9 January 1986 — Thirty-Three and a Third
It gets pretty cold up here in the loft, but not as cold as in the house. Lucretia MacEvil doesn’t seem to mind. She’s on my lap no matter where she finds it, as long as I’m not smoking one of those awful brown cigarettes. When she sees me spark up, she will frecuently come join me. Unless she smells tobacco. Then she splits. Right now I’m smoking green and she’s settled comfortably under my notebook. So, it could be colder. At least I get a little animal contact to satisfy that frustrated inner pack critter.
Today was supposed to be a big deal. I’d been pointing it out for a couple of years, so it wasn’t intended to be a surprise. I’m not a fan of birthdays, in particular, nor of holidays in general. I like to be happy when I’m happy. Smiling on cue doesn’t work for me. Off stage, anyway. I’ll put on Christmas music in July if I feel like it, but I am not apt to take notice of “normal” birthdays or holidays.
Oh, I do believe in indulging children. Of course! Birthdays are an extra big deal to small children, and I hope to share these milestones with my sons for many years to come. They are less of a big deal for older people, and for some, they are an actual nuisance of a painful reminder. For me they are no big deal, and I will take them or leave them, but for others, well… In general, unless a birthday ends in a zero or signals some other threshold, like voting or drinking, I would prefer to pass on them altogether.
So, as I said, birthdays ending in zeroes are cool (as they demark the decades, I suppose, although they don’t, really, but they look like they do), but even cooler would be the whole fractions of a century. Five, ten, and twenty years are all integer fractions, and so is twenty-five, and so is thirty-three years and four months.
I try to make myself understood before commitments are made or misunderstandings are embraced, and my thoughts about birthdays had been shared and discussed since long before the birth of the boys. There shouldn’t have been any surprises or disappointments based on that. So on the day of Early Riser‘s thirty-third, when it had become clear that there were no gifts or cards or banners, the question was raised and my response was, “Just as I said. The big blowout’s in January on your Thirty-Three and a Third.”
Well, that has made for a very cold autumn in this house, and an even colder winter. Lucy and I got a little peace while Early Riser took the Young Lethargy League away to Grandmama’s over Christmas break again, and when they returned, I got hugs from the boys and more chill from Mama. (She also got a fresh shot of cat urine in her shoe again. She and Lucy seem to have other issues as well.) I have tried to revive my big “birthday” plans over the last week, but have been blocked and rebuffed. “Forget it. It’s not going to work. You already ruined my birthday.”
Of course, I could have assumed she was LYING and forged ahead with gathering our friends to celebrate her first third of a century anyway. But our relationship was supposed to have been founded on honesty. I may not like her all the time, but I still trust her. She is no liar. If she says “No” the answer is “No.” The mother of my sons, my workmate and (alleged) bedmate and (presumed) soulmate wants less to do with me, but still looks forward to the legendary engineer’s income.
In the future maybe I should try to treat women more like children.
Telling them the truth doesn’t seem to work.
9 July 1986 — Dads’n’Grads
Well, that’ll show me!
We see them every year around this time. The newspapers are filled with advertisements heralding the end of the school year and the celebration of paternity. “Congrats to Grads” and “Honoring Dads” are a good enough excuse to cut prices on tires and firearms, I suppose. But I’ve made it a practice in life to not fall for orchestrated joys; I’d rather be happy when I’m happy, and proud when I’m proud, and otherwise not pretend. If my sons WANT to honor their Dad, I shouldn’t wish to denigrate their desire. I know that such an event is no more about me than is my birthday. But when I actually accomplish something, I really don’t mind its being acknowledged.
Beaver Tech has just seen fit to confer degrees in Physics and Mechanical Engineering upon me. Those are both four-year degrees involving considerable rigor and skull sweat, and they only cost me five years. I’m hoping that it was a shrewd investment to double my appeal to possible employers at only a hundred and twenty-five percent of the effort. Such efficiencies should speak well of my qualifications as an engineer, but that remains to be seen. So far there has been no response from NASA or Boeing or Grumman or Northrup or CH3M or, well, the list goes on. But the summer is young, and they are no doubt besieged by applicants this time of year. Fortunately, even though I’ve been graduated, Evanite is willing to extend my “student internship” until the new engineering freshmen show up in the autumn, so I’ve got a little breathing space.
