Early Blogs

I wipe away the sleep from my eyes, letting them adjust to which room I slept in last night, this is not my accidental braggadocio which I sometimes forget about, but a pleasant personal game that I play with myself to help facilitate the act of getting up. This morning I lose the bet with my former self, because he has stumped me today. Alien scenery viewed out an alien window, from an alien floor. ‘I could be in Baton Rouge for all I know.’ Is the first incredibly stupid thought that stumbles into my head, pushing the less drunk thought of why I was on the floor, out of the way. Why was I on the floor? Quickly I check for, “Walletkeyswatchphone”. I mumble my checklist while patting the appropriate places, making sure I wasn’t rolled somehow. Putting the “floor” question on the shelf for the time being, I put my memory into reverse, to see where the gear catches. Vague, Nano-second glimpses of drunken activities “piff!” by the window in my mind’s eye, not letting me understand them, finally slowing down, then stopping on me doing shots on my completed deck with my neighbors, who, out of coincidence, are all here this weekend. This is the first time since I moved up here, that this has happened. The coolness of this first-time event quickly wears off, because now I understand that this opens up a bunch of scenarios that have never been available for me to speculate on before. The “alien-ness” of the view out of the window brightens as if smiling, or chuckling while the floor, all of a sudden, gets uncomfortable, daring me to get up and go trampling through, as far as I know, a stranger’s house. I go to push myself up, something I have to do now, and I see a purple sticky note on the floor with my handwriting on it, I recognize it from a habit I’ve picked up from the internet, leaving notes for your sober self to read in the morning about various things like where you stuff is, or where you are, or what you did, which is very helpful for some people. “Ha, Haaaaaaaaa, Ha…you’re an idiot! Good luck getting home.” My former self, a drunken man, is an asshole. 

Maybe it's the weather, maybe it was the full night of sleep last night, maybe it is simply time to flush out the system that controls what I think about from day to day, but whatever reason that deemed it necessary to write again, I'm good with it. I start my last month (favorite month) of work up at Plasse's Resort tomorrow. It is my favorite because everyone should be gone. No residents, no campers, no staff, nobody that needs propane, kayaks, or shit pumped from their trailer. No broken showers to fix, no toilet paper to be restocked, no loud campers to be told to be still, just my closing list of things to do, and a bunch of wild animals that could possibly kill me. Luckily for me my bad taste in music keeps those wild animals at bay, not unlike how it keeps people from wanting a ride, or to spend the night.

As you may notice, I am rust-worn when it comes to writing, even the oil of old age doesn't seem to cover enough of the mechanism I use to blather out my insane thoughts. With that mechanism sputtering through its rusty parts my writing just seems like I’m an angry old man with crazy eyebrows limping out to the end of his driveway and yelling at passing cars, "You Fucking Idiot's", until the police come and escort me back inside my house. I believe it comes out like anger because I've wasted two years at this pristine place to write by not writing, which puts me in one, if not all, of the cars that pass by my house.

Over the years I have created social uncomfortabilities between myself and dates, friends, bartenders, waiters, family, cooks, ticket persons, police, and the religious. Now here for the first time, I will explain why. I watched channel 9 in the 70’s and 80’s, quite a bit. The Old KQED was home to the PBS or Public Broadcasting Service and aired shows like the Jerry Lewis Telethon, Masterpiece Theater, and NOVA. It also held childhood startup programs like Zoom and The Electric Company. This viewer supported network held its annual pledge drive every other week, and back then I wondered why they needed my money, why are they working for free. Like life, nothing survives without balance, so when others turned off PBS and went to sleep, I continued to watch, not sure of what to expect, but knowing that I didn’t want to miss it. My reward was slowly doled out to me within shows like Benny Hill, Are You Being Served, Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Black Adder, The Goodies, and The Young Ones. Satire and Sarcasm were the weapons bequeathed to me by the BBC. The dry wit of the British made me try my first accent and also pushed me to attempt to think in a way in which I could say things directly to people without being responsible for what was being said. I became comfortable with sarcasm completely in 1988, right around April 3rd, when I first stepped into, what would be known as, my favorite place in the world, a Lounge. This is where I stayed for 22 years, becoming a master of sarcasm, sometimes so much so that I don’t even know if I’m joking, or even what I am trying to convey. So, when I saw Annette Velez’s post about dating someone like me, I had to see what was being thought, and how I felt about it.

