I’ve Developed Such A Baditude

Oh, dear, shame on me. What has happened in the past 37 years that has left me so negative and bitter? I have developed a pretty rotten bad attitude. Or, more aptly: A Baditude.

Could it have been exposing the magician’s secret of good ol' showbiz when I attempted my lifelong dream in the World of Entertainment? Could it have been not totally respecting how that illusion was constructed? Or was it that, in addition to, following the false career path that every American, eventually, follows to pay the bills? Or was it all of those things, then realizing that I’m 37 years old and my genetic dust has been blown off the family album and into my medicine cabinet? Whatever it is, I’ve become kind of a prick. An honest to god douchebag. So, today, I put on a pair of rose-coloreds, turn that positively pink UV protection to the awesome world around me and recall one delicious Spring morning:

A beam of golden warmth awoke me that morning. Mmm. I tried to hide from that randy girl Sunshine, but her morning glow worked her way through the Levelors and kissed me ever so gently on the cheek.

“Good God and Holy Christ on a Bench! Is it morning already. Fuck this,” I turned my face into the softness of my pillow.

But that little rascal was persistent that day. For me, and only me, Lady Sunshine melted the frost with her toasty touch and presented it to me: A dewy diamond on each blade of newly sprung grass.

“WHEN IS THIS FUCKING WINTER GONNA END?!?”

The softness of my pillow called me back. My personal cloud missed me even in that moment I sat up to greet my Early Lassy. You see, the bond my pillow and I share for 8 hours a night is an eternity. A delicious eternity that is never satiated. Insatiable. A continuous ringing of Pavlov’s bell. I lowered myself as I pressed my cheek to hers and closed my eyes.

But that Naughty Beam out my window, she was jealous. Poor girl. She didn't want to share me. It was her turn to be with me. The pillow had her turn. Lady Sunshine and I had a date that morning and she wasn’t about to be stood up. She gazed over my closed lids and ever so sweetly asked for my hand as she does most mornings.

“Do I even have to be up? Goddamn it. What day is it?”

My head was cloudy that morning. A fog of dreams that wisp'd away into the morning air as life slowly crystallized.

“It’s fucking Wednesday. And, GODDAMN IT, I left a garbage bag on the porch last night.”

Wearing little more than what evolution provided to me, my bare feet carried me past the sleeping angel I’ve spent the past 14 years of my life with. How sweet. She sleeps as if in her mind she is floating on a whipped cream swirl of subconscious scenarios and chocolate sprinkled delights. A lone eye peeped at me. We met for the first time that day, and, as always… it was magical.

“Where can I find a clean pair of underwear?”

“Downstairs in the dryer.”

God, I love her. My angel slowly ascended back to the Land of Dreams.

Naked, natural, I headed out of the bedroom with a gentle murmur, “She’s probably getting up at 11:30. Must be nice, lady.”

“What did you say, Rick.”

“Nothing. Go back to… stupid sleep.”

“SHH!”

I walked as I tripped my way into the pair of underpants I wore the day before, the Sunshine glowing from the garden window in the kitchen feathered my eye lashes, tickling them, drawing them downward. Downward I could see outside the window and onto the porch. The porch which I constructed with my two able hands. And on that porch, a carpet of the things that once were -

“Garbage everywhere.! That goddamn, motherfucking raccoon.”

That bandit-masked little imp, stole the remains of our nourishment from the day prior. For her family probably. The instinctual responsibility to scavenge a meal for their children. For survival.

To myself in a gentle whisper, “Good. She got into the Electrosol box hope it kills her and all 46 of her little, gray rats.”

It’s about at this point in the dewy, frosty, sunshiny day that turned my glass from half-full to half-empty to why-wasn’t-this-goddamn-glass-filled-to-the-top-in-the-first-place.

“I HOPE EVERY OUNCE OF MY WASTE YOU ATE KILLS YOU AND DISEMBOWELS YOUR RODENT INSIDES!!! Look at this mess. Garbage and rabies all over my porch.”

