What’s Been Going On

I haven’t written anything in more than a month and I figured since I’m paying for this blog I should throw a little something down for my… three, maybe four, readers?

Anyway… I reread the last thing I posted on here and realized that it was pretty dark and depressing, which honestly life can be sometimes, and it’s probably good I have somewhere to talk about it even if it just goes out into the internets to sit and collect the digital equivalent of dust.

Life can also be filled with undue drama when people jump to conclusions and start reacting before fully understanding what’s going on.

To explain; my last post was about my father finding out that he has lung cancer, him calling me to make sure I’d be willing to take care of his wife and adopted son when he passed, and then when I said that yes, I would do I all I could, he decided that he was going to take himself out Leaving Las Vegas style but with a South Carolina lowcountry flair (copious amounts of Budweiser, moonshine, and painkillers if you’re wondering), and my emotional reaction to all of this.

Yup, that’s a good summary of my last post.

Come to find out later that the cancer isn’t as bad as my father and his wife interpreted from the diagnosis they got in writing which caused them both to go off the goddamned rails and attempt to take me with them. Luckily they talked to another doctor, who I assumed explained to them slowly and in small words what was really going on, and my old man decided to get his shit back together and is no longer trying to party himself to the grave.

So there was that.

In other news – my wife, my kids, and I had a very nice, drama free, Christmas break. I took up oil painting, my wife has started making her own clothes thanks to her new sewing machine, and the kids are currently down with a stomach bug but doing fine otherwise.

And that’s that.

Hopefully things will stay this boring for awhile.




What To Do?

I got a text the other day from my father’s wife (no, I do not refer to her as my stepmother. No it’s not because I’m being a dick. She’s younger than me by more than a few years and as icky the situation already feels it would feel even ickier if I called her mom.) saying that I really needed to call my dad because he had some news he needed to tell me. So I call him up, he answers, tells me to hold on a second to let him light a cigarette, and then proceeds to tell me that he has lung cancer.

“You’re telling me this while smoking a cigarette?”

“Why not? I already got cancer, quitting now ain’t gonna do a fucking thing,” he said this while laughing in what I felt like was an inappropriately lighthearted way considering the situation.

I admitted he had a point and we went on to discuss how long he knew, how far along it was, what the doctors had to say, etc.. Then we got to the real reason he called; he wanted to make sure I would do all I could to keep the bank from taking the family property and leaving his wife and adopted thirteen year-old son with nowhere to live.

“Well yeah,” I said. “They’re family. Of course. What’s the situation?”

My father then went on to explain where they were financially.

“Oh. Well shit… Uh, I’ll do what I can,” was the only thing I could think to say due to finding out his poor life choices extended into his money managing skills.

He then thanked me and suddenly I found we were talking and laughing about fishing, hunting, trucks, and drinking like the first part of the conversation didn’t happen. That’s up until he got a call from, and I quote, “another motherfucking doctor who won’t leave me the fuck alone”.

After I got off the phone with my dad I told my wife the whole situation. There were more than a few moments where we both got choked up a bit, some it from the obvious and some from trying to figure out how someone could owe that much money on two acres and a four room shack with a detached bathroom bought in 1965.


As it is, this is a rough situation to have to deal with – I’ve had other family members who’ve died of cancer, I know how difficult it is on the person suffering from it and on everyone else around them. This is going to be a long, painful, slog for all of us involved.

Or it’s supposed be.

The thing is, I got a call just a couple of days ago from my old man’s wife to let me know that “he’s done lost his goddamned mind”.

“And in which way has he lost his mind?”

“Since your daddy done found out he got the cancer he’s been staying gone all day long drinking and partying and raising hell, coming home in the evening drunk, and then passing out. You need to talk to him!”

“I need to talk to him?”

“Yeah! He won’t listen to nothing I say. If I bitch about it, he doubles down the next day. Goofy bastard’s gonna kill himself ‘just trying to have a good time’ before the cancer gets him.”

… and I don’t know what to do about this because that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

I know my father. I know the idea of dying a slow, painful death while people look on him with pity as he wastes slowly away from the inside-out is not the way he wants to go. He’s the kind of guy who wants to die fighting a bear with a knife he made by hand. Or by being washed off the deck of a boat while fighting a giant fish during a storm. Or, at least, by partying harder than anyone else around him. Not laying in a hospital bed.

Of course I don’t want him to die, but I also don’t want to get in his way if he’s trying to do it on his own terms before he gets too bad off to have the option.

The other side of it is if he dies sooner rather than later there’s nothing I’ll be able to do to keep the bank from taking the property to pay off his debt, which will leave his wife and other child in a bad way.

