oceandoggy.com

It was mine, all mine; it was a place I could go to, to read, to write, to listen to music, to watch porn, to do whatever. I’d put up the NO GIRLS ALLOWED chain across the stairs and retire to my sanctum sanctorum.

Life was bliss.

Then Miss Carol and me visited her sister. And Miss Carol rode her sister’s Peloton. And Miss Carol decided she just had to have her own Peloton. She gushed it’s wonderfulness all the way home.

And I said- but where would we put it in our little house?

Miss Carol paused for half a breath and said- upstairs.

And I said- but that’s my Me Only Room.

Miss Carol shrugged You don’t use it THAT much, she said.

So it happened.

I went upstairs just recently to see what Miss Carol had wrought and it looks like a gym and smells like a sweaty Miss Carol.

I turned, and shoulders slumping, trudged back down the stairs, never to retun.

But cry not for me, because now that Miss Carol has transformed my Me Only Room into her She Only Gym I have-

So this is what happened.

I needed a PM (Preventative Maintenance) on my big truck. Basically it’s an oil change (13 gallons) and 2 filters, a fuel filter change, and lube all the metal thingies.

Not usually a big deal, but it’s getting harder and harder for me to schedule with one of my three preferred shops to do the work.

Everything in trucking is super busy these days.

So I was rolling down 460E and I saw a Speedco at the Love’s truck stop and I thought- why the fuck not? Speedco is supposed to be the Jiffy Lube for big rigs. I’d never tried them, but WTF, right?

I pulled in and I was first in line for the bay marked “LUBE”. I was happy as I could be, thinking I’d be outa there in no time and TUGTUG would be good to go for another 20,000 miles.

I parked and walked in brimming with happiness and want.

The masked-up guy behind the counter said- Can I help you?

And I said- Yes you can! I need an oil change!

And the masked-up guy said- We only have a little 10W30 (I need 15W40) and no lube.

I stopped, stunned.

But, I said, but you’re an oil change place. It’s all you do, right?

And the masked-up guy said- yup.

But you have no oil, right? And no lube?

And the masked-up guy said- yup.

Hmmm.

So what do you guys do all day? I asked.

Turn away customers, the masked-up guy said.

There was a time, not long ago, when I was a news junkie dickhead.

I’d slavishly, religiously, watch and listen to the news on TV and radio and Mr. Internet. I yearned to learn what was going on in the world and how I felt about it. I knew I could puzzle out the world’s problems with enough information. I figured I’d try and find a balance so I’d watch the “left leaning” network news channels and listen to the “right leaning” radio talk shows.

But what happened was- I became a new junkie dickhead. And I grew angry at all of it.

Miss Carol wouldn’t talk to me about anything news related. She couldn’t, I was always certain I was always right.

And then, one dark early morning run out west on 58 I had an epiphany. *cue the angels chorus*

I realized that, not only couldn’t I do anything about the news stories, I wouldn’t and couldn’t even want to. So why listen? Why watch?

So I turned it all off.

Now I just live in my little happy world with my friends and family and I’m a happier person, because, honestly it’s all about my happiness that counts.

Right, Miss Carol?

Miss Carol?

Has it really been 3 years since I decided to say fuck this because I felt that writing a silly little blog was cramping efforts with Project B?

Has three years somehow flown by while I thought that if I stopped writing short, teeny, tiny blurby blurbs that I would someway, somehow, someday magically start writing longer, more interestingly important stuff on Project B?

Has it been that long?

And did I really think that?

I did, and it has.

I figured that if I stopped writing small, short stuff that it would help the longer stuff flow. That somehow the short stuff was limiting me, restricting me, making me write shorter and shorter shit- a constantly tightening noose of shorter leading to ever shorter.

So I stopped the blog and I waited for the bigger flow for Project B to engage and propel me forward, and instead, this happened-

*nothing*

Well. After a coupla years or so, and a number of false starts and re-starts, I thought and I re-thought about me and I figured I needed to write something, just anything, to get it to flow before I forgot how to type with all ten fingers.

Anyway, I’m back for what it’s worth and maybe for awhile and maybe not. I’ve got some new tattoos and some new stories and we’ll just have to see how it goes.

Project B tugs at me as relentlessly as ever and I just gotta do something to do it and get it done and get it out of my head and maybe this is it?

Let’s hope.

Me and Miss Carol were having our weekly Sunday disagreement and argument. She was telling me I don’t do enough on weekends and I was pointing out the things we’d done.

And then she said- honestly, really, why keep trying?

And I said- because I love you.

And she said- stop trying so hard.

And I thought, and I said- you got it.

And just like that.

Cutter,

I hope we didn’t wait too long.

I hope you didn’t suffer too much while I screwed on the courage I needed to do what I knew needed to be done.

I hope your passing was as painless and as quick for you as it seemed to be to me.

I hope you felt me there with you, right to the very end. To know you weren’t alone.

I hope you know how much I loved you and how much I’ll always miss you.

But most of all?

