Maybe, Baby; Resistance To Maturities

So. On this fine Sunday morning Santa Fe has awakened to crisp 51-degree air with crystalline skies serving as a canvas for the flat clouds of grey moisture typical of this season. For our part, the puppies have shit-showered-shaved and eaten their first meal of the day, and I’ve been awake long enough to have consumed three cuppa Joes, played two quickie poker tournaments on the Inet, walked the perimeters of La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe in search of flies, killed three of said flies with my salt-filled air gun custom-made for fly killing, and still, and at that alas, and had no fucking Sunday newspaper.
My paper always arrives before five in the am, except, heretofore, on those rare occasions when the press breaks or it snows so much the delivery personages cannot get about. That consistency of delivery result results in certain expectations in me, said expectations counted upon within the confines of the obsessive/compulsive regimens woven together into the fabric that somewhat controls my fevered ADD-addled mental processings. It is the morning structures of event stringings that carry the most weight in my attempts to wrench control of my focus and concentrations from Mr. Evil, the madman who lurks deep within my psyche.
Said another way, I have specific routines, which when properly followed, assist me to spend less of the day that follows in the State of Fucked. Having said that, those of you who know me have a clear understanding of what my day does, and will continue to look like, now that I’m visiting the State of Fucked while under the controls of Mr. Evil. I hate visiting the State of Fucked, and as I have aged, Mr. Evil’s presence has become more aggravating than you can imagine.
“Hey Mooner. Yoo-hoo Mooner! Hey you, fuckbrain, stop writing and look over here at me…You know you can’t ignore me, your newspaper is late!…No, look over there…Did you turn the burner off with that last cup of coffee?…When was the last time you saw an actual nekid woman?…Did you hear what Trump said?…Ali McGraw on your left!”
There’s another reason for my consternations in spite of this beautiful morning. We put La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe on the market for sale—what I thought a solid yet unremarkable effort made by me to appear concerned about my family back to Texas—thinking there would be no sale at my price and I could say, “Sorry, Gram, sorry Sister, I tried but the real estate market is too soft here right now. I’ll try again in 2020.”
Two showings, two contract offers. The first was less than asking price and I rejected it summarily. The second, well the second was for full price, which forced its acceptance, and we’ve had two more showings wanting to know if the contract falls off. A Christian would look at these events and say, “That’s God’s hand, son. He works in mysterious ways.”
Me, for my part in all of this, I realize that my understanding of the housing market has surpassed my knowledge and I’m unlikely to have any reasonable excuse for not moving back to my family in Tejas, home of Guv’vy Abbott sans Costello. Nothing funny about that prick.
The Squirt and I were talking about this conundrum Saturday night as we sat with cold beers, smushed avocado-not guacamole with chips and handmade by us salsa, and pain pills. The pain pills were in response to Squirt’s reoccurring spinal condition wherein she loses operational benefits of one, or both back legs, and the beer was Stella Artois—both situational events out of my control. As a Carta Blanca drinker since birth, it aggravates the shit out of me to not find it, and as a father I’m sad to the bone I can’t help my puppy live forever.
I was mooning and fretting and whimpering on, and on, so Squirt told me, she says, “Stop fretting, dickwad, there’s good news in all of this. You’ll get fresh veggies from Gram’s garden, SAC Ellen still lives in that little place over on the Fifties, and you can spend more time with Mother.”
“Not comforting, sweetie pie. Santa Fe has a great farmers’ market, the last time I saw SAC Ellen she locked the door in my face, and as for Mother…”
“Jesus, but you’re a half-empty Bozo. OK, think of this. My back will be better in the warmer climate.”
Can’t argue her points, but I’m still not more happy than not happy. Then, again, maybe I can gain comfort in the fact that I’m making a major decision based upon the needs of others in my life and not on my own whims. Maybe this is the first ever time I’ve done so and therein lies my rubs. Maybe sacrifice for others is such an uncomfortable garment because I’ve never fitted it to my frame. Maybe I can’t find pleasure because I’m too conceited and center-self’ed to have joy in helping others.
Maybe I’ve never matured as a man, or grown to know the value of putting others first. And maybe I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain who can’t get out of his own way. And maybe we should all:
FUCK WALMART!

Print Friendly

8 Responses to “Maybe, Baby; Resistance To Maturities”

  1. Nasreen says:

    You’re coming back?

    I wish I could say things have gotten better here in your absence.

    It’s hot. It floods constantly. Dan Patrick is Lt. Governor.

