Stink of a Demon

Okay, I lost The Muse, but I think she's back.  Check out what I've cooked up for you, and REJOICE!

Mama is now 73 years old. She's been smoking since the age of six when she latched to her daddy's pipe like Miley Cyrus onto a bottle of Night Train. Her father thought it was cute, and the tobacco industry has since been forever grateful.

Presently, she has a hump on her back, no back teeth, and floats about the house in a cloud of Prada perfume. (Float is too kind. She scoots. “Ouch! Carpet does burn!”) The hump is used by Daddy to guide her through grocery stores, hospitals, and casinos. He is her GPS. Her lack of back teeth is a direct result of a steady diet of Kraft Tapioca Pudding®, Nestle's Quik®, and Diet Caffeine Free Coca-Cola®, because, “I just can’t handle the jitters.” As far as perfume, it plays a far more dramatic role…if that’s even possible.

Mama chooses her perfume based on the caché of the brand, and it’s ability to adhere to any surface (like Kim Kardashian), but not necessarily for its scent. She possesses no sense of taste, or smell, so what's the point? For Mama, the primary objective of a fine perfume is its' ability to mask the smell of death that has been haunting her since 1976 when she fell, and suffered a "slipped disc” which conveniently led to 30 years of bed rest. Be thankful this essay isn’t a Scratch-n-Sniff® product. For Mama, the slipped disc was a blessing. It gave her the three things she has always wanted: An unlimited supply of Valium, a designer fragrance, and a semi-conscious state of being that absolved her of any and all responsibility. Her own Manifest Destiny realized.

In the 70’s, Mama’s perfume of choice was Halston, and in the 80's it was Obsession. As Mama put it, "I can only tolerate Calvin Klein's perfumes. Everything else gives me a migraine." For someone who couldn't stomach the smell of a toilet bowl cleaner, she had no issue with huffing whatever petrochemical Calvin Klein shot out of his ass, and in the 80's what petrochemical wasn't being shot out of Calvin's ass? Unfortunately, perfume does little to disguise the stench of cigarette smoke, premature decomposition, or reduce the chances of spontaneous combustion. Mama always did like to tempt fate. Any woman that smokes, and uses Aqua Net simultaneously, is either a true risk taker, a pyromaniac, or a circus performer. Given that Mama's brain stem is calcifying, and she can still get her legs behind her head (a claim I have yet to verify) I’ll check the carny box on this survey.

A dental assistant, that I once worked with (and have issued a restraining order against) supposedly found Jesus after spending several years snorting cocaine, and riding stripper poles. (According to her, Jesus was a "Breast-Man, and a heavy tipper") She told me that my mother was not crazy, but was most likely attempting to disguise a demon that had latched onto her because, "When you can't identify a smell, or when it seems that an odor is following you, you can bet that you've got the stink of a demon on ya’." While I like the idea of Mama being haunted by a demon, I don't trust anyone who gave up thigh high boots, and an endless supply of booze, for a life of latex gloves, and spit. It certainly was quite clever, but I couldn't buy it. Mama is simply a miracle of science. She should no longer possess any higher brain functions, nor the ability to break wind, yet somehow she persists to exist despite the odds, and despite the demon. God bless her hickory smoked, blackened heart. 

Pregnant Men and The Women That Love Them...

Note:  If I'm bored with the California tale, I know y'all are...we'll get back to that shortly.  For now, enjoy a little somethin' hot from the G-n-G kitchen:

In 1996, after our Grandmother's funeral, my sister (Big Sissy) once said, “Y’know, men can get pregnant now.”  Now, go back and read it again, but imagine a drunk, and angry, Dixie Carter.

I asked, “What? Who are you talking to?” There was no one else in the room, but with my family, it’s sometimes necessary to clarify.

“I’m talkin’ to you!” she snapped.  Big Sissy always snaps.  There is no subtle...there is only Big Sissy.  “I read that they got a man pregnant.”

“You read?” I teased.  Well, not so much teased as I had never actually seen her do it before.

