Kick in the ass

This is my new best friend. The boot I have to wear for the next three to six weeks. Seems the small fracture in my second metacarpal or metatarsal bone in my foot didn’t heal the last time I did this. But that’s not the kick in the ass.

The kick in the ass, and might I say the above boot will do rather nicely, is whenever we set out to help someone, to be nice, to take in someone less fortunate, it comes back to kick you in the ass.

Today’s kick in the ass…and I have to say this has been going on for weeks now, but it all came to head today. Some back story, ‘cause everyone loves a back story….

Three weeks ago we decided we should take in a roommate to make it through this minor economic hiccup (rhymes with fuck up). We found two people that fit our criteria…had some money and needy. I have to admit that we seem addicted to taking in strays. One was a pregnant homeless girl the other was a transvestite looking for a safe place to live. We picked the pregnant girl, she seemed the most dire. Besides, I don’t like hanging around men that know more about make-up and where to buy high heels than I do. Since I know nothing about make-up, that covers just about anyone who wears eye liner!

So the pregnant girl, (did I mention she was nine months pregnant?) asks if her boyfriend can come along to meet us. Sure, fine. That’s a good idea. I don’t think I’d want to move out into the woods with people crazy enough to take my pregnant ass in…so great, let the boyfriend, not the baby’s father, come along. Long story short he asks if he can join her. Promises to pay the rent, wants to be there for her and the baby, even if it’s not his kid. Cool.
Seven days go by, in which money gets stolen from my wallet and Mike puts a lock on my office door. Can’t prove anything, so we let it slide…very grudgingly. He, shall we call him Asshead, says he’s going to pick up his check from his old girlfriends house. Asshead’s gone for four days. The old girl friend calls and say she kicked him out because Asshead just beat the shit out of her. The pregnant girl takes him back. We tell her if she leaves with Asshead she can’t come back. Fine. She leaves.
She calls today to ask if she can get her stuff. Did I forget to tell say that she left with nothing more than the clothes on her back and a small duffle? Mike packs all her stuff and makes arrangements for her to come get her stuff…with Asshead. Mike says he’ll put all her stuff out on the stairs and she can just take it. They come. She loads the car and when she gets everything in the car. Asshead drives away. Drives away. She’s standing on the porch as he drives away with all her stuff. All the baby’s stuff. As Asshead is leave he’s send Mike a text message “Tell @#@@ that I’m taking her shit and leaving. I’ve been planning this all day. You’ve got my shit I’m keeping hers.” Mike was keeping his stuff in lieu of the rent he owns.
The police were called. Asshead was willing to come back to get his stuff as long as the police were here to “protect” him. In the mean time the police ran his name and confirmed what we’d found out from the old girlfriend. Asshead was a violent sex offender who had not registered the last two places he lived and he was NOT to be in the house ANY children under the age of five! WHAT THE FUCK!
What have we done? How could we let this man into our home, with our child? He was never alone with her, Thank God.
He was arrested. Hopefully to be in jail for a long time.
And where was I when all this was going on? At the doctor, getting this boot that I will now kick myself in the ass with, once I’m done kicking Mike’s ass!

Perfect Peace

If only there was some way to bring back all the goodness of childhood, all the security you feel when you're safe and warm full of the knowledge the you are the center of the universe.

There is one thing that brings me back to that. Brings me back to that one safe place, back to my grandparent's kitchen, late on a Saturday night. The only light is above the kitchen sink and the small flame on the front burner of the white enamel stove. The pop, pop, pop, echoing in the small space I share with Papa. Once the butter is melted, the popcorn coated and slightly salted our fingers mingle seeking the perfect piece.

Now Mike makes me the same kind of popcorn, shaken on the stove, coated with butter and now with parmasian cheese. While my fingers are butter-coated, I'm in Papa's lap, safe. The center of the universe, the perfect peace.

