Upon our divorce, my ex-husband relocated himself to his parents' cozy basement--where much to my delight, he is sleeping in a twin-sized bed. After he monopolized my queen-sized, four-poster sleigh bed, complete with 400 thread count sheets, for many, many months--while I slept on an air mattress in my living room--I find this to be a lesson in karma, created especially for him. Look back and watch me smack that!
When my ex left, he took very few of his possessions. He took his guitars and his musical equipment, apparently fearing that I might pawn it for cash or drugs or sex, or perhaps all of the above. He took the clothes that had previously been scattered all over my bedroom floor. He left everything else, which was very little, since I own the majority of possessions in my home, including the home itself.
One day, I got to the point that I was tired of looking at the evidence of my own job of being a poor "homemaker". I decided the best way to start was to take the initiative, and pack up his stuff on my own. I called this "taking out the trash". And really, what other option did I have? I certainly could not invite boys over if I had my ex-husband's stuff all over the place, so it had to go. I gleefully deposited it on his parents' front yard--on Thanksgiving. A shameless homemaker, I am.
Once his stuff was out of my way, I could get down to business and clean the house to my standards. Plus, I felt as though as 250 pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders--it was like gaining a new life and a new attitude. So I cleaned. And I organized. And I cleaned some more.
Serving in his role as baby daddy, my ex had to come to my house to pick up AC one night, and he noted the cleanliness of the house. He was probably cringing inside, knowing that he had missed out on the June Cleaver-like tendencies that I seem to possess after all. Because I was getting ready for a double date and the baby daddy was 45 minutes late to pick AC up, I had no choice but to kick him out as quickly as possible so I could get ready.
The double date, a first for me, was a disaster. It was a completely misguided attempt on the part of a guy friend. The guy friend happens to be dating one of my own best friends, and on this night, the guy friend ended up having to date us both, because I ditched the double date candidate after one glance. All that house cleaning...for nothing.
Needless to say, my ex was not oblivious to my tactics. At the next possible opportunity, he brought up the clean house, and said he "knew what I was up to". I became curious of "what I was up to", since clearly, I'd been up to nothing. He warned me that I "knew what he meant".
I smirked to myself, knowing that he was implying that I was *a-hem* entertaining men in my newly-clean and organized house. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am lucky if I am home often enough to entertain myself in my own house, much less entertain guests, especially the type that are looking to get laid by me, this Pussycat Doll-turned-June Cleaver-homemaker that I have become.
In the end, I found it highly amusing. If he believed that a clean home is an indicator of an active sex life, what did that mean about ours, since the house was rarely clean during our marriage? Using his standards, it would indicate that he didn't get laid. Ever.
Showing posts with label karma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label karma. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Karma: A Pain in the Butt
At work, we have what I refer to as a One in a Million Person: we will never, ever in our lives encounter another person such as him. Or, at the very least, we all HOPE we will never encounter another person such as him.
D is a man who has worked at the museum for 17 years. He initially came to us to work off his community service hours for a DUI charge, and he never left. He is rude, pompous and downright offensive. There is not a single person in the entire building who gets along with him, or can genuinely say that they like him. Nevertheless, we have no choice but to keep him around, because he volunteers for the entire winter season--a full seven months--to keep the gift shop open. Though our employees are lucky to be paid minimum wage, if at all, he is a treasure in that he will work for free.
Adding to D's offensiveness is the fact that he has no problem disclosing whatever personal health problems he is experiencing, and at the age of 75, his problems are only increasing. A particularly memorable time in our history was roughly three years ago, when, at the age of 72, he required circumcision. He announced this was due to a "sore that would not heal", and had no qualms about sharing the details of this on a daily basis--for weeks. It grew to the point that there was hardly a person in the building who had not heard of Dave's circumcision, or of his penis. A kind, sweet old woman who works at our visitor's service desk looked at me with anger in her eyes, and announced, "J, if I have to hear D talk about his PENIS one more time, I don't even know what I will do!" Fortunately for D--and the rest of us--he survived his circumcision just fine, and his sore that would not heal did eventually heal. And fortunately for us, he did not provide photos, as he did of his recent colonoscopy.
Lately, his health concerns have been increasing at a rapid pace. After he missed a couple of days at work, I made the mistake of asking him how he was feeling. He responded with, "Well...I feel somewhat better, except I can't get rid of the fatigue in my buttocks." It took virtually every ounce of strength I had to not burst into laughter. First, who uses the word "buttocks"? Second, how does a 75-year-old man get fatigued buttocks, anyway? It led to much thought on my part: what activities would cause this? Riding a mechanical bull? Unlikely. Wild sexual activity? Even less likely. His fatigued buttocks remained a mystery to me.
