I wish...

I wish I was an astronaut, so when you missed me, you'd at least know I was flying over you, looking down. I wish I was a superhero, so when I was gone, you'd could at least be proud of what I was doing. I wish I was a dog, I'd faithfully be at your side all the time. I wish I was an angel, and I would ever and always watch over you, and tuck you safely into bed at night, and kiss you whisper quiet on your forehead.

out of the frying pan and into the fire

i hate doing yard work in florida.

i have recently taken up pipe smoking.

are the two related? hmm, maybe, maybe not. you get to be the judge. but if you study your psychology to any extent, you could almost say that "b" follows "a" like a connect-the-dots (so i guess that would make it "2" follows "1" but whatever.)

as i said, i hate doing yard work in florida. here's why. but get settled in, o beloved non-existent readers, get comfy. make sure you have your coffee or tea or tom collins or whathaveyou ready. without any further delays, here's why: the "grass" on my little sandbar of florida is a grass/weed hybrid that grows well on the sandy soil. as long as it gets regular water, and an overabundance of shade. anywhere else in the world, the shade would be doable, but since the only trees that grow on this spit of land are palm trees, and there aren't too many of those, the only part of my lawn that flourishes is the part that gets shaded by the three palms that occupy my yard, and the front, which is shaded by the house.

so when i mow, i am actually doing two things besides maintaining my rampant weed grass at an acceptable height (which, i can assure you, the beloveds, is a good two inches taller than your lawn, because if we cut the hybrid too low, it dies): 1) i am further killing the areas that don't grow well to begin with due to overexposure to the sun, and 2) i am kicking up an inordinate amount of sandy dust that sticks to everything on my person, mainly because it is already 95 degrees out at ten in the morning with a humidity percentage of the same, and i am already covered in sweat at the very thought of getting the mower out of the garage.

another disadvantage to doing yard work on a sandbar is the only thing maintaining ground stability is the aforementioned weed grass. anywhere that the "lawn" is not doing well is a shifting pit of sand. so turning a heavy lawnmower in these areas is extremely hard on my hands, shoulders, hips and knees.

now, for those of you, the beloved non-existents, who have been passing by this thistle bur lodged in the foot of the world wide web for several years (which i am pretty sure is absolutely no one anymore) or the ones that read my history to get caught up to date (which is one or two of you probably), you will know that i actually really like yard work. enjoy it. one could even say look forward to it. so, having said that, we know that it is yard work specifically in florida that i hate.

the yard needed some tending to bad though. so i set out. now, because it was already like a sauna at ten, this involved weeding the beds, and then coming inside for a half hour and drinking water. then going back out and edging. then coming back into the ac and drinking water. then limping back out to mow and sucking down clouds of sand whilst sweating gallons and damn near passing out from heat exhaustion as i finished up the last of the back yard. then coming inside, sitting for quite some time without moving much except to pour water down my unwilling throat. i didn't even have the energy to eat, though i probably needed it something fierce.

again, this is called heat exhaustion.

later on in the afternoon when the temperatures calmed somewhat, i was feeling better, and sat out on the front porch with a pipeful of vanilla cavendish. i took my time, savored the smoke, relaxed, beamed upon the hard work i had done and the fruits of my labors. when i was through, i tapped out my bowl in the corner of one of the flower beds nearest my chair.

our friends q n j came over to hang out with us, and we were talking and waiting for my wife to come home from work when the doorbell rings. it is one of the neighbor's teenage sons, and he says, "is your yard supposed to be on fire?"

yes, fire. yes, though technically not the yard so much that one small corner of the flower bed, which currently has a small, 8-inch diameter blaze spiking up redly from the mulch and a defunct sprinkler head that is now a black, foul-smelling wad of goo with a spring launching like a rocket from the center.

"umm, no, no it's not."

i douse the flames, and the mulch for a few inches around the burnt patch, remove the spring and melted head, and laugh with the neighbors about my bad luck.

the neighbor says, "i go out with kindling, starter fluid, dry wood, and a grill lighter and can't get a fire started, you tap out some ash, and poof!"

exactly.

so obviously an ashtray is in order, is it not, o beloved non-existent readers?

what was funnier was that i was pontificating wildly with q n j about the bruiser of a reactionary tizzy that my wife would throw upon noting the burnt patch and discovering its origin. i opined that she would probably set an immediate ban on pipe smoking of any sort, and then proceed to stomp around the house and take several minutes to calm back down to her usual jovial self.

is it bad that i am just a little disappointed that she walked right past the still-smelly black patch without noticing, and then when i outed myself in a case of complete honesty and full disclosure her reaction was simply, "well, i guess you'd better start keeping a coffee can out there, huh? goofball."