  2. bj says:

    Those daily regimens are what help keep us grounded in reality, what with the world being the confusing place it is. If I didn’t have my daily chores involving my critters and my peeps I’d only get out of bed to relieve myself and clear away the dishes and leftover Takis. I gotta have a daily DO list. If only I wasn’t so OCD about the order in which everything must occur, it might be more enjoyable. But worry I must; right up until I tell Roogr to tell the TV “good night, Dick” and click it off. Then I lie awake running over my DID list and check for errors. I reckon worrying and checking takes up more time and energy than the actual DOING of chores and such. But what’s a fuckwit to do? eh? I can only imagine being ADHD addled making the situation that much worse.
    I feel you about the taking on of familial responsibilities, too. It’s okay being honest with yourself for feeling put out, too. I dunno about moving back to Tejas, though. THAT sounds a bit too extreme, to me. If the sole reason is for Mother’s best interests, she might do better in your Enchanted Mountains than in all that Texas sand – and the Squirt might enjoy one o’ them fancy dancey sun lamp warmer thingies I’ve read about. OH! and new GRUB! I’ve switched Roogr to Gentle Giants World Class Cuisine(after swapping several emails and a phone call with Burt Ward about the stuff. Yeah, THAT Burt Ward) it’s touted to increase longevity in all dogs; though nothing in life is guaranteed. I have to order online but it’s no more expensive than Call of the Wild or Blue Buffalo and Roogr eats it just as well. Check it out at: http://www.gentlegiantsrescue.com/index.htm
    Yeah, I saw that it’s now available at Walmart but I buy from Amazon and the free shipping of a 33lb bag of dogfood makes up the difference. Speaking of Walmart … Have you seen their new ad touting Walmart’s new policy of helping America by creating American Jobs? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kqVuuTJGPE
    Uh-huh … small wonder the music used is Aerosmith’s “Dream On”. Yeah, America. Dream On about Walmart doing anything right ….
    ps when it’s time to move … I got a pickup and a once strong back.

  3. oh lord do I know the State of Fucked … living everyday in helldom, I think they call it Appalachia.

  4. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Bella. I’m starting to think that the Sate of Fucked is akin to a travelling circus delivered to a town near you on roller skates. Then again, I’m crazy but not antisocial, loony but not, hopefully, psychotic. As your cousin, Gina, was one of my early dream girls, please don’t be alarmed should I dream of you. Are you, 1. married, 2. lesbian or (and), 3. a person who likes small puppies and gigantic farm animals with excessive homosexual tendencies?

    As I mature, each, and none, of your answers can disqualify your application for number eleven.

    Fuck Walmart, once and again.

  5. hahaha! married? nope…lesbian…nope…small puppies and gigantic farm animals with excessive homosexual tendencies…sounds challenging…but hell, what’s life without a challenge? and yeah Fuck WaLmart again…LOL

  6. admin says:

    Nazzy. It seems that since I left, the floods and pestilences hit Texas with no apparent fetters. Maybe it was my presence there that kept the worst of God’s scourges at bay. Maybe without me, the Forces of Evil gained an unbalanced line used to further punish civility. Maybe I’m developing a mild case of megalomania.

    Plus, since the late 1990’s it has taken something mighty important, or pretty, to drag my ass to Humidtown down there to the bayous. Houston tops my list of most uncomfortable cities, as the weather is so stifling all by itself that no retailer can even sell a steam sauna.

  7. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Beej. Please don’t talk about lists. I’ve started buying Postie Note on futures contracts. One of my kids fucked with me awhile back and did up a fake FDA warning that the adhesive on sticky notes causes limp dick. True, and I was freaked. I use so many note pads I have a special recycling bin for them. Lists, lists to quantify/signify/modify the first list, lists to explain the other lists, relisting of shit I thought I did but realized I didn’t do. End of the day I put the entire ball of notes into an industrial plastic bad and place in recycling.

    And thanks for the food tip. I’mma check it out.

  8. bj says:

    Hey! By the way … If ANYbody sees Katy … ask her if we can expect to read torrid emails between her and Huma Abedin on wikileaks in the near future. I understand a new wave of DNC/Hillary emails are set to be released this week and as I recall, KATY was more than a bit smitten with Ms. Abedin’s combination of Looks/Intelligence/Charisma and was ‘carrying a torch’ for Huma. Didn’t Katy say, at one point, she was thinking of converting to Islam in attempt to attract Huma? Maybe I’m remembering that part wrong, though …
    I’d LOVE to read those emails!

Leave a Reply