I wake up craving you
I want you tall
I like you hot
I want to take you orally
black is awesome
your Brazilian is my favorite
you warm me
wake me
I tremble without you
strangers meet over you
I get a headache without you
I can’t get enough of you
but if I try
I can’t sleep
You are coffee and I fucking love you
https://lindaghill.com/2017/12/27/what-is-just-jot-it-january-2018-rules/
But first a joke:
Q: How do you get an 80-year-old lady to say the F-word?
A: Have another 80-year-old lady yell Bingo
All kidding aside, I did it today. I’m a bad man.
When I first moved up here in August I made it a point to get to know as many people in town as I could. It’s a nice community and I didn’t want to be the “new guy” that people stared at for long (in a town this small it could take years). In addition, I needed money so I put it out there to the few that I met that I was available for small jobs. In an aging community such as this, I was sure that I would be utilized. One woman, in particular, was excited at the prospect of some help and invited me over to show me some projects she wanted to be done. She was a sweet lady in her early 80’s, very fit for her age with an 1800’s era farmhouse that was clearly in need of major repairs. She offered me some work in her enormous yard, all manageable stuff, and left it with me that she would call when she was ready for me. She never called.
I saw her at the Community Club meeting in December and I asked her, nicely, why she never called me. She had seemed so eager after all. She dodged the question and I let it go. I would find out later that she is very poor and probably is unable to pay me. We never actually discussed money, but I know that I would be reasonable with her. Anything helps after all. I decided that I would say something to her.
As the meeting wound down and everyone was putting on their coats, I approached her and said “We never actually talked about money, but I assure you it’s not a big deal to me. If you need something just call me I’ll be happy to help.” She looked as though someone had removed 200 pounds from her shoulders, the elephant in the room had left. She thanked me and went home.
She called me Saturday morning. She asked me if I would help her remove some snow from her roof. It was an understandable request, she certainly has at least a foot of it on her house and her roof is old. I told her I would be over to take a look at it Sunday at 11. I went over and when she showed me I wanted to say no. I’m in the middle of a disability claim and falling off a roof would certainly be inadvisable. It looked brutally difficult and time-consuming and I wasn’t sure if I was up to it. We talked for a while and in the course of the conversation, and she wasn’t trying to do this, she painted a picture of how alone she was, how overwhelmed with the maintenance of the old house, and how she was struggling with this brutal winter. I immediately knew that I would help her. As the conversation wound down on its own momentum, I said “I’ll be here Tuesday at 10. It won’t rain between now and then you’ll be fine.” She was so very happy.
I wasn’t. I was dreading it. It would be hard, treacherous work. But the weather would at least be warm.
I showed up this morning dressed in my best waterproof gear. Boots, snow pants, gloves, shovel and snow rake and I was ready to go. I trudged around the back of the house through unbroken snow (harder than it looks), climbed the ladder and immediately knew I had made an enormous mistake. There was more snow than on Keith Richards’ coffee table. But I went to it.
It was brutal work, it was warm enough that my feet went right down to the slippery surface. I almost fell off the roof twice. I had to move all of the snow to the front of the house because the back side was weak and I may fall through. 3 hours later I had managed, after frequent breaks to suck wind, to shovel all of it to the front side of the house. I was exhausted. I slid, no joke, to the ladder on my back and headed down. Once I trudged to the front of the house I realized I had completely filled in her shoveled walkway with the snow from the roof. 45 minutes later that was done. And so was I.
Exhausted, I went into her open barn and sat down on a lawn chair. A few minutes later she pulled in to the driveway and came in the barn. She was pleased with the work and could see that I was wiped out.
“Thank you so much, how much do I owe you?”
I looked up and said, “You owe me nothing.”
She was flustered, insistent that I simply couldn’t do that. I told her I wouldn’t take her money. She started to cry.
I explained to her that I was going for a different reaction. I wanted her to be happy. To have one less thing to worry about. She was so truly grateful I almost got emotional. I knew that I wasn’t going to accept any money from her that previous Sunday. I surmised that she would have to pay a snow removal service hundreds of dollars she didn’t have if I said no. Now that I was done, alive, vertebrae intact and out of cardiac arrest danger, it felt right.
“I have to do something for you, at some point,” she said, more composed. I told her I lost my hat. If it blows off the roof in the spring let me know.
You don’t give to get. You give for the sake of giving. Today I was able to make an old lady cry. And dammit, I’ll do it again. ‘Cause I’m a jerk like that.
Peace
Today’s topic for Just Jot in January is pants. Considering I just got back from the wake for my often-discussed recently deceased friend Tony, I can think of no better topic.
