Monthly Archives: January 2012

The Little House of Horrors.

I don’t know why, but for some reason I feel like I’ve turned a corner, like maybe I’m running downhill with the wind at my back like maybe someday somehow this will all be over and me and Miss Carol will live uber happily ’till we puke and die.

Just sayin.

 

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Damned.

Chuck Palahniuk can be flipping amazing.

He’ll take a subject, any subject, push and prod it to extremes and then toss it into a beat-up old car we’ll call Grotesquery¬†and drive the whole mess off a cliff we’ll call The Way Beyond The Grossly Imagined Pale.

It’s always sickenly fun. I’ve read several of his books and listened to several more. They always explore places you never ever thought you’d wanna go and visit.

Damned is another one.

Thirteen year old Madison ends up in Hell after an unfortunate Hello Kitty condom auto-erotic strangulation and has to traverse places like the Dandruff Desert, The Valley of Used Disposable Diapers- carefully sidestepping The Swamp of Partial Abortions and the always rising Ocean of Wasted Sperm to win her job in Hell’s Call Center telemarketing people at dinnertime.

Classic Chuck.

It’s fun. Read it. And if you buy the hardcover, check out the book jacket. I don’t know what it’s printed on but, it feels like, skin?

Gimmmee.

A week ago in a fumbling fugue I left Cutter’s home arrest collar on when we went walking and he passed right through the electric fence we’ve installed to keep the boys safe from outside insidiousness.

I was like, WTF?

So I went to the Pet Stop woman and explained what had happened and she did an electronic thing to check the collar and told me that maybe I needed to snug up their collars so the prong things made better contact.

And that’s what I did.

Oh my god the drama. Cutter immediately staggered into the living room and collapsed pawing feebly at the collar.

I……can’t……….breathe, he wheezed.

Tug slumped and rolled over on his back.

Me neither, he said, I can’t breathe too.

I looked at the two of them and I was like, dudes you so suck.

So I made a cocktail and started reading the newspaper. I don’t know why we still get a paper. Maybe I like reading about what happened yesterday. Whatever it is I do it.

And Cutter and Tug jumped up on the couch watching and waiting expectantly for Miss Carol.

When she walked in they started up again.

Ack. and Ack. Cutter wheezed, limply pawing at his collar.

Me neither, Tug said, I can’t breathe too.

What’s up with them? Miss Carol asked, kissing me.

I told her they were just being fags and told her the whole story about the collars and the Pet Stop woman and Miss Carol leaned down and felt the snugness of Cutter’s collar.

Honey, she said, they are little too tight.

Cutter lit up. I tole him that, he said, looking at Miss Carol imploringly with glistening puppy dog eyes. See what happens when you’re not around?

Carol, I said, please don’t buy into this and make it worse.

Can I get a lawyer? I need a lawyer, Cutter said. The mental anguish ALONE is huge, he said. I might be DYING he said.

Me neither. I can’t breathe too, Tug said.

They are a little too tight, Miss Carol said.

Carol, I said.

Cutter flopped to his side and stared off into a distant dark corner of the kitchen and said, I’m coming home mommy.

Oh stop, I said.

Tug said, Me neither. I can’t breathe too.

Riding the Diarrheal Roller Coaster.

I’ll spare you the pictures.

I’ll spare you the pictures of me sprinting across the hospital parking lot for MR.GREENE. on Monday morning and driving wildly home, panting and squeezing my cheeks together. The pictures of me sweating and cursing the world and the world’s drivers to get the hell out of my way. I’ll spare you the pictures of me slamming into the driveway and leaving MR.GREENE. running with the driver side door flopping open while I body rolled under the too-slow-rising garage door and pawed past the eagerly excited Cutter and Tug, shins and ankles tangling with their happily yappiness in my mad rush to the porcelain goddess.

I’ll spare you the pictures of me riding the stomach bug Diarrheal Roller Coaster- it ain’t fun and, trust me, you only want ONE ticket.

So yeah.

I was sick.

