Money

July 31, 2009 at 11:36 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
Money–
It’s a gas.  Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash.

  I was talking to a friend at work today, and he said his wife said she hates money.  But you don’t *hate* money, you hate not having it.  But that is the typical emotional response, especially for a woman.  Kind of like when you break up with someone.  And after you break up, you obsess about them even more.

  I guess that’s why my stomach has been upset lately, and I’ve had disruptive bowel service.  Money and I broke up.  I miss Money already.
  I knew we were headed for a break up.  Money hadn’t been hanging around like she used to, she doesn’t last like she did in the old days, and we don’t share good times anymore.  Money just seemed…distant to me.  Cold, and unemotional.  Like Money doesn’t care about me anymore.  Money just wants to go where someone can afford her.  Maybe that makes her shallow, and I want to call Money a whore for leaving me, but it’s more complicated than that.  I know I share some of the blame, too.  I should not treat Money like she doesn’t matter.
  I used to take Money for granted.  It’s funny how you never appreciate someone until they’re gone, you know?  I remember those nights together, the two of us alone–
  I remember watching the market report, as Money would go down on me.  And back up slowly.  Then down quickly again.  Money is good at that.
  Memories of Money are all I have now.  Money won’t answer my calls, she ignores my emails and texts.  Money won’t friend me on Facebook.  I drunk dialed money once, hoping for a late night booty call and some Steak n Shake.  Money answered in a fake accent, telling me I had the wrong number.
  I remember the night Money made me move out of our house.  Crying like John Cusack in the rain, as the sheriffs came and put my stuff out on the street while she watched from inside.  "I got nowhere else to go!" I cried, but she did nothing, no expression on her face.  She left me out in the cold, and the dark.  Hungry.  Without Money, I am nothing.
  I never should have told Money that she wasn’t enough for me.  She used to be.  But I needed more.  I wanted to consume Money completely.  I wanted her all the time.  If I couldn’t have that, I wanted to go out and get more.  Find someone just like her.  Another Money.  More Money.  If I could just make another Money, clone her, or print a new one.  I fantasized about a threesome, me and Money, and Money’s friend who looked just like her but with a different hair color and hairy armpits.  Her exotic European friend.  In my fantasy, I just call her Euro. 
  I hear Money is getting along fine without me.  Here I am, back at my parent’s house, living in the basement.  But my friends call and tell me that they saw Money out the previous night with some rich guy, dancing the night away.  I know she’s doing it to spite me.  She’s not really that shallow.  He doesn’t care about her and her feelings, just how he can use her, and toss her aside like a debit card receipt.
  I get angry, thinking about Money with some other man.  Letting herself get used and violated like that.  It was supposed to be me!  I was supposed to be the one violating Money!
  I’ve daydreamed of kidnapping Money, of stealing Money and hiding her away.  But she’s too wild for me, too much for me to control.  It was obvious from the beginning I couldn’t handle Money.
  I guess I obsess about Money.  I love the way Money made me feel, as we rolled together naked in bed.  Now, every where I look I seem to see Money.  There she is, in everyone else’s arms.

  I didn’t want to do this, but she’s driven me to it.  I think to get back at Money, I’m going to ask out her sister, Bonds.  She’s a little young, but she’s hot.  I can’t wait till she matures.

Last Ditch Effort

July 31, 2009 at 11:33 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  My dreams should have more meaning.  Either that, or I should be better at interpreting them.  I had a dream last night about returning to standup comedy, but my material involved arranging slices of cheese on a tray.  Funny stuff, I know–but how well does that translate in the real world?
  Later I thought about the last episode of Buffy in season four entitled "Restless."  If you want to see an accurate portrayal of dreams in a TV show, that’s it.  And there was something about cheese slices in it, so I wonder if they’re connected somehow.

