Fee-Fi-Mo-Norton - or A Rose by Any other Name isn't a Rose

I got a weird call from Norton's mom - I'm guessing she'd been into the cooking sherry. She wasn't as blubbery as some drunks I've known over the years, but she would be in the top 10. She waffled between complaining about her little boy growing up, and threatening to come over and poison my cats. When she started complaining about my lawn I couldn't help myself.

"Look Mrs. McCleary, you've been complaining about my lawn for the last couple of years, and you know as well as I do that Norton has been cutting my grass. I wish you'd lay off -if you don't like the job your son is doing on my lawn - you tell him!"

There was silence, broken by a snuffle.

"Besides, he's a grown man. You need to let him grow up. He needs to learn to do things on his own. He can't even cross the street without you coddling him. You drive him to my house for crying out loud."

I felt bad. Not so much for her but for me. She was losing a son and I was gaining an unwanted house guest and I was too much of a coward to stand up for myself. Maybe I wanted the company. Then again, maybe I was secretly wanting to punish myself, and the most punishing thing I could think of would be to have Norton come and live in my house, with my cats, and take up some of my personal space.

He wasn't here yet - but by the weekend my solo days would be over.

Meanwhile I had another day of freedom. Sort of. Friday I have an appointment with Vernon. I am more nervous about this than I'm letting on, and I'd been putting it off for a couple of weeks - and this is probably something I should look at sooner than later.

Besides the best thing about procrastinating is that tomorrow is indeed another day.

Until tomorrow then.

Mister Pootato Head and the Home for Lost Boys

Today I am interrupting my regularly scheduled blog to unblog. Life is messy, and as the saying goes when the going gets tough the weak run and hide.

I've been re-reading my blog, and have discovered that I say "shit" a lot.

Possibly too much. I feel like Gordon Ramsay lite. I don't use the f-bomb, I excrete the other expletive: The s-bomb.

Profanity in general is expressive. It's abrupt, jarring, and most effective when used sparingly. I guess this is why I enjoy saying shit so much. Like its big brother the mighty F word, there are dozens of ways to say shit. Like the color (or colour for my English and Canadian friends) of shit which has subtle shades and hues that can denote an array of conditions - the aural delivery of the shit word, is a linguistic cornucopia.

Why all this reflection upon the excremental wonder word? I suppose it has a lot to do with the record number of times I said it today. Even Margaret commented on it. I think it was, "Shit John, you must've said shit a hundred times in the last five mintes."

I suppose I'll have to set the stage. I should have known that to simply launch into a rant about the word shit, and then go on about my record use of said word without any preamble wouldn't work.

I can set it up with one word: Norton.

Norton came over yesterday and he had beers with him. We sat on the porch and spent the afternoon sitting and drinking beer. They weren't Kilkenny's, but he'd brought along some Sam Adams so it was pretty good for all that. I could tell he had something to say, and was working his way up to blurting it out.

Finally he said something that sounded like, "JohnIdon'twanttoliveathomewithmymotheranymoreshe'sdrivingmenutscanImoveinwithyou?"

Several minutes passed by while I processed what I thought I'd heard. Norton cracked open another Sam's and sucked it down. He opened another and started to look for the bottom of the bottle.

There was no way on God's green earth I was going to let Norton move in with me. None. No way in hell (am I telegraphing this enough for ya? You know what's coming don't you?)

I opened my mouth, and out popped "I guess."

I guess? Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. What have I done?

Norton finished off his beer - picked up the remaining soldiers and staggered into the house to put them in the fridge. Right around then his mother drove up, parked in front of the house and honked the horn. Norton smiled his drunkard's smile at me, "Ride's here - gotta go. I'll be bringing my stuff around later in the week."

I suppose if I was thinking objectively about what I've done, I'd come to the realization that I've been overusing the wrong word.

This is one where the score would read: Gordon Ramsay 1 - John Chapman 0.

The Meaning of Life - Can You Repeat the Question

For the last week I've felt uneasy about things. Nothing specific, just things in general. Actually that's not entirely true - I've been feeling empty, out of gas - blah. In short - I am in a funk.

That's right - I am in a funk. A Grand Funk - one that even Mark Farner would be hard pressed to get me out of - that's some kind of not so wonderful.

So this morning I got up, and decided that me and God needed to have a little chat about the state of the union. No I didn't go to the church of cool coffee and The Jesus Men. I'm not so sure I'd find God there anyway. I did the next best thing: I packed a bag lunch, a few Kilkenny's and went for a drive. There's a nice hike not too far away that has a great lookout and I always feel closer to the big guy when I can look out over his handiwork (I also have the same feeling of awe at the beach, but I wanted a little less distraction).

I spent the day sitting quietly, just thinking about stuff. Like how I was going to deal with the shit Vernon was telling me about my finances. Vernon had been poking into my affairs, and he came up with some things I didn't want to hear - let alone deal with. So for the time being, I was in ignore mode. But it had been wearing on me, hence my retreat into the wilderness. I didn't plan on spending 40 days eating honey and locusts - a couple of sandwiches and a few beers would be okay.

