I was born. I suffered.
I suffered some more, and hopefully,
I won't die a painful death.
This is my life.

Half-Assed Wins the Day

My amazing surround sound speaker hanging skills
I admit it, I do things half-assed. It doesn’t bother me. It bothered my ex-wife though. Half-assed was her pet name for me. Nothing I did was full-assed to her. Oh, I tried. Home projects were the worst. There was always an extra hole in the wall, or a shelf that wasn’t perfectly level. Life is not perfect. So what if shit slides off of a shelf?

Nothing brought out her wrath more than the weekly mowing of the lawn. You know how most men take pride in their grass and general backyard areas? Yeah, that’s not really me. Nothing was more Bataan Death March to me than mowing the back forty. We had just enough yard to be annoying. I did have a nice Toro mower, but it was the recycling kind. You couldn’t wait too long to cut the grass or it would clog and stall. Forget about it if the grass was wet.

The wife, let’s call her Chrissy, had some weird utopian baseball-field level of what the average American lawn should look like. Whether parallel, crisscross or diagonals, the lines had to be fucking perfect. Sometimes I’d zone out and leave tiny strips of tall grass in between the lines. This was a national tragedy, possibly on the scale of presidential assassination. I would have to go back out and mow over the offending strips. This would then throw the whole line design out of whack. There will be blood.

My Mother and The Golden Girls

I’ve been thinking about my mother lately. It’s strange, memories flash through my mind-mostly fleeting. Even years after she’s been gone, I sometimes expect her to call me on the phone. I usually have a few wacky hyper-realistic dreams involving my mother every week. They mostly are nonsensical. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. My mother usually does things in my dreams that she never did in real life. For instance, cooking steaks on the grill in the backyard while it was raining. I’m pretty sure she never used the grill in her life.
It is fair to say that nothing reminds me of mother more than when I catch an episode of The Golden Girls. My mother was an old Italian, her mother was an old Italian. They related to Dorothy and Sophia (my mother was named Dorothy). I can vividly recall those two talking on the phone laughing about Sophia’s latest antics. Personally, my mother was Blanche. Not the slutty part, but the fashionable-dressed to the nines, side of Blanche.
So, yes, I do watch The Golden Girls when it’s on. It’s fucking still funny all these years later. I can just hear my mother laughing along with me.

When I'm Dead

Oh, the joyless torture of everyday life. I long for the extreme static and noise to end. I need the wretched waste of time commuting to work to stop. The absolute finality that death will bring is my only peace.



Moving is generally a horrible experience. I have personally moved more times than I wish to recall. Rustling through forgotten boxes and papers is emotionally draining. My most gut-wrenching moves were ones that took me far away from my kids. Every card or drawing found, brings back a flood of memories. You really can’t hold back the tears. Every move I undertake, I seem to have less and less stuff. My aim is to get my moves down to just one car load. Maybe there’s just something intriguing about having absolutely nothing to show for your life.

For my last move, I’m hoping to have only the clothes that I’m buried in.

Marriage-Related Sex Initiation

Do you want to have sex before or after I mow the lawn?
If you don’t stop playing CoD by 10:30, we’re aren’t having sex.
It’s not Saturday.
It’s Saturday
If I don’t finish grading these 75 essays, you’re not getting sex this weekend.
Wife: Oh boy, it’s my birthday-no sex.
Husband: Oh boy, it’s my birthday-sex time!
Insert any holiday in 6 and 7. Wife: I want another kid. Husband: I can hold out.
Wife: Ok, I’m horny, let’s have sex. Husband: But Hitler is on.