  Yesterday, my loan was in the final stages.  Today, it is complete.  More or less.
  Let’s relive the process in 1080p.  Quite a while back–no, actually further back–I got my house on CPW refinanced in my name only, part of the divorce.  Remember this constant, this will come into play in all the future dealings:  because of my credit.  BOMC.
  I got refinanced, but BOMC the big boss wanted me to refi within a year’s time…so that I would be off of a bank loan.  They wanted me in one they could sell, and be rid of me.  It made me feel…hmmm.  Not special.  What’s the opposite of special?
  That year was up earlier this spring.  I put it off, put it off, put it off.  No real reason, except following my motto:  Carpe Diem Cras.  "Seize the day.  Tomorrow."  But I was basically done moving from one house to the other, then the legality of the inspections, blah-blah-blah, so it was time.  First I went to Chris, the boss, with my idea and proposal.  He said, okay, let’s move forward with that.  I thanked him for not recommending time travel into the past.
  Bunny helped me out, but perhaps too much.  My loan evolved several times BOMC.  I thought it was good, but I actually had a late payment on my home equity, recently.  I didn’t intend to, it just sorta happened.  That blew the whole fucking thing.  I could no longer do FHA, not for another year.  What I had to accept was a 3-1 ARM.  This is not the best time to do this.  On the bright side, my interest rate will never go above 13 percent.
  Fuck me.
  I wanted some cash out for personal stuff, plus needed cash out for other things related to the loan–taxes, insurance, title fees, closing, et cetera.  My requests for money were incrementally shot down.  Eventually they "compromised" with me.  Meaning, they bent me over but agreed not to shove the *entire* Louisville Slugger up my ass.
  The final deal, henceforth called the Missouri Compromise, put my entire new house plus half interest in my old house up for hock for the loan.  In exchange, I get a brand new loan at a brand new higher interest rate, which pays off my old loan, the back taxes and so forth, and pays for a few things that THEY will cut the checks for, because, thanks to input from my best friend Bunny, I am deemed incompetent to handle my own money.
  I am a little pissed about it.  It’s one thing for them to limit the money they give me; they’re giving me the loan, that’s their right.  But the scant little money they are giving me I had to provide receipts and bills for–proof that I was actually going to spend the money on what I said I was going to spend the money on.  I don’t appreciate being treated like a child.
  I was put through the usual hurdles:  get me this document, that information, this piece of paper.  Are you now, or have you ever been–?
  Finally the day arrived.  Yesterday, that is.  The entire loan package was assembled, and a perk–since I’m a trusted employee–I got to take it home to read and sign everything.  Just bring it back this morning, and they will notarize the necessary things.  Obviously not exactly "legal" in the strictest sense of the word, but it’s all tender, since it’s only my name on the docs.
  I worked last night at Domino’s, and during our slow time, I read the file.  And got a shock.
  My payment is about 200 dollars more than the already high number that I had been prepared for.
  I read the entire thing, not signing.  I just want to understand what the hell is going on.  Calculator in hand, here we go.
  The long and short of it is, since I have BOTH homes on the loan in a cross collateral deal that would make the Treaty of Versailles cringe, taxes and insurance for both houses are escrowed.  Both.  Fuck.
  So, before I get bent out of shape, let’s examine the positives.  Uhm.  Hmm.  Well.
  Okay, in theory, it should only be for a year, until that late payment I had is over a year old, then I can refinance FHA.
  Unless I have another late, or unless I can’t refi FHA, or what if interest is so wildly out of control by then that 13 is actually a good rate?
  At least I don’t have to worry about the taxes and insurance on my sister’s house for a while.
  Because I’ll be paying them.  I now have incentive to help her get a better job, so she can pay me.  That’s her, and Alex, and Mike, and Brandon, and my sister.
  The house is finally in my name.  So, done with the stress, right?
  Right?

Useta

July 31, 2009 at 11:30 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  I useta have more teeth than I have now.
  I did have all of them at one time.  Thirty-two, in fact.  I even had my wisdom teeth.  But now, I’m down to 30.  I don’t really know that much about my bottoms except that I still have them, but my top wisdom teeth were tiny, ill-formed, little half-teeth.  I forget when I had the first one pulled, but I may have written about it.  This one on the left has been giving me problems for a while, and I could feel it with my tongue:  The jagged edges, the crevasses, and the scary looseness of part of it. 
  A few months ago I had a toothache, and it was pretty bad.  I brushed my teeth really good, paying special attention to the back there.  Finally, a piece of chicken came out.  I slept better that night.  Mostly, it doesn’t bother me.  Still, it was time to do something.  We came home from my reunion on Sunday, and by late afternoon my tooth was hurting pretty bad.
  Crap.  I’m going to have to take care of this.
  Detroit’s mum gave me a pain pill–old people have the best drugs.  I was able to sleep, and in the morning it didn’t hurt but it did feel swollen.  Odd.  I called my dentist’s office, and they could get me in that day.  Awesome.  Better than socialized medicine, that’s for sure.
  So I did put in about half a day, I think.  I sign in at the dentist office and only wait about 7 minutes before I get called in.  The assistant leads me to a chair, and the dentist comes in and has a look.  "Yep.  I think we can pull that.  Hold still for a second."  I thought he was still just poking around, but when he removed his hands, I see that he had given me the local anesthetic.  He leaves, and I wait.
  I review in my mind the Bill Cosby bit about going to the dentist that I had ironically seen just last night.  You don’t talk like that when your numb, or at least I don’t.  But I was numb way in the back.  Maybe if it’s closer the front, it’s different?  But why was my nose getting numb?
  The dentist came back after about 20 minutes.  "Numb yet?"  I said yes.  He grabbed a sharp stick and started poking it to make sure.  I bet if I wasn’t numb, that shit would have really hurt.  "Okay."
  He reaches in with both hands and some pliers.  Yank, toss.  Yank again, toss.  The tooth came out in two pieces.  The assistant put some gauze in my mouth and closed my jaw.  Done. 
  Yay.