She glared, then moved to backhand me.  I flinched.  Big Sissy is a pretty, petite little thing, but a dirty fighter.

“...and who is this they you’re talking about?”

“Hell, I don’t know! Smart, science kind of people!”  she screamed.  “May I finish please?”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to stop you.  I'm intrigued.  How did they work this miracle?”

“So, they took a fertilized egg and attached it to this man’s kidney.” She continued to emphasize the word “they” either to mock me, or because she felt it gave her story more credibility.
 
“Oh, for Christ’s sake...” I hissed.

“Would you shut up long for me to finish?”
 
“I just want to know how much more ridiculous this is going to get before I ask Mama for one of her pills.”  I had mocked her, so she punched me.

“They attached it to his kidney.  He was on bed rest for six months, and then they had to do a C-Section to get the baby out 'cuz of the fact that he didn't have a vagina. ”

I interrupted, "Just so you know...I was clear that he did not have a vagina the moment you said men can get pregnant."

She rolled her eyes, and punched me again,  “Shut up!  It 'aint funny!  It’s been a year since it happened, and that poor man’s child has to live in a bubble for the rest of his life!  Just like John Travolta!”

I furrowed my brow, suppressed another giggle, cautiously took her hand and calmly said, “Sissy, John Travolta does not live in a bubble.  Well, not a literal bubble anyway.”
 
She snatched her hand from mine.  “Don’t lie to me, Robbie J.!  I’ve seen it on the television.”

“What?  A man giving birth?”

“No!  John Travolta living in a bubble!”

...and that is why I write.

Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Artificial Limbs (Part V)

*Okay, kids...this is a longer entry.  I've received quite a few requests for longer posts, so here it is...enjoy!

Trial and error.  Trial and error.  We learn by doing.  Some things I’ve never been prepared for.  For instance, earthquakes, last minute excursions to Miami, and hitching a 2003 Honda Accord to a U-Haul van. 

It was the last adrenaline rush ending the first chapter in our move to California.  It was me, the car, the trailer and an audience that consisted of our friends Darcie and Stu (sexiest straight couple I know) their two kids, Aster, and two U-Haul employees.  You would have thought by their expressions that I, attempting to launch a car onto a trailer, was the most riveting event to witness next to an auto accident with severed limbs and head trauma; which it could have very well turned into had it not been for my pathological determination to end this chapter as quickly as possible.  There would be no more mistakes, and within seconds the car was secured, and we were heading south.

Portland would be our first stop.  The trip would have been a peaceful one if it wasn’t for the amount of noise emanating from the cat.  Despite the tranquilizers, she would not shut up.  I can’t say that I was completely surprised.  If my mother can hold conversations (loose term) after ingesting enough narcotics to put Charlie Sheen in a state of suspended animation, then why shouldn’t my cat remain conscious? 

The drive to California was practically uneventful.  In fact, it was your standard road trip complete with an inordinate amount of laughter and bad food.  Life was good, that is until we arrived about an hour outside of Pollo Mierda.  It was late (this would make driving hour number eleven) and while I had thought that traffic would be light, given that it was a Sunday, I did not take into consideration that it was the MLK holiday weekend, and every human being with an automobile in California would be out on the interstate attempting to get to some destination with as much fierce determination as myself.  One difference was that I was accustomed to driving in Seattle where we are a passive/aggressive lot, and hostile driving maneuvers are frowned upon.  Driving in California was like taking part in Nascar.  My question to Aster was, “How can they drive so angry when they get so much UV exposure?”  It was clear that I was exhausted, and Aster knew that it would be best to end this leg of our journey and get a hotel room; however, I was obsessed with saving time and money.  I would not give into something as silly as emotional instability and sleep deprivation.  Ridiculous.

As the sun started to set, the rain came, and with the rain my contact lenses dried out, and began to roll into the back of my head.  As I kept one hand on the steering wheel, I would stick my finger in my eyes (so sanitary) to adjust the position of my contacts so I could see something...anything.  The rain was fierce, like it was pissed that I had not heeded the words of my very wise husband.  The interior of the cab began to fog up.  Aster turned on the defrost.  Nothing happened.  I was now driving blind.  Aster began using tissues to wipe off the windshield. 

