So anyway, it’s been a while since I’ve chilled with you in this space, and a few things have happened.
Not anything earth-shattering, mind you, because I’m a regular working joe with a regular working joe wife and three kids and six cats. So I’m not exactly a space explorer or the inventor of the next indestructible glue, although we can’t seem to loosen the crud accumulated on the bottom of our oven, so that may qualify.
Since we last chatted, our middle child has moved to California to seek fame and fortune, and our youngest graduated from high school and moved into the workforce, where he wrestles with tires and oil changes all day. Then he comes home grimy from head to toe complaining about his co-worker, Pete the Moron, who’s a mouth breather and wouldn’t know a lug nut from Justin Bieber, although I maintain that those two are one and the same. He also goes on about his poor, aching back, then soaks in the tub for three hours and leaves a thick, black ring that can only be removed with a high-density laser.
I’m still slogging away as a writer, a profession I wouldn’t advise if you’re high maintenance and can’t live without a Lamborghini and month-long excursions to the Cayman Islands, where clothes are an afterthought and cabana boys with glistening abs ask your wife if she’d care for another cocktail in a salacious tone that suggests they want a punch in the mouth. Writers are supposed to write for the sheer art of it, not for money, but I wouldn’t mind earning a few hundred million dollars from it so I can buy an expensive pair of custom-made, too-tight ostrich skin pants that flaunt my wealth and not necessarily my muffin top, which I wouldn’t have if people would be considerate and stop making ice cream and beer.
My brown-eyed girl remains a nurse, and loves showing me photos and drawings in medical tomes of seeping wounds and big, fat growths and other disgusting anomalies hanging off of people that make me gag even as I find them strangely fascinating. “Please stop!” I’ll beg her, but with a glint in my eye and no real conviction, so she’ll proceed to show me another one even more horrendous than the last, and I’ll flinch with revulsion and say, “You’re killing me!” But she knows better, and is already flipping through pages for the next photo, and when other people realize I secretly love it I just tell them I have two psychiatrists on speed dial and a third as back-up.
Then there are the cats, six pudgy, spoiled, temperamental eating and pooping machines who pay attention to us only when they’re dazed on catnip or want their enormous bellies rubbed. My brown-eyed girl calls them her babies and wants to dress them in adorable cat clothes and kisses them on their heads. And when I yell at them for being in a mood and clawing half my face off, or ralfing a huge hairball onto my pillow because I didn’t give them a bite of my tuna casserole, she gives me a stink-eyed look that says someone is sleeping in the garage rafters tonight.
So it’s still a pretty good life, except for the cable bill, which, how can they charge so much for programming about naked people who eat bugs during a challenge to survive in the wild, and about Kim Kardashian, who, if she’s not already acting dumb, gripes there’s not enough top-shelf rum in her mojito. Although, I do like that show where Bigfoot hunters have been swearing for, like, 50 years that they’re THIS CLOSE to finding one, so tune in next week because, honestly, they’re THIS CLOSE.
Now excuse me. I have to test the garage rafters to see whether they’re strong enough to support my muffin top.