Apples and Orange Coffee Servers

With summer comes summer clothing, and for a lot of people summer includes the sun - and lots of it. I hadn’t figured Cindi for a sun worshipper – but then again with Cindi all bets are off.

I’ve kind of been away for a bit (details will no doubt follow at some point when I feel like telling them to you) and I’d not been to the coffee shop. I wandered in, and caught sight of Cindi behind the counter. She looked a bit – odd – and when I got close enough to place my order I figured out what was odd. Cindi was orange. I must have been staring, because she stepped back and struck a pose for me. She stood with one hand on her hip, and she stuck her chin and her ass out (and didn’t fall over) and pouted at me.

“You been away so long you forgot what a woman looks like John?” She then stepped forward and snatched my hand and turned it over to look at my palm, but before she could get a good look (because she always creeps me out when she “reads” my future) I reversed the hold and turned her wrist so that she was palm up.

Holy crap, her palm was orange too. She was gooped up on tanning cream. “Hey pumpkin, how've you been?” I think she had the good grace to blush, but I couldn’t be certain.

She pulled her hand away so fast she actually smacked herself. I tried not to laugh, but wasn’t entirely successful.

Cindi brought me my coffee and as I took it to grab a seat, she said rather loudly, “I hear Norton keeps a clean house.”

I sat in silence, read the paper and drank my coffee, which tasted like shit – it was more flax seed than coffee.

What else should I have expected on a Nonday?

They Say It's Your Birthday - But it's All About Me

Today is my birthday, and unless you were born today too, my birthday lasts longer than yours. Nyah nyah nyah na na.

Anyway, enough about you - today is all about me.

I know, I know - no one really gives a shit about birthdays unless it's their own, or you're under the age of 11 and are cute. But there are a few things I refuse to let go of - one of them is my birthday.

I suppose the reason I take this birthday thing so seriously stems from my mom. Good old Emily Jane wasn't the best mom in the world, but she did try to take our birthdays seriously. Every summer mom would slather me and Curtis with coconut oil and make us play outside - by mid August me and Curt looked like a couple of pieces of crispy chicken. Mom would then make us stand in the sandlot down the street and stick out our belly's. She'd take a few pictures and then she'd shoo us on our way.

How does this relate to my birthday? Well, it turns out my mom was scamming some adopt a child thing. She managed to register us as a couple of orphans from Bangladesh, and somehow she convinced the people in charge that we were kids that George Harrison had taken a shine to. Anyways money would come in, and how she did it I still can't figure out, but on our birthdays mom would give us a care package that came all the way from India that was the envy of the other kids - this went on until I was about 15 - then mom got busted for trying to sell Mrs. McCleary's house and that was that.

Anyway, last night before I went to bed I left little sticky notes on the fridge and stuff to remind people that it was my birthday. I also updated my facebook profile to invite people to send me birthday greetings, and I set up a little paypal widget so my friends could send me money.

So far, the paypal thing has been a bust, although I did get a note from my little brother Curtis saying happy birthday, and that he'd be coming to town in a few weeks and that he had an idea for a belated birthday present.

All he would say was that it was blue and yellow.

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.