A Hooker’s Vagina: Promises of the past haunt the realities of the present

It has been more than a month of Sundays since last we spoke and like all things in our lives at present, the blog is in a state of flux. Giving you my best Forest Gump, it must be said that MY momma always said, “Life is like a Hookers Vagina . . . you never know what you gonna get”. These days, it seems like I am living my life in halves. I am sitting on a collection of half-written blog posts about half-witted ideas, written in such a half-hearted manner that I am embarrassed to call them my own. As I sit here staring at a half-eaten sandwich, I wonder where it all went wrong. About half the time, I am half as good as I once was. It could be age, it could be stress, it could be I just don’t give a fuck any more. I have grown weary of the recurrent theme littering the landscape of the last several posts. I make well intentioned vows to continue my work on this project only to let weeks go by without a single written word. Well, no more my friends. No more half-measures driven by half-truths. It’s time to go all in. It is time to really let you in on the World According to Jack. I will no longer be witty, I will no longer be kind. I intend to continue this on my own terms and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I am taking the phone off the hook and firing the editorial staff. It is time to get real. This may end up being more Richard Pryor than Captain Kangaroo, but who gives a shit anyway. It isn’t like anyone actually reads this crap. Except of course my wife who knows me well enough by now that it was really only a matter of time before I went completely off the deep end.

This is going to continue as sort of continuous rant about my day to day travels through life with no script or necessary theme. It will consist of whatever comes to mind and will be written at odd hours. There may be posts of single phrases or thoughts, or lengthy dissertations about nothing at all. I guess it could be said that I am simply “Twitterizing” this bitch, so get ready for a bunch of non-sense wrapped up in sentence fragments. What can I say, it’s the new me baby! So, without further adieu, let’s get started. At present, the wife is working, the kids are learning, and I . . . well, I am sitting . . . yeah, mostly sitting. Sedentary is my state and to be honest it isn’t all that bad. Oh, I guess I get the house work done and the kids picked up and an occasional job application out the door, but really what I am doing most is sitting. Boredom has set in. Life, though horribly busy, feels stagnant. Could it REALLY be just a long shuffle to the grave from here? That thought made me cringe, so I decided to do something stupid, which as you know is often my way. Since the kids won’t miss my cooking and the wife . . . well the wife can fold her own damned socks, I am setting myself to the task of running a marathon. Not just any marathon, but an “Ultra-Marathon”. Why “Ultra-Marathon” you ask? Cause it just fucking sounds better, OK? Geez. I plan on running a local Marathon in October, then continuing to train for the “Ultra”. Don’t know what an “Ultra” marathon is? Technically speaking, it is any distance over the standard Marathon distance of 26 miles and 385 yards. The most common are 50K (round about 31 miles), 50 miles, and 100. I am crazy, but not clinically so, so the 100 is out. Since 31 miles is hardly worth the additional effort, I have settled on the 50 miler.

Why the hell would anyone want to do that you ask? Cause they don’t have better shit to do with their lives, that’s why. Since nobody seems to want to hire a middle aged stay at home dad who has been out of the workforce for two years, I may as well spend the extra time running. It is that or masturbate, and frankly I’m too bored to masturbate. Yes, it is a stupid thing to say one is bored when they are in the process of re-patriating, building a new house, shuttling youngsters to a growing laundry list of sporting activities all while trying to find a new career and keeping the rental estate somewhere on this side of squalorous. And no, I don’t think “squalorous” is a real word, so put your fucking dictionary down. I think you get the point. The bottom line is, the one true affliction I picked up while in France is a pathological need for adventure. Truth be told, I have always had it, it has just gotten more defined. So, there it is . . . The Ultra Marathon. Check.