There were times in those dark thirty-six hours when I lay semi-awake or semi-conscious and completely incontinent, listening to the hurricane in my belly that I questioned existence and whether I wanted a place in it.

Miss Carol did all the chores and Cutter and Tug nuzzled and I gritted my teeth and trotted to Ms. Toilet every hour or so. She’s the best. Miss Carol I mean, not Ms. Toilet.

And then, as suddenly as the tempest had begun, it blew through. Just like that.

I awoke this morning to a bright new sparkly wonderful world. There were still some clouds on the distant horizon of oceandoggyville, but birds were singing gaily in the rain. Children’s laughter sprinkled over me and the clouds were solder edged and raindrops were crystalline and twinkled off MR.GREENE.’s hood while he drove me back to work.

Man, does it feel good to be back.

Five easy pieces.

I know. I KNOW. I’m being lazy.

Uno-Thumbellina. It’s been nearly a year since I donned a thumb ring and the response is constantly varied and uber interesting. Guys treat me like I’m gay and chicks just seem to wonder. My favorite little sister-in-law says they’re everywhere in Cali, but in Va Beach I seem to be alone.

Dos- Little House of Horrors.

It doesn’t look like much but trust me, this represents not only two weekends worth of work but more importantly my triumph over THE MAN.

Tres- Tug and Anchor. I was walking the boys tonight and an old friend appeared out of the darkness walking his dog. We’ll call him Jay. Jay was highly intoxicated ’cause that’s what happens down here with all the salt air and what not and at one point he pointed to the boys and said Tug and Anchor, right? I chuckled and told him no, but I thought Anchor was a pretty cool name.

Jay left, staggering home and Cutter stopped in his tracks, peering up at me. Don’t even think about, he said. Anchor is a sucky name, he said.

Quatro- Belinda.

This is Belinda, my new BFF, my new MacBook Air. I love her, she is slim and sexy and I long to caress her daily.

Cinco- Global warming. Am I really talking about the weather? I am. It’s January and even though today was cold and windy the rest of the week is supposed to be in the 50’s and 60’s.

I LOVE Global Warming.

real.life

life as misery

I realized that the “after the holidays”¬†procrastination excuse had worn whisper thin when I was reminded I’ve got chores and responsibilities on Saturday morning by Miss Carol slapping me awake.

Get up and finish my house, she snarled.

She followed the slapping with a thunder elbow to my stomach that left me gasping and retching and then Miss Carol reared back and pushed me with her feet, shoving me out of bed, Cutter and Tug standing next to her, snapping and yipping at me.

I crawled to my feet and before I got to the bathroom Tug and Cutter were wrapped protectively around Miss Carol and she was snoring again.

So I drove down to The Little House of Horrors and desultorily pounded some nails and tiredly worked on some of the close-in inspection issues.

Building a house ain’t fun.

It’s exciting at the beginning when the lust is crystalline and the dreams are still ambrosia scented. But then the work sets in, and unless you’ve got the money to elegantly direct others to do it, and Miss Carol and me don’t, it becomes a monumental chore.

So I poked around and messed with little shit, my breath clouding in the cold.

When I couldn’t get the generator started I gave up and stood in the driveway looking up at The Little House of Horrors, wondering what it is I’d wrought.

I really gotta get fired up and FINISH this thing.

Umberto.

I wish I was smarter so I could read books with cool covers like this.

But I guess I’m not.

I really, really tried. I couldn’t. To my tight little mind, it sucked. I read and I read, thinking surely that something that’s being hailed as an instant masterpiece would somehow, somewhere get a little bit better. Or maybe even, gosh, readable.

It didn’t and I finally caved after about a hundred pages.

I’d wanted to walk through airports carrying my Umberto Eco, looking smugly like I was somebody who knew something. Like maybe I could leave Lee Childs and Stephen King and Chuck Palahniuk behind and be a differently more intellectual somebody.

But I couldn’t.

I still like the cover, though.

Maybe I’ll just wrap The Prague Cemetery dust jacket around another book and when a smooth somebody asks me how I find Umberto Eco, I’ll smootly say-

Rewarding.