There was garbage everywhere. And it stunk. Not a rose-colory smell. A stink. A stink of unfinished mac-n-cheese, moldy sink sponges and most of a turkey kielbasa. There I was, in 36 degrees Fahrenheit, in a pair of day-old underpants, in my bare hands, scooping the feted remains of previous enjoyments into a ripped Hefty kitchen garbage bag like I was preparing a giant corn tortilla of rubbish. The texture so awful that my gag reflex kicked up vomit bits of the breakfast I hadn’t even had yet.

“HOO-WHAH!” Gag.

I so much DIDN’T want to be wiping puke of this porch, too.

“HOO-WHAH!”

Please, don’t puke.

“WHAH! WHAH! HOO-GHUNGH!!!”

Then, I saw a baby diaper. A shitty baby diaper glistening with raccoon saliva and a whisker sticking out of the actual shit.

THAT WAS IT! That diaper’s not even ours -

“PUU-LUUUUH-GHUNNNNN-WHAHHHHHHGGGG!!!!”

Puke.

“PUU-LUUUUH-GHUNNNNN-WHAHHHHHHGGGG!!!!”

Oh, God, no more –

“PUU-LUUUUH-GHUNNNNN-WHAHHHHHHGGGG!!!!”

Puke, shit, garbage and a raccoon whisker all over the porch… and me standing like an underwearing island in the middle of it all.

And cold. And real cold.

As I stood there freezing, I looked up that randy Girl that woke me 15 minutes ago. She smiled on me. Warm. I thought: "Yes, shame on me. I’ve become a bit of a prick as I’ve gotten older. At 15, my old man would have had to pick up the garbage. In college, I would have lived amongst it. But, now, at 37, as a homeowner, a husband, a father I’m responsible for the garbage. I’m responsible for picking it up.”

Yup. Alone and in my underwear, accepting it willingly. At least I have my health.

“God, it’s cold out here.”

AH-CHOO!
_______________________________________________
*Raccoon courtesy of: http://badgas.co.uk/animals/others/

Sometimes Change… Eh, Not So Good

I made the mistake of going downstairs to the building's Sodexho for lunch at, hey fuck me, lunchtime. The line at the sandwich counter bottle-necked at the salad bar's hard boiled egg bucket, then kept going past the ketchups. I ordered my future stomach ache from the grill and, for entertainment, enjoyed the menagerie of the false dieters promenading with their over-dressed salads in the cash-out line. Yeah. The cash-out line. Why isn't that motherfucker moving?

About five minutes went by, I got my burger and swung myself into the cash-out.

A sportcoated sleeve blocked me, “No cuts.”

No cuts? This dude better be 14 years-old. Am I going to have to “One-Potata, Two-Potata” my way into line with Johnny McSportcoat?

“You’re cutting.”

“I am? Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Either way, my friend, you did. The line’s back there.”

Still?!? What the Hell is going on here? Why is this line so long? And... wait! "My friend?" What is this guy a Salt Cod vendor from a 3rd World Bazaar? GOOD FISH FOR YOU TODAY, MY FRIEND?

Then I see the cause of this lunchline back-up... it's her… the granny from the Tweety cartoons… and… she’s paying for her lunch in - PENNIES!

Pinching them cent-by-cent in her pointed little bone fingers, “One, two, three…”

You have got be shitting me. She's only on “three”? What is she eating that has to be paid for – IN PENNIES!!!

I itemized.

First up:
A drink. In a waxened cup. The cover crushed and eskewed. The straw's in the cup with the paper still on it. This is what I label "a drink". It has all the classic markings of a no-name-brand fast food beverage and since I'm not entirely sure what’s in the cup… it’s just a “drink.”
Next:
An opened Oreos pack in which was clearly stated to be: “Already ‘frum’ my purse.” every time her eyes caught wind of the cookies. FRUM?
And Last:
A wrap-type sandwich with… could be tuna? Chicken Salad?

Then, she caught me mid-inventory.

“It’s a ham salad sandwich.”