The wake was as crowded as I had expected. Tony was a well-known and well-liked guy. The crowd consisted mostly of older people, not surprising given his age. Other than his family was an endless line of people who had worked with Tony at the restaurant over his 40-year tenure.
I had the good fortune to sit with some guys who I had only heard the legends of, from Tony of course, but never met until tonight. All they could do was talk about how miserable of a place it was to work. And I thought of all of the times that Tony, after a couple of Courvoisier’s would show his soft white underbelly and state, not complain, state his unhappiness at the hours of his life spent in that one small room while his kids grew up. He lamented the missed weddings and nights out with friends that occurred while he worked. But he immediately came down to earth, shook it off and convinced me, and himself perhaps a little, that it had to be done.
You see, in 1969, in a bad economy, with a pregnant wife and bills to pay you did what you had to do. Even though they didn’t have this expression then, he “put on his big boy pants” and didn’t look back.
Just one of the many reasons I will miss him.
I’ve been told many times that I would be great in politics. I could be the “anti-politician” and be completely different than anything that the world has seen. I would be honest, not-for-sale, transparent and accountable. I would create a third political party and I would call it the No-Nonsense Party. I would only address issues on my desk that are important, valid, urgent and sensible. My desk would have a placard on it with Smilin’ Harry Truman’s famous “the buck stops here.”
“Nope, that’s stupid. Veto. Next.”
“Are you kidding me, get outta here with that!”
“Are you seriously asking me to approve that?”
The government would work for the people again. This would be me.
Problem is that I would get fewer votes than Jill Stein. I may as well ask for a “3 way” with Charlize Theron and her best friend. It will never happen. No one would vote for me because I’m too honest. Brutally honest, as a fellow blogger kindly referred to me as yesterday. I don’t mean “I didn’t cut down the cherry tree” honest, but instead “incapable of bullshit” honest. People say they want honest until it comes to them. Then you’re an asshole.
Honesty is more than telling the truth. It is a distinct lack of pretense. A transparency. The ability to look at things as they really are and accept what you see, even if you are studying yourself. Honesty is asking for an opinion and opening yourself up for an answer you might not like. In my case, it is showing the world who I am without fear of reprisal.
There were times in my life when I tried to reinvent myself. To restrain parts of my personality. I didn’t do well. There’s a difference between behaving to fit in where necessary, an office cubicle for example, and holding back the real you. I did my best work, made the friends worth keeping, had the best times when I embraced my inner Foghorn. That’s the real me. The link below will explain the Foghorn thing.
https://wordpress.com/post/goodtobealivetoday.wordpress.com/1933
Everyone talks about New Year’s resolutions, what is manageable and what is a predetermined failure. I made only one resolution this year. To be the best person I can be. To be real. Some people like it, I know my real friends do. Some of my fellow bloggers have commented on my willingness to put my ass out there for the whole world to see, as if brutal honesty is uncommon.
So Politics is not for me. I can’t speak in circles. I don’t want to deal with liars and sycophants. I have no tolerance for bullshit. I’m not capable of being fake. I’m real, it’s working for me and I’m going to ride her until she bucks me off.
I got caught peeing in the hotel pool. The lifeguard yelled so loud at me I almost fell in
bois·ter·ous
ˈboist(ə)rəs
adjective
(of a person, event, or behavior) noisy, energetic, and cheerful; rowdy.
“the boisterous conviviality associated with taverns of that period”
synonyms: lively, animated, exuberant, spirited, rambunctious
There was a time when my name and picture would be next to this definition in the dictionary. The younger me, according to a lovely young lady that I worked with at the local supermarket during High School, strutted like a Rooster; shoulders back, chest out, heart on sleeve and mouth in gear. I was silly, friendly to strangers, energetic if not a little obnoxious. I was boisterous. I was in the comfort zone of my own henhouse. The nickname Foghorn soon followed.
I would eventually learn that not everyone enjoyed my energy and jocularity. It took a while because I had the gift of being physically intimidating. I may have been silly, but I was 6 foot and 220 lbs of silly while carrying two 50 lb bags of dog food on each shoulder. Any criticism or mocking would be done behind my back. It wasn’t until I closed the bathroom stall one day and saw this on the door “____ ___ is a fucked up shithead“. I knew who wrote it but it still stung. It was 35 years ago and I remember it like yesterday.