Pulling over was not an option.  If I strayed from the lane I was in, I could have easily taken out another vehicle.  Of course being blind meant that there was a high probability that I would take out everyone in my path, so why I didn’t risk it can only be owned up to exhaustion and stupid, macho bullshit.  I might be gay, but I’m still a man.  How we arrived in Pollo Mierda intact was a mystery.  Grateful?  Fuck grateful.  I was going to bed.

Due to the size of the van/car combo we were forced to park two blocks away.  We gathered what we needed to get through the night and walked to our new home.  Well, new for me.  This was a homecoming of sorts for Aster.  The house was completely dark, but it might as well have been lit like a Hollywood premiere.  It’s a charming, 100 year old Victorian with three bedrooms, two baths with a detached garage, and it was ours for five years, maybe more.  As we walked up to the house, suitcases and a strung out cat in hand, I thought, “I can’t believe how good my life is right now.” 

We slipped around the back of the house, as the key was waiting for us under a flower pot by the back door.  The back door lead into the kitchen.  As we opened the door we were promptly slapped with an unbelievable stench.  Later, I would describe it as a combination of damp dog, mildew, and Patchouli.  Yet another sign that we chose to ignore.  A sign that read, “Ahead of you is a life of decay and despair.  Go back to Seattle where you are loved, appreciated, and your olfactory senses are spared.”  

As we stood in the kitchen I covered my face and asked Aster, “Jesus Christ! What the fuck is that?” 
He muffled a response, “Hell if I know.” 
It was late, and I was cranky.  I blasted back with, “Well, you lived here for ten years!” 
My guy, being just as tired as myself, hit me with, “And when I did live here it didn’t smell like this!” 

With our faces pinched into expressions of disgust, we then went from room to room opening windows, and turning on the lights.  Unfortunately, it was still January, but the stench outweighed the need for warm comfort.  The cat let out a questioning meow, as if to ask, “What the hell have you two faggots done to me?”  I was asking myself the same question, but would never acknowledge it to Aster.  Besides being exhausted, I had now lost the ability to form sentences. 

As we toured the home, it was perfectly clear that Todd had done nothing to prepare for our arrival.  Even though we had given him three months notice, the house was in no way ready for occupants.  Hell, it wasn’t even ready for the Orkin Man.  Mama would have been horrified.  Having company in the home was something my family went to great lengths to prepare for.  It didn’t matter if someone was just stopping by for a quick visit, or staying the weekend.  The house was always impeccable.  Even on Mama’s worst day, and there many, you could still trust that it was safe to enter the home and use the toilet.    

To further complicate matters, all of Todd’s clothes, and various personal items, were fully stocked in the master bedroom and bath.  We would spend the next day clearing out his belongings in order to make room for ours.  So, not only did we have to move our things in, but we had to move him, and his midget gear, out.  Yes, this was another sign. 

Aster was in a state of amazement.  Nothing had changed.  Everything was as it was a decade before.  Even down to the rice cakes that he had vacuumed sealed, and left in the pantry before his dramatic departure.  We were both unsettled by this, but I was more disturbed.  I think Aster found it amusing, but for me to find the home in some bizarre state of memoriam, made for one very restless night’s sleep.

That evening, it was actually morning by this point, we eased into bed with the kind of exhaustion that can only be described as painful.  Everything from my hair to the tips of my toes ached.  Laying on our backs, we looked up at the ceiling to our new bedroom, and I noticed a series of creeping black spots.  I asked Aster, “Is that what I think it is?”  He replied, “If you’re thinking that it’s mold, you’d be correct.”  I was too tired to let a series of expletives fly.  Aster then said, “Don’t think about it.  We’re here now.  I’ll take care of it.”  With that bit of love, I passed out.