Fantastic. We’ve just hauled ass way back to 19-friggin-57. Could I, also, interest you in some maraschino cherries to garnish your heart-attack? A side of deviled eggs? A sock hop? Who in the Great Wall of The Shondelles is eating ham salad greater than or equal to the year 1957?!? Ham salad? Puh-lease. Equal dosages of ham and mayo --

“Are they giving angios in the big conference room?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Enjoy the ham and mayo.”

“Oh, yeah. Doesn’t that look gah-reat, “ what is she, Tony the Tiger, “ I had them put mayo on it.”

Mayo ON it? MORE MAYO?!? Holy Blockage! This is like looking at someone moments before their death, thinking, “I made eye contact with that motherfucker right before she went off the side.”

Then back to her pennies.

“Four, five, six cents. Seven --,” she looks at me again.

“Yeah?” The best I could muster.

“I’m trying to get rid of my change.”

“Good for you.”

LADY, THERE’S A GRIDLOCK OF LOW-BLOOD SUGAR BEHIND YOU!!! You couldn’t have taken that change, bought a piggy bank with that change, and, then, 'frum' that moment forward use that piggy bank to get rid of future change?

“Eight. Nine. – How many did I give you?”

The pay-dude wasn’t even close to paying attention. This douche was too fucking high for the good love of Buddah. In fact, the penny-after-penny-after-penny-thing was fascinating the shit out of him.

“I dunno.”

“Was it nine?”

“I dunno.”

“Nine?”

“Dunno.”

Hey, stupid, it’s sitting in the belly of your weed-stained fingers.

I chimed up, “Yes, you gave him nine.”

Then she covered her change purse like I was giving it the gypsy-eye, “I’m not asking you. Ten. Eleven…”

I look behind me. The line has gone around the corner now. Sandwiches have been stolen. Had to have been. Had to. SOMEONE LOJACK THE PASTRAMI!!!

“Nickle makes fifteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.”

She couldn’t have picked another day to relieve herself of the bank roll of pennies in her rubber change purse.

I couldn’t resist with my outstretched jaw, “You got bills in there…”

“Mind your own.”

“I’m hungry, ma'am. Come on.”

“Mind-ja-bizniss," continue, "... Quarter makes -”

Then the calculator light turned-on in her head.

“Sixteen plus one plus one plus one plus one plus one plus –“

“Oh my God! It’s 41! Can I buy your lunch?”

“I can pay my OWN way.”

Then this prick again, “Hey, how’d you get up there? I thought it was clear - ‘no cuts’!”

“I’m just seeing what the hold up is.”

“And?”

I pointed down to Granny Penny.

“Forty-two…”

“She’s getting rid of her change.”

A collective, “Oh, Jesus!” filled the cafeteria. Half of the people put their lunch back. Johnny McSportcoat took two steps to nowhere to hold his place in West No-Cutsville .

“One dollar…”

How expensive can a goddamn ham salad wrap and a drink be? And the Oreos, remember, were 'frum' her purse, so not even the Oreos in on the tally.

“A dollar and a penny. Okay, that’s all my change.”

NOW I CAN EAT, YOU ROTTEN, HAM SALAD EATING COIN PURSE!!!

“And here’s a five.”

She handed him a five.

The pay-dude's like, “Okay. Ham salad and a drink comes to 3.23. Out of six-o-one.”

He looked into the drawer.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t have any ones. Is change okay?”

She nodded. Then held out her bony penny-browned hand as the pay-dude counted back, “3.24. 3.25. 3.50. 3.75. 4.00…”

Chingina (chin-jye-nah)

I want to shave my chingina. The little, tiny vagina bush that I grew on my chin by accident 6 months ago.

It used to be a full-on goatee. A manly beard. Smart. Debonair. The kind of goatee you'd see on a velvety villain, cross-legged on a settee in Victorian New Amsterdam. You would see it on me... except... a friend started his goatee the same morn that I started sprouting mine.