So my options are trying to convince him to allow himself to die slowly in a way not of his choosing or just let him do what he wants to do so I get to live the rest of my life feeling responsible for the fate of his child bride and their adopted son.

This is hard.

And I don’t know what to do.

But at least I know that the future will bring me a large dose of guilt no matter what. So I got that going for me.


An Angry Rant

I’ve been angry before. Many times. But the fuming type of burn it all down rage I’m experiencing right now is possibly within the top ten angriest moments of my life. And it’s all because a facial expression and an eye roll.

I may have mentioned before in a previous post that my middle son is gender fluid. He identifies as a boy, he does many traditional “boy” things, but he’s always liked “girl” styles as far as clothes, hair, etc., and he does carry himself in what would be considered a traditionally feminine way. The important part though is that he is a happy, sweet, and so far, a well-adjusted nine-year old child. He’s popular, everyone in his school loves him, and even though we live in a small southern town in the bible belt he has gotten almost nothing but positive support as far as his differences to the norm goes.

He also has some nasty allergy problems. That’s why he had an appointment at the allergists this morning. The appointment part went fine. Checkout on the other hand did not go fine. I mean as far as my son was concerned it went fine. For me though…

We needed a Doctors note for his tardiness to school and this is usually taken care of by one of the two receptionist that sit up in the front of the clinic. This time was no different. The woman I was dealing with asked me if “she”, speaking about my son, was going back to school today. The other receptionist offhandedly corrected her by saying “he”. The first woman looked at me quizzically, I said don’t worry about it, it happens all the time, and a look of abject horror and disgust crossed this woman’s bloated face – and just so you get the proper visual, this is the bloated face that is sitting directly under her bottled blond “let me talk to your manager” haircut and drawn on eyebrows. She glances over at my son, who is lucky distracted by the lobby’s Christmas tree, looks at me, looks back at my son, rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and mutters “oh sorry” in exactly the tone you’re most likely imagining right now.

At that point I came within a gnats ass of asking her if she had an opinion that she would like to share with me but not wanting to make a scene for the sake of my son I just glared at her until we finished our business.

So now he’s in school and I’m home pounding this out on my keyboard while listening to the angriest thrash metal I can find knowing that there is nothing I can do about the rage that this judgmental conformist cunt has caused me. She technically had done nothing but let her private thoughts briefly show in her body language and I am not the thought police.

But what if my son would have seen that look? How would that have affected him? He’s just being who he is and not hurting a soul.

Wait, I take that back! My nine year-old’s very existence is obviously causing great pain to small-minded, judgmental, ignorant people all across the world, including, but not limited to, that miserable piece of shit working behind the desk at his allergists.

I could write a strongly written letter to the practice, or even go back and confront her, but I’ve seen enough humans like her to know it wouldn’t do any good. She had the air of one of those people who could be on their third unhappy marriage and whose grown children had stopped talking to them and the thought that it might have something to do with her would never cross her tiny little narrow mind.

My only hope is that she’s the way she is because she’s terribly unhappy in life. And I do feel a touch guilty about saying this, but the thought that she’s miserable does bring me a little joy in this situation.



An Uncomfortable Situation

The plan was simple; we go to lunch, we stop by the wife’s church for a short thing she had to sit through, we go grocery shopping, we come home. Other than the church part it seemed like a fine way to spend a Sunday afternoon, and I figured even that wouldn’t be too bad. After all it’s a Unitarian Universalist church which is just a place for liberal atheist that enjoy ritual – and don’t fish or play golf – to gather on Sunday mornings, and all I had to do was sit there politely while my wife got the info about the sex-ed classes that two of my three boys were signed up for.

So yeah, it would be a fine day.

We ended up getting a later start than we wanted so we had to go straight to the church for my wife’s little meeting where we walked in and sat down among the other parents that were there for the same reason. It started like most gatherings I’ve been to in a Unitarian church, the lighting of the Chalice, a reading from some spiritual book or another, and then down to the business of the moment. Going into this I believed – and honestly so did my wife – that it would be a purely informational meeting where they told us a few details, handed out a sheet or two printed with what we needed to know about the program, wished us well, and let us go about our day. It only took me a few minutes to realize that this wasn’t the case and that this particular assembly was going to have some participation involved.

Now, here’s a little background information for y’all: I’m not the participating type. Clubs, groups, teams, organizations of any kind – I don’t like them. As an adult and fully functioning member of society I’ve learned to just suck it up and deal when I have to participate in a group but it makes me incredibly uncomfortable and I tend to actively avoid situations where I have to do things with other people. I often find even being part of my own immediate family stressful and I helped make three out of the five of the humans in the group.