About two hours later I was awakened by a disturbing scratching sound.  It was coming from behind my head.  I laid perfectly still.  “Was I dreaming?”  I thought.   I listened for it again, but all I could hear was the sound of Aster gently snoring, but the noise had garnered the attention of the cat, and whenever she’s concerned about the unknown...I get concerned about the unknown.  Then I heard it a second time, and I sat up with a jolt.  The cat jumped to the floor.  My scalp tingled as a sickening realization crawled through my body.  Rats.  There were rats in the walls.  I whispered, “Fuck.”  Aster stirred, the cat continued to stare at the wall.  I thought, “Here I am, laying in the same bed Todd and Aster once shared; in a house that smells like the underside of an 80 year old man’s scrotum, looking up at black mold, while rats fester just inches from my head.  All for a few year’s of free rent!  Is it worth it?”  I didn’t want to know the answer.  It was too late.  We were here.  The secure job I had for seven years was gone.  The home we had for four years was gone, and the friends we had were gone.  For the time being, it was going to be us and the rats.  I had no choice but to deal with it.

The next three weeks we settled in and fumigated.  Well, I should say that we continued to air the place out, and lay eco-friendly traps for the rats as Todd refused to bring in the big guns.  Why?  Because, if it isn’t organic in nature, then it doesn’t exist within the walls of Todd’s house.  While Aster and I buy organic foods, and products, we do not have any issues with nuking our home when it comes to rat infestation.  After all,  we didn’t move to California to march in the Vermin Pride Parade, or fight off Typhus, but it wasn’t our house, so we had to play by Todd’s rules.  I was primarily raised as an only child.  This was very difficult for me to grapple with. 

My mornings began with online job hunting, and then a run.  I would then spend the rest of the day with Aster as we continued to settle in.  Part of our settling in called for relegating Todd’s “life” to one of the spare rooms downstairs.  It was also helpful that Todd had given us free reign to paint and redecorate.  According to his Buddhist’s ways, “It’s all just stuff.  Material items are meaningless to me now.  Take what you need, and do whatever you want with it.  This is your home now.”  This was a grand gesture on his part, and recognizing that, we voiced our gratitude repeatedly. 

Then came what would be commonly referred to as The Phone Call.  Todd was coming home.  Initially, this did not come as a surprise.  Prior to the move he had mentioned that he would be back periodically to check on his business, but his visits would be brief and unobtrusive.  Being that I enjoyed his company (who doesn’t love it when the circus comes to town?) I didn’t consider it anything more than a slight inconvenience.   The inconvenience would grow in substantial size and stature after he arrived, when he casually stated, “My business is not doing well.  I haven’t taken a paycheck in months.  I don’t know when I’ll be leaving.”

We were sickened.  Sickened in a way that would normally involve radiation therapy.  Not only was I coping with being unemployed, a devastated social life (Doug’s words), and living in a town the size of Mama’s walk-in closet, but I was now attempting to comprehend a life with my guy and his former partner.  I had seen this happen before.  Not in reality, but in the tragic world of Aaron Spelling soap operas.  Unfortunately, I’m not the kind of man to carry out devious schemes while wearing sequins and shoulder pads (well, at least not in small town California anyway) but at that moment I did wish I was one nasty, cat fighting, old bitch in a ball gown, downing highballs of scotch while brandishing a Smith & Wesson, but we were trapped. We would have to play nice.  After all,  every second of our lives had been budgeted to the point that Suze Orman would have gotten a hard-on;  however, there was nowhere for us to go, and the forked-tongued gnome had arrived without so much as a bouquet of flowers or an apology.  So, I got a job...

Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Artificial Limbs (Part Four)

Thanks to Hal, and his amazing ability to accomplish a vast amount of nothing in such a short amount of time, I was late in my return back to the house.  My tardiness grew exponentially as I had to clean, what I thought was, blood splatter from within the cab of the van.  More than likely it was coffee.  A disturbingly dark brew perhaps derived (steaming fresh) out of the ass of an Indonesian Civet.   Whatever it was,  the direction of the spray would indicate that that the victim’s carotid artery had been perforated, or the driver was simply drunk.  At least these were the stories I told myself as I attempted to find the nearest convenience store in order to purchase a variety of disinfecting agents.  I had to tell myself these stories, or I would begin to cry.  I’m sensitive.  It’s what I do.  I’m good at it.

