Tag Archives: humor

Rough Day

Ever have one of those days when you really wish Jesus would quit fooling around and just come back already? You know what I mean; we all have days that we know going in are going to be bad, but then they turn out to be so much worse than we expected. This has been one of those days for me.

It started almost immediately: the wonderful but occasionally absent-minded and mildly careless Jess forgot to set her alarm and overslept, so I had to get up, take care of the dogs, fix her coffee and stuff. I really didn’t mind that. It happens fairly regularly, so it’s a minor hiccup–I figure, at least I get to go back to bed, she has to go to work. Then, later, when I do get up, my sister-in-law Andie is up fooling around in the kitchen.

I love Andie and look forward to her visits. However, we were expecting her today, and I figured I’d have time to clean up the house before she got here. She got here yesterday instead.

Now, neither Jess nor I are what you’d call neat freaks. We’re basically feral and, since the amazing and diligent Jess went back to work I’ve been responsible for housekeeping. Needless to say, Andie’s version of clean and mine are pretty different. She likes things to be neat, organized, and genuinely clean, while I feel pretty strongly that as long as nobody sticks to anything they lean on and I know what’s in the piles of stuff, well that’s good enough.

So the first thing I say to Andie as I’m taking the dogs out is that I’m going to take care of the dishes in a little bit. By the time I come back in, she’s already doing the dishes, she’s put away the clean dishes, “put away” some of the piles, and reorganized the remaining piles. She’s standing there waiting for me to tell her where the stuff in the remaining piles belongs. I’m like “right there.” I like to think that Jess and I aren’t the only people on the planet who don’t actually have a “place for everything.” To be honest, I don’t even know what half of that stuff is, much less where to put it.

She wanted me to do something about the recyclables, and then seemed shocked when that “something” turned out to be tying the bags shut and lobbing them down the stairs to the basement (don’t worry, next time I go downstairs, I’ll kick them over to where they belong).

Anyway, I had bigger fish to fry: I’m supposed to get my first colonoscopy (and endoscopy too! Hope they use a different tube for that one, or at least do the endoscopy first.) tomorrow, and so I had to swill down half of a giant bottle of Turbo-Lax to start my day off (gotta make sure I’m squeaky clean inside!). I get to get up at 6 tomorrow morning to drink the other half–yay.

So already the day is not great. When that Turbo-Lax kicks in, it’s not fooling around. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be taking my colon to the hospital in a bucket tomorrow. It’s also kind of tough discovering that I am literally as full of shit as people have always told me (well, not any more, so there!).

Then, Molly, our golden retriever that was my mom’s dog, collapsed on the porch. She hasn’t been doing well for a while, and apparently today was the day. I called Jess and asked her to make an appointment for Molly at the vet, so she did that and then took off early to go with us. While I waited for Jess, I alternated between sitting next to Molly, petting and talking to her, and running to the bathroom.

We got her to the vet, and it was as bad as we had feared: we had to make the call that nobody ever wants to make. They gave us a little more time with her and we both sat on the floor with her petting her and telling her she was a good girl while we both bawled like babies. I told her to go kick Harry’s (another one of our former dogs, who was kind of a jerk) ass, and Jess laughed and then said Molly’d be too busy looking for mom. That really set off the waterworks. I never could look at Molly without thinking of Mom. Molly was the last thing that Mom really recognized. Mom couldn’t remember her name, but she’d cup Molly’s head in her hands, lean forward and say “You’re my dog. Yes you are, you’re my dog.” Then she’d kiss the top of Molly’s head.

Anyway, we’re bawling our eyes out, and the girl came in and gave Molly THE SHOT. She was gone in just a few seconds. She was such a good girl. One of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever known.

Then we come home, and Andie’s cooking chili. The air is thick with the smell of frying hamburger, venison, and bacon. BACON! Who the hell puts BACON in chili? And what kind of monster does it on a day when one of the world’s great bacon lovers and chili lovers is on a clear liquid diet? The sister-in-law kind of monster, that’s what kind.

So my eyes hurt from crying, my ass hurts from . . . well you can imagine, although I recommend you don’t try too hard . . . and I’ve got to take even more laxatives, while smelling all that good food. Food that I CAN’T HAVE!!!!!

I go outside to have a smoke, and there’s a good breeze blowing. I turn my back to the wind, and all of a sudden, there’s a sound . . . a weird sound . . . a sound like somebody blowing across the top of a giant, empty, coke bottle. Halfway through the cigarette, I had to rush back inside, and the sound stopped. I’m pretty sure that, after today, the doctor won’t have to worry about using the micro-camera equipment–he’ll be able to just grab a camcorder and shove his arm up there. I think there’ll be plenty of room.

Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Jesus’ll come back tonight.

Dear David: An Open Letter To My Little Brother

Dear David,

Since you recently had a birthday, and now get to stare down the barrel of the big Five-Oh for a year, I thought I’d take a moment on the occasion of my 51st birthday to pass on a few words of wisdom regarding what is arguably the most horrific of all birthdays.