ultimately, i am happy that no serious damage was done (though i am thinking i should buy a cap for the sprinkler head just in case anyone ever decides to turn the water back on), and that no one was hurt, and that i learned my lesson and my wife blew it off like water off a duck's back.

and thanks for letting me be the doof here and playing along.

also, my friend melly is doing as well as can be expected on a barrage of chemo, and is being well-taken care of. thank you to all of you who are out there and still read who might've sent positive energy or prayers or whatever communication with deity that you personally believe in on her behalf. or just in general, cause i believe that taking a moment out of your day to think, "man, i hope the people out there that are in need of comfort, love, health, and strength are getting their needs met" counts.

damn, now the back of my throat burns. i am such a bawlbaby.

darth sardonic

more inanity and insanity

last weekend i was in my sexy neighbor's bedroom while her husband is gone, hot and bathed in sweat.

moving a bed is hard work.

just now, i had a battle of wits with no. 1 and lost. here's why though: the battle consisted of my oldest wanting to take star wars monopoly (my numbered collector's edition version of the game from the 20th anniversary of the original three (by which of course, i mean iv, v, and vi)) to school as this is the last week and they are spending the last few days playing board games.

of course i told him no way. over and over. in one ear and out the other. i went upstairs to the game closet to help him pick out something just as fun, and discovered i did, indeed, have two star wars monopoly games, both numbered, both 20th anniversary blah blah blah, both open.

then momentarily the battle of wits was with myself: relinquish control over some of my stuff that ultimately doesn't matter for shit in the grand scheme of things, and allow my boy to have a chance at some responsibility; or stubbornly stick with the dickhead dad schtick to maintain miserly control over a collector's item i bought with the intent to play and share with my kids and yet haven't opened in many many months?

yeah, so you, the beloved non-existent readers, can see that my loss was more of a victory.

and speaking of victories, i was at no. 2's end of school year party yesterday. no, o beloved non-existents, my tried and trues, i didn't cry. but i wanted to. cause the kid that fit in the palms of my cupped hands when he was born is moving on to first grade. cause he reads. cause he writes. cause he is that kid that everyone knows, and most people like. cause he smiles at everybody and says "hi!" and leaves no one out.

and i thought about it. will i ever not cry at these hurdles? will there ever come a time when each new step he takes doesn't put me right back into an unbelievably small room at the ronald mcdonald house in albuquerque, new mexico where i turned my tearstained face to the ceiling and told god i couldn't take another day of bad news and could we get just one day when the phone didn't ring?

no, o my beloved, patient non-existent readers. i highly doubt it. and god knows i will kick down the pearly gates to view the beautiful moments as it were from afar posthumously, and i will stand in my white robes on the edge of a cloud and i will stain the earth with my tears like warm, cleansing rain, for the rest of his existence until he is back with me, asking if he can sit on my lap.

darth sardonic

i hope...

o my beloved, empassioned, patient non-existant readers, i am tired, and in a weird mood.

this is not the post i wanted to post, but this is the post you get; because sometimes i don't get to choose:

i hope my kids will forgive me. i hope my kids will still love me when i am 99. i hope they will look back on the happy times and laugh, and forget about the not-so-happy times. i hope there will be so many happy times that this will be easy for them. i hope that when we need to cry, we will cry together rather than seperately. i hope that as i lay on my death bed (and i hope to god it is a death bed, with this kind of time!) i will be surrounded by my family, and we will laugh through the tears as is the sardonic way, and has been for generations. i hope they will ask me whatever questions they have on their mind for as long as they have me to answer. i hope i will answer them as truthfully as humanly possible. i hope none of them will feel alienated from the family by me or anyone else. i hope i am the dad i wish i was, at least 60% of the time.

i hope persepolis will crack my ass up, because right now i am fucking bawling my eyes out.

darth sardonic

pomposity is when you always think you're right...

arrogance is when you know.

i didn't begin to live until i began to love: myself, my wife, my kids. as i think of the times before this, it seems as if i was wandering back and forth, trying to find myself with maps poorly drawn in smudgy pencil.

there are instants when i look at my children, and i see the men they will become. they are handsome, and smart, and funny, and respectful and respected.

in these moments i am open to god, who, oddly enough, still loves me. he and my father are side by side, smiling, proud of me; and i am proud, not of me (i will never not feel like i am faking it and soon someone will out me), but of my incredible children, who make me feel both immense and small at the same time.

today was, barring unforseen complications, no. 2's last day of physical therapy. his occupational therapy will most likely soon draw to a close.