I’m Never Going Back–

July 27, 2009 at 12:42 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  –To my old school–
  Yeah, the reunion was this past weekend.  Yeah.  Good stuff.
  There was a casual meet-and-greet at the golf course clubhouse in town Friday, but I couldn’t get off for work for that one.  Saturday was the dinner and what have you at the Legion Hall, and Sunday morning was a brunch at the Original Springs Hotel.  The golf course is on the edge of town and the Legion hall is in the middle, yet the town is small enough that if you are in the right place, you can see all three of these places at the same time.
  We rolled into town a little early because I wasn’t sure exactly where the Legion Hall was, although I was fairly certain that if I drove around a bit, I would stumble upon it–hey!  There it is!  We were a bit early; the first ones there, actually.  Another couple strode in right behind us:  Paul and his wife.  Paul was our valedictorian, and I don’t think he has appeared at any previous reunions.  His wife was Tanya, and she was nice as well–her and Detroit hit it off and chatted.  Paul seemed…different.  Better.  He looked the same.  However, his whole demeanor was that of a relaxed, well-adjusted adult.  In high school, he was one strung-out, stressed-out kid.  His dad had been the principal of the grade school and then became the superintendent of the school district.  All of his older brothers had been star athletes.  There was alot of pressure on him, I’m sure, to perform both academically and on the ball court.  I remember seeing his pens and pencils always chewed up.
  Other people started to arrive after our first round of drinks.  Melinda, who had been one of the organizers, and her husband Kevin.  Both had been in our class. Different cliques:  Melinda was a prep, and Kevin was a farmer.  On 90210 and other shows about high school, they try to show all the cliques but they never show the farmers.  Kevin was bald, and Melinda had spread in the ass.
  I don’t remember when everyone had arrived, so let’s just take them as I remember them.
  Norbert looked completely different.  He was a short, chunky kid.  Now he was a short, thin guy.  His wife was chunky.  I could see in her the potential to be a controlling bitch, but maybe I’m just giving her the benefit of the doubt.  I did ask her if Norby was the same as he was in high school.  "How so?"
  "We shared a common bond.  We were both horn-dogs."  She laughed and rolled her eyes, and said there had been no change.
  Carl had been a skinny red head, and now he was built like a weight-lifter.  With thin hair.  I did not recognize one Todd at all, but both Todd’s had hot wives.  Todd 1 married Trina, a girl that had been a year or two behind us.  I remember her and all of her sisters had just been smokin hot in hot school, destined to become strippers.  Todd 2 had a wife that was new to us.  She was pretty made up, almost plasticine.  I wondered how a pig farmer rated a chick like that.  Maybe without all of it she looked like Michael Jackson?
  Keith was there without his wife.  He lives in Texas now.  Keith and Paul were the ones who got this one started, I think.  They both seemed so mature and non-judgmental, which is kind of the opposite of how they were in school.  I mean, they were both jocks and brains, kings of the school looking down on us lesser mortals.  They still looked down on us, since Paul is six-five and Keith looked to be six-seven.
  Chuck was there with his wife, Sarah.  Sarah had been a year behind us, I think.  They have been together since high school.  While Chuck had been an outsider and new to us our senior year, Sarah came from an established family.  I wonder what kind of deal had been struck to approve that marriage.
  Kathy was there, and this time she had a husband.  I don’t think she was married at the last one.  I always liked her.  I swear, if I had known better, she would have been the one I would have had the crush on instead of these other chicks.  But hell–I liked them all.
  Mary Kay was there with her husband.  She looked much the same.  She is just sweet and wholesome and cute.  All-American girl.  I imagine she is a freak in the–never mind.
  Pam showed up with her husband.  When I saw Pam–not to mention Chuck and also another Paul, but especially Pam–I thought of the line Joan Cusack said in "Gross Point Blank."  She said of her own reunion, "It was just as though everyone had swollen."
  Pam had been the queen of the popular crowd, and went out with Dean for much of high school.  Dean was not her husband, this big guy that looked like–remember that Austin Powers movie, the first one?  The big Korean wrestler dude?  Pam’s husband looked like my cousin Kevin, after he had eaten the big Korean wrestler.  However, Pam *had* been married to Dean after high school, and they were married for ten years, and had two kids.  Where was Dean?
