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...