Before you date a sarcastic person, there are certain things you should know:

1. You'll need a thick skin

The most important thing is to just take our jokes in stride. If you don’t know if we’re joking, it's safe to assume we’re joking. (I have learned to use the phrase “I’m Serious” to actually mean that I’m being serious when talking to people…I don’t use it much) We can't help being smart asses - our brains are just too big! (We can’t, but it’s not our brains that are too big, it’s our egos)

2. You have to be pretty wicked smart to date us

A university study shows that the ability to understand sarcasm depends on a carefully orchestrated sequence of complex cognitive skills in specific parts of the brain. Scientists who have monitored the electrical activity of the brains of test subjects exposed to sarcastic statements have found that brains have to work harder to understand sarcasm. There is actually a three-stage neural pathway in our brains that enables us to understand irony.

The study, done with college students, had them listen to complaints on a cellphone company’s customer service line. Results showed that the students who recognized sarcasm had a better developed “theory of mind” – an ability to see beyond the literal meaning of the words, and understand that the speaker may be referring to something entirely different. (I have proven that you don’t have to be smart to date us, numerous times. Continue to date us is another story)

3. We want you to bite back

We bite, but you can bite back too. In fact, we love it. We’re sarcastic with our friends because we want to bond, not because we're mean. For every “mean" thing we joke about, we have five more nice things to say about you. (We don’t want you to bite back, we just don’t care if you do. The last sentence is true, just not on a seemingly all-encompassing scale that is inferred here. Sometimes we don’t have nice things to say about you)

4. We’ll make you smarter, for real

As Richard Chin of Smithsonian Magazine explains, sarcasm requires a series of “mental gymnastics.” Sarcastic, satirical or ironic statements all compel the brain to “think beyond the literal meaning of the words and understand that the speaker may be thinking of something entirely different.” Studies have shown that exposure to sarcasm enhances creative problem solving. So, over time, this increased bulk of cognitive-expenditure doesn’t go to waste.

That means we’ll totally work out your brain, Chin describes active sarcasm use as a means of “mental exercise.” Just like training your muscles, if you do 50 push-ups a day, over time, your arms are bound to be toned, sarcasm as a form of “mental exercise,” or "mental gymnastics” functions much the same way, leaving your brain toned, too. (All this reminds me of is actual exercise, and how so many people want to do it, but don’t because they hate it)

5. We have soft, gooey centers under our hard exteriors

We’re only this sarcastic because we have mad layers of depth and feelings, and because we’re so damn smart our brains will explode if we don’t constantly exercise it. We’re actually overly sensitive and affectionate underneath all that irony. We just can’t help it - the default mode of our mouth is sarcastic. Being all gooey is extremely difficult for us. So when we do get serious, pay attention. (Or like cherish it or whatever). (Only 1% of us have mad layers, exploding brains, and hidden feelings, the majority are masochistic self-voyeurs, with the feelings of wet rocks)

6. We’re funnier than other people

Our humor will never be "ba-dum-bum-CHING.” It’s more complicated than that. But if you already like us then you probably understand our satirical humor and you'll never be bored. (We are funnier than other people to ourselves, and if you already like us, then you have other issues to look into rather than whether or not you get our jokes)

7. Mean comments are displays of affection

Our sarcasm is humorous, not rude, by nature. I hate you = I love you. (Not exactly true) We would never laugh at you if we didn’t think you could laugh at us too. (This is a hard one for me because I know everyone can laugh at me, but that doesn’t have anything to do with whether or not I laugh at you) We like to play around not because we dislike people, but because we want to eliminate barriers between people. (I totally agree with this and its sublime connection between me and this article)

8. We will also be your shield from stupid people

Mastering sarcasm also gives us the ability to insult stupid people without them realizing it. Since hitting people is frowned upon, sarcasm is our selected shield. You’ll always have a private joke with us when dealing with idiots or aggravating situations, and our annoyance and frustration will be cleverly and humorously disguised with sarcasm. (Yep, this one is good)