Personal accomplishment and goals out of the way, let me catch you up a bit on family life. The boys are growing at a steady rate. The eldest is reveling in his pre-pubescent glory with all that entails. There seems a steady stream of girls texting him at inappropriate hours which demands more of his attention than it deserves. Why they have such interest in this dude is beyond me. His temperament has turned a bit to the sullen and moody and to be honest, he is generally a slob. How disgusting must the other boys at school be that my eldest is garnering so much attention from the opposite sex? I shudder to think. Piss poor attitude and general malaise aside, I guess he is a pretty thing. Arm candy for the status seeking female. Takes after the old man (wink wink). I would have argued that the interest comes from that element of mystery that the “new” kid always carries which is only intensified given the fact that he is not REALLY the new kid and he comes to them by way of France. Oooh la la! No, the newness has worn off and it seems to be something else. Something his time in France helped concrete, but ultimately something his parents have demanded of him . . . Self-respect. Paired with a dump truck load of self-confidence and you can see the attraction. It was actually pointed out that he is the only boy in his class that takes care of his appearance. He cares about what he wears and styles his infamous locks to perfection EVERY time he leaves the house. So, in the end, it would seem that he will be a real ladies man or completely gay. Either way, I think he will carry it off with a class and refinement that only he can muster.

The “Butler Swagger” has not been lost on the youngest. Perhaps three fold more confident than his already uncomfortably cocky older brother, my youngest can absolutely steal a room. Moxy . . . that’s what this kid has . . . Moxy. Keeping in mind that this kid is only 5 years old, it was only yesterday that the door bell rang, and when I answered, before me stood a gaggle . . . yes, a gaggle of girls of an age proximate to my eldest. I turned to call for him at which point these young ladies announced that they were seeking my youngest. Now, I don’t know what this kid has been doing while I wasn’t looking, but I have never seen any of these girls before and haven’t the slightest clue how they know my young son. Be that as it may, I summoned him and out he went. Not wanting to be a real “cock block” and cramp his style, I simply watched the events unfold from the kitchen window. They played in the street and sort of lavished him with attention. Soon enough, he pulled a page from the “Players Handbook” and came back to the house looking for a wingman. Before long, both of my boys were outside trying to out charm each. Apparently the youngest won the battle if not the war, because in parting, the eldest of these girls made a “second date” with the youngest. If I had hair, it will be grey by now.

Speaking of hair, as most of you know, I have given up on the idea that the troops might return to the field of battle. The front line has broken and the soldiers are in full retreat, so I did what any self-respecting man should when face with this defeat . . . I began shaving my head in earnest . . . like, with a razor. The comb over is an abomination, and clinging to the halo that rides just above the ears is more decoration than hair. That being said, one would think that making such a switch would be freeing. Nothing could be further from the truth. True, I no longer need a brush or any exotic hair treatments, but now I spend more time shaving that I do sleeping. Holy shit this is a lot of work. Unfortunately, I am not sure the wife is completely on board with being married to Mr. Clean. From the outside, it doesn’t appear there has been a big change. I “clippered” my hair so short to start with that it looked bald all along. At this point however is really a bit of a texture issue. You know how some people don’t like sushi? Not because of the taste, but because of the slimy texture in their mouth? Seems the same applies to my scalp. Since the wife is the only person in my life that would have occasion to cling to the back of my head (giggle, giggle), her assessment of its “creapy” texture has been duly noted. Be that as it may, the look is here to stay and I had really better wrap this post up soon, because it is about time to shave . . . AGAIN.

As for the wife and I, life is busy with the realities of house building. Every day we are faced with a burning in the pit of our bellies that can only come from trying to wrangle a budget for this money pit that wouldn’t make Donald Trump gag. In addition to the mounting cost of every bell and whistle that we simply can’t live without, there is the small matter of the sheer volume of decisions that must be deliberated and ultimately made in a fairly timely manner. This process is not for the obsessive-compulsive. Killing yourself over the color of a fucking door hinge will lead to a padded cell or at the very least a build that will take YEARS to complete. Nope, you have to love it and leave it at some point. Pull the trigger and move along. And even though the wife and I are as decisive a pair as you will ever meet, the minutia is starting to wear us out. The color and style one can choose from for something as simple as the knob on your toilet is dizzying and every such box must be reviewed and checked off in a never ending buffet of decision making. Someday I will be emotionally ready to go into further detail, but right now, I think we can call it quits since we are at a nice place to segue into a pre-written post that is want for publishing. That and I really need to get back to my daily ritual of sitting around with my thumb up my ass while the dishwasher and washing machine gurgle and pop in a two part rhythm of domestic plenitude. If I set them for a second rinse cycle, maybe . . . just maybe, I will have time to shave . . . AGAIN. See you next time. R.