But hey, college was a blast! Thanks to the GI Bill, I was paid to go to school. I doubt that I’ll ever find a better job. But the GI Bill played out after only four years, so for the last I’ve had to find other ways to cover the rent and groceries in addition to going to school. Now that I’m only working full time, it almost feels like I’m on vacation. And there’s no hurry. I’d rather be hired after careful deliberation than too hastily. Haste often carries the seeds of regret, and I’d rather be hired by someone who is fully aware of what he is getting than believing I’m something I’m not. The repayment schedule of the few modest loans I took to supplement expenses don’t kick in until later, and they appear to be tractable enough. I’ve also faced car payments and rent, so I expect I’ll manage.
But anyway, THiS is my season! Dad AND Grad! Or so you might think. I can be pretty foolish sometimes. Not one word. NOT ONE WORD! Not one card. Not one mention. Not one cheap classified ad in our local Cow City Chronicle. Not one knowing wink or nod or gesture. Not from Early Riser, nor The Young Lethargy League, not from other relatives, nor from friends. Apparently, when I do something cool and otherwise “noteworthy” it doesn’t count.
update 210107: Make that mythical engineering income. Still no word from NASA et al. Going to college WAS fun, and I have fond memories, but it was probably the worst financial decision of my life. Since then, Busy Body chucked me out. Later, Drama Queen chucked me out (and still later died), but not until after gracing me with the most beautiful daughter imaginable. At present I am “retired” (a euphemism for “fired at a late age”) and eating my savings for a while before tapping tax victims. No matter how meagre my income, or onerous my commitments, organized criminals (F’eral, statist, or municipal) never failed to help themselves to hefty portions of it.
update 210109: And now it appears that I may have been singled down again. Ffikus Pydaxel (formerly known as “Gurawf“) seems poised now to join the ranks of Lethargy Lad’s Rogues’ Gallery of Former Arch-Nemeses. As “secondary” I lasted thirteen years, twice. Having reset my criteria and accepted a position that was instead tertiary and subordinate, I lasted almost twenty-two years until the awful truth was revealed. At least this time there were no innocent children involved whose lives I could ruin.
7 April 2024 — “Stimo Tahec Yemw” (A Dream of Early Riser)
“We would like you to come to church with us.”
“Uh huh.”
“What would it take?”
“You know what I want. You’ve known what I want since long before you threw me out the first time.”
“There’s more to marriage than just sex.”
“Sure. Lots more. Like church. And gardening, and washing the dishes. Everything costs something.”
“My sister would like it too. She came here long before you came back. We like the heavy lifting and the lawn care…”
“But you’d like to look respectable to your church friends.”
“Put it like that, then.”
“Okeh. How ’bout I put it like this? You want my ass in that pew on Sunday morning? I want my dick in your mouth. I’ll put my ass in that pew for a full minute on Sunday for every minute my dick gets to spend in your mouth for the previous week.”
“Church service is usually an hour.”
“That sounds about right. That’s maybe four proper blow jobs a week. I know you can, and I know you’re good at it. You’ve probably also had a little more practice since our divorce, so I’m hoping you’ve even improved. And even if you’re a little out of practice lately, I’m sure you can pick it up again. If you want.”
“What about intercourse?”
“Oh, I like that, too. But you never seemed to. I remember your complaining a lot that I was hurting you, but you nevertheless seemed to take pride in a cock well sucked. Okeh, maybe you were faking that, too. But you were still good at it.”
“But still…”
“You know what? Maybe I’m not being fair. Fellatio is skilled labor. Sitting in church is pretty passive. How about this? One minute of cocksucking will buy you two minutes of my sitting in church. So that’s still three or four blowjobs a week for me, but maybe quicker for you and less wear on your bionic knees. And I’ll even let you subcontract out half the work to your sister. If she’s game. You did say ‘we,’ after all. Oh hell, I’ll even fuck her if she wants. But anal will cost extra. I find that distasteful, but tolerable if she insists.”