Anyway, the nice lady in charge of the program wanted us to stand if she asked a question that we could answer an affirmative too, like if we grew up in the area or if we had siblings or if we felt we had a healthy and complete sexual education as children; all questions that went along with what we were there for. I played along because all I had to do was stand up every so often, there was no talking involved, and, like I mentioned above, I know how to function in society. I understand the social contract. I can participate. I hate it. But I can. And do. Still really hate it though.

All of that first part went fine.

Then we had to separate into groups based on our child’s grade level which dictated the specific program they’re in. We have one child in first grade that’s doing the kindergarten through second grade program and we’ve got another that’s in eighth grade doing the program designed for eighth and ninth graders. It was mandatory for at least one of us to go and sit in on the eighth grader’s meeting so my wife asked if I’d be willing to go and listen to what they had to say about the little kids curriculum which caused me to immediately start panicking because “I don’t know any of those people”, “what if they ask me questions”, and “I just wanted to go to lunch, I don’t even go to this church, why did you make me do this?”. Rolling her eyes she told me she could get that info later and we went up together to the room where the mandatory meeting was being held.

We walk into this room to find that it’s all middle aged mothers except for myself and one of the program’s teachers who is a very nice older gay gentleman. That on its own didn’t bother me. What bothered me was when we had to go around the room and share our names, who our children were, and what our preferred pronouns were. When it came to my turn I tried first to crawl behind my wife and hide but that didn’t work so I answered best I could even though I suddenly forgot my name, who my children were, and why I was there. Also I answered the pronoun question by saying, “um… the typical guy ones I guess…” in much the same manner I imagine my thirteen year-old will answer that question when asked. Then we were asked as a group who felt as if they had gotten a decent education about sex from their family. Not realizing I’d be the only person in the group to do so, I raised my hand.

“Oh, only one person. Well, why don’t you tell us about that!”

So there I was being stared down by a gaggle of strange women and one old queen and right then I decided to suck it up and participate. That was a mistake. I should have just said pass because what happened is I nervously started to stutter and stammer my way through the entire history of my sexual education, about how open my parents were with information about sex, how I almost felt as if they were too open and freaked me out at a young age, how my stepfather divorced my mother and then came out by showing up to dinner with his boyfriend, how most of my babysitters as a child were lesbians, how I got caught masturbating  that one time, I apologized to all women about premature ejaculation, and on and on and on. The longer I talked the hotter my face felt, sweatier my palms got, and I eventually just blanked out mentally but my mouth kept talking.

My next clear memory I’m sitting behind the steering wheel of our van and my wife is asking me if I’m ok.

“Yeah, uh, I think so.”

“You want to go get some lunch? Maybe a beer or two?”

“I think that would be nice. Um, did I overshare in there?”

She took what felt like a good long while to get her response in order. “You know what sweetie? It’s fine. I wouldn’t worry about it. You don’t even go to this church. Let’s go get you that beer. Let’s get you a few. You seem like you need might need them.”

I did.

Going Crazy One Noise At A Time

At my core I’m a laid-back individual. I enjoy long periods of stillness punctuated by silence. I savor the serene. I crave the calm. I take comfort in tranquillity and prize the placid. What I’m trying to say is I don’t like a whole bunch of fucking noise and chaos around me.

And yet I thought having children would be a good idea.

For the most part I’ve learned to deal with constant cacophony (dude, I’m killing the alliteration today!) of everyday life. I’ve learned to tune out the usual whines, screams, and the most annoying and lied about of sounds, the laughter. (I swear I’m not a psycho and hate the laughter of all children. It’s just my two oldest have the absolute worst laughs. They literally go hur hur hur in an overly affected way that makes me want to stab myself in the eardrum with an ice pick just so I don’t have to hear it again.) But it’s been raining for the last week which means that my kids have been getting no outside time causing a buildup of excess energy that seems to be fueling their most obnoxious traits. Seriously, it’s like the worst parts of their personalities are drunk, coked up, and got told that reasonable behavior was talking mad shit about them.

For example my six-year-old filled the few brief moments yesterday afternoon that he wasn’t talking with screams, guttural howls, and loud nonsensical sounds. For a little while I wondered if maybe he was in a Speed-like situation where someone planted a bomb on him and if he didn’t make constant noise it would explode. That obviously wasn’t the case, I mean he did fall asleep and not blowup – no matter how much I wanted him to. My middle child has become a being of pure snark and sarcasm. I’m pretty sure David Spade is his Patronus and Anthony Bourdain his spirit animal. And my oldest… well actually he’s been pretty cool these last few days. He also likes quiet and calm. And, just like his old man, has very little patience for the two youngest members of the family. Though unlike his father who will just leave the room and go and hide somewhere, he deals with it by screaming at them, so maybe he hasn’t been that cool. It just seems that way by comparison.