Not more than two weeks later, a friend announced that he, too, was having buttock pain--but his was only in one cheek. While he claimed it to be unexplained buttock pain, I smiled smugly. The guy also claims to have a sex life equal to that of Ron Jeremy. There was no question in my mind of how he acquired his fatigued buttock.
Needless to say, after a month of wondering the source of fatigued buttocks, I woke up with a fatigued buttock of my own today. It is really quite uncomfortable, considering I have an office job, and I am a slave to that job this week. And it led me to wonder: how did I acquire a fatigued buttock? It surely wasn't from riding a mechanical bull. It definitely is not from sexual activity.
Finally, I came to the conclusion that my fatigued buttock is the result of AC. Since my divorce, she has insisted on sleeping in my bed when she is with me, and I have yet to protest. She looks so dang cute, snoozing in my bed, snuggled between the pillows. Other than the fact that she has to wake me up an average of twice a night because she has fallen out of bed and needs help getting back in, she is a good sleeper. Last night? Not so much. She has a cold, and it has made her a bit of a beast. She refused to let me sleep with a pillow. She shoved me to the edge of the bed. It became clear to me: the fatigued buttock was the result of hanging on to the edge of the bed for dear life to prevent myself from falling out. I feel strongly that if I am going to be hanging on to the edge of the bed to keep from falling out, it better be for more pleasurable bedtime activities than being shoved out of the way by a toddler.
However, I came to this conclusion: lesson learned. After making fun of fatigued buttocks for weeks, the joke was on me. Karma came back to bite me, and it's a pain in the butt.
D is a man who has worked at the museum for 17 years. He initially came to us to work off his community service hours for a DUI charge, and he never left. He is rude, pompous and downright offensive. There is not a single person in the entire building who gets along with him, or can genuinely say that they like him. Nevertheless, we have no choice but to keep him around, because he volunteers for the entire winter season--a full seven months--to keep the gift shop open. Though our employees are lucky to be paid minimum wage, if at all, he is a treasure in that he will work for free.
Adding to D's offensiveness is the fact that he has no problem disclosing whatever personal health problems he is experiencing, and at the age of 75, his problems are only increasing. A particularly memorable time in our history was roughly three years ago, when, at the age of 72, he required circumcision. He announced this was due to a "sore that would not heal", and had no qualms about sharing the details of this on a daily basis--for weeks. It grew to the point that there was hardly a person in the building who had not heard of Dave's circumcision, or of his penis. A kind, sweet old woman who works at our visitor's service desk looked at me with anger in her eyes, and announced, "J, if I have to hear D talk about his PENIS one more time, I don't even know what I will do!" Fortunately for D--and the rest of us--he survived his circumcision just fine, and his sore that would not heal did eventually heal. And fortunately for us, he did not provide photos, as he did of his recent colonoscopy.
Lately, his health concerns have been increasing at a rapid pace. After he missed a couple of days at work, I made the mistake of asking him how he was feeling. He responded with, "Well...I feel somewhat better, except I can't get rid of the fatigue in my buttocks." It took virtually every ounce of strength I had to not burst into laughter. First, who uses the word "buttocks"? Second, how does a 75-year-old man get fatigued buttocks, anyway? It led to much thought on my part: what activities would cause this? Riding a mechanical bull? Unlikely. Wild sexual activity? Even less likely. His fatigued buttocks remained a mystery to me.
Not more than two weeks later, a friend announced that he, too, was having buttock pain--but his was only in one cheek. While he claimed it to be unexplained buttock pain, I smiled smugly. The guy also claims to have a sex life equal to that of Ron Jeremy. There was no question in my mind of how he acquired his fatigued buttock.
Needless to say, after a month of wondering the source of fatigued buttocks, I woke up with a fatigued buttock of my own today. It is really quite uncomfortable, considering I have an office job, and I am a slave to that job this week. And it led me to wonder: how did I acquire a fatigued buttock? It surely wasn't from riding a mechanical bull. It definitely is not from sexual activity.
Finally, I came to the conclusion that my fatigued buttock is the result of AC. Since my divorce, she has insisted on sleeping in my bed when she is with me, and I have yet to protest. She looks so dang cute, snoozing in my bed, snuggled between the pillows. Other than the fact that she has to wake me up an average of twice a night because she has fallen out of bed and needs help getting back in, she is a good sleeper. Last night? Not so much. She has a cold, and it has made her a bit of a beast. She refused to let me sleep with a pillow. She shoved me to the edge of the bed. It became clear to me: the fatigued buttock was the result of hanging on to the edge of the bed for dear life to prevent myself from falling out. I feel strongly that if I am going to be hanging on to the edge of the bed to keep from falling out, it better be for more pleasurable bedtime activities than being shoved out of the way by a toddler.
However, I came to this conclusion: lesson learned. After making fun of fatigued buttocks for weeks, the joke was on me. Karma came back to bite me, and it's a pain in the butt.
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