he's been seeing his pt for well over two years. of course, it's business as usual for him, but i've no doubt she went to her office to have a moment, and i know that the only thing keeping me from smiling and bawling at the same time was the public nature of the venue.

i am happy. my kids are getting bigger, growing up. this is so very bittersweet for me. i am so happy, but it hurts so much. why does each one of these little hurdles crossed open me up like a flower to the very nature of god and life and everything so tiny and yet so magnificient and gorgeous and wonderful.

i can still remember sitting in a tiny room at a ronald mcdonald house in albuquerque and staring at the ceiling and telling god we simply couldn't handle another day of bad news. and i remember his reply.

and today, as no. 1 was in his speech therapy, and no. two played with the spiderman swimming goggles his pt had bought him and drank his chocolate milk in the front seat of our car, god poured the sun down on me, and the leaves were greener, and the breeze fresher.

i am amazed: at my kids, but most importantly, with myself. each time i think i've fucked the whole rig up, and should quit while i'm ahead, i am reminded of the bigger picture.

and this bigger picture is a beautiful fucking masterpiece, o my patient and sympathetic non-existant readers, with the sun shining, and kids playing with a ball in the background, and somewhere in there, i am sitting; crying and laughing at the same time, and smirking my silly smirk, and cocking my eyebrow, and my kids are sitting with me, but fully grown at the same time, and with kids of their own who are also handsome, and smart, and funny, and respectful and respected.

and all the stupid shit that seems so fucking important in the moment melts away like a monet background and only beauty and happiness and love remain for eternity.

daddy, why you crying?

how odd, then, to answer, "cause daddy is so happy, buddy."

darth sardonic

oh my god i miss my wife...

a package arrived in the mail today. inside was a mini dvd of my wife reading the boys two stories.

there was my wife, illuminated on the comuter screen, absofuckinglutely radiant despite having her hair pulled back and being clad in her pt gear.

o my dear, patient, long-suffering non-existant reader, this was, quite simply, gorgeousness and gorgeosity as of the finest spun heavenmetal. the kind of moment that is so awesome and brilliant in its expansiveness that the human body can almost not contain it. i watched, entranced, as she began one story, mesmerized by her eyes and her mouth. i wanted to fall deep into those orbs and never climb free.

the boys sat on my lap and watched and laughed and interacted as if their mommy was seated right there in front of them, shouting "yup!" when she said she hoped they were having fun with daddy.

as you might guess, i alternated between wanting to pull her from the screen and bury her with kisses, and gulping back impending sobs.

when the fourteen-minute movie was over, my boys gave me hugs (as they had been instructed by their mom from afar) and went back to playing games.

and i broke down, and logged in here, and broke down some more. i'm still breaking down in waves as i write this (which is getting increasingly harder and harder through the veil of tears), and snot is dripping out of my nose unchecked.

i might need a fucking shower once i have posted this. hell, i might need a shower and a drink. shit, i might need a shower, a drink, and a long nap in which i will dream about holding my wife's body against mine without ever letting her go again...

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i'm better. sort of. i keep telling myself that i am not going to rewatch the dvd after the kids go to bed, but i think we all know that i will.

i realize that this is the job. i realize that thousands, maybe millions, of people do this, and not just in this country, but many others as well. i realize that some wife in afghanistan or iraq is watching her husband leave the house and wondering if he is ever coming back. i realize a spouse in another part of the world is aching for his or her significant other. i realize that my friend a's hubby's company lost two soldiers just two weeks ago in an incident that was widely publicized on the news here. i realize that my wife is so far from any danger as to almost not even feel it. none of this changes the very real fact that i am sitting here awash in a yearn to feel my wife and hear her laugh and touch her skin that i can actually feel in the pit of my stomach like a hot knife, o my droogs and only friends.

but let me have this moment of pain, and emptiness, and ache, and lust, and yearning, and bawling, and then i will be alright, and ready to again tackle the day-to-day with my sarcastic wit and aplomb, smirking like the motherfucker i am, and quirking my eyebrow in that way that lets you know i am thinking things i oughtn't to be, and no, i won't share those thoughts with you. heh heh.

