps or take steps out of order, my ADD will consume the rest of my day. Missing steps of any obsessively compulsive routine in my life will, generally, fuck up whatever day I have left.

OK, stop. When it’s 2:45 am and you are writing about your life events that happened fifteen minutes before, do you say, “I awakened last night at 2:30 am…” or, rather, would it be more appropriate to say, “This morning at 2-fucking-thirty…”? That’s one that has always screwed with my head. When does morning actually take the day’s reins from night? Is it a specific time? Does it depend upon how long you’ve been awake? Does it really make a shit?

Tonight, the normalcy of this waking ritual was disturbed by a not normal line of thought. This morning’s first wakening thought was the same as the primary thought in my head when I lay down and snuggled the puppies into their nests at my side. I was dreaming the mangled imaginations that heavy emotions often place in our minds, and I woke with the dream surfaced in my conscious.

“BJ’s mother died, and he’s worried about me… Fuck!” I know I didn’t shout it, but both dogs jumped to alert status at my words.

“What the Hell’s wrong with you, Mooner? You got gas cramps again?” Squirt asked me.

The diminutive brown dog was at my side. “I told you to lay off the bean burritos late at night. You drop a bean burrito fart under the covers and I’ll have the goat dog eat all your new socks.”

I found a large display of thick cotton crew socks in the Size 12-15 Mens I require, and I bought them all. Four dozen plus an extra tube of three. When I unloaded my shopping cart and placed the socks on the counter, the sales lady said to me, she said, “That’s a whole lot of very big socks, sir. You a football coach, or something?”

I explained that they were all for me and how it is difficult to find the extra-large size and how I only wear cotton, and she said that fifty-six pairs of socks are a lot of socks for one guy under any circumstance, and then I told her it was only fifty-one pairs. She said, “Oops, but still a lot of socks,” and rang-up the five-sock reduction from my bill. I paid it with my American Express card—the one that says, “Member Since 1976.” I won’t tell you how many points I have, but I will say that I have never spent a single point in all these years. I’m saving for a first class ticket to Mars.

“It’s not terminal gas, sweetie, it’s sadness. Bill’s momma died and he’s concerned about my relationship with Mother. I just dreamed that God came to visit us again, and I offered to trade my live parent for BJ’s dearly departed. God told me to pull my head out my ass and get a fucking grip. And that’s a quote.”

God told me that He thinks I can learn a great deal about humility and love and forgiveness from my good friend BJ. Again, a quote.

“But I have trouble letting go of some of this shit, Ma’am,” I told God. “And really. Phyllis Diller? You had to show up looking like Phyllis Diller?”

God looked like the comedian, a personal favorite on my Way-Back Machine, and we were sitting on the fishing dock at the ranch back to Austin. “Came as Ms. Diller, dumb ass, to show you I’m serious.”

Some people have truly, deeply human relationships with their parents. Like BJ. And me, I find myself jealous of them. Truly. I think I need to fix that. Maybe manana, y’all.

Rest in peace, Evelyn Ruth Johnson. You are missed.



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7 Responses to “Thinking Of Beej; RIP Polly”

  1. Katy Anders says:

    I have recently stopped drinking and taking Benadryl to get to sleep at night, so the hours between midnight and 6 have become a weird funhouse of sorts, where I wander around half-awake, wondering whether it counts as sleep if my eyes are closed.

    You know what they say about guys with size 12-15 feet, right?

    They say that 51 pairs of their socks weigh a shitload.

  2. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Katy. I recently stopped thinking about thinking about drinking. As for the Benadryl, I only partake for medical reasons. That aside, weird funhouses can be magical places under the hancements of sleep deprivation.

    On the sox issue, I can tell you that 51 pair can stretch the handles of two plastic bags.

  3. bj says:

    Thanks for the nod to my Momma, Mooner. Yer kind thoughts and wishes are greatly appreciated and help ease my burden. I only wish for you and your mother what me and mine shared for nearly 62 years. It’s ALMOST never too late to look in your heart and mend it.
    Thanks too for the beautiful Lillies you sent for the Memorial service; and for signing two different guestbooks from two different funeral homes in two different states. That was very thoughtful. Your Lillies were placed on the table with my Mom’s photo and her ashes throughout the service and while, after the service, all the other flowers were donated to the local cemetery for the Grave Of The Unknown Soldier, your Lillies and vase are sitting here on the dining room table smiling at me as I type this.
    I am very grateful to Squatlo and the Princess for attending the service and I would like to thank them as well. You see, my Mother’s family are all very beautiful people and right up until Squatty arrived I was werried that I would be the ugliest person in attendance. I was very relieved when I saw Squatlo walk into the Chapel ….. and all heads turned in his direction. Thanks for taking that pressure off me, Squatty ol’ chum.
    Now …. time to write something less morbid and post on this bloggie thingy. How else are you gonna get folks to buy yer silly fucking book?
    Love Ya’
    Mean It,

  4. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Beej. What to say?

    As for me signing two books for two funerals in varying states, have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD? At least I didn’t send chocolate covered strawberries, a Kohls gift card and a congratulations card this time. Made that error of focus this one time and sent the graduating senior the lilies and a card telling her about how much I had respected her now dead father.

    And I’ve been meaning to ask you if you knew how Squat managed to snag and land the Princess. I guess “frogs and kisses” still holds true.

    Find something to smile about and I’ll give you a buzz someday soon.

    Like a brother.

  5. bj says:

    I can only guess that The Dangerous One has the vision of a bat. She blended in with the beauteous gathering as if camouflaged. Me and Squat, on the other hand …..

  6. Squatlo says:

    Ya funny mother fuckers…. (and I realize, considering the subject matter of this post, that I’m being TOTALLY disrespectful with that particular slur, but given the commentary I believe I’m justified, especially since I know my buddy Beej won’t take it personally).

    For your edification, the “Princess” prefers “Empress”, and earned her title by thrashing my ugly ass and everyone else at Scrabble for her entire adult life. And for the record, she IS blind as a damn bat, but I lied (and paid others to do so) telling her I was a handsome sumbitch. It was an easier prevarication to throw around when I was young and halfway in shape, but now? Sad to say, even Stevie Wonder could see my homeliness from a piano bench at the dam.

    Also for the record, I’m not sure it was me doing the “snaggin'” in this relationship. I’ve often written that Pussy Makes You Stupid (PMYS, for the uninformed) and can attest to two things in this world: One: That little slogan is dead on the money, and B: The Empress takes me to a whole “nuther level” of stoopid, and always has. I can debate Plato until she’s in the room, and then I’m not even worthy of an argument with Sarah Palin.

    But more than anything else, what I’d like to say is that I’m sooooo happy to see BJ back in the saddle, slingin’ insults and jabbin’ away like Ali.

    I believe if Mooner lived in our area code there would be articles in the paper written about our gatherings. And I’d have a bail bondsman on speed dial.

    Glad you assholes are smiling, given the circumstances. It lets me know we’re all gonna be alright.

  7. Squatlo says:

    I had to type in a CAPCHA because I used the word “pussy” in the last comment! I can say “fuckers” or “assholes” and CAPCHA doesn’t give a shit, but PUSSY? Who’s running this thing, Vlad Putin?

    Long live Pussy Riot! (whoever they are…)

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