I'd like to humbly apologize to the descendants of the witch that cursed my family generations ago, in hopes of making amends for my ancestor's indiscretions and to have the curse lifted. The witch, or warlock, (could have been either, my ancestors were equal opportunity offenders), in question, must have been one powerful spell caster because the wrath has managed to intensify from generation to generation.
As usual, I've just returned from a visit to my constant companion, known to most of you as the Marquis De Sade; my physician. I'm sure there'll be a new Rolls Royce in her garage this Christmas, complements of my insurance company and my ever ailing wallet.
Diagnosis du jour: gout.
For those of you who've been spared this "Illness of Royalty," I'll explain it in layman's terms. Imagine, if you dare, paying a sadist, (or saving the cash and asking your ex), to drive a red hot poker through your big toe at five minute intervals for the three or four days it takes for the medication to finally take control. The mere act of getting off the couch, where you've been reclined with an ice bag on your; swollen to a point it no longer resembles a human, foot is an exercise in futility. Hobbling to the bathroom, the only reason you'd even consider getting up, (and you truly do consider other options), is an experience one would expect to endure as a penance for an offense of biblical proportion. Let's just say the list of those you'd wish this on would have to be the most heinous, dastardly and despicable of sorts: like lawyers.
Somewhere down the line, my gene pool was mistaken for a cesspool and a leper colony somewhere is still dumping their waste in it.
I've learned to accept my lot in life. It goes with the territory. Were I to sweat every disaster that befalls me, the voices in my head would intensify exponentially and crowd me out. So far, I've managed to remain master of my domain.
Fortunately, the denizens of my gray matter are a jovial lot. To date, through two divorces, the loss of my parents, my sister's victorious battle against cancer, unrequited love and a few trips to the precipice of financial damnation, I can still, (though, occasionally, with a little help from Jim Beam), express a chuckle on regular basis.
I simply refuse to go over the edge. I'd look ghastly in a straight jacket.
There are, however, a few of my "tenants" I've been considering evicting. There's just so much gray matter a guy can sublet before the condos turn into tenement houses and crime moves in.
Take, for instance, Disco Dave. While I still freely admit to mourning disco and have, until recently, kept vigil for its triumphant return, I have finally made my peace with the fact that disco is truly dead. I've cleaned out the back of my closet, albeit reluctantly, and discarded the white vest and pants, the big collared shirts, the leisure suits and the high heeled shoes. Disco Dave will have to find accommodations with one of the Saturday Night Fever devotees and make room for someone more suited to my current station in life.
And then there's Married Myron. Myron currently goes against my grain in every respect. Myron takes on a male persona, but I believe he was either an old Jewish grandmother or a Yenta in a former life. "Ya shoulda been more like you're Cousin Raymond. Raymond found a nice doctor lady to marry. (Insert New York accent to taste).
I need Myron like I need a hole in my head.
Randy has to go. Randy is a letch: a perv of the highest order.
God, I'll miss him.
Randy has been with me since I first played doctor with Carmella DeNadino in the second grade. Unfortunately, Randy has caused me to make decisions in my life that, left to more responsible tenants, might have had a completely different outcome. Combined with the fact that I'm rapidly approaching fifty, and my resemblance to Brad Pitt has made me a legend in my own mind only, Randy has the potential to become a loose cannon at any moment. I can see the headlines now: "Local Man Banned from All Victoria's Secret stores, Including their Web Site! Film at eleven."
Lamar, my feminine voice, is on the fence. I've placed him/her on double secret probation since that disaster at the Bed Bath and Beyond White Sale. I'll be living with the ridiculously expensive bedspread and curtains in my bedroom for years to come. It took a unanimous vote among the rest of the tenants just to convince Lamar that there is absolutely nothing on Lifetime the rest of us care to watch. Not now, not ever; probably?
Get out of the control room, Lamar!
The next recipient of the coveted pink slip would be Procrastinating Pete.
I bought a sink hole of a house three years ago: a real dog in every sense of the word. I'm a fairly handy, man's man kind of guy and found, what I thought at the time, to be a diamond in the rough. A sixteen-hundred square foot brick home in an established neighborhood for a song. Unfortunately, the song was the, "I've Should Have Had My Head Examined," blues. Every small project I've taken on has turned into major reconstruction. Cut out one small cabinet to install a dishwasher; replace some floor joists and the entire subfloor. Take a turbine off the roof, replace entire roof. You get the picture.
Enter Pete.
Pete had me convinced that every future project is going to involve every tool I own, valuable golf time and a whole lot of money I don't have, I've taken, thanks to Pete, a "wait and see" attitude. When something breaks or falls through the floor and requires repair, that's the time to remodel. Not conducive to building on my investment.
So long, Pete.
Fortunately, the few bad apples haven't spoiled the bunch. There are still a few good tenants left in the Empty Arms Hotel. While the rumor that most of them may or may not be suffering from Alzheimer's seem to have some foundation in reality, I believe they're in the early stages.
Unfortunately, the more dominant tenants seem to be suffering the effects of age the most.
There I was, minding my own business, cutting and fitting some sheet rock patches to fill holes I had to knock out to repair some pipes in the wall when the mother of all brain farts besieged me.
I'm beginning to wonder if I might not be pushing the ear buds from my MP3 player too far into my head.
I knew I needed something to complete the task but, for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it was. I wandered through the house aimlessly for God knows how long, looking for "something: but I couldn't remember what.
I went back to the room I was working in and revisited the job, hoping to spark some memory, but I just couldn't remember what it was I wanted. I finally decided that it couldn't have been that important, so I went outside to turn the water supply to the house back on.
I came back in to a flood.
It seems the object of my earlier, fruitless, search was for some soldering paste to solder the new joints I'd fitted in the wall.
In my defense, I did have the entire repair fitted in place. The casual observer would have certainly thought the job was complete. Apparently, I'd intended on getting the paste, disassembling the joints and then, after an application of paste, soldering the joints and completing the task.
Needless to say, the small patches I'd cut earlier to repair the sheetrock were useless. It took half a sheet to replace the section I'd just drowned.
And that was just one of the more noteworthy brain farts I've been inundated with of late. The smaller ones have a cumulative effect.
In light of recent developments, I had better reconsider evicting Randy. They say that's the last thing to go. At least I'd make the final plunge into oblivion with a smile on my face: and, if Lamar has anything to say about it, wearing color coordinated Victoria's Secret undergarments!
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated!
See you after a brief respite at Happy Acres.