No, I did not mean my commentary on Neal Schon being God’s gift in a blaspheming sort of way. The guy has an incredible gift, OK, and for some reason I mellow out pretty good when I’m listening to old Journey stuff. I needed a LOT of mellowing out this week- so I’ve been zoning out to old faves such as “Now You’re On Your Own,” “Of a Lifetime,” “Karma,” and so on. There is something way therapeutic about that grandiose funky fusion rock of the 70’s. It’s one of those clandestine pleasures that rates up right there with showering in the middle of the day when you can- for no logical reason, but just because you can.
I am trying not to succumb to the yearly holiday depression that coincides with Jerry’s bleak holiday despair. It hasn’t been easy this year, especially with money being so stinking tight. That is depressing even without drunk and stupid meanderings, but add that into the mix and even I get lonely and truly start wondering why I am still being permitted to suck up valuable oxygen. It’s been so long since I’ve had a meaningful conversation with another adult that it’s almost pitiful. To make things even worse, now that it’s winter, Jerry doesn’t go to the campground on the weekends, so he gets drunk and stupid at home and I have to deal with him. One would think that in my loneliness I would appreciate the company, but there are few things more dreary and lonely than catering to a drunk all weekend. The only conversation that comes from Jerry most of the time is his whining about what I’ve done wrong, what I haven’t done, or what I can’t afford to do. I don’t want to fix him breakfast and serve it to him in bed only to hear his dissatisfaction with normal breakfast fare and his lingering desire for Porterhouse steak. I might be able to get the Porterhouse from time to time if you cut back on the beer and smokes and quit blowing your money on bullshit, but I dare not bring that up. Logic does not generally compute with Jerry unless he can conform it to his point of view. In his mind I should (somehow??) make more money to pay for him.
Perhaps I have vestiges of normal female desires to feel cherished and wanted by a member of the opposite gender, even though I know that for me that doesn’t happen save in my own imagination. I don’t have any illusions regarding my awkwardness and plainness and just plain lack of any sort of carnal appeal. I’m thankful to have three hots and a cot as it were, and to expect anything more than bare necessity and survival is asking too much. I was taught from my earliest memory that I am only as loved as I am useful, and here lately I haven’t felt terribly useful. Even so there are times when I would so enjoy an evening with a friend, conversation that doesn’t focus on everything I’ve done wrong, or everything someone else expects me to do for him. When Jerry does speak coherently, I usually can’t wait for him to shut up and stop whining.
This morning he was whining about Sheena. Sheena knows when the girls are supposed to go out in the morning. She gets excited and starts woofing and whining to be let out. I’m grateful that she is good about letting us know when she needs out. So Jerry starts in with, “Spray that dog so she shuts her mouth,” and so on, but I have to admit I ignored him after that. I’m getting good at tuning out the whining. After I let the dogs out, I wandered back in with the spray bottle, pointed it at him, and replied, “I want to see. Maybe if I spray you, you’ll stop your whining.”
I can handle canine vocalizations, but Jerry’s incessant whining- mostly regarding things I have no ability to change or improve- has already gotten on my last nerve. Sheena is a headstrong dog, but she’s infinitely more trainable than Jerry. Sheena also whines a lot less. Sort of on the same subject are some old 70’s movies for “trainables.” This one is long, but from today’s point of view horribly politically incorrect, and therefore, hilarious. I almost forgot there were so many different slang terms for the male member.
We the unwilling, doing the impossible, for the ungrateful. This is my life in synopsis, the extreme Cliff’s Notes version. If I were to opt for traditional burial I would insist this be inscribed on my tombstone, but since I am going to be cremated I guess it doesn’t matter.
I am thankful for the Prozac, believe that.