  Dean showed up.  Maybe there had been bad blood before, but they got along okay this night.  No bloodshed, anyway.  In high school Dean had most resembled Archie, from the comic books.  Pam had most resembled Veronica, but more spread in the ass.  Now, of course, Pam was more spread, all over, and looked like she had been in a fight in the spray-on tan booth with the guy that ate her husband.
  Dean was now balding, but had a ponytail.  He also had the kind of beard that says "homeless-drifter-potential-sociopath."  I wish I could pull off that look.  Dawn was there with her husband.  Imagine Tina Turner.  Imagine Tina Turner drunk and having a good time, and looking for an excuse to flash her boobs at somebody.  That’s Dawn.  Her husband or boyfriend or whatever looked alot like the actor John C Riley.  In other words, not handsome.
  Many of these people still live in the town, and many more of them live within 30 minutes in one direction or another.  Many that lived in town should have been there and weren’t but lived really close.  Two of my crushes, for one:  Paula and Debbie.
  Laurie showed to this one.  She was the same, but now I realize that she wasn’t nearly as interesting as she had seemed in high school.  Tits made her interesting.  Plus, she had always smelled good.  Her last name generally placed her right in front of me as well.  In class she always talked to me.  She needed a shoulder to cry on most of the time because of her boyfriend, Clint.
  Clint was in our grade, but we didn’t seem him much.  A delinquent and then a drop out, he was mysterious and cool.  James Dean with a little Sean Penn.  I had known him since we were young.  After high school, his dad had died in a car accident.  Driving drunk–common in this rural area–he wrapped his car around a tree.  It was on the single lane gravel road half a mile from their house, and Clint was the one to find him.
  About a year later, Clint died the same way.
  Laurie soon hooked up with Jimmmy.  He had actually made it through school, although just barely.  Him and his clan–bad seeds, the lot of them–I had never liked that much.  But at the reunion, Jimmy was quiet, just smiling and drinking his beer, dressed in a cowboy hat and boots, and looking 20 years older than the rest of us.  Seriously, if Willie Nelson got a haircut today, that’s Jimmy.  And how old is Willie?  I noticed he walked with a limp.  The phrase "peaked too early" comes to mind.
  I talked with Diane and Tammy.  Diane and her husband retired together from the military, and now worked for his family restaurant in Ohio.  Tammy was a nurse, but off work for almost a year after a series of misfortunes, starting with back surgery and including a fall from a retaining wall leading to a subderal hematoma.  I’m not casting aspersions, I’m just saying that Tammy’s aura screamed Bull Dyke.  But we had a nice chat.
  There was a guy named Ricky there.  I remember him.  I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me.  He was a weasely little kid.  Now he was a weasely little adult with beady eyes.  Kept looking at me out of the corner of his eye, too, like he didn’t trust me.  To summarize, I still don’t like him.
  Andy showed up, that was good.  We swapped a few stories.  He didn’t remember the fist fight we got into in 7th grade.  It was over in a matter of minutes, and we were okay after that.  Maybe that’s why he drew a blank.  But a warrior remembers all confrontations.
  Duane was there, with his wife.  She kept looking at me.  I think she wanted me.  I don’t think I’m wrong about that.
  Karl showed up, the guy I had emailed a few times and we were going to try to make a get-together last year.  He looks much the same.  He walks the same, I know that.  He walks on his toes, leaning forward.  I could show you.  And I got to see Karla, his twin sister.  We had never liked each other, for some reason.  I think she was just the bitter kind who didn’t like anyone, and someone who is engaging and naturally charming like be must have especially grated on her nerves.  That’s my theory.  She actually reminds me a bit of my sister, but I’m not sure why.  Karl’s sister may or may not be as loopy as mine.
  But we did talk and get along this day.  She married Chad, who had been a few years back behind us–probably freshman or 8th grade when we were seniors.  Chad came from one of the good families in town, but he had had some substance abuse problems and so forth.  He did seem a little ate up when I talked to him.  However, Karla fixed him and helped him, got him on the right track, blah blah blah.  Saved his life.I guess as part of his Chinese obligation he then felt he had to marry her.  Good for them.
  Chad had an older brother who was a year behind us, who I would have sworn was a candidate for Cocksmokers International.  However, Chad said his brother was a sound engineer for a large and famous Mega-church which I shall not name.  He could still be flaming.  Their dad had been one of my teachers.  Coach Bob taught woodshop and drafting and other industrial arts, and also coached the girls softball and volleyball.  That sounds like a good gig, if you ask me.

