First day back at mother's went o.k. When I got here in the morning, she was feeling bad. Later in the day when she called me, she was feeling worse. I feared another hospital trip on the first day here. I rushed back and gave her some meds and she went to bed. I took a trip to the grocers and got some fixin's. She called when I was on my way home in a terrified voice.
"Where ARE you?"
Yup, I thought, that's the way it's going to be.
When I got to the house, I put on the rice and prepped the broccoli and cut up the chicken into small pieces, washed my hands, and made a Negroni. I wasn't going to, but man, my nerves were already quaking. I asked her to come sit outside with me. We chatted, and in a bit I ran in and turned on the burner for the broccoli and came back out to sit with her. At six, I said, "Let's go watch the news while I cook." I put on the chicken and just as it was finished cooking, I added some Alfredo sauce. The news was about the Artemis II capsule's return and the fact that the Iran Peace Deal is going so badly the Trumps want to distract us with the Epstein files again. Oops.
I put the rice into bowls, added the chicken pieces, and put the broccoli on top. My mother ate it all. She hasn't been getting this sort of thing since I left. By the time the news was over, she was feeling better. We watched Artemis parachute into the sea. She was no longer moaning and complaining. I think that with my cousin leaving had put her in a bad psychological state.
She is doing fine this morning, drinking my strong coffee, as she calls it, and eating a little raspberry Danish roll with it.
Just tap your heels together three times. . . .
Me? Oh, I drank too much and fell asleep on the couch. My mother woke me up and told me she was going to bed. I did the same.
She'll get used to my rhythm again, my sitting with the computer in the morning, making breakfast, cleaning up, then leaving the house after ten or so to do what I need to do, coming back in the afternoon to sit with her again for the rest of the day and night.
Maybe I will, too.
So. . . Swalwell. Maybe he couldn't keep his pecker in his pants or his hands to himself, but sometimes even that won't do.
"The way he looked at me made me feel uncomfortable and gross. He would ask me questions with provocative implications."
Not saying he wasn't a creep or even a villain or criminal. I would have no way of knowing. What is obvious, though, and even literally said in some of the women's statements, is that he was reported when it became clear he wasn't going to help them get a better job. Why would they admit that?
But you learn after awhile that other people are trouble and that you must become a houseplant in all dealings with them or face the consequences. Living with and taking care of your ailing mother will keep you out of a whole lotta trouble.
People need to read their Shakespeare.
But. . . having said that. . . why would anyone text someone an unsolicited photo of their Johnson? Didn't Anthony Weiner teach anybody anything? I mean, not even a solicited one. My social media accounts are now filled with stories of female teachers having sex with their underaged students. In the main, it is the texting that did them in. For some reason, they felt the need to send nude pictures to the boys.
"Why would you be getting those stories?"
Did I tell you that teachers in my jr. high school were sleeping with the boys? True. Ms Margarine (not her real name, of course, but an offshoot of it), was short and chubby and not attractive, but she would let the boys drive her car after sex, so some of the Bozos did it. Other teachers, the more attractive ones, were more discreet. And, of course, there was no texting to do them in. I played in a rock and roll band and had grown ass women flirt with me, too, but they often smelled of cigarettes, coffee, and perfume, nothing like the cute girls just a little older than I who were my faves.
"What? Older? Really?"
It wasn't just women, of course. Men, too, especially when I hitchhiked. It always went something like, "You look like you're in good shape. Do you play football," or some other comment about looks. That is when I would say, "This is my stop here."
When I started going to hair stylists instead of barbers, they always leaned too far in and spent a lot of time working around my ears.
Sex, sex, sex. When will people ever get over sex?
Oh, yea. . . when it doesn't get them where they want to go, I guess. I've been lucky. I've been poor and drove shitty cars and dressed like a beach bum. Nobody ever thought I was going to get them a better job or more money. It has kept me out of trouble, I think.
Of course, as we all know, they eventually leave, and always for someone with more of everything, not less.
Selavy. I'm a good kid, you know? The kind who takes care of his mother.
Have you ever "cheated" on your boy/girlfriend or partner/husband/wife? I did once early in life. It taught me a lesson.
"What was that lesson?"
Never confess. "Who are you going to believe, me or your lying eyes?"
Just a joke. When I fall in love. . . . You know the tune.
Well, that just about wraps it up. It is time to make breakfast for mother and get this day going. But let me just clarify one thing--if you want to text me nudes, I would enjoy that, and I won't tell a soul. Truly. I don't want you to get me more money or a better job. I just like the human form. It is a joyful thing.
Mostly.
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