With the vehicle removed of all visible homicidal evidence, I arrived home to a number of dear, trusted friends waiting to pack us up and send us off.   From the talent I had gathered, I knew this move would be quick.  I just needed to dose the cat with tranquilizers, send the extra pills to Mama, and we could be on our way.  Unfortunately, Mama Universe would have other plans.  Remember - we were not heeding the sign posts she was laying out before us.  I didn’t major in drama as I already excelled at it.

After dosing the cat, and watching her eyeballs retreat into her skull; which was not unlike a typical day with Mama, I exited the house to follow-up on our progress.  My friend Doug (the Moving Whisperer) approached me with a bit of concern.  He’s a forensic psychologist.  I thought he was going to tell me that he had found the body that belonged to the splatter, but I wasn’t that lucky.  Doug stated, “I think you need to consider leaving some items behind.”  I pooped a little, tightened my gut and sternly asked, “Why would you say something so horrible to me...right now?”  He replied, “Why don’t you take a look at the van, and then look at what still needs to be packed, and then we’ll talk.”  I did as I was instructed.  If anything, I was curious.  Unfortunately, he was right, but I refused to leave anything behind.  It wasn’t an option.

The only solution would be to use our new car as additional storage space; however the car was across town at another U-Haul dealer awaiting to be hitched to our van.  I would now have to go fetch it.  The time we had gained was now quickly slipping away.  If I was an alcoholic, I would’ve been unconscious, lying in a gutter, pissing in my pants with gleeful abandon.  Luckily, I’m far too vain to be found in such a state, so I pursued a prettier, different route. 

Alex, Doug’s husband, volunteered to take me out to the U-Haul dealer.  On the way out we shared some inappropriate giggles regarding the amusements that can only occur when you move with your “one and only”, and suddenly...life didn’t seem so bad.  “Who needs booze and kitty tranquilizers?  Leave those for Mama!  I’m going to have a new life in California! Pass the Freixenet...dis be a pah-tay!”  It would be less of a party, and more like a funeral.

Once at the U-Haul dealer my blissful rant was smacked down as I set off the car alarm. “Keyless entry” was new for someone who had never owned a vehicle that possessed any options above power steering.  I looked back in search of Alex.  He was gone.   Given that I had just purchased the vehicle, and an owner’s manual was absent at the time of purchase, I had no idea as to how to turn it off.  I began to look around.  Not for help, but for an escape route.  I was beginning to attract an audience.  Not because of the alarm, but because I was doing that vulgar laugh/cry/hiccup thing that is usually reserved for five year olds. 

Somehow I managed to smash the correct series of buttons, and the alarm was silenced.  The crowd diminished as it became clear that I was simply an idiot, and not in need of medical assistance or a police escort.  Then the door wouldn’t open, so I put the key in the lock and set off the alarm for a second time.  Buttons were smashed again, in no particular order, and the alarm was silenced.  I bit my lip, entered the vehicle and then I received a text from Doug:  “Re-packing van.  Looks good!”  I cried.  My bonus excursion to the U-Haul dealer had been in vain, but it was the last time I would shed a tear...at least for the next 24 hours.

Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Articifial Limbs (Part Three)

Now, when a person is focused and determined they have a tendency to ignore certain signs, and given my desperate need for a change in my life I failed to see the sign posts that Mama Universe had laid directly in my line of sight.  Signs that were an indicator that moving to Pollo Mierda was probably not the best idea.  The sign posts were blazingly, blindingly obvious.  For example, the reports of the probable collapse of the California economy, or the collapse of the entire American economy, should have been enough to give us pause; however, as I mentioned, I was desperate, which can lead to such things as hysterical blindness, hysterical pregnancy, or just plain hysteria.   I think at one point I experienced all of them, including hysterical pregnancy as I was just THAT kind of crazy.  