First of all, it’s really not all that bad. In fact, it’s actually pretty stinkin’ good. I know, I know, that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s true. I was having a little trouble figuring it out, when I came across some research that really cleared it up, and what it comes down to is this: It’s never gonna get any better.

Apparently, we peak pretty early in life: physically in our mid-30’s, creatively in our late 30’s, mentally in our early 40’s, and wisdomly(?) in our late 40’s. I’ve seen other research that says we also hit our peak earning potential in our mid-40’s.

That means (and I’ll just speak for myself here, your mileage may vary) I’m never going to be any stronger, prettier, sexier, smarter, wiser, or more creative than I am today, and my best earning days are just a speck in the rear-view mirror.

Do you realize what this means? It means ALL THE PRESSURE’S OFF!!!!! It’s all just one long downhill slope to the end from here, little brother. We can just take our feet off the pedals, enjoy the ride, and coast all the way to the finish line!

No more worries for me about trying to become a rich and famous writer. At this point, even if I do manage to write the Great American Novel, nobody will notice until after I’m dead, and fat lot of good it’ll do me then. Of course, the readers of moonsthoughts will have the opportunity to crow about how they’ve known about the lyric magic of my prose and my rapier-like wit for years, so that’s some consolation (and, by the way, you’re all very welcome, and thanks for reading). I can just concentrate on being a good writer, and writing about stuff that matters, and stop worrying about ambitions.

I can also stop worrying about inconveniences like diet and exercise (not that I ever worried that much about them anyway). I had pretty much shelved all that nonsense a few years ago, you remember, when I lost over 40 pounds, was looking and feeling really good, and then had a heart attack! I mean seriously, at this point, what’s the point?

Yes, I know that they say that stuff can add years to your life, and that smoking and drinking take years off, but as someone once said, those are years at the other end of your life, and those are shitty years anyway. Now, I’ll grant you, proper diet and exercise probably can’t hurt, and that you, with your abnormally moderate nature, will have a longer, gentler (or less meteoric) downhill trajectory than me, but we’ll end up at the same finish line (and you know how I always loved to go fast).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no hurry, I’m just saying it’s time to relax a little (or a lot!). After all, who, by worrying can add one extra day to his life? I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.

It’s time to maybe try some new things: apparently, I started school long after my mental peak, but it’s worked out pretty well. Although I’m not getting any smarter, every “A” I get represents a pretty significant triumph.

Of course I’ve always been a pretty smart guy (at least I like to think so, so don’t burst my bubble. Disappointment doesn’t get any easier to deal with), but that’s never stopped me from doing a lot of phenomenally stupid things, usually when I was trying to be smart.

No more worries about that though. Now I can relax and just accept the fact that I’m an idiot; that I don’t know shit from shinola, and I’m probably getting dumber every day. In fact statistically, I’ll never be as smart again as I am right now. On the up side, I’m waaaaaaay smarter than I will be next year, so yay me!

Nope, little brother, the big accomplishments are behind us. It’s time to start celebrating the little triumphs, like remembering where you parked, successfully hooking up a new piece of video equipment, or sneezing without shitting yourself (if you’re not there yet, trust me, you will be).

A little more free advise (and remember, you get what you pay for):

Try to spend more time naked, for a number of reasons:

First, you’re not going to ever look better naked than you do today, so enjoy it!

Second, it’s good for the environment, what with saving water on laundry and all.

Third, you’ve finally gotten your kids out of the house. Make the most of it! Think of all those times you’ve wished you were naked, but no, you had to think about the kids, so you had to put on pants just to go get something to drink.

Fourth, it keeps unwanted visitors away. There are two approaches to this: you can warn people, as I did about “No Pants” Fridays, or you can just answer the door au naturale a couple of times, and just let word-of-mouth do the rest. Dealer’s choice, really.

Enjoy yourself. Watch more westerns. Read (or, in your case, play more golf). Have more sex, if you can (no one, at least no one in a long-term, monogamous relationship, on their deathbed ever said, “I wish I’d had less sex”). That is another up side to spending more time naked. If you can get Robin to go along with it, that is. Good luck.

Worry as little as possible, about everything. To paraphrase the line from above, who by worrying can actually influence an election, keep the economy from tanking, or stop their adult children from doing stupid shit that you’ve already warned them about numerous times?

Really, life is a lot like playing football for Northeastern* back in our day. We’re going to lose. We’re probably going to get the living shit beaten out of us while we lose. It’s not going to be pretty. It’s going to be ugly, and embarrassing, and we’ll never live it down, but we might as well play as hard as we can anyway, and try to enjoy it as much as possible. At least we’ll get some good stories out of it.

 

Well, I guess that’s about it, little brother. I hope as your next birthday looms ever larger, with its twin barrels of Age and Infirmity looking more like railroad tunnels every day, you’ll be able to remember, er, look this letter up again, to remind yourself that it’s only going to get worse, so enjoy today! At least you’ll always be younger than me.

Cheers!

Your Big Brother Lloyd.

 

*For those of you unfamiliar with the glory days of our high school football careers, the Northeastern Wayne High School football team set the state record for most consecutive games lost. We lost one game 83-0. An average game we’d lose 49-0. I was the team captain my senior year, the third straight season without a single win.