  Let’s see, have I missed anybody?  Probably.  Melinda works at the high school, so she had keys and got permission to take us on a tour of the school.  That was great.  It was the one thing I definitely wanted to do.  About 15 of us, I think, took the tour.  Some things were the same, obviously, and some things–even more obviously, perhaps–were different.  We went from room to room and waxed nostalgic until the floors were slick, and then moved on.  Almost done with tour, Melinda took a question and informed us all that yes, most of this would be demolished after a whole new school would be built on the other side of the gym.  They would keep the gym, and rebuild the rest.  So the new part of the school, which was probably built in the fifties–that was going.  But the old part, the old, historic part that was probably built in the early 1900s was going to be demolished as well.  So timing is everything, I suppose.  We got our one last chance to see it all again.  And smell it all, too.  For some reason, it smelled so familiar, even though everything looked smaller.  

  The next morning, only a few showed up for breakfast.  That’s okay; I’d had enough of most of them anyway.  The good thing about many of them is that at least they *know* they aren’t interesting.  "How ya been, whatcha been doin, whatcha up to, tell me-tell me."  And they would respond, "Working, raising kids, that’s about it."  Well you must just be one fucking exciting roll in the hay, sweetheart.  I mean, I don’t have much going on, but I had plenty to say and I tried to be entertaining about it.  I did tell a few that I had done some standup (in the past.)  They offered to give the mike and a few minutes.
  I had thought about this beforehand, so I was prepared.  "It’s not a good idea.  Most of my material is completely inappropriate.  You don’t want me to do it, trust me."  Just in casual conversation, we were talking about coffee, and I said, I like my coffee like I like my women–" and before I could finish, Detroit, God Bless Her, put her hand over my mouth to stop me.  That was probably funnier than any line I could come up with.
  But back to that morning.  Uh, quiet.  Karl, Karla, Chad, Andy, Kathy, and then Paul and his family.  I noticed a popular theme, that all of these people were good, honest, church-goin folk.  Even in from out of town, they made time to go to their old hometown church.  As we sat on the wrap around porch of the old hotel, a teenager on the sidewalk said, "Excuse me, did one of you drop a money clip?"  
  I quickly patted my pocket.  I said, "Pabst Blue Ribbon?" because that was the logo on mine.  He returned it, full of what money was left from last night’s drinking at the Legion Hall.
  Tell me, just tell me–and do it with a straight face–that that would have happened in the city.

Gross Pointe Blank

July 25, 2009 at 3:40 AM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
  Out of nowhere, I got a call from my nephew, who lives in the town I used to live in.  Someone from my past stopped by his house, trying to contact me.  Why?  It’s high school reunion time. 
  Wow, so it’s that time again.  Hmmm.  After all these years.  How many years?  Well, when did I graduate?  1983.  That means that this year is the magic 26th year reunion.  Twenty-six, you say.  Why not twenty-five, you say.  Well, there was no 25, because the pathetic losers on the planning committee couldn’t get their shit together in time to have one.
  I sure would like to know who those assholes were.  Who the *OTHER* assholes were, I mean.  I know who one of them was.  Me.  Oh, Lord.  I mean, how did I go from being on the planning committee to being lost at sea and difficult to find?  I called back to RSVP, and find out what kind of crow was being served for dinner.
  You see, I’m sure hoping they forgot, but at the 15 I volunteered to throw the next reunion together.  If we had a twenty, I sure wasn’t invited–and it is entirely possible that we had one…
  I did find some one from my class about two years ago, and emailed a few times, with talk of getting a reunion together.  That never came to fruition.
  I have since learned my limitations.  I want to be everywhere and do everything and be involved in all the wonder and glory, et cetera.  Christ, what a mess.  Sometimes you have to know when to keep your head down and your mouth shut.  That’s the big lesson I’ve learned 26 years after high school.
  Well, we’re going.  Detroit and I.  At least I have a shiny new divorce and a shiny new girlfriend to show off at the thing.  Hopefully, one of the girls arranging it will be able to pull off bringing us to the high school to have a look around; she actually works there as the school nurse.  I’ll get some pictures, to give you a better understanding and frame of reference when I explain my nightmares.
  The shindig is a three-day event, but I can only make two.  I’m working Friday night, the night of the casual gathering at the golf course clubhouse.  Saturday night is the dinner thing at the VFW hall.  Actually, I’m not sure where it is, but I figure if I drive around town long enough, I’ll find it.  Sunday morning is a brunch at the hotel that I couldn’t book a room at because they were full because of the Trap Shooting National Championship.
  At least the dinner is casual dress.  But not, I believe, camo.