The next sign post involved the loss of our car.  Granted, the VW Bug was always on the verge of death, but I had poured so much money into repairs that I was sure nothing else could happen.  Then the week I was preparing to leave my job, the Bug died.  Well, it didn't really give up the ghost as much as me pulling the plug.  Sometimes, you just gotta let go, and I gladly did.  It was a blow to our savings to purchase a "gently used" vehicle, but as my friend Doug said, "Better to buy a car now, then when you're unemployed."  Sage advice to be sure.  A 2003 Honda Accord was procured, and peace of mind flowed through my veins.  At least for a few hours. 

Once the issue of the car was settled, our final week in Seattle progressed with virtually no drama.  Mama Universe was saving all of it for moving day.  It was January 17th and I was using every ounce of my office managerial skills to ensure a smooth moving process.  Unfortunately, the best laid plans aren’t really plans, but a series of comical events that are not amusing until one has completed six  months of therapy, or six months of binge drinking.  I did both.  I’m not endorsing that kind of behavior, it’s just what worked for me. 

The morning of the 17th started as clear, blue and brutally cold.  My dear friend, Darcie, dropped me off at the U-Haul dealer.  I was uncomfortable.  Not just from the cold, but from the sight of the dealer’s storefront.  Supposedly, it was a hardware store.  An ancient, decaying piece of real estate that was more of a lean-to than an actual solid structure.  It was eight a.m, my scheduled pick-up time, and the door was locked.  I was forced to wait outside.  Then the rain came.

Nearly twenty minutes would pass before a hygienically challenged individual would arrive to unlock the front door and permit me, and a few other customers, in.  He barely acknowledged us, and from his stench, I determined that he had a fondness for cheap bourbon, cheaper cigarettes, and an aversion to basic dental home care.  Let’s call him Halitosis Harry, or Hal for short.

There were three of us.  Me and a young, cute straight couple.  They were very blonde, very pretty and very, very happy.  Obviously, they had never moved before.  They were also very well-dressed.  Another sign they had never moved before.  For those of you who don’t know, “well-dressed” in Seattle means they appeared to have bathed within the last 48 hours, and were wearing little backpacks strapped to their Gortex jackets.  In Seattle, if you don’t appear to be on a quest to climb Everest at any given moment, then you just don’t belong.

I motioned for the adorable couple to enter the facility first.  I followed.  I thought this was the best course of action in the event whatever lived in the structure would consume them first and I could simply run for my life.  Upon entering I was struck by how much colder it was inside as opposed to outside, and particularly struck by the stench.  Like a men’s urinal just without the cake.  The couple made faces at each other and giggled.  It would be the last time they would ever smile again.  I was sure of it.  There was one light fixture, and while there were two huge storefront windows, light could barely creep in due to the enormous amount of filth that was clinging to them.  If the color grey in my Crayola box were scratch-n-sniff, it would smell like this pit.

We attempted to form a line, but there was hardly room to stand as the store was packed with an amazing amount of merchandise.  I use the term “merchandise” loosely as that would imply these were items worthy of retail sale.  No.  This was a dump.  This was a landfill.  This was a place that would make anyone wish for a pair of latex gloves, or a body condom.  This was a physical representation of what the next seven months would mean to me and Aster.  We were preparing to enter a shit storm.

Within minutes a series of errors began to occur.  First, Hal was unable to locate a pen.  Then there was a bit of confusion as to where Hal had placed the keyboard to the computer.  Once the keyboard was located, and the computer turned on, it crashed.  I wasn’t surprised.  How could anything live, electronic or otherwise, buried under jars of nails, bags of M&M’s, old milk crates, newspapers and rat traps?  Yes, there were rat traps.

Being without a computer meant that Hal could not access the U-Haul database to confirm our reservations, or to provide us with the necessary documents we would need for our move.  In essence, we would have no proof that we were actually entitled to take possession of our van.  Furthermore, should we encounter law enforcement on our journey, our goods would be confiscated, and we would be held on suspicion of stolen property.  Once again, due to my desperation, I took his handwritten note and said a small prayer that the day would improve.  I should have known better.  I am, after all, me.

Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Artificial Limbs (Part Two)

The conversation with Todd began innocently enough.  We touched on my ridiculous job, and how it was costing me my sanity, and how the card business was not working out, and we threw in a few new stories about our crappy neighborhood.  Then, Todd began to disclose the reason for his visit.  He wanted us to consider moving to Pollo Mierda (a small town outside of San Francisco) and caring for his home...rent free.  We had heard this before, just the year prior, as he had offered his home for a period of a year, but we weren't about to give up my job, our home, and our friends for just one year in California.  This time the offer was even more enticing.  This time he said, "Listen, the house is just sitting there, and with the housing market the way it is, I won't be able to sell it for at least five years.  Come down, bring your cat, all your stuff, and take advantage of this.  Stay as long as you like.  I've even got warehouse space for your cards.  You could set up shop at my office, and work on getting the business back up and running." 

Aster and I were speechless.  I took a deep breath and then asked, "But Todd, what about you?  Where will you live?"  He turned towards me, paused, met my gaze and said, "I'm not coming back."   At that point all I could do was blink and poop my pants.  What else do you do when you feel like you’ve been given an opportunity on such a grand scale?  It’s unattractive, but it’s understandable.

Nomads are defined as a group of people who have no fixed home and move according to the seasons from place to place in search of food, water, and grazing land.  When I was younger, my nomadic tribe moved according to the whims of the government, and to keep Mama out of jail.  It happens.  You can only forge so many prescriptions before your local pharmacist gets suspicious. 

In my 18 years living with my military family we moved 13 times.  One year we were scheduled to move to Germany; however, Mama refused to go, saying that she couldn’t handle those “harsh German winters.”  As if the temperature of a region mattered given that she only left the home once a month to get her nails done .  She was like a a poor man’s Howard Hughes only with better hygiene, a manicure, and an Ogilvie home perm.  

Given that Europe was no longer an option, the military sent us to Puerto Rico.  Despite the constant warm weather, Mama rarely left the house.  When she did, a dramatic event always ensued, especially if she ever left the base.  I lived for her to leave the base. 

In the two years we lived in Puerto Rico (according to her)  Mama’s purse was stolen twice, she was involved in a high speed chase through downtown San Juan, and stalked by a “snot-nosed-pan-handlin’-midget” who once cornered her at a local pharmacy and peed on her favorite pair of Nine West shoes.  It was like she was living a life out of one of her Sidney Sheldon novels.  I used to imagine that Diane Cannon would play her in a mini-series.  Fun.

Mama’s sanity was further tested when the island of Grenada was invaded in 1983.  Not only would she not leave the base, but she refused to leave the home altogether.  Daddy attempted to explain that we were in no danger, but Mama laughed and said, “The hell we are!  This is an island, Colonel...they can get at us from all sides!”  She would then mumble something about Sherman burning Atlanta, hurricane preparedness, and finding a firearm that was small enough to fit in her purse, but deadly enough to “punch a hole in those sons-of-bitches!”   

Our three year Puerto Rican tour was quickly shortened to two.  We moved back to the States where Mama no longer had to concern herself with the threat of an island invasion, and could troll pharmacies without the fear of being urinated on.  Life was good.

Enduring a military life for 18 years, I had no worries about moving to California.  Granted, it is much easier when the federal government is involved (like the bill) but why be worried?  I would only need to secure employment, and recover from an eviscerated social life.  At least we would be living in wine country where drinking before noon is not only permissible, it’s mandatory.  We would be fine.  Drunk, but fine.   So, the decision was made.  We would take a risk, and move to Pollo Mierda.

Forked-Tongued Gnomes & Artificial Limbs (Part One)

The conversation started as many conversations do with the standard, "How are you?  So good to see you".  How long do we have you in town for?"  And my new favorite, "Would you like to live in a 150 year old Victorian home (rent free) for about five years in California wine country in a picturesque small town right outside of San Francisco?"   All the clichés screamed at me for their attention:  Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.  If it's too good to be true, then it probably is.  That's what friends are for.  It was the second one that I should have paid particularly close attention to. 