That hastily scrawled, nasty message would serve as a lesson that sometimes people are laughing at you, not with you. After that revelation, I didn’t retreat into my shell like a frightened tortoise but I became more self-conscious than I wanted to be. It was more than just an adjustment of the volume knob, it changed my station. It’s a shame too because I could dance to that station.
I remained an outgoing person, albeit a guarded one. If someone from my Foghorn days were to see me now they wouldn’t see the same person at all. I’m happy on the inside but I’m tragically selective about who I let see that side of me. I don’t speak loudly in crowded rooms for fear of being mocked and I don’t say hi to every stranger anymore, I’m now selective based on how friendly the face is. I have retained some of my old boisterousness but it is reserved for select company and occasions. My warped sense of humor has stood the test of time, but fewer people are exposed to it now.
I like to think that my cheerfulness has stood the test of time as well. I have always believed that if you can’t get out of bed and try to make a good day then you should stay in bed. I continue to see the good in things and people. It is definitely a big part of how I managed to work right up until noon the day before my transplant surgery. Positive thinking, a cheerful and optimistic attitude and a little bit of denial carried me over the goal line on its shoulders.
Still, I miss being Foghorn.
“Boy, I say Boy…he must, I say he must be in there somewhere…!”
I had the pleasure of having my youngest daughter with me for the entire school vacation week. We had a nice week. Since the separation, I haven’t spent a significant block of time with any one of my children so this was much needed and appreciated. Before the move, my youngest and I had a standing date every Saturday night with the sofa, Netflix, and a pizza. Of all of the things I miss from my previous life, one on one time with the offspring is the toughest one.
She and I had a nice week. There was no pressure to fill the week with activities, this house is her go-to spot for relaxation and to catch up on sleep. We spent a few nights catching up on some shows but it wasn’tas relaxing as before. In the last year, one thing has been added to her repertoire that I can’t compete with…boys. And all of the accompanying drama. The endless stream of texts, “snapchats” and FB messages made it impossible to just chill and watch our shows like we used to. I can’t compete.
Despite having all of the features treasured by the superficial, hormonal teenager, my daughter has always kept herself grounded and humble. She tells me that she has low self-esteem but the astronomical amount of “selfies” she takes indicates to the contrary. At some point in the last year, she has apparently come around to the possibility that she is attractive and now interacts pretty freely with the boys. To her credit, she is not drawing attention to herself, but she is still getting it. And some notoriety, if I am to believe the story that she rejected the captain of the football team last week, causing her stock to rise further. The only thing I know for certain is that, when it comes to the male gender, she is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, deep fried in a puzzle. In other words a hot mess.
I raised my kids to talk to me so naturally, I heard all about the different hormonal messes, I mean boys, vying for her attention. While it is mostly a blur, here is what I have so far. She likes the bad boys but won’t date one. She likes nice guys but they’re not “hot” like the bad boys. She has rules about dating friends of guys she likes or has liked in the past. Apparently, one boy, who is friends with a former crush, has started drinking and smoking weed because she won’t date him. She feels bad that she doesn’t like this guy, she wishes that another guy liked her more. It goes on and on and on.
I wanted to help, but there wasn’t much I could do but listen to her. She showed me some of the posts, the boys seemed to be behaving themselves. She knows that if I see a Dick Pic someone is going to die but there was none of that. The temptation arose to tell her to “cool the drama” but I knew that I, as an adult shouldn’t do that. I have been there, suffered teen angst and had my heart broken. I needed to limit my participation to giving the best advice that I could. At the end of the day, I have tremendous faith in her decision making and her values. She does have a flair for the dramatic but it’s more a matter of her making up her mind as to what she wants than an actual crisis. Still, it’s tough not to administer the antidote when you know you have it.
Her dramatic phase will pass, eventually. After all, it’s for teenagers right? I’d like to think so. Then I saw an FB post from a 41-year-old female friend that said
“Grrrrrr so aggravated right now!”
Ah yes, the generic plea for attention while offering no context post. Soon to be followed by a string of replies imploring “what’s wrong honey?”, “are you OK?”, “Oh, you poor thing”. Drama, maybe it’s not just for teenagers after all…
#JusJoJan Daily Prompt – January 1st, 2018
A Toast
to the parents struggling to care for their family. May they provide sustenance and love for the children
to the first responder running towards danger when others run from it. May you always stay safe
to the soldier thousands of miles from those that love them. May your mission be righteous and your body unscathed
to the health care workers who give more to others more than they give to themselves. May their selflessness be recognized and appreciated
to the bullied child. May your struggles be recognized before it’s too late
to the bully. May you see the error of your ways
to the ill. May you experience recovery
to the grieving. May you experience closure and peace
to the hungry. May your plate always be full
to our leaders. May they do what is right, not what is profitable or electable
to the disenfranchised, the angry and the frustrated. May you find an outlet and peace in your heart
to the practitioners of hate and division. May you become part of the solution, not part of the problem
to those that chose the path of honesty and integrity. May you never second-guess that choice
to those who are glued to screens. May you look away and see the beauty all around you
to those fighting a hard battle. May the people you meet treat you with kindness and respect.
