Day 20

A journey to the edge of hell to meet the three little pigs that live there . . .

Addiction is a painful thing to watch.  Heroin addicts call it "getting well".  It's that first dose that must be taken first thing in the morning, just to feel normal again.  That first hit provides no high at all and inevitably leads to a second.  The DT's had become just too much to bear for my youngest.  The dark cloud of his hotdog addiction hanging over his head like a growing typhoon.  Just a "taste" he promised.  What harm could just one hotdog do?  Unfortunately he didn't stop there.  One hotdog lead to two and before long he had overdosed.  It was touch and go for while and I was uncertain whether he would ever come out of the coma, but it looks as though he may have survived this set back.  I beg him to attend his meetings and follow the 12 step program, but he insists he doesn't have a problem.  You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink.  Ultimately, he is going to have to decide to do this for himself.  No amount of persuasion on my end is going to help.  He has to want this for himself.  The best I can offer him is my support in the hopes that tomorrow brings a better day.

Living alone with two young men brings with it a certain bit of enlightenment.  First, I have to give a tremendous amount of credit to all single parents around the world, roughing out an existance in an attempt to raise their children into upstanding members of society.  It is a lonely and thankless road that is full of obstacles that would cripple most mortal men.  I only man this post temporarily and with the knowledge that sooner or later, the second parent will appear and carry their share of the load.  For some, this is not the case and I feel for the imprisonment that they must face each and everyday, with the knowledge that there is not repreive on the horizon . . . there will be no parole.

The second thing I have learned from my life with these gents is that men are pigs.  That's right ladies, i said it.  These children are absolute dirt magnets and despite their mother's best efforts, their manners still leave much to be desired.  Where do they get it from?  Me of course.  You see, it is hardwired into the male DNA to think farting is funny and that burpring is acceptable dinner conversation.  I apologize to each and every one of you women out there that have to deal with this sort of behavior on a daily basis.  It's not fair, but it is not our fault.  It is the way God made us and you can't change it any more than you can remove the stripes from a Zebra.  So, a big "thank you" goes out on behalf of us all for the patience the fairer sex shows in allowing us to remain in their homes and in their lives.  We might be better off grouped together in a smelly colony somewhere.  A place where you could visit but didn't have to stay.  A place where you could just sort of check us out like a library book and return us when you were done.  I do believe that my wife's only savior is a heavy travel schedule that she can lean on when she needs a break from this bleak reality.

The day has been spent up to my elbows in paint.  The task is nearing completion and not a moment too soon as we just received word that our items have made it safely to port and are set for delivery next week.  Exciting times indeed.  Laundry however, is going to be an issue.  I drug the dog and a heavy load of wash over to the new house with me this morning, unfortunately only one of those items returned with me to the hotel.  The washers and dryers here are incredibly small.  Just enough room for a tee shirt, a pair of underpants and one tube sock.  I now see why folks recycle their clothing so often here.  It's funny how your perspective can change so quickly.  Necessity has a way of leveling the playing field.  To tell you the honest truth, as long as the clothes don't stink, I don't see anything wrong with wearing the same clothes two or three days in a row.  Adulthood makes us judgmental.  Back home we would see someone wearing the same clothes for more than one day and would assume a defect in their personality or some lack of affection for hygene.  Children don't have the same preconceived notions about the world.   Charlie Brown never changed his clothes.  Ever seen an episode of Scooby Doo where Shaggy wasn't wearing the same jazzy green shirt and brown pants?  Ok, bad example . . . freakin hippy.

Either way, as the laundry piles up, the wardrobe we rely on will inevitably become smaller and smaller.  It's actually better this way.  The clothes that most wear here are very nice indeed.  They cost a fortune and are of as fine a quality as you will find anywhere in the world.   So, there is no need to have alot of them as they don't wear out easily.  The key here is to accessorize.  Same shirt, just put a sweater over it now and again . . . or pair that same pair of blue jeans with a pair of sneakers and a rockin belt instead of dress shoes and a blazer.  Indeed our styles will change . . . they will have too, or I will be chained to our tiny washer and dryer for the rest of eternity.

My time spent over at our new house brought about some other revelations I would like to share.  First off, this janitorial key ring I am inexplicably now tied to.  I realize now why the damned thing weighs so much.  Every door and window in the place has a separate key.  These aren't keys to the outside of the home, but rather keys to lock your self in from the inside.  What an absolute nightmare.  Checking all the doors in this son of a bitch will take all night.  Better start early.  It would seem that a great deal of the security in the home depends on the functional shutters on every door and window in the home.  When she is shut down, it feels alittle like a safe house circa the 1950s.  Some of the doors are even equiped with much more modern and fully automated metal security doors like you find at the mall.  These crazy kids love their contraptions.  During my rounds I also had the fortune of meeting our postman.  The door bell rang and I nearly pissed my pants.  Some melodic baroque number plays when the door bell rings.  Thought I was hearing things and that the place was certainly haunted.

Quickly fumbling through the keys in my pocket for the right one to unlock myself from the inside of my home, I greeted the postman kindly at our front gate.  A nice young man.  Traditional post man uniform.  No mail bag, just a heavily cargoed yellow bicycle.  The thing looked so damned heavy, I wondered how he even kept it upright.  These people love their bikes.  As an aside and a continuation of my comments from yesterday, the postman isn't the only working adult that uses a bicycle as their work vehicle.  There are taxi cab bicycles, delivery bicycles, hell there are even bicycles for your bicycle.  It is a wild world that I look forward to becoming more familiar with and I will do my best to pass along my education as it becomes available.  With the postman gone, it was time to wrap things up at the house for the day.  The dryer would have to continue to cycle until late this evening.  I knew I shouldn't have put that second tube sock in there.

Back in the car it was time to do my usual dance through the city, running children to and from school like a red bull infused rally car driver.  Had another voicemail upon my return.  Still don't understand the guy on the other end.  I did get enough of a translation to understand that my voicemail is a voice recognition system . . . GREAT, like I don't have enough problems.  So, rather than pushing a button to hear you message, you have to tell the system (in French of course) what your menu selection is.  Curse you Rosetta Stone and your inability to teach anything remotely functional.  With messages unretrieved and a sore back from a days worth of toil, I will see you all tomorrow.  Until then . . . Cheers.

PS:  Day old cheesburger eaten by pooch = explosive diareha all over hotel rug . . . STUPID DOG.