I got to thinking about my childhood. I remember bitching and moaning about Mother's Day, and Father's Day - "How come there's no such thing as Kid's Day?" I'd protest. The answer was always the same "Everyday is Kid's Day." It's a terrible thing to admit, but on this one thing my parents were right. The biggest decisions I had to make as a kid was whether or not to watch H.R. Pufnstuf or The Banana Splits.

When did life become needlessly complicated?

I didn't really resolve anything, nor figure anything out. Life is what it is, and it's what you make out of it. There are those that figure if life gives you lemons, you make lemon aid. That's great when life gives you fruit. I get shit - so what the hell do you make out of shit? I hung out for a while thinking about life, the universe and everything, and wished to God that the answer really was 42.

Life is messy.

Tomorrow in Nonday, which means I'm gonna sleep in late. Play with the cats, and enjoy the perks of being self employed. I think I may even stay up late have another brew and watch The Banana Splits.

May not be lemons, but it's a fruit and a step in the right direction.

Sometimes Revenge is a Dish Best Not Served at All

It had been a while since Margaret had come over to watch a movie. I made such a fuss over having to watch Atonement a while back she's more or less refused to come over for a movie night until I apologized. Which I did the other day - I snuck it in during sex, and it added an element of "make-up" to an already energetic afternoon.

It was my turn to pick. Now, in my defence in advance let me state that I am a fan of Bruce Campbell. Bubba Ho Tep was brilliant. Army of Darkness was genious. His cameos in the Spiderman movies, all good. So when I stumbled across Alien Apocalypse starring my hero I was stoked. Here was something I'd enjoy ... I'd be able to get even. (queue manical laughter)

What I wasn't counting on was how absolutely terrible it would be. It was camp and deliberately over the top bad - but sometimes bad as good just turns out to be bad as in BAD. This was beyond bad. It was SHIT.

So there I was watching this, trying to pretend to Margaret I was enthralled with my hero, while she looked at me like I was in need of a frontal labotamy. I drank more beers than necessary, and Margaret would make a point of pausing the DVD when I had to pee (which was every 5 minutes). Then once it was over, she called my bluff and asked if we could watch it again, but this time with the director's commentary, because Bruce himself was providing his insights into the project.

There's a lesson here, and the lesson is this: Woman are smarter than men, and you're deluding yourself if you think you can pull a fast one on the fairer sex. Oh yeah, and speaking of sex - Margaret stayed over but didn't put out. She had a headache. I didn't sleep well either, because I had to get up and pee about a half dozen times throughout the night.

Bruce you let me down.

Chances are I'm going to have to watch Elizabeth or something next week, and I'll have to pretend to like it.

Half Full, Half Empty or The Glass is always Cleaner on the Other Side

Today I did something stupid.

This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, but there are times when my glass is half full, and times when it's half empty. Today my glass was full. Full of shit - which not only tasted terrible (although it has half the calories of a regular shit, without those lumpy bits that are so hard to suck up through a straw) but smelled even worser.

I should start again. Life may not have an undo button, but there's nothing to stop me from erasing the previous paragraph and starting again. Nothing. But I won't. Wanna know why?

Because. (to my third grade teacher Mrs. Stapleton: "You can too answer a question with 'BECAUSE'!")

Where was I? Right, I was stupid today.

Today I started my day by setting a record regarding my alarm clock's snooze button. I made it a full hour, and then it stopped. Then I fell asleep, and woke up at 11:00 to three very hungry cats. I also missed my appointment with Vernon. He had called last week and wanted to show me something he found.

Oh well. What can you do? I'd been screwing around all week, so another day wasn't going to cause me any extra distress. With that glass half full mind set, I checked messages while I fed the cats.

"Hi, this is Norton." pause "Um, Mister Chapman ..." (I knew something was up, usually Norton called me John, or when he thought he could get away with it JC. "My mom was wondering when you were going to pay me for the yard work, and for the time I spent helping you out at the Trade Show. Can you please give me a call and let me know when I can expect to get paid?"

I couldn't believe it. I was out thousands of dollars and he wanted to get paid? This is when my glass became less than full. It was also when I should have gone out for breakfast, had a coffee (hold the flax) and calmed down.

What did I do?

I called Norton. I spent close to half an hour yelling at him over the phone. I let it all out, nothing held back. I felt great for about 10 seconds after I had finished - and then I felt guilty. Really guilty.

It only got worse. In the afternoon my doorbell rang, and there was Norton and his mom. Norton looked embarrassed, and his mom had a look I'd only seen on those National Geographic specials. You know the ones where they show how mother lions protect their young by killing anything that gets in their way. I felt like leaping through tall grass ...

They just stood there. And stood there. Me getting glared at, and Norton standing there looking at his feet. The silence was broken by three words "How dare you." She must have liked the reaction she got from me because she repeated them, "How dare you."

I didn't know what to do. They just stood there. Eventually I went inside and got my checkbook. I must have put in the right amount of zeroes because Norton's mom smiled at me. Took the check, and then gave her son the look she'd given me - he actually got smaller.

"I'll be around on the weekend to do the grass." and then he mumbled something that sounded like "I'm sorry." With that, Norton's mom actually grabbed her son by the ear and marched him down the walk to her car.

My cup runneth over.