I went a few tandem-barbened days with it, then it just seemed, well, gayish. The "Hey, you, too." thing that was funny the first day, wasn't that goddamn funny anymore. It was just kind of odd.

So, that night I locked myself in the bathroom ready to remove the entire gnarly beast from my face.

I looked to the haughty, naughty Victorian in the mirror, "Ready to shave, my good man?"

And, although the mirrored Victorian from Old New York had a Cuban accent. He was sadly taken aback by my decision to straight-edge my chin, "Oh, Ricky, my friend, you like the goatee. It is you. Is it? No?"

"Sorry. Someone else is sporting the same one and the situation has gone from funny to uncomfortably homoerotoc in my mental case head."

He bowed his head, "Comprendo."

I foamed-up my brush, picked up the Gillette Fusion and de-moustached my upper lip.

"Daddy?" At the bathroom door.

I always hear "Daddy" at the door when I'm in the bathroom. Always. This room was once the final fortitude of my me-ness. My last place for privacy, however, since the success of potty training , even when I shit, it has to be shot out like a redneck's air-rifle in the final minutes of paintballing.

"What?"

"What are you dooooooooing in there?"

"Shaving."

"You're beard?"

"My beard."

Sniff. "Why?"

"It's getting too -"

"Fluffy?"

"Itchy... and... dammit... wierd..."

Who am I kidding? Wierd? The "You, too. Me, too" was giving the creeps.

"But I like your beard, " as her tears Katrina'd under the bathroom door (Katrina? Too soon? Hmm.... yikes...)

"But babe, my friend and I are getting like a total feeling from everyone we know. It's just wierd. Two guys with the same thing, same color. It's just wierd. It's gotta go."

SCREAMS!!!! Anguish from behind the bathroom door.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's got to stay on. I have to keep this goddamn itchy mess. I look down into the sink and there it is. Well, half of it.

MOANS!!!!!

My moustache is lying in the sink. I got to continue with the shave. I've already gone the first mile.

"Daddy... Daddy... Daddy!!!!"

NO!!! THE HORROR!!!!

And there's my moustache. There's that son-of-bitch peppering the basin under my baby-face upper lip brow.

"Daddy, leave it on!"

As I look up from the ground-up corpse of my moustache floating in a sea of Foamy, I see it. It. Right there in the mirror. Connected to the ball of my jaw. A Chingina.

"Oh, glorious FUCK! I have shaved a vagina onto my face." It's got to go.

"What have you done to me, you animal, " said the velvety Cuban in the mirror as he melted away into Chingina. WHAT-A-WORLD-WHAT-A-WORLD!!!

"Daddy, leave on your beard. It's soft!"

I just stare in the mirrror, "Chingina, I'm 37 years old. I can't be walking around with you on my face."

Then wifey bangs on the door, "Why is your daughter in the hallway crying?"

"Daddy's shaving his beard!"

"Why are you shaving your beard? We like the beard."

I fingered my way, sadly, through Chingina, "I have to keep Chingina. I JUST HAVE TO... oh, god, please... please... let me be alone..."

... with Chingina.

I could only stare at myself thinking about Chingina, "I look like I smoke weed for fucking breakfast with this god-ram thing. I can't have a chingina."

"Can you leave some of it on, Daddy."

I only have some it. It's a chingina.

"Daddy, pleeeeeeaaaassseee...."

And that's all I needed to hear: "Daddy, pleeeeeeaaaassseee...."

"Yeah, baby. I'll leave some of it on."

"On your chin?"

The word "chin" stung me. It bit me. Bit me right in Chingina.

"Yes. I'll leave some of it. On my chin. I'll leave it on my chin..."

...gina...

And everytime I've tried to shave it since she loses her everloving mind.

So, Chingina itches, Chingina makes me look like a pothead and Chingina... well, Chingina gives me peace with Tiny. She loves the beard.

And by the way, my friend completely shaved his beard the same night I made my attempt. He's still clean shaven. I could have kept the goatee, but instead I have female genitalia pasted to the ball of my jaw.

SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT... TWO BITS!!!!!!