It's been a while since i've unleashed a diatribe on the raging shit show that is the domestic situation of our hero... and while i've been doing my best to keep my pissing and moaning to a minimum sometimes it just has to come spewing out, a bit like projectile vomit, when in order to remain sane and not blow a fucking gasket calls for it. It's like a broken record, a litany of grievances that even i grow tired of but yet still sit and ponder and dwell on when it's quite obvious nothing is going to change and i could be using my precious time at the old typer to do something far more productive... but fuck all that, sometimes i just like to hear myself shout into the void.
These days my patience has taken a step back, what with a teenage boyo doing his best to try said patience on an almost hourly basis most of it is used up by the time it gets to the Breadwinner but fear not friends (or whoever fucking reads this tripe) this lumpen-prole knows his place and understands his role so most of the time i walk into another room where i resemble Cameron, you remember Ferris Buehler's friend, walking to his car and air punching while spewing expletives, albeit quietly so as not to draw the ire of the master of the castle... it's what i call Zen moments in the natural world.
And so it was the other day that i was being summoned... told "i need to start the potatoes" which would be no big deal in and of itself except when i bounded up the steps to get started i realized the BW was sitting in her usual place at the table pulling on her e-cig (a habit that annoys everyone in the fucking house) and playing a game on her phone, all which of course didn't deter her from barking orders at the help, i believe this is what she calls multi-tasking, something i'm often told i have no ability to do yet i can easily tell her to fuck off while preparing the night's starch so i'd beg to differ. It goes much like this every night, the summer being particularly fun as i run back and forth between the grill and the stove, inside and out, while the BW rarely moves except of course to make herself something. Once dinner is over the BW goes back to her phone and e-cig while i clean up, usually listening to roots reggae and dub of which the lyrics and messages dovetail nicely with my plight.
Being the successful owner of a few breakfast joints the BW has absolved herself from cooking... though up until recently she rarely stepped foot in the kitchens at her restaurants, she's the boss, and when she announces she's cooked all day therefore won't once she arrives home i often want to ask since i shop and deliver for other people if i can use the same excuse come Wednesday when the lumpen-prole pushes the cart or gets the hose (a little Silence of the Lambs reference). Luckily i'm not that stupid as to pose that question as i'd be roundly chastised for being an asshole because it's obvious to all how much i enjoy my Wednesday where my reward for being such a faithful servant is a hot lunch while i listen to the BW pontificate on whatever comes to mind, usually the same inanities about work and what not, while i give the stock responses that keep the repast bearable.
These days, though the BW helps out her understaffed joints in the kitchen, her hours are almost always less than mine and for some reason there is this trite dismissal of what i do as being in any way, shape or form physically difficult, when in actuality shopping and delivering will wear one's ass out. Lugging groceries up steps all day long and racing a full cart around a supermarket for hours at a time will sap ones' energy. Of course on arriving home i usually find the BW in mid-nap, something that's done every day on average of 1-3 hours yet lumpen-prole be damned if he makes the error of dozing off for 10 or 20 minutes, don't want to let the boss catch you sleeping on the job when there is work to be done. I'm often told how bored someone is and that they want to do something... in my mind i'm thinking, well fuck there is all kind's of shit that needs done but that of course is not what the boss had in mind, more me driving somewhere and pushing the cart while someone peruses the aisles of useless shit that she believes she might need... and unlike the brakes on my car that i use every day (and currently need replaced) none of this shit is a necessity. Granted some shit i just refuse to do, not openly mind you as my goal is to drift through the day with as little static as possible, but there are plants still sitting in their pots outside, never planted because it's too hot or someone is too tired and since it is my job to mow the lawn (though the boyos will be roped in soon once a new and lighter weight mower is brought in) and try in vain to tame the tropical rainforest that has sprung up behind the gaff i'll be damned if i'm going to volunteer to do it or even help for that matter.
Since i read too much i was sitting in my servant's quarters the other day thinking of good old Abe Lincoln and something i had read years before about why he got into politics. Seems Abe would rather be out riding his horse around and speaking in pubs and taverns, imbibing some ale and talking philosophy, than hanging out wherever Mary Todd happened to be. Seems Mary Todd was a bit of an ogre to poor old Abe and so he did his best to make himself scarce. It was just a theory but one that i could find some truth in... these days i've added a second gig which now gives me a reason to leave the house in the evening and drive around while attempting to make a little bit of bread. The simple fact is when faced with the proposition of an evening spent with or near the BW or work i'll choose work ten out of ten times. Yes not the healthiest of relationships i know but sometimes one must do what needs done in order to make life a little more pleasant and bearable. Which isn't to say this little exercise in existence i'm partaking in isn't brilliant most of the time but as the yin does the yang so the yang does the yin... there is a trick in the balancing between the shit and Shinola... or something like that...
Having clocked a half century i know less now than i did when i started and since i started knowing fuck-all one can only surmise the shape i'm in at this juncture. That's okay though because there are times when the sunlight comes through the window shades so beautifully i practically weep, the record spins and fills the air with gorgeous sounds, there is a cat rubbing against my legs and purring loudly with not a want in the world than a little scratch between the ears, Fred the groundhog sits in the backyard lazily munching leaves and the tumult and laughter of the boyos comes bounding in and i understand that i have nothing to complain about... though i could... and just did... but then the moment is gone and the next has arrived and there is something else that catches my curiosity and so i scratch my head and stroke my grey beard, laugh like the Buddha and go back to the scrubbing of pots and pans, of cleaning toilets, of humping groceries for the bourgeoisie, basking in my innate ability to do nothing and everything at the same time...
Oh dear kono, it feels like it just goes on and on without end. You have my every sympathy and I think you're coping with it like a saint. I wonder what will happen when the boyos decide to flee the nest? Surely things must change then. Courage mon ami!
I was thinking how this reminded me of a character from a novel i read long long ago... but as i finished my mind went blank. Too many numbers taking up space to remember a name...
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