It brings a tear to my eye when I think back to a phone conversation I had with my Dad the other night. He called me up, over-brimming with joy about this piglet he had a few weeks back. Daddy loves his animals, you could never accuse him otherwise. There is no end to the joy he gets from feeding them, talking to them, watching them play and grow. So, it was no surprise when he just couldn’t wait to tell me about “Nuts,” and his super-sized scrotum. Some Dads are proud when you graduate college, some when you produce a grand-child.  Mine, well he’s just content with an occasional genetic mutation or two.

Nuts was born in May and though he’s the same general size as the rest of the piglets in his litter, he has one feature that has far outgrown any of his litter-mates. He’s not fatter or skinnier. He wasn’t the runt.  He doesn’t have spots or strange markings.  Nor does he act any different than the rest.  What he does have is a set of nuts on him bigger than most full-grown men!

Hence the name, Nuts.

Daddy tried describing his massive testes to me over the phone and I guess that I just couldn’t picture it. I mean, how big could a baby pigs balls be, anyways? I figured that it was a slight exaggeration, and that at the most he might have a slightly larger than average sack. But, I was happy for him regardless. He was thrilled and couldn’t stop talking about all the semen this pig was going to produce. He figured that since his current stud, described as a potentially “gay” pig, was only throwing 6-12 piglets per litter, it must surely have to do with the volume of sperm he was injecting.  Bigger is better, afterall, and I guess this goes for pig nuts too. I’m sure that he was patiently waiting the day Nuts approached puberty and he could set him loose on the twenty some-odd breeding sows he’s got roaming his back pastures.

Dan and I went down to visit Daddy the other day and Daddy had called twice to make sure we brought a camera down. We got to the barn and there were literally about forty piglets running loose, grunting, squealing, fighting for donuts and trying to find ways to get into the newly planted garden. They were cute as hell and I even got bit by one! We got to see the two new calves and feed the broody chickens who were sitting on a couple of clutches of eggs. We always enjoy our trips to the barn, and this day was no exception.

After he had the cows milking out, he emptied some bread and grain into a small plastic trough and the piglets came running like it was their last meal. In between all the screaming and squabbling this little piglet ended up back-to to me and half inside the trough. I just about fell over when I saw the size of his balls. Daddy wasn’t joking when he said that this was the biggest nutted piglet he’d ever seen. We took a bunch of pictures, because of course Daddy wanted to share his pride and joy with everyone with Facebook and a cell phone.

Last night Daddy called up and told us that he needed to cut some pigs, and that he needed help holding them down. I volunteered Dan, because that’s what I do, and this afternoon around 2:00pm we headed down to the barn. Never seeing it done, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but since I generally have no problem watching pain inflicted on things other than me, I figured I’d handle it just fine. I was wrong.

Let me describe what pig cutting entails. Skip over this next part if you’re squeamish.

My dad built this little cutting table. It’s trap-wire set into a V-shaped cradle about two feet high. You lay the squirming piglet on it’s back, inside the trough, and you slide a metal bar between the slats to pin down his back end. Once he’s immobile, being held down by a bar and two people, Daddy washes his nether-regions. After they’re cleaned up in good shape, he takes a razor blade and slits open the skin of its scrotum. At first there’s no blood, you can just see some pink layers of tissue. Once he’s opened it up enough, he presses the outside of the scrotum and pops the testicles out through the hole he’s made, kind of like a pimple. After they’re visible he pulls them out and slices off the cord that’s attaching them to the piglet. Then he sprays the wound with Blu-kote and calls it good.  It isn’t until about half-way through the procedure that they begin to bleed, and even then it’s just a few drops.  What makes the whole thing unbearable is the screaming.  They scream when you pick them up, scream when you pin them down, and this screaming doubles in volume and intensity when the cuts are being made.  The only saving grace is that when they’re let down on the ground, they walk off like nothings happened.  I think that it looks and sounds more traumatic than it truly is.  I’m trying to imagine a similar procedure on a human body and all I can really picture is slitting open a blister or maybe an episiotomy.  But, I believe that the episiotomy actually cuts through more tissue than this.  The skin of the scrotum is quite thin, so it’s really just a flesh wound about 1.4″ long.

Regardless of any rationalizations, it’s horrible to witness. I was fine for the first piglet, but when he got to the second one, I started getting sick feeling. Like I was going to vomit or hyperventilate or pass out or something. I’m not sure if it was the noise or the blood or what, but it did me in. I had to go to the other side of the barn and keep myself occupied while they did the last five or six.

Anyways, while they were cutting pigs a bunch of people showed up. One guy had brought his daughters down to feed the animals and see the new baby chicks.  Another was just hanging out for a while. Daddy made sure he showed Nuts off to all, and brought attention to his amazing testes.

We left shortly after the cutting and went grocery shopping. No sooner had we gotten to the fruits and vegetables section my cell-phone rang. It was Daddy.  He told me that just a while after we headed out, Larry Sidelinger had watched Nuts wander off by the barn and squat to piss. He asked Daddy how come that big nutted pig was squatting. Daddy figured it must not have been the same pig, afterall, there are forty of the little buggers running around loose.  Just then the pig turned back to and displayed his giant cajones.  Everyone became confused by this point so Daddy got ahold of Nuts and examined those big ass balls of his.  After the inspection, Daddy realized that Nuts might be blessed in some areas, but lacking in others.  He has sack the size of a cantaloupe, but doesn’t appear to have a “pecker.”

No pecker? What?

Nuts isn’t exactly a he, isn’t exactly a she.  It’s got a scrotum, two giant testicles, a vulva and a vaginal/urinary opening.   Wonder if she’s got ovaries tucked up inside too!  Daddy thinks it’d be interesting to see if she’ll breed.  Guess we’ll find out, huh?

Act I

In this Act, our heroine, the Daughter, has just received monumental news.  She’s been accepted to Grad School and is about to fulfill a dream. She desperately wants to tell the amazing news to her mother, whom she believes will share in her joy.  Mom is the first call she makes after posting the happy news on Facebook.  Big mistake.

*Telephone rings, receptionist answers and Daughter is transferred to Mom’s extension.*

Mom: What reason hast thou for disturbing my peace?

Daughter: Mother! Dear Mother! I hath received great and wonderful news!

Mom: What news involving you could possibly be wonderful?  Quickly now, telleth and getteth it over with.  I have much to do about nothing