But Not At Any Cost

July 15, 2009 at 10:08 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  I’ve been working with these two chicks from our in-house title company.  We were really, really busy, and so they got scanners to help get caught up.  Now, of course, we’re caught up.  So all the work that SHOULD be mine they are getting their goddamn hands on first.  But never mind that.
  I’ve helped them set up their scanners, taught them how to scan, and done troubleshooting when they have a problem.  And then, also, once a week we have been getting together to prep the stuff to shred.  It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, but the point is that we get together in a back storage room and work through these tubs, and it takes all three of us about an hour.  Today was the second time doing it.
  Look, they’re nice enough, I suppose.  Beth is in her mid-fifties, and if my guess is right she’s never been married.  She is short, and fat, and round, and has difficulty walking.  I saw a picture on her desk in a frame, and it was of a cat.  That will pretty much tell you everything you need to know.
  Sandy is about my age, not wearing a wedding ring either.  Maybe she was married, because today is her 26 year old daughter’s birthday.  She is quiet and keeps her head down.  Probably because she’s ugly.  F-u-G-L-Y.  A two-bagger.  Too ugly to suck my dick.  Like jumping out of a plane:  I don’t care HOW MUCH I’m enjoying it, I’m not looking down.
  They’re both just quiet.  Detroit says she can look at me when I’m quiet and tell I’m thinking–usually true.  You can look at these two when they are quiet and just kind of wonder if the dimmer switch is on.
  So I’m sitting there with these two eligible single ladies, working.  I actually do most of the talking.  I know I’m a talker, and you know that I’m a talker, and I know that you know that I’m a talker, and you know that I know that you know that I’m a talker, but still–you’d think that since they were chicks they would be naturally inclined to flap their gums.
  I tried to ask questions, I tried to tell stories, I tried to be entertaining–it kind of fell flat.  These are not engaging personalities.  These are not personalities of any sort.
  The moral of the story is, I love Detroit not only for the sex and so forth, but also because she has a personality and is interesting, and not just a pretty face.
  I just said before that I don’t want to be alone.  Now these two people, they probably are.  Maybe they want to be, or maybe it’s Hobson’s choice.  Nonetheless I imagine they are more well adapted to it than I am.  It probably helps that they don’t think all the time.

I Don’t Want To Be Alone Any More

July 15, 2009 at 10:07 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  That’s another song from Glass Houses, the second side.
  What a sad, pathetic time I’ve had this last week.  I remember when I first split up with my ex, my friend Bunny urged me that I should live by myself for a while, discover *me*, and crap like that.
  It’s not that I’m not independent; I am.  But I like to be with someone.  I experienced alone for about two months two years ago when I was living with my dad and my sister.  And–so that wasn’t even "alone" in the traditional sense, but it was enough.  It was kind of a flashback to high school because I wasn’t getting laid then, either.
  Earlier this year Detroit stayed in Florida for about a week, and that was a hard time for me, but I didn’t analyze it I guess.  I can’t explain it, except I miss her.  I know the boys are here so I’m not really alone.  But I don’t see them much and I don’t like all of them anyway.  I’ve actually gone several days without seeing anyone.
  Of course, the stress of the loan process that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen does not help, either.
  And I’m less jealous of whatever the hell she may have been doing up there.  Her friend that she took a day trip to go see–the guy–is actually an older guy.  He is now 61.  I had forgotten.  That doesn’t mean that he still can’t, and it doesn’t mean they didn’t, years ago.  He has an eight year old daughter with a younger woman that he is no longer with.  But I’m eventually going to have to let it go.  I still want to know, more out of a morbid curiousity than anything else.  Maybe she has doubts whenever I go see my ex.
  Which is funny to me, because Christ, that’s the last person I’d want to fuck around on her with, for a few reasons.  I’ll start with number two if that’s all right with you.
  2.  Fear that she would use it as blackmail to split Detroit and I up.
  1.  Seriously, she would bite it off.  OFF.  There goes my Johnson.  I do not want Detroit to find out by watching the news and seeing the police doing a search for it with dogs, spotlights, and magnifying glasses.  Embarrassing.  How–how do you explain to your fiance that your ex-wife bit off your dick?  How?  "It was an accident."  "I wasn’t paying attention, I was watching TV."  "She offered."  None of this shit would fly.
  3.  I’ve already been there.  If I’m going to do it, I’m going to find someone new.  Someone young, and hot, and possibly Asian.  Or South American.   Someone who doesn’t speak English very well, because I need all the advantage I can get.
  But my point is, I avoid her (the ex), not because I think something could happen, but because I stil don’t like her and I’m still a little afraid of her.  I try to go up and see my daughter on a Sunday, because I know that’s a day the ex usually works.  She is, after all, The Storm.  And I’d rather be alone than be with her.
 