9. We can see through the bullshit

We’re kinda like a human lie detector. Maybe it’s from all those years of exercising our brains with our irony. We can sniff out bullshit from a mile away, so just be prepared to get challenged. And don’t ever think you’ll be able to deceive us - we're always two steps ahead. (Another hard one for me. I agree, but, instead of challenging the bullshit, which I think is boring, I commend you on your bullshit, add to it, suggest other bullshit avenues of thought, then sit back and see which way you choose to continue your bullshit until it gets so bullshitty that someone else challenges you on it, then I take your side and together we convince all challengers that our bullshit is not bullshit. If it ends there and we part ways, the next time I see you, and every time after, I will step up the bullshit, forever, until one day you finally break. If at any point you let me know that you are bullshitting, I smile, nod and say “I know…”

Response to my post by my ex-sister-in-law…a practicing idiot.

No, they would have to be a complete moron to date any loser like you I absolutely can't stand you and everything you say is bullshit!! You would have nothing if it wasn't for your father Carlos Aparicio who is the greatest man I have ever known!! You have never been there for him or anyone who has ever cared about you!! Furthermore, anyone who compliments your rambling on Aaron non intelligent comments must be as drunk as you!! I will do everything in my power to make sure that my daughter never will be around such a dark evil person like you again!!

I just heard a blurb on the news that we are now planning on banning dodge ball in elementary school? That along with the already banned swing sets, tug of war, tag and running at recess I can't wait for this next generation try to pull me out of the bar when I've had too much or in my words "Just getting started", that will be a you-tube viral video to see...if you tube is still around.

Reporter for Channel 9 News: And here you see Mr. Aparicio, a man born in the "Savage Age", slowly walking toward the seven governmental "People Helpers", and there! There is the first low level electrical "mood changer" device deployed. Um, Mr. Aparicio is laughing, now he's picking up the device, which seems to have no effect on him...and he throws it at the innocent, friendly governmental patriots. 2 are down, the rest are running away...he's stopping at one of the downed, friendly people helpers and takes the keys out of her pocket. His evil smile is menacing, he is a Neanderthal of a human. He is now making his escape with one of the P.H.'s all electric, power saving vehicles and pulls out. Oh my! Watch out! (The sound of people scrambling and a huge crash is heard as the camera flitters around like the new generation of Americans. The camera stabilizes on Mr. Aparicio, like he's filming himself) "See, THAT’S what happens." (He spins the camera around to show the wrecked P.H. car and wrecked news van, then drops the camera which crashes to the ground and rests on wreckage. His low maniacal laugh is heard over the hysterical cries of the news people) "Ok, can you get the shot? Good *sniff* so ends the horrible 2-minute rampage of a fossil of a man, born in the age of competition and band aids. (Final scene of the reporter visually stunned and crying while in the back ground the governmental people helpers poke their heads around the corner of the bar)

A week or so ago, I was hit with another one of life's little, you're not what you think you are, Jokes. I've been obsessing over this shitty little ditty ever since. While friends and family smile and turn the knife while joking about discounted meals, I sit and think about the people who, when I was younger, called themselves a "Senior". Grandma's, grandpa's, Doctors, Dentists, and the weird old man that would walk around the neighborhood offering a miscellany of non-parental lessons that would sometimes scar our innocent minds. Those people were "Seniors", the Hal Holbrook type, the Golden Girls type, the "I didn't grow up with a television" type, not me. I watched American Bandstand and Soul Train. I made fun of Ralph and Potsy, Lenny and Squiggy, while wanting to be Arthur Fonzarelli, Luke Duke, Starsky or Hutch. I wanted to drive Lukes Dodge Charger, Starskys Ford Gran Torino, and Fonzi's motorcycle. None of those guys were ever "Seniors", check the re-runs if you don't believe me. I listened to the new wave modern rock and could buy mag wheels for my bicycle. I played video games, watched the birth of Silicon Valley out of my bedroom window, saw naked women on HBO and listened to music on Compact Disks. I had a microwave and could program my VCR. I experimented with drugs, not those wishy-washy 70's drugs, but new smart drugs that helped you think faster and maintain your composure. "Seniors" didn't do that, they used hot pads, mentholated things like Vick’s vapor rub, cooked hot chocolate in a pan, put coffee in thermoses, read the newspaper, and constantly complained about...pain...in their...joints...Well, shit. I guess I am a Senior. 