Here’s to a better you. A better us. A better world. It’s up to us to make it a good year.
Here’s to you.
I was reminded today of one of my favorite expressions.
“Happiness is not having what you want. it’s wanting what you have.”
And in a very close second comes the Stones with
“You can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.”
2 years ago I would have measured my success as a man by how much stuff I had. It was the life I was living. I lived in a nice neighborhood with neat lawns and beautiful cars in driveways. I had the Jones’s on both sides of me and I was trying frantically to keep up with them. I couldn’t. My illness was increasing, my income was dropping and trying to keep up was literally, and I never use that word, killing me. When I lost my job the bottom fell out and we knew that moving and breaking up the family was imminent. I was livid, disgusted with myself, mad at the prospect of not seeing the kids every day and feeling like a complete failure. I was also relieved to be out from under the crushing weight of the lifestyle I was living.
Fast forward 2 years and what do I have? If measured in possessions…not much. I own as much stuff that would fit in a ’13 Honda Civic. If you were to measure my heart. I have everything.
Once I realized my career was virtually over, my dreams of a beach house were gone, my marriage was beyond repair and my health was in serious trouble I had to assess what I did have. It took some serious soul searching but I found that I was a wealthy man in assets that money cannot buy.
I don’t have everything I want. By the old standards. But I really want what I now have.
I have become a totally honest person, in particular with myself. I know who and what I am and no longer have a job pushing the boundaries of my ethics on a daily basis. I am comfortable in my skin for the first time.
I have a wonderful relationship with my children. The distance has created the need for quality time, and conversations were had and growth was achieved. I found that they respect me and understand the situation. They just want what is best for me.
My mind is clear and sharp. I’m reading the books I’ve always wanted to, I’m writing on a daily basis, reading some great bloggers and thinking on a level previously unachieved. In addition, I feel inspired.
I have renewed my relationship with my mother. We were very close until my wife put a wedge between us. We are like best friends again. Not to mention how much she is helping me right now.
I have optimism for the future. There are still so many things that I want to do, and if I set reasonable expectations and listen to my body I may be able to do them.
By having some “me time”, forced or otherwise, I realize that for the first time I like myself. If it’s possible to not say that in a self-serving way that is.
This year-end I want to end on a high note, with momentum and heading in the right direction. Unlike many other years in which I was down, defeated and counting on a new calendar to give me a better life. It just doesn’t work that way, I have to make it happen.
I am really looking forward to seeing 2017 limp out the door Sunday night at midnight. I hope that it was a wonderful year for anyone that sees this, but for me, it is one to be forgotten. I won’t dwell on the bad stuff if you are a reader of this blog, you already know what I have been dealing with. I am encouraged that, after self-evaluation, I am still able to look to the future as an opportunity for better things and new opportunities.
My son last night told me he is glad that I am optimistic after this last year. I explained to him that I had, in fact, lost it for a while but now have it back. I explained a boxing analogy to him. A good fighter can take a good shot to the chin, shake it off and come back swinging. For years I was able to do that. This year, this fighter took a devastating series of blows that I couldn’t shake off. I fell to the mat and was down for the count. But I’m back now and I want a rematch. As I tear a page from my daily planner, underneath is a fresh day.
One thing I am very happy about in 2017 is this blog. I have always dabbled in writing but never had the time to commit to a blog. Now, for better or for worse, I have nothing but time. I have committed to working on this blog every day. It has done wonders in helping me to exorcise my demons, to express myself, and to unburden myself of the excessive emotional weight of the events of my life. And I am so happy to have readers.
I have almost 40 followers. A paltry amount to many but a big deal to me. As an aspiring writer with a story to tell, you give me the motivation to continue to write, to explore my boundaries, to share my story and in the process, free my soul.
I follow so many of you, I enjoy your posts and admirable writing styles. You give me feedback, hope, and encouragement and you have become a part of my life.
I hope all of you have a wonderful New Years Eve and a fantastic 2018 full of pushing forward towards your dreams.
My car has a big windshield and a small rear-view mirror because what is behind me is not nearly as important as what is ahead.
The Tao of Bill 