  Now, much of this is moot because she is flying home today.  I mean, unless she changes her mind and decides to stay.  Like my fear when we first met her ex husband, much of it is unfounded.  Doubts don’t have to be rational, especially about the fragility of love.  My whole point in writing this and the other thing is…
  Well, what is my point?  I guess my point is that even with a great love, like our love, if you’re honest there is always fear and doubt.  Even if it’s just a little, tiny bit.  That little bit should help keep you honest, and keep you from taking the other person for granted.  Go not complacently into the night–
  Fear of loss makes you work harder not to lose it.
  Last night I didn’t even go down to the computer.  Stress from all angles coming it at me.  And I still have some bills to pay, but I didn’t feel like doing it.  I watched TV, cooked dinner, ate, watched a movie, and went to bed, where I had another fitful, restless night.  I don’t think I need her to be in bed for me to sleep, but I need her to be here.  I need her.
  If she dies before me, I’m going to have to get another one.

One Lucky Break

July 15, 2009 at 10:06 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  In the middle of all of my other troubles, I had one lucky break.
  I got a bunch of tickets–but that wasn’t the lucky part.
  Let’s see, how many did I get?  Maybe back in March, did I get one?  City of Hazelwood, on the Mercedes, for improper plates.
  May, Alex got one on Fred, because the plates were expired.
  June, we got one on Fred for sitting in front of the house with expired plates.
  Also in June, I got two more tickets on the Mercedes, improper plates and no proof of insurance.  He acted like he was doing me a favor.
  Yeah, all of these tickets, that’s my good luck.  Shut up.  The first one was 75 bucks, the second two were 65 and 100.  I was prepared to pay the last two from the city of Creve Couer when I got a letter in the mail.  I had missed the court date.  My bad.  They were going to give me a second chance, and a new court date.
  Well, that was mighty white of them, considering the original tickets didn’t have a court date on them to begin with, your just supposed to call.  I think they do that shit on purpose, so you end up having to pay more.
  I had mentioned the tickets to Mike, and he said he was good friends with a prosecuting attorney for the county.  I didn’t see how that could help–they were non-moving violations, I was still going to have to cough up some dough.
  Well, the other night at Domino’s, Mike said a friend of his needed some pizzas.  For free, obviously.  Not a problem.  We whip out two extra large pies for his friend.  When he shows up, I discover that it is his attorney friend.  Mike must have mentioned the tickets to him, because he asked me about them. 
  I explained the bogus deal behind them, and the missed court date.  "Do you have them with you?"  As a matter of fact I do, in my man-sac.  I gave him the tickets, and he wrote my phone number on them.  He said, "I’ll take care of this.  It’s no problem.  Worst case, you may have to pay court costs since you missed the date.  Twenty-four bucks."
  That is fucking awesome.  Even if it’s 24 bucks each, that’s still less than what one of the tickets would have been by itself.  Mike has some pretty goddamn cool friends.
  It made me think, and I may have said this before–what product and/or service do I have to offer, that may be of use to these people that have helped me out?

  Oh, yeah–pizza.

Of Course

July 15, 2009 at 10:05 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  Of course I’m fucking upset.
  First they do a drive-by appraisal of my old house, which was worth 90 thousand dollars.  Yeah, it’s 77k now.  The guy came over to my house on SKylark Saturday for a walk-through appraisal, and I just got the results today.
  Under normal circumstances, Skylark would be worth 130, maybe 140.  It appraised at 98 thousand.  Ninety-mother-fucking-eight-goddamn thousand.  Fuck me.
  You know what the point is, if you’ve been paying attention.  I’m trying to refinance this loan, plus get cash out.  The loan is 72k, and with the *initial* cash out plan it would have been 90k.  And that is a concession, not giving me the complete cash-out amount that I need.
  Since I work here–or maybe because of my credit AND because I work here–they only want to do a 65% LTV.  I thought that was okay when I thought the house was worth more.  Christ.  Well, that’s the whole reason they wanted to do the cross-collateral.  In other words, they want a lien on the other house as well.  That means I need to have it in both my name and my sister’s name.  So half the value of CPW plus the full value of Skylark times 65 percent is not quite the loan amount.  I’m not even sure they meant for it to be that way, so close to the edge.  If I don’t get the cash out to pay for the things I need to fucking pay for, then what the fucking fuck-shit is the fucking point, dammit?  Fuck, fuck, fuck.
  I sure hope I’m not the only one to get fucked in this market.  I’d hate to be alone in this.

