Archive for the ‘forgiveness’ Category

Forgiveness Update And Poontang Status; Mooner Still A Fucking Mess

Thursday, January 3rd, 2013


So. Much adieu about nothing and so little time. Maybe that should be “much a’do”, and then, again, maybe adieu is most appropriate. Maybe I’m filled with conflictions this new year and maybe I’m simply crazy.

Smart money bets crazy at 1-to-5.

Let me start by saying that my NY Eve date was semi-successful. I wasn’t arrested—I was “detained”. I didn’t assault the asshole sitting on the bar stool next to me—I simply flicked his nose for squeezing his wife’s wrist hard enough to make my fingers go numb. And I got no first-date-everyone-gets-laid-on-New-Years-Eve poontang.

Enough said.

Having said that, let me add that my ADHD is in a unique phase that started when I arrived back to Santa Fe from Austin. I have been ruminating over how much to say about Mother, and my thoughts/feelings thereto. You guys have been incredibly supportive in your attempts to push me into rehabilitations, for which I am mostly appreciative.

However, since none of you took my side and tried to help me find ways to hang on to my anger at Mother without doing damage to myself, please allow me to provide you with further information. Let me make a further attempt to illuminate this runway.

OK. To me, you forgive someone for things they did—stuff they already finished doing. I used to think that you forgive people only when they ask for it—an opinion I have long been of changed mind.

“Forgiveness is for the forgiver, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has told me on something akin to a thousand times.

“Fuck forgiveness” has slipped from my lips maybe twice that often.

Which reminds me. It’s been really cold since we got back and everything but the front porch, steps and sidewalk are covered with snow. And my ADHD has been in a weird stage wherein I am strongly focused on only one of the many thoughts in my silly head.

Problem with that is my focus isn’t on the physical actions of my body, but, rather, what I’m doing is done as an afterthought to whatever else it is upon which I’m focused. Think on that and you’ll understand.

As an example, I was taking the recycling out to the green plastic bins in the driveway but my mind was on my recent date. Half an hour later, I was up to the Ace Hardware and standing in the plumbing isle looking at the plungers while holding two paper bags—one filled with squished plastic and metal containers and the second half-filled with paper. I had the newspaper stopped while we were gone, so half a bag there. The plastic stuff is from the trip back.

I didn’t buy the plunger but I did buy this nifty grinder that was on sale. The two bags of recycling are, I think, still on the floorboard in the back seat of the GTO, and I’m looking for something to grind besides my teeth.

When I told this story to Dr. Sam during my phoned-in psycho therapy session, she said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner, I think that you’re seeking plungers is a metaphor for your sex life. Aren’t you getting any?”

“Bitch,” I told her. “Are you paying any attention to what I’ve been saying for the last three months?”

I guess I am a bit backed-up. Like I said, it’s been quite cold and the puppies hate to get their feet cold or wet. “Get your asses out there into the snow and shit there,” I barked at them the first time I let them out after we got back to Santa Fe. “If you shit on the porch again I’m not taking you skiing with me.”

“Fuck you,” the adorable bundle of brown fur told me. “You pick me up and poke my ass in the snow without proper protective clothing one more time and I’ll shit in your beard while you sleep.”

I’ve grown a beard for a few weeks so the Squirt’s threat had teeth.

“And I’ll tell Yoda to start pissing in your boots again. Now stop looking at me. I’m going to crap on the welcome mat and I don’t like you watching me.”

At least their shit is easy to pick up when it’s frozen like Popsicles.

But here’s what I want to tell you. My Mother has a sister, a woman I’ve never before mentioned in these pages. “On” these pages? Her name is Aunt Mary and she is a family black sheep. I won’t go into all of it other than to say that she has been distanced from our family for decades—a distancing insisted upon by my mother.

Without my knowledge, Mother bought Aunt Mary tickets to fly in and visit at her place in San Antonio after Thanksgiving. When Mother told Sister about her actions, Sister thought that Mother was going to make peace with her sister. While that last sentence was full of sisters, my mother’s actions ended up as not sisterly in any way whatsoever.

After numerous phone calls with Mother to solidify arrangements, my sister, Sister, drove to San Antonio and picked Aunt Mary up at the airport, drove her to Mother’s place and took Aunt Mary and her bags upstairs to Mother’s as previously arranged. No answer, and the door was locked. Worried that Mother had fallen or worse, Sister panicked. She got management to let her in but found no parent when she searched the two-bedroom apartment.

The management person said, “Have you looked in the dining room? Your mother eats an early dinner and plays canasta with friends this time of day.”

Sure enough, Mother was at a table with three other old bags, eating and playing cards. When Sister asked her, “Whatthefuck?” Mother answered, “I’m not giving up my card game for (Envision Mother pointing a finger at Aunt Mary) her. Tell her she’s in the front bedroom. Now go away.”

And to make this a short story of a very long four days for Aunt Mary, my mother’s kindest remarks were at that initial meeting. Mother wouldn’t be in the same room with Aunt Mary, wouldn’t speak directly to her and otherwise treated her like shit. I likely wouldn’t have known about this because, one- Sister didn’t want me to write about it and, two- Aunt Mary has no way to contact me.

I only found out because Gram accidentally spilled the beans. If you want a secret spread, tell my Gram.

In boiling the bullshit out of this, my mother paid for tickets to fly her sister from France—did I forget to say that Aunt Mary lives in France and has Rheumatoid arthritis and that the return trip was scheduled for two weeks after arrival? Did I forget to tell you that Mother made arrangements for her sister to have three layovers of more than four hours each? Me, I’ve got some bad knees and a hip that throw fits on long layovers in airports. I can’t imagine the discomfort a sufferer of RA would endure.

Did I forget to tell you that Aunt Mary is a lesbian and that Mother berated her own sister for, “Your heretical choice,” and that, “God hates you just as she does my daughter. You two can burn in Hell holding homo-sex-u-al hands.”

Sister took Aunt Mary to Austin with her for the remainder of the two weeks and rescheduled the flights with but one two-hour layover.

I’m supposed to forgive my mother so that I can have better mental health. But it is a quite difficult task when she does things like this. When she keeps doing these things. In order for this to work for me, I will need to forgive everything Mother has already done and then forgive her for the things she will do. That’s difficult for me when I feel that what she did to Aunt Mary was unforgivable.

Fucking ugh!

Anyway, that’s my forgiveness update and poontang status for January 3, 2013. Now it’s time to pick up the turdsicles from out to the front porch. I don’t want to slip on a pile and and bust my ass.

Manana, y’all.


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Don Henley Is An Asshole; Music Mania For The Instable Mind

Monday, December 31st, 2012


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.

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