Monthly Archives: July 2011

Dueling Moms.

Miss Carol and me have been having a time lately with our moms.

I’d love to say I’m this tough guy that doesn’t care, that scorns softness and fragility, that says- hey it’ll work itself out, that grabs another beer and pushes out down to the beach and gazes fondly out at the bikini babes tanning in the late afternoon sun whilst sipping suds and thinking blandly.

I long to be that guy.

I do.

But I can’t.

So, yeah.

Miss Carol and me’s moms are having differing and probably progressively downward spiraling problems that will, I am sure, chew into my heart and what little free time I might have dreamed of having.

But, ya know?, I love them both.

So as much as I want to be the frothy-beer-swilling-bikini-watching-total-denial-thingy-dude?

I just can’t.

So I did it.

As marginal as it sounds, as fuckuppery as it seems, as totally asswaddy it might be, I did it.

I signed up for the tractor-trailering course. Miss Carol’s not totally happy, but she’s not totally sad either, so we’re working it out.

It’s not like I’m gonna close up my little company but the trucking is something that’s been calling me, an insistently constant tug urging me on with it’s relentless siren song.

So.

Deep breath.

I go for my DOT drug test and DOT physical later this week and start the course August 8th. Two months of tractor-trailer training while keeping my company going and finishing The Little House of Horrors.

I’m stoked.

Why do I do this shit?

Shit and goddamn.

This was gonna be one thing and then it became another.

I was gonna rant and rave about the Little House of Horrors and how it was such a piece of shit to work on and most probably bitch and moan about how much it blows to build a Little House of Horrors.

My life sucks, right?

And then I saw that Amy Winehouse died and I don’t know why but something¬†kicked in, and kicked me in a way that was surprising.

I actually feel sad. Really sad. And I don’t know why. I wasn’t a huge fan, just a guy liking her music.

And Miss Carol too.

We can’t quite figure it out, but it hit us like a bullet that somebody with all that talent burned out that fast.

Or maybe that’s why they do.

Maybe it’s all they can do.

I’m at a loss. I don’t know why it fucking bothers me so much. But it does. I wish I could puzzle it out but I can’t.

Thinking of Amy makes me sad.

Fuck the stupid house.

My Tug.

I was sitting and whispering to myself that I was working and that I was actually getting something done, when Tug came into the Me Only Room and plopped down.

I swiveled to face him.

So, he said.

Tug’s always deep and solemn and he looked at me deeply and solemnly and said- you gonna do this? ¬†And he shifted from paw to paw.

Do what, I said.

You gonna take this tractor trailerin’ course and leave us? he said.

Don’t seem right he said.

And then he sat. Waiting. Panting slightly and looking around like dogs do.

Dude, I said, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just trying to think ahead. I’m just thinkin’ it might not be a good idea to get my CDL.

Hmmm he growled shifting and focusing.

Have you thought this through? he asked.

Whaddya mean? I asked Tug.

He paused and licked himself and then he said is this escapism?

And I said in a small voice. Maybe.

He stood up and shook himself out and said- you’re a turd.

And then he ambled off.

The run ends.

It had to happen.

I’d been on a roll. Every damn book I picked up was flipping amazing. My creds were dashed, but I was a happy dude. LALALALALA and EVERYthing is worth reading, right?

Then I crashed into Bangkok Babylon.

What a piece of crap.

I mean really.

Author Jerry Hopkins is an aged Rolling Stone correspondent (aged being the clue word) and Bangkok Babylon is basically a collection of stories about how cool his equally aging bar-fly friends are (not that I have a problem with bars) and how they’re all soooo cool to be living in Bangkok with their asian wives who’re half their liver-spotted ages. (Noooo, I don’t have a problem with that either)

My problem? Every glinty vignette is the same. Check it- MR. blah, blah was a rebel who never finished high school or college and then MR. blah, blah struck it rich ’cause he’s cool and hooked up with me and my creaky friends and then MR. blah, blah found nirvana in Bang-fucking-kok.

It gets really old, really quick.

I was reading this narcissistic screed this weekend, thinking maybe of throwing up in my mouth or maybe just tossing the piece of shit into the ocean.

But I didn’t have anything else to read.

Not even a McDonald’s happy menu.

It would have been enough. The menu, I mean.

So I bore down and finished, but dude, Bangkok Babylon sucks. Don’t waste your time. I wish I could get mine back.

Time, I mean.

Life pauses.

So hey. I was all ready to go tractor-trailerin’.

I was primed to climb up into the cab of 40 tons of rolling thunder and head out down the highway, the breeze blowing like freedom through my hair.

Oooo. baby, baby. I was soooooooooo ready.

I’d thunk about it and thunk about it and finally figured out a way I could do it out without having to shut down my company and risk loss of income. I’d talked to the CDL (Commercial Driving License) course instructors. I’d read a bunch a blogs and websites about the trucking industry. And of course, I’d looked at all the trucks I’d love to buy and drive all over the country. Did I mention the freedom blowing? The hair?

I’d decided. I’d even blogged that it was a done deal and I was doing it.

And then a little teeny tiny detail I’d somehow overlooked, forgotten, poked it’s shitty little head up.

I forgot to tell Miss Carol.

Whoops.

I have this weirdly narcissistic thing that happens when I do stuff like this-I just assume everyone around me knows what I’m thinking about and is insync with me and all my hopes and dreams.

Call it clueless assholery.

So when I dropped the bomb on Miss Carol on Friday night, her face crumpled and then she got out of the hot tub and then she got pissed.

You are such a fuckhead she said. WHEN were you going to tell me? she shrieked.

Tonight? I ventured?

(um, did I mention clueless assholery?)

So anyway.

It’s always fun being married and we’re working it out and I still think I’ll be driving one of those big fuckers in the next month or so.

But, man, Miss Carols’ just a little ticked off.

Hooboy.

Surly. Or maybe snarling.

This is gonna sound terribly politically incorrect but nice is wearing thin on me.

Not the nice of friends and family. Not the heartfelt goodness that wells up from the people you hold dear.

I’m talkin’ about the forced ceramic-glass-like nice imposed by banks and gas stations and grocery store owners.

The “How are you today, my name is whatever, and I’ll be helping you today and holding your hand through the scary bank deposit you’re making and can I possibly do anything else for you while I flash fake smiles and seem actually interested in your life and your day” kinda niceness.

Implants are less false.

I find myself yearning for more humaness. A yawn, a stifled groan, a muttered fuck you would be preferable to all this glossy vacuousness.

It’s ok to fart, people.