Sleeping With The Television On

July 14, 2009 at 1:35 AM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
  That’s a song by Billy Joel.  It’s on the Glass Houses album, the second side if your into vinyl.
  My sweetheart is out of town, in Michigan.  I’m free to do pretty much whatever I want; however, there’s not much I want to do without her.  I hope I get the grass cut before she gets home, although that was technically assigned to the boys.  We have a good excuse:  we had a lot of rain here.
  But I had other things I wanted to get done, and I felt listless–rudderless, even–and very unmotivated.  I did get caught up on my laying on the couch, however.  I’ve had a hard time with sleeping.  It’s usually not a problem.
  And it’s not even much to do with the fact that Detroit is going to see a friend of hers–a male friend–alone.  A friend of which I should have been paying more attention to the details of their relationship when she explained them to me.  Did they, or did they not, "date"?  Did they, or did they not, have sex?  Should I, or should I not, be concerned?
  It’s not that I don’t trust her–I do.  Mostly.  But she may not trust me, simply because I talk alot of smack.  Of course there’s alot of women I *WANT* to have sex with, but even after you eliminate the 99.999% of them that don’t reciprocate those feelings, in the world there exist a number of women who may or may not be willing to fuck me, and normally that thought would excite me.  Detroit may believe I am actively engaged in seeking them out.  I’m not, but how is she to know?  I mean, first of all, I’m chicken.  I want to get to know someone first, to kind of prepare them for seeing me naked.  Secondly, I have alot of residual guilt from the whole ex-wife thing…and I didn’t even like her anymore.  How could I perform if I was cheating on someone I actually still love?  She bears a–hmm.  Not a disdain, but a mis-appreciation of my religious beliefs.  Little does she realize that it is only those beliefs–and my looks–that keep me from fucking every chick I see.
  Nonetheless, I like to look at women, and she knows, and I have an active imagination, and she understands, and I talk alot of shit, and she tolerates it.  Usually.
  And so, if she believes me to be less than trustworthy, what would keep her from rationalizing it this way:  "If he’s gonna, I’m gonna."  Yeah, I said "gonna."
  And there could be other things, too.  Unhappiness with me, her history of being fickle as all hell, or a rekindling of an old flame or maybe feeling sorry for the guy.  She could have a fling, and I would never know.  Hell, what if she decided to stay up there, and leave me with her kids? 
  At two am, as I lay on my back staring straight up into the darkness, these thoughts overpower me, and keep me from sleeping.  Logic doesn’t have much to do with it.  This is the worst case scenario faery come to visit, and yank at my teeth.
  *And if she does screw around on me, boy, is she going to owe me–*
  Which yet another reason why I haven’t done it to her, because I don’t want to owe her like that.  Oh, yeah, and also because I love her.  That too.

  It’s not just that, but also not having her here to kind of keep me grounded.  I need a little motivation, a little reminder sometimes, of what I want to accomplish.  But I have so much going on I get distracted, and then I just flap in the breeze like a pair of long underwear hanging on the clothesline.  The kind with the butt-flap.  I have so much going on and so much to do that I didn’t do any of it, and then I lie awake at night worrying about the shit I didn’t do because I was tired and because I couldn’t get any sleep because I was awake half the night worrying about the shit I didn’t do.
  I’m in the middle of the last phase of this whole house-switching deal, and while the bank is working on that there is also a handful of little things related to it that I have to do, as well as all kinds of little repairs around the house I want to  make, need to make.  And all my little home-improvement projects.  And stuff to the cars, too.  They all need oil changes, and I need to work on the truck to give it to my son.
  And then there is that, the relationship with my kids.  I should have gone to see my daughter Sunday, but I was just beat.  I didn’t wake up until 130 because I closed the night before.  I woke up with a headache.  I ate, I watched a movie, and then I laid down again about 5, and woke up again at 830.  Repeat:  I ate, watched a movie, and then went to bed about midnight.  I don’t know when I fell asleep, but I remember seeing 230 on the clock before I did.
  And as always, there is stress from work.  The nature of the business I’m in puts me in close rapport with the market, which is even scarier, and it makes me fear for my job security.  Plus, what the hell is going to happen to interest rates?
  Sometimes I feel like things are on the verge of falling apart, everywhere, and I’ll be left to pick up the pieces.  Everyone leaves, my job(s) change or disappear, and I’m left standing in the rubble alone with a house I can’t afford but nevertheless have to pay for, and here come the barbarian hordes, crashing at the gate.  My cars won’t run, and I have no one to turn to for help.  I’m starving, and I’ve taken to trapping rabbits in the neighborhood for food.  At night, under cover of darkness, I run a hose to my neighbor’s house for water.  During the day, I sell flowers and contraband on the corner.  I speak in some Slavic accent, and I have a hump on my back, and walk with the limp.
  And for some reason, it’s always raining.  When it’s not raining, the sky is overcast and grey…

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