I came close, closer than ever before this time. The imagined relief from the weight of 38 years of writing with nothing to show for it was going to free me. Free me from the demons of time, wrench me from the grasp of depression, get me a job, find me a girl (woman), and clear my name of all the wrongdoings I have ever been accused of. It was going to quiet my dad’s voice in my head, slay the evil step monster, get me health insurance and whiten my nicotine-stained teeth. I had a picture of a normal 50-year-old man with graying temples, wild eyebrows, and worn gait, sitting at the end of a bar, sipping a non-mixed drink while complaining about the millennials the same exact way the baby-boomers complained about my generation and feeling content that they aren't the same argument, and that I am right. All I had to do was light it on fire. Bathe me in the light of unfinished life so I could join my brethren in their milquetoast existence. The thought of that 50-year-old man at the end of the bar suddenly brought tears to my eyes, blurring my thoughts and made me angry. I stayed the lighter in my hand, then dropped it as if it had been the thing that first showed me this fake feeling of relief. I looked down at the 100 or so pounds of lined yellow notepad paper, making out a word here and there, deciphering whatever kind of handwriting you'd call what I do. With each word I remember the whole story, the whole feeling of the time I had written about. Then panic grabs me, "These aren't finished...god damnit...outside...fucking lighter..." I mumble and begin to gather my writing, kicking the lighter while carefully keeping the older stuff protected, because they are beginning to wear and fall apart. It takes me eight trips, eight curse filled trips to get back inside next to my desk, and as I put the last pile down, I slam my fist on the desktop harder than I should have. "SHIT!" I say, half trying to wake myself up from whatever spell had been conjured upon me...and half because I really hurt my hand. "Shit." I say laughing at my own stupidity over all of it. 

I have become accustomed to a morning meditation of sorts, which does not always happen in the morning per-se, but nonetheless, before I get out of bed, or even open my eyes, I go over the things that I need or want to get done in the hours that lay ahead of me. It has worked well so far, substituting for the old beginning of the day routine I used to have from 6am to 8am, while my co-workers structured out their day. It was an important part of the day that I had lost in my new found existence so in my want or need to have some sort of structure of life back I ran with it. But as is with everything, there are speed bumps that need to be flattened out. The sun is up already, I can see the light on the backside of my eyelids and feel the still cold air inside my bedroom on my nose. I begin my morning ritual that I have become accustomed to, but everything I need to do today is done. Like always something scratches at the back of my mind that is situated so close to my warm pillow. Is it the football game is it the fact that I missed another chance to see my cousin play bass guitar at his church, or is it that someone is coming over…and my mind snaps and reminds me of a girl that wants to read my insane scribbling. I barely remember our conversation last night only because she called when “Weekend Update” was playing on Saturday Night Live, my favorite part. I get lost in the show and how well Louis C.K. did as host almost forgetting about the original thought. “Crap, I don’t want to get up yet.” I whisper under the covers, but my writing has taken another hiatus and I have nothing new to show her. I make it out to my dinner table and open the front blinds. The sun is just making it through the woods, throwing light here and there giving the appearance of warmth, but I have been fooled by him before and even though it’s cold in the house, I know it’s still colder out there in the meadow. I get my coffee, spike it with Jim Beam’s Devil Cut and give the sun a little warning. “Fool me once…” I say and shake my finger at the streaks of sunlight. I begin to write, following my outline that I had written last week. My thoughts flow like wine in Cana, spilling out over the keyboard without fail. I am surprised to finish a part of our Golfing stories that took place in Auburn. I begin the San Diego part and I think that it’s going too fast, but I remember that San Diego wasn’t a long trip and nothing really happened, so I keep going. The memories are crystal clear as I move through them, adding my wit and lies to keep the story from being completely boring for other readers. Hours go by as I roll through the next stories. Pioneer, Carson City, Lake Tahoe they are a blur on the page. I begin the final episode that ends in San Jose at St. Christopher’s Church and I stop. She is supposed to be here any moment and I’m not sure if I want her to read that kind of sorrow. In my head I can see Dan, Mike and I sitting in the pews halfway down the left side of the church. I am all the way next to the wall in my blue suit. I am wearing a tie for the second time since High School…I do not want to look around so I just look down. Suddenly there is a knock at the side door, everyone looks at me like I’m trying to make some kind of joke. I look at all the faces, teary eyed madness is looking at me from all directions. Another knock on glass makes all the faces disappear replacing it with my room. “Chris!?” I female voice says. I get out of bed and open my bedroom sliding glass door. “Crap! Sorry Stacey, just woke up.” I say and slap myself in the head. “Der!” I say. “What?” She asks feeling uneasy at the fact that she just woke me up. “Aw, nothing…here, read this while I shake off the cobwebs, ok?” I say, handing her my short story about Australia. She leaves for the kitchen and I rifle through my notepad next to the bed, hoping that I wrote something down. I am met with blank pages and slap myself in the head again 