Yes, there should have been a binding agreement such that it would take one, or all us, to die in order for this arrangement to be dissolved.  After all, this was an amazing proposal, and would involve quite an undertaking to pull off.  I would need to quit my job at a time when unemployment was rising at an alarming rate, foreclosures were the new black, and  Madonna had launched a new world tour.  How could I do anything so risky right now?  The opportunity screamed for a host of written, notarized documents, but we went with the That's What Friends Are For option, and suffered greatly for it. 

It was October 2008, and we were still coping with living in an area of Seattle that had one too many college students, a few nasty neighbors (one named Jerome - an evil six year old who referred to my guy (Aster) as Stupid-Muthah-Fuckin’-Whitey and was able to do so without removing his crack laced pacifier), and a few prostitutes.  These prostitutes were all male, and seemed to get most of their work from one of the other townhouses in our complex.  Now, throw in a job that I despised (dental office manager) with the stress of starting our own greeting card business, and you’ve got me prone to fits of sobbing and uncontrollable calorie consumption.   My friend Darcie says I’m an emotional eater.  I've never been comfortable with that label.  I prefer "effusive grazer."  Whereas the former likens me to Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias having a diabetic fit over the dessert bar at Country Buffet, the latter sounds far more dignified.  I've also been told that I have an addictive personality.  I prefer to think of it more as having a "devoted temperament."  It's all about the labels.  I’m gay.  We love a labels.  I make no apologies.  Needless to say, it was at this time in our lives where we were easily bewitched by charming, intelligent, highly successful gnomes who were traveling the world and following their bliss.  Not my words.  This gnome was like a snake oil salesman, making promises of new beginnings, helping us get on our feet, and following our bliss.  Again, not my words.  The gnome’s name?  Todd.  To complicate matters, Todd is Aster's ex, but at the time he had proven himself to be nothing short (pun completely intended) of being a genuine, good friend who had gone so far as to invest thousands of dollars in our greeting card business.  How could this man deceive us? 

Todd arrived at our abode, miraculously avoiding gunfire; which was probably due to his small stature as from a distance he resembles a balding ten year old girl.  I opened the door, looked down and there he was!  Dressed in the best that Gap Kids had to offer for Fall 2008.  I was amazed at how far I had to stoop down to hug him.  Looking back, a pat on the head would have sufficed.  I also noticed that he was very, very happy.  From my own experience I knew that an individual only acted this way either due to a brain injury, an addiction to prescription medications, or both.  Considering Todd's devotion to all things organic, I went with brain injury.  Besides, his cranial structure seemed so small it must have been quite delicate.  I was hit by an image of him wearing a protective helmet and drooling uncontrollably.  Adorable. 

After the typical rounds of "How are you?  What's been happening?  You look so tall." he offered to take us out for coffee, a pastry, and some gossip.  We went to tea instead as coffee is evil and exploits those that cannot help but be exploited.  At least that’s what Todd thinks.  As we waited for the digital timer to alarm us that our tea had been properly steeped, Todd began telling tales of his travels to Thailand, the Philippines, Vietnam and Cambodia.  He waxed poetic about how he had fallen in love with Laos, and how he wanted to move there permanently, and embrace Buddhism.  How simple life was, and how living there would be the greatest reward for a life of hard work.  Once in Laos, all of his available time would be devoted to creating a library for all the poor, illiterate Laotians.  Right there!  That is when the light should have gone on.  That is when Mama Universe, God, Jehovah, Allah, Xenu...ANYONE should have slapped me from the Great Beyond and shouted, "Beware the small ones! For it is they who shall take possession of your soul, and your bank account, and eviscerate you!"  Dramatic? Yes, but the point is I should have known better.  Furthermore, this was a gay man who had just returned from a prolonged vacation to Asia, and was still riding the endorphins that only come from months of daily, cheap massages, manicures and sex with underage youths.  However, before I had a chance to further examine his psychological condition, the conversation detoured into how our lives, and our business, were progressing in Seattle.  Todd was prepping his hook, and we were the worms.