Chicken missing in time

I know what you’re wondering? What is? Have the chickens arrived and already flown the coop? Are they really going to keep the chicks in the house? Won’t the beagles eat the chicks? What is this a picture of? And why did that crazy bitch post it? It’s the middle of the damn night…at least for most people. Unable to keep up the suspense…since it is the middle of the night especially since it’s day light savings hoot-nanny time and moments ago it was 2 AM and now suddenly it’s 3:03 AM…and same song is still playing…creepy time travel kinda stuff!
I still don’t get that time travel stuff. How in the hell does that work? Is it like the Quantum Leap thing, where he could only travel in his own lifetime, except that one episode where he goes back to become his own great, great, great….grandfather using the DNA theory to explain how that happened despite the fact at the beginning of EVERY episode we’re reminded that he can only travel within his lifetime. And I’m going to have to say, if I could travel in time, even in my own lifetime, I’d certainly make sure that the future me was well taken care of…and not in that “Back to the Future Part 3” where he steals the sports almanac and bets on games to get rich. Or was that Part 2? I can never remember. I’d go back and invest a’la “Forest Gump” in some “Apple” orchard, do the dot com thing and pull out before Microsoft’s Campus becomes a compound for the evil empire. Okay, maybe I’d just play the right numbers in the lottery that I knew was a big winner…but then what does that do to the people, ya know those 45 factory works that pooled together four grand to drive across state lines and buy 3,600 tickets…come on…it was a long drive and they needed beer and McDonalds.
Now see what you did, you got me all wound up about money and time travel and I totally forgot what this was all about. So, before I forget! It’s a picture of my office floor. I’ve not seen in years! I was so excited I thought I’d share it! And next week, when I can’t see the floor again, I’ll time travel back to this picture!

This is how it all started...

Valentine’s Day 2009. 8:39 PM…The bookstore is closing in 41 minutes and I’ve yet to get a gift for my sweetie. Add to this pressure I know he went out two, two damn days ago and secured my gift. He’s usually the last minute “picked this up at the gas station” gift kinda guy.
Looking around at my choices, I spy a myriad of cherub-cheeked cupids peering out at me from picture books suited for children as well as overly sentimental adults. There were books of love poems, but he’d really know I was desperate. He knows I know he’d never read them, and he knows how I feel about poetry. I’d rather a hot poker to the eye than endure poetry! Luckily the store didn’t carry candy and/or booze…too easy a cheat. Fraught with feelings of inadequacy for forgetting a little thing like picking up a Valentine, I was shown the book of all Valentine’s books, The Kama Sutra!
We already have a pocket sized edition, good for getting wild in VW Bug or in a pop-up tent or when the “pop-up” Kama Sutra would be too cumbersome. I’ve also got a copy of the Comma Sutra, it’s really helping me with the my heavy handed punctuation…according to the subtitle, it’s to “position yourself for success with Good Grammar.” I wish I could say I used it often, but mostly I’m just a sucker for a good title! Getting back to my dilemma…I was looking at one of the fancier versions, The Complete Kama Sutra, the illuminated Erotic Art of India. I know they have cornered the market on acceptable sex texts, but I’m more fond of their hot exotic food. Ah cookbooks!
Oh to cover my love in chocolate…but then again, we didn’t need a recipe for that. Warm chocolate, drizzle and enjoy. Almost as easy at wet, rise, repeat…oddly similar now that I write it out. But I wander off topic…
I continued to look around the store, but held onto the copy of Kama Sutra. No point parting with a classic. How could I show my sweetie that care deeply, know him intimately, other than the oblivious erotic Indian sex book. He has so many interests…fixing things, collecting things, building things, making things go faster…all of which there are plenty of books on. Being a city boy, south-side of Chicago he brags often, he’s really taken to the woods. And he’s talked about getting this farm animal and that piece of much required farm equipment. So far I’ve gotten him a beagle, a lawn tractor and some bunnies. But I still think something’s on the tip of my tongue…some farm thing that I can get with minutes to spare at the bookstore. I rushed to the “Pet” section, made my choice and grinned my way to the counter.
I returned The Kama Sutra to the rack of eager but not selected Valentine’s gifts and plopped down my two books. How to Raise Chickens and Keeping Chickens. Content with my reasoning, either way tonight’s gift was to be about raising cock!