If anyone ever does happen across this chronicle, diary, collection, confession, or whatever it ends up being, and before I am regaled as truly open book of a man, a little reminder about the human condition. I am not an open book, nor is anyone else, nor has anyone ever been. Even the most noted serial killer whose narcissism paves the avenue on which his vehicle of confession freely travels, recounting the most minute detail of his heinous act, will still hold onto pieces of feelings, parts of moments, some particle of psyche unknown that everyone keeps from everyone else forever. The little slivers of pandemonium that slice through our most mundane thoughts are where our humanity lies and we can't show that to anyone. But that makes us sound menacing, and I don't mean for this to be taken that way. This log is not to show good or evil, those little slices of character are what I find interesting about the human condition. So read between the lines, look behind the curtain, breath in the nuance of these little slices of pandemonium. Look for the curled lip, the raised eyebrow, the beads of sweat that roll off this website. Watch for the downward glance, the studder-step, the one sentence that tips my hand and shows you my humanity and remember that it really kind of isn't...and I really kind of haven't. 

Seven years ago, I picked this house because of how flat the lot was, not wanting to have to worry about sliding into my garage every time it snowed, where the lot was, right at the bottom of the neighborhood inlet street, and the kitchen island. The facts that someone was squatting there, the destructive nature of the last tenants (whom I got to meet), and the horrid state of the electrical and plumbing systems couldn’t sway my decision. The after-purchase surprises were very few, for instance; since I had the lot at the bottom of the hill, I’ve noticed that most of the topsoil from the eastern side of the house has been washed away, and continues to be washed away by the great C.F.I. flood lake that hurriedly moseys down my driveway and through my checkbook every time it rains. Another surprise was my mountain-quiet, reflective evenings I envisioned myself having were politely beaten down by the drone of the Tiger Creek Power Facility. While getting used to those, and after a couple years passed, I noticed that every house surrounding mine was either a sparsely used summer home, or was up for sale…I had no permanent neighbors, and abused the situation more than once. So good and bad choices combined with some memorable neighbor and community meetings (sprinkled with a dash of old Chris sarcasm) had lovingly given this house its name, The Center for Idiocy (Idiot is used the way the words Retard and Gay were used by us old people before other people, who were neither gay, nor retarded, deemed them hurtful). Since then, four of the homes have sold, and of those four homes, three are now full-time neighbors. Although I enjoyed my time alone, I also love to have people over for the first time and as they enter my house looking up at my “Beware of Owner, he is highly sarcastic” sign, wondering why they are entering a place named the Center for Idiocy, and fully understanding both when they leave. 

Why do I? Because I've lived too long, and worked too hard creating a template for a definition of a comparable person that others would be lost without, and worked too hard to add spice to the bland parts of society to let those others ruin the flavor of life...that's why I continue to write.

When I started work this year at Plasse's Resort at Silverlake, I was so completely hermitized, I had forgotten about human interaction, and what it's like to have co-workers, and how important pecking order and the how the need to be right ruled the workforce. Although it might be said that I never really honestly experienced that kind of interaction in the first place, given my immediate power over my co-workers at my last job. But it can be said now, that I have experienced how truly villainous people can be when it comes to their job, their pecking order at said job, the amount of influence they can build and then use, and how much they can get away with.

