Tuesday, November 9, 2021

Rented Rooms

 I live in a rented room. Yeah that probably sounds funny coming from a guy who lives out in the affluence and pale skin of the suburbs but that's where i'm at, sleeping on a couch in the coldest room in the place... and much like the help i'm usually awake before everyone if i'm not pretending to sleep as i stare at the ceiling or the wall and listen to the world slowly waking up outside. Lights are often turned on or shined my way to summon me if i'm not already up and about and starting on the day, a morning where i make breakfasts, pack a lunch, ready backpacks, make sure computers are charged, all while the Breadwinner sits in her royal chair perusing the phone and pulling on the e-cig. Sometimes i'm asked why the rent was short or late (the rent being the gig economy money) and i explain that when i'm tasked with things that pull me away for certain hours then i'm most likely gonna be short. I believe the BW gets a smug satisfaction when this happens because it opens the way for a veiled diatribe about her earning prowess and my (legal) lack thereof.

The other day i was home alone and wandered into the master's chambers aka my former bedroom. It's been a while since i've actually got to lay in a bed and so i took a look around and lay down in my former spot. It's a new bed, hence i've never slept in it and i could only marvel at how comfortable it was, and so i relaxed and let the sun stream in, let the cats walk about and look at me as if i was lost. One forgets how much one enjoys a bed until one doesn't have one anymore. Half an hour later i arose and went back to the business at hand lest i be caught out by the BW and asked what the hell i was doing laying in "her" room. Of course that's only a term used when it's convenient to the boss. This is the same woman, who if we happen to be home alone and needs to change, will shut the door because apparently people who have lived together for too long should never see each other naked or semi-nude. Intimacy is a word in the dictionary in this house. Fact is the closing of the door is a twofold thing, part of it speaks to how uncomfortable and unhappy she is with herself and her body and the other half being the hired help shouldn't see the boss changing. 

Much of what goes on around the Casa de Ice is a critique on our hero here, sermons given on the flaws in my thinking or the shortcomings i seem to possess in the most abundant amounts. When it comes to criticizing my existence nothing is left off the table. My love of smoothies is often called into question because i feel they're a relatively healthy way for me to ingest spinach and kale and blueberries and all kinds of healthy shit that i wouldn't normally sit down and eat had they not been ground up with ice or yogurt and what not. The diatribe here is about sugar to which i've actually sat down and worked out how much i get when i make them at home and what my favorite one contains at the local smoothie joint. Needless to say it's not all that much and since it's all coming from things that are natural it's not like i'm sitting down and eating a fucking Snickers Bar yet somehow i'm continually told how awful they are for me. 

Then of course there is the workout regimen. I'll admit i have an almost pathological need to exercise and not just a swell little workout but something that leaves me pouring sweat and sucking air. My oasis used to be the pool but with pools being a bit off these days due to the pandemic i've went back to the lovely treadmill (mainly because my shit back and knees hate concrete and if i have to run outside i may be forced to talk to people). Drawing on the I-mac's rehab sessions i devised my own runs where i can actually go further and faster and get more out of it... which of course brings me to my sometimes aching knees and tight lower back which is combatted with yoga, the Lester Burnham stoner weight sessions, random stretching and what not. Often i'm told about how unhealthy all this is for me apparently and that i should just walk like the BW does and while i don't have anything against walking i get enough of that pushing a cart around supermarkets and lugging groceries up steps to deliver on an almost daily basis. The irony is that i'm in much better shape than the BW but it seems i'm doing all this shit wrong. Somehow again methinks it speaks to someone else's insecurities. The sporadic twenty minute walks on the treadmill which may happen once or twice a month as compared to 3-5 mile runs that happen 3-4 times a week. Somehow i think i'll survive my smoothie intake. 

And then of course there is my lack of domestic prowess...I was listening the other day as the BW was bemoaning the state of the house, the mess and clutter in certain rooms, the fact she wants to knock out a wall and make the kitchen bigger, all things i don't really think about... well the wall in particular because i don't really give a shit because mainly my job in the kitchen is cooking and cleaning in order to maintain the level of disaster without it becoming worse. I'm treated to the complaining and how someone can't stand the current state of things in what are veiled barbs at the fact the place isn't ready for a cover shoot on one of the myriad of home magazines i often see while standing in line at the supermarket. The funny thing is when the BW is here, which is quite often, it's not as if she's actively helping to solve the problems. She rarely does a dish or pick up after herself and it was funny as the other day i was listening to one of her sermons on the state of things while i cleaned, took out trash, did laundry, swept, cleaned litter boxes and a few other things while she sat at the table playing a game on her phone and sucking the e-cig. I kept my mouth shut. The weed helps. So does the lovely roots reggae that i often spin and while i'm not comparing my plight to those in many of the songs the music keeps me going and gets me through until i can adjourn to my cold room and read a book before passing out. That is once i've gotten the boyos settled for a night. 

In the moments of brutal honesty with myself i can say that lately there have been a few times where i've been precariously close to the breaking point but there are two reasons i take my deep breathes and walk away, albeit maybe muttering expletives or flashing hand signals that can't be seen but as the Buddha would say it's the natural state, the anger and frustration must come out because the longer it's bottled the more the pressure builds and so i remind myself to be cool, i let the pressure slowly release and i often find myself laughing at the absurdity of it all. I'm well aware i'm a strange one and that's fine by me... i do my best to give a flying V to the work, consume, repeat mantra that is the hallmark of American culture, i've managed to make it this far without ever having a career or a "real" job barring the Big World Bank Machine and even that could be up for debate seeing as i spent most of my time reading, sleeping and handicapping horse races. Not a bad gig really. So now it's back to the regularly scheduled program, another sporadic spewing of non-sense mainly brought on by an old song i was listening to one night while i sat staring off into space... by the brilliant DCB... because there are secrets in the lyrics that bring a smile and a chuckle... this shit saves me on a daily basis... like thunder down country or the way water drips... 




1 comment:

looby said...

Oh my man, I don't know how many straws it's gonna take to break your camel's back! Congrats for your forbearance. I don't know how you do it.