Anyway, my life has been nothing but a complete lack of chill and quiet, and I’m running out of places to hide from the children. I’m beginning to think seriously about hiding in that big bottle of bourbon I keep stashed away but that doesn’t seem like a healthy solution to the problem.

The rain should stop this afternoon though, and the sun will shine tomorrow, so if I can survive the rest of today so should the kids.

If not, y’all’ll see me in the news.

Wish us all luck.



The Rut

I’ve been in kind of a rut lately. I wouldn’t say it’s been a full on depressive episode or anything but I’ve definitely not been feeling great about myself and where I am in life.

A huge part of me wants to scream at the depressive part of myself because I really shouldn’t be feeling the way I am. I’m financially comfortable (in a middle class way, not in the way the little old southern ladies of my youth used to use the phrase. When the little old ladies used it they meant they had more money than God, they’d like you to know it, but they believed talking about money was crass and only done by the lower classes, which was most everyone else. Bless their hearts.), I’ve got three great kids to complain about, I’ve got a wife I’m very much in love with who sometimes seems as if she’s also fond of me, I’ve got good friends, a roof over my head, food on my table, a part-time job that pays me to talk about fishing, and hell, I even sometimes get to go fishing. I’ve got a great life and I know it.

At least on some level I know it.

Yet here I am all bummed-out.

I think a large part of it is that I’m almost forty years old and still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.

You know what? That last sentence wasn’t honest.

I think almost all of it is that I’m almost forty years old, always wanted to be a writer, but “knew” from an early age that only the most talented, best educated, and hardest working individuals could ever be published. I never felt as if I fit in that particular demographic so I figured I might as well find something I could do that would pay the bills, dreams and job satisfaction be damned. Now, after reading many books, articles, and other published materials that are just really awful (if you’re a published writer and you’re reading this, first and foremost, Thanks! Second I’m not talking about you. You know who I’m talking about because you’ve read their stuff. We all have.) I realize the dream isn’t beyond my grasp but now I feel as if I’m too old and have too many responsibilities to take the time and put in the work to make it happen. I know that’s not true, but I’m talking about the way I feel about the situation, not the reality of it.

I am currently taking steps in my life – very small steps if I’m being honest – but steps to help this being a published author thing become an actuality, including, but not limited to, this blog. I believe, like I said in my first post last week, that this should at least give me an excuse to practice my writing and get used to writing for an audience. Hopefully taking these steps will get me out of my current funk even if I never get beyond the blogging stage.

And if not I could always shave my head, have a good old-fashioned breakdown, and start life again from rock bottom. But hopefully it won’t come to that.

My Children: a brief summary

I’ve got three of them. All boys. The youngest is six, the oldest is thirteen, and the middle boy is nine.

The middle one, the nine-year old, he’s only comfortable wearing what would traditionally be considered girl’s clothes; dresses, skirts, glitter, sequins, rainbows, kittens, pinks, purples, etc.. He has a beautiful head of long, thick, dark, wavy hair that makes most women jealous. He’s a fan of wearing dark purple and black lipsticks. He’ll also get super pissed if you mistake him for a girl and is willing to throw down on the playground if you talk shit. One day he’s going to be the most popular person at the drag club.

My oldest is hyper-intelligent, witty, creative, can’t tie his own shoes, and wouldn’t notice Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster getting it on next to him on the living room couch unless someone deliberately pointed it out to him. He’s been tested repeatedly to see if he’s on the spectrum but the professionals have all said no. One doctor did say that the boy might not be on the spectrum but definitely has a very clear view of it from where he stands. He’ll also from time to time tell me how hot he thinks some random guy on the television is and then stare at me with a blank face to see if I react. I still haven’t decided if it’s his way of letting me know he’s gay (he’s admitted to his mother that he thinks he might be but I’m not supposed to know that) or if he’s just fucking with me for his own amusement.

My youngest is so destructive he gets fan letters from natural disasters praising him for his work. He started talking at two and hasn’t stopped once in four years. His mother and I have had strangers who have observed our interactions with him in public places come up to us and ask if he’s always like that and then comment about how exhausted we must be. Once the vice principal of his school asked him if he had a good day and he answered that yes, he had a very good day. “Oh yeah? Well I heard you spent some time in recovery today,” the vice principal said. “Yes. That is true,” he answered. “How was it a good day if you got in trouble?” she asked. “Because I had fun!” And he did, because he always has fun. So. Much. FUN. I’m personally tired of the fun.

So, yeah… those are my children. They are the greatest joys in my life and the reason I occasionally weigh the pros and cons of becoming a functioning alcoholic. You’ll be hearing a lot about them in the future.