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  • I Hardly Ever Know What I Am Going To Say...



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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Monday, April 24, 2006

    I Hardly Ever Know What I Am Going To Say...

    ...when I sit down to blog.

    Oh, I may have an inkling, or a pebble in my shoe, but the worms are unherded, and it is up to me to corral them.

    Between that last paragraph, and this one, I took a shower. Being an Aries, and therefore a fire sign, I find that hot water cools my head, and I think thoughts, and get ideas. Well, I thought some thoughts, and got some ideas, and then, as I was towelling off, Nat burst in (kicked in the friggen door!) and RARRRED! me, and made them all scatter away, so I'm left again, with nothing.

    Scared the piss out of me, to her total joy. So I yelled. I yelled a graphic tale, with the central tenet being that what would she have done if I had slipped and bashed my brains out and she was left alone with just her, and Johnny, and a dead father, his brains gurgling down the tub drain.

    I saw the light of Joy leave her pretty blue eyes, and be replaced by dullness, as the cinema of her mind rolled the film I had uncanned for her, and then her face began to quiver and fall apart, and a few hot tears squirted out, and she turned and left.

    Score! Hey, she really had scared the piss out of me. Two feet closer, and my reflexes may have kicked that door back into her head, potentially cracking it like a watermelon.

    I taught her to walk like me, because she was a clompish wench, and I'm afraid I've taught her too well. She ghosts through the house like a wraith, popping up, here and there, out of nowhere. I used to do that all the time to the wife, when we were first married. I would appear behind her and speak, and she'd nearly hit the ceiling, and come down in a heap, holding her stomach and crying, wondering why I had 'snuck up on her'. I hadn't, that's just how I walk, but I love her, so I began to walk like normal people around her, clumping and blumping along.

    Plus, her scream when I 'snuck up on her' made me jump, as well, and yell, so I modified things. I can switch into stealth mode when I need to, like in stores. It is fun to make a clerk scream. He always seems so embarrassed after.

    See? Herding worms. Cats. Unruly things, that want to slip off in directions of their own choosing.

    The wife just called, from the mechanic's. I have her there getting the struts worked on. Last week she had new tires put on, as steel was gleaming from the dark inside of the front tires, a silvery sick sickle-smile that promised horror, and a fiery death, or maybe a last good gurgle, upside down in a rain-engorged ditch somewhere.

    I instituted a policy of no more men's/women's work around Bane-House, a long time ago. Mostly because I've done it all before, many times, know how, and don't want to do it any more. But, even more mostly, I don't want to die and leave her helpless, a woman at the mercy of men, having to get a man into her life to help her deal with men.

    She saw right through my crap, and yet, being right, I insisted. I insisted that she do all the banking, and know how to deal with bankers. And have her own line of established credit. I insisted that she take the cars in to the various shops. I explained the tactics men use on women, and how to confront them and conquer, and now she does it with ease.

    She will never need a man to cut her lawn, or show her how to use the weed eater. She was a carpenteress and custom home designer when I met her, too, and she swings a mean hammer.

    One should not depend on another for the essentials of life, if one can help it. I can cook, and sew, and parent, and give the softness that is mostly associated with 'motherhood', if I must. Bushido works for women, as well as men. Look into it.

    Well, I have the little 'tards down for a nap, and they think I can't hear them through the baby monitor if they whisper. I have yelled. There may be beatings. There is nothing quite like the look on a child's face as you grind some piece of Easter candy into meaningless goo in front of them, for some infraction or other.

    "Don't move, or the Easter Bunny gets it!"

    I kill me.

    Maybe one day, one of them may, too. In my bed.


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