I hope the Rainbow Bridge  is real and true and I hope Tug has found you.

RIP Cutter 2005-2018

I don’t know how this two word phrase has infected our lexicon. But it has.

Miss Carol and me went out to lunch the other day. We were sitting at the empty bar in a restaurant sipping our drinks, having ordered our meal, when I noticed the bartendress lurking nearby, maybe hoping for some conversation.

I rose to the bait. How’s life?, I said.

The bartendress fairly bubbled effervescently. She clasped her hands together, paused dramatically staring at the ceiling at who knows what, took a deep breath, and said-

Well, so, ya know, I was, ya know, getting ready, ya know, for my first date in like a week, ya know, and I was staring at, ya know, my closet wondering, ya know, what to wear, ya know, when-

Miss Carol was listening raptly.

I said- No. I don’t know.

The bartendress stopped, her pretty forehead furrowed in a frown. She thought for a moment and then gave up and started again.

So anyway, she said, I was, like, ya know, searching through my, ya know, closet thinking, ya know, do I, ya know, dress trampy, ya know?, or-

I said- No, really, I don’t know.

Miss Carol stared at me.

The bartendress stared at me. This time her furrowed frowning forehead came with a hint of malice.

What’s your problem?, she said.

You keep saying ya know, like I should know, but I don’t, I said.

Her frown deepened as if struggling with Euclidean geometry and then she said-

You’re weird.

Miss Carol murmured around the straw in her drink- I know.

I was sitting and pretending to work in my Me Only Room when I heard a rustling behind me and a little voice said-

Hey shitheel.

Hey shitheel? I thought as a spun my Me Only Chair around to see our little Lola staring up at me.

Yup. Our little Lola got her voice about a month ago. And what a voice it is- it’s a strange combination of youth and age- kinda like a pre-pubescent Wicked Witch or maybe a 4 yr old with a two pack a day habit.

Yes?, I said, trying to remain pleasant.

When am I gonna fucking grow? Lola snarled- Did I mention our little Lola has a bit of a potty mouth?

Well, I said, clearing my throat, you’re not.

Whaddya fuckin’ mean I’m NOT?, Lola demanded.

You’re not, I repeated. You’re a Chiweenie, so you’re as big as you’re going to get- unless you keep getting fatter- I added.

Lola ignored the fat remark and stared down at her little four inch legs and then back over her shoulder at her hot dog shaped body.

Shit. Doesn’t that just fucking suck, she said, turning back to me.

Not really, I said, You’re a hybrid. You’re a cross between a Chihuahua and a Dachshund and you were bred specifically to maximize the positive attributes of both species such as intelligence and loyalty and minimize the negative aspects of the two species such as temper and aggression.

Oh yeah?, Lola snarled at me, we’ll just fucking see about that, won’t we?

And with that, she spun around and waddled out of the Me Only Room, but not before yipping and snapping at Cutter who had been sleeping at my feet.

Then Lola bounded down the stairs and I started pretending to work again until I heard a sharp bark and then a clang and a growling, scraping sound as Lola flipped her metal food bowl over and pushed it around on the floor.

I think she’s pissed, I said to Cutter.

Cutter opened one eye briefly and then closed it again.

Sunday marked the fourth or fifth anniversary of technology bitch-slapping yet another of my favorite annual pleasures- the end of daylight savings time.

The end of daylight savings time used to be a big day in my year because I wouldn’t set my clocks back the required hour right before going to bed, nor would my anal retentiveness awaken me at 2:00 am to reset my clocks and be painstakingly precise.

Instead, what I would do each year was leave my clocks and my time alone and un-reset until at some point on Sunday when-decided on by me- I would TURN BACK TIME.

That’s right. I could TURN BACK TIME.

It was heady and god-like and fun. I’d leave the clocks alone until either I didn’t want Sunday to end or, more likely, when I wanted to repeat a particularly fun part of Sunday morning or Sunday afternoon or, even more likely, when I wanted that particular hour back.

For example, say Miss Carol made me go to church (um, it could happen) and I felt like I’d just wasted an hour. I could TURN BACK TIME and voila!, it was like it never really happened.

Or say that me and Miss Carol were sharing some afternoon delight (um, it could happen too) and were having so much fun that we wanted a repeat. Eazy peezy, just TURN BACK TIME and bingo- instant reset.

But what usually happened was that it would get to be late afternoon with the sun setting and the cold, hard reality of another Monday looming over my mood and outlook on life when I’d glance at my watch and go- Whoa there, big fella! We gots us another hour yet!, and laughing heartily- I would TURN BACK TIME.

*sigh* Those were the good old days.

But now they’re gone. Smart phone engineers and computer programmers and technology in all of it’s forms have gone out of their way to rob me of one more of life’s simple pleasures.

So this Sunday as soon as I woke up and before I could take steps to insulate myself and my idea of time to myself, I picked up my iPhone and automatically glanced at the lit up lock screen proudly proclaiming the hour-adjusted proper time and ruining what little is left of joy and happiness in my life.