One thing was offsetting to me as I met my co-workers throughout the workday, aside from my two cohorts who had worked here previously, it was essentially everyone's first season. “Well, what happened last year?” I finally ask maintenance. “They all quit, that's when the owner came to me and asked if I could help him.” One of them says. “I heard the kitchen/bar crew got caught drinking after hours in the bar.” The other says. “What about maintenance?” I ask. “Oh, I don't know, I think they just didn't want to work anymore.” “I heard they weren't working in the first place.” And that's all that was heard that day in maintenance, but as I made my rounds, I could see that things were in disrepair, even the repairs were in disrepair. The “maintenance” of the resort continued to prove that whatever minimal work was done, was done poorly. My first project was to open the employee cabins and get them ready for the other employees. “Which one do you want?” I am asked as soon as we get them all open. “Which one do I want to clean, disinfect, repair, or maybe burn?” I say, weighing my options with a surprised look on my face. If I had closed my cabin for the winter in the state that these were left in my dad would have strung me up by the toes...which I did once, and which he did, and which explains why I couldn't use my cabin for a season in the late 80's.  

Since I mention my dad, I would like to explain one of my personality traits which has gained momentum over the years. I have been called anal-retentive, I have also been called a perfectionist, I've even been called a “tweaker” for the practice of leaving things in order when I am done with them. Most people frown on this personality trait, and I can imagine them saying “why make the bed if you're going to sleep in it again.” Well, then why make comforters, why make dish soap, why make front doors, and the argument spirals into lawlessness, bestiality, and finally anarchy. In the last decade, I have moved a step further into, what I now call an illness, to where I need to leave things markedly better when I am done with them, which explains my computer cleaning and repair hobby.

The surprised look waned into an almost euphoric smile as I slowly realized that I had found my heaven. “I'll take number 1.” I say, but not because it was number 1, but because it was the most dilapidated, and the only double unit. Really the thing that got me was the door connecting the two units was so thoroughly painted shut, the way you'd picture how a gorilla would paint a door shut, and not a good gorilla painter...a bad one. It was almost if some future knowing, anti-chris villain knew I was going to be here with that question posed. Of course, I'll take number 1. This is the point that gave me the most ammunition for the rest of the season to help thwart off any and all attacks against me.

​After a week of settling in is when the trouble started, no wait, after two days of settling in is when the trouble started...in all areas; bar, restaurant, store, office, maintenance, and even camp host. The pecking order particulars were not set, leaving everyone who didn't already know their place, to begin to make plays for the power of the resort. From the looks of it, I was the only one who knew they were bottom rung, gleefully happy to be able to clean, repair, organize, or in some cases help the campers with off-resort problems, something which I was not supposed to do (mostly computers). Who ordered the supplies, what supplies to get, who was head of maintenance, who helped the general store, who handled propane, who told whomever to handle propane, how many days could you work, when and what days you could take off, who handled weddings, who handled kayak rentals, who handled check-ins, who handled check-outs, who was in charge of whom? A whirlwind of power plays consumed the air around every employee creating a devious chaotic aurora about the place. Then a modern-day Tom Bombadil would stroll past, aware yet uncaring about others need to be in charge. “I did that already, didn't much care for it.” I would tell people when asked why I don't seem to care about the problems at hand, I was simply happy to be roaming the fields, making people laugh with a newly discovered level of sarcastic humor, helping out anyone and everyone who asked while trying to leave things markedly better than how I had found them. Unfortunately, this no-care attitude made me the “whoever” that complaints were told to. When work ended for the day, I would continue my project of cabin number 1 being peppered with one-on-one meetings about who was being an asshole and how things should be run. During these interruptions and every so often while the others lounged outside the common area they would yell, “Chris, come have a drink.” “Ok, just let me finish this one thing.” I would answer, knowing that they would shortly forget about me and wander off in all directions, doing kid things like hiking, or kayaking, or climbing, or getting drunk and having fun. But unlike the olden times, I am content to continue my project and wake up in the morning without a hangover. This whirlwind of chaotic deviousness lasted throughout the rest of my workweek trying to take bites out of me. 'He's worthless', 'he doesn't care about his job', 'he doesn't know anything', 'he doesn't do anything', 'he's so slow', 'he can barely move.' These were the unsolicited reports I would get back during my one on one's. I was amazed at the bravado of these statements, except for the last two to which I answered, “I can't move in the morning, I need to warm up like a classic car.” And, “I may be slow, but I'm never late...hasn't anyone heard the story about the 'Tortoise and the Hare'?” The other complaints were as ridiculous as the people who made them, but I didn't treat anyone differently, I didn't counter-attack, I didn't bury them in the woods, I didn't say, “I know the owner”, as a way to show my plumage. 'I know the owner', became the war cry of the weak finally overhearing it said during the death rattle of our first casualties. “I know the owner”, is said around the corner during another in-house argument, followed by, “Jesus, everyone knows the owner.” Which had been true, but I was the only one that sent in my resume, because it looked like a job I could do, unknowingly sending it to my evil step-monsters first husband, the same man that had warned me about her at my wedding...so I know the owner too.