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and to sorta answer your question (and at the same time, artfully dodge the details of the full answer), wuastc, usually i tell people when they ask why i was in argentina that i was on a student exchange. not because i am ashamed of going to argentina, nor of what i did there, but because the man i was when i went to buenos aires is so different from the man i am today, and yet, at the same time, so alike. so in all fairness to you, the non-existant readers, and because i doubt highly that any of you will buy some bullshit line, i offer you the truth:

at the time i boarded a plane to fly to south america, i was very active in the religion to which i belong. i believed very strongly that its tenets could help everyone. i wanted to share this with anyone who wanted to hear.

i don't regret that decision, even now, when i haven't been to church in years, and (clearly) no longer even attempt to follow the specific teachings thereof. and maybe someday, i will post as to the reasons and events that led to me abruptly switching the course of my life. for the sake of brevity (too late), suffice to say, i am much happier now than i ever was before, except when i was in argentina.

the reasons i am glad that i went to do missionary work in argentina are completely selfish: i learned so much about who i was, how i viewed the world, and what was really, truly important to me, than i ever would have if i had stayed home. argentina taught me so much more than i ever taught it, or its people.

so the reason i don't usually give the real reason i was there is not because i am ashamed, either of the choice to go or of having gone, or even of where my life is now, but because the two would appear to be on opposite ends of the spectrum, and i wouldn't want one to cloud or mar or skew the other.

but, again, bucket of contradictions, hahahaha.

and so my biggest, darkest secret is out. i could say here that i was gay, or once killed a man in cold blood, or that i have alien eggs incubating in the back yard, and in my head that would be a fraction of the deep, dark secret that the real reason i went to buenos aires is.

hopefully, that doesn't change anyone's opinion of me. actually, i don't really care, hahaha.

thanks for playing along though.

darth sardonic

ps. holy shit, the corrections i had to make to this post once my eyes cleared. and a side note: i am not gay, i have never killed anyone in cold blood (except some wasps, and sundry other nasty bugs, a few garter snakes, and a toad. i cried heavily for the snakes and toad when i got a little older and realized just how unnaturally cruel i had been. they told me to quit fucking worrying about it.), and i do not have alien eggs incubating in the back yard (that's my story, and i am sticking to it, heh heh).

ds

carrion birds

first, let me say, yes. yes, i listened to sad songs after posting yesterday. and i cried. i cried almost as heavily as the drive back from the airport where i was sure cars passing by on the freeway could hear my sobs, or at least tell that i was bawling. (i am not, repeat not, a very tidy or quiet crier.) got it out of my system, washed my face, and hey, presto, ready to go.

chantay, i too believe in the healing and cleansing powers of crying. you shoulda been reading around this time last year. shit. '06 was a bad year for the sardonic household, and i was fucking crying all the damn time.

i guess it could be said i am a frequent crier. and i collect frequent crier miles, which i can cash in to upgrade from economy cry to first-class cry, or on complementary beverages.

i want to know why the owner's manual for a shaver that is designed specifically for removing hair from some of the, ahem, more tender areas of my anatomy will expressly forbid me to use it on my face? am i the only one that doesn't get that?

i pull out a bag of chips (guacamole flavored--boasting "real avocadoes" on the outside of the package, but judging by the "best if used by" date of 3010, i'm guessing there's less real avocadoes in my chips than cheese on the moon), and without warning, no. 2 appears by my shoulder.

"whatcha doin?"

"uhh, dunno, i wan' chiss."

"of course you do."

i can always count on no. 2 to help me with whatever meal i eat anywhere near his presence. he alights on my shoulder, tucks his wings under, and stretches out his long, thin neck to get a better look at what is on the plate.

i usually grumble about this, saying, "it's my ruddy lunch, and just once i would like to eat it unhindered!"

today i just poured him out a pile of chips and shoved the dip over to where he too could reach it. this, predictably, didn't stop him from standing so close to me that i actually elbowed him in the head when pulling chips out of the bag. (it's ok, later, on the toilet, i am trying to get him to go poop, and ask him if he went poopy, and he replies with an excited shout, "nooo, ppppeepee!" and spit right in my eye at close range.)

after getting a message from the school telling me that everyone but the developmental preschoolers had school on friday (make up snow-day), which matched the letter they sent out, i got an automated call later on friday from the school informing me that my kids weren't in school that day and that i would need to call during business hours to settle that up with the office. what? what?!? you mean to tell me that i could've sent my kids to school and gotten some cleaning and what-have-you done around the house? boy o boy.

i think it is possible that my mom is beginning to show early signs (what a bizaare word, signs. whose great idea was it to toss a g in the middle of that? english is crazy.) of senility. i was talking about my back tattoo (oh shit, i still have to post about that too. man, i'm all over the damn place), and quite unexpectedly she says she wants me to draw her something representing the "eternal mother" so she can get it tattooed. this combined with the amount of times she says/does something that she then promptly forgets... all i'm saying is sometimes she worries me. she can still beat fuck out of me in a game of misery. so who knows?

certainly not me.

darth sardonic