​After what seems like a whole season, my first week ends, having my scheduled days of Sunday and Monday off. Unlike the others, I get to go off-mountain for the two days, relishing the thirty-minute trek down Hwy 88 which has become more scenic since the beautification project started, making the trip home something to look forward to. Yet I leave slowly because there is still more work I could do and the previous eight years of not working has insured that there is nothing to do at home. I am terribly wrong about my home and try to figure out why I had mentally blocked it out of my head. So, I spend the two days repairing and cleaning my home, while in the back of my mind I am lining up workday projects and after work projects. Tuesday morning comes and I wake up at 4:56am, four minutes before my alarm is set to go off...I wait for it anyway. An hour to “warm-up” and get ready, forty-five minutes to make my beautiful commute, giving me a fifteen-minute window for traffic, of any sort. Nothing, no traffic, no deer at the deer crossing, just the early set up crews for the beautification project who are setting up signs for the other commuters. I pull up to maintenance fifteen minutes early to see that my two co-workers are already there, comparing stories of their skills. “What time is it?” I ask to see if my clocks are wrong. “No more days off, the guy that was supposed to work with us quit.” They tell me. “What happened?” I say. “He didn't even unpack. Showed up, helped us with the routine, and took off after lunch.” One says. “During lunch.” The other one adds. “I talked to the owner and have a friend of mine coming up after the weekend.” One says, eliciting a look of shock from the other. “When did you talk to the owner?” One says, like he had just been backdoor. “Last night, after work.” The other says with a terrible smirk on his face. I turn and leave yet another chess move in the power struggle for Head of Maintenance and begin my routine.  

I am slowly finding out why everyone doesn't have a website. Up until 4 am this morning and just like Super bowl Sunday an expletive echoed throughout the "Eroded Roads" household, waking the neighbors and scaring the, out of place, early morning Ocelots that roam around my front yard. But then morning comes and I anxiously run from my bedroom, still in my clothes from yesterday, to see what kind of genius was created last night (earlier this morning). Another expletive is heard down the street by my neighbors when I find that the stuff that did make it through the computer/human interface, was boring and lackluster while all the genius I thought had made it through...was gone, lost in the ether of the interweb.  I quietly curse Al Gore for his maniacal creation and try to remember what the hell I did or didn't do 12 hours previously. But there is an added hurtle today as I am met with my friend, who cleans homes around the neighborhood, already working in my kitchen.  I smell a forgotten smell that reminds me of when I used to eat breakfast.  She sees me and points at a plate of eggs, hash browns and bacon.  She has to point because her Motown music is too loud to hear her talk.  I sit and eat my breakfast at noon, staring over my plate at the emptiness of my website.  Shaking my head and pushing the plate of food off to the side, I begin again. 

Two songs into breakfast the CD skips, making my thoughts skip, so I try the sentence again, with the same result.  This goes on for a half hour until I break.  "For the love of God, change the CD!"  I yell at her.  She comes running from the back of the house and changes the CD to some old blues.  Cool, I think as I continue to fail at remembering the crap that was rolling around my head yesterday.  I hit on a memory and begin to copy it down when the CD skips again, then continues with the song.  I try to forget about it when it does it again.  I stop and look at the boom box she has brought hoping that my glare would help...but it doesn't.  It skips, continues, skips, continues, skips and then it doesn't continue.  I scream at her again, she comes running from the back of the house again, she changes the CD again, but this time to country music.  "Are you trying to kill me?"  I ask as she passes me.  But she is some kind of cleaning zone and cannot be interrupted.  I try to phase out the terrible music.  "At least it's not ski..."  I almost finish my thought before we begin the dance again. 

I give up and just sit there, staring at my screen and timing her on how long it will take before she runs out here again.  Skip, continue, skip, continue, skip...I start the timer.  I notice that my burn pile out in front is still smoldering from last night, I watch it for 10 minutes before she comes running out to change the CD again.  "You know, if your CD's are scratched, they'll skip a lot."  I say being as condescending as I can.  "I know, my husband did that."  She says.  "Then why do you continue to play them?"  I say, but I am met with nothing, except another CD that doesn't even wait to start skipping.  "I'm going mental, and I'm out of cigarettes.  I'm going to the store before I murder you."  I say, using the extreme expression to get my point across.  I leave and all is peaceful again.  My mind begins to remember things and by the time I get back home, she is gone.  A note on my table reads: "Gone to the poker game at Mace Meadows, be back tomorrow to finish...don't use the kitchen until it dries, thanks."  I am confused at what I'm feeling, not sure to be happy about the distraction being gone, or mad because it will return tomorrow.  In my last act of this morning’s play, I decide to be mad about it...and I use the kitchen.

Well, it’s been around 6 months since I got back from Minnesota, a trip across America in hopes that I would lose this “Fear of Falling”.  The trip worked for me and stopped my second guessing everyone and everything.  But like every ebb there is a flow and boy did I get hit hard by that wave.  To summarize…When I left on my fact-finding mission I lived alone and spent my winter days reading and writing my old stories in hopes that one day I would get brave enough to try to publish one.  Ah, 3 cords of wood in my shed, full bottles of booze, a 4-wheel drive jeep that could get me out if I ever felt I needed to and the comfortable fact that I had enough means to make this last on my final stretch towards the ultimate finish line.  Then doubt began to push its way into my life.  I began to feel guilty about my present lifestyle and I almost missed people.  I told Roger he could stay, I started this website, I helped a friend out of some trouble, and I helped another friend out of trouble.  The first friend and second friend got along great until the young one ripped the other off.  Now I felt like I had made a mistake.  More players moved around my playing board trying to convince me that the other ones were to blame, always jockeying around me and trying to get on my good side.  They didn’t realize that my good side had worn away already and all their cooing fell on deaf indifferent ears.  More players entered the picture and my life became this weird abstract “Hunger Game” like place.  In all that madness I signed up for college, something constructive to do while this maelstrom whirled around me.  That brought my writing to a standstill, I couldn’t have written anything even if I wanted to.  My brain was split because nobody would listen to me not caring about what was being said, or what was supposed to have been being said about me and my lifestyle.  “I don’t care.” Became how I would begin and end each sentence.  Are they talking about me in San Jose?  “I don’t care, whatever they say about me is a non-issue, and it’s like telling me that you saw a cat this one time…Doesn’t Matter to Me.” Or “Do you know that they say that you’re on drugs and are fucking the drug dealer’s girlfriend.” “I don’t care, they know it’s not true, why do I care if someone is trying to paint me as an asshole.  I am an asshole, just not that asshole…It like if you told me that superman wasn’t really real.  Oh, really, don’t care.” I’m just sorry that I had to confront these people.”  In the end everything calmed down, is calming down…still.  Told my roommates that their time is up, tried to tell one of my friends that she should stress so much, but she freaked out and left town, tried to tell the thief that she WAS going to jail, but she thinks everything is still ok, tried to let everyone know where they stand, but everyone seems to think they know more than I do.  Well, I will let them, because I really don’t care what happens to them.   Cold? Yes.  Indifferent? Yes.  Have I gone out of my way to help and warn them about their idiocy?  Yes.  Do I care if they don’t listen to my advice?  No.  I have put relationships on hold until I could “clean house”, and I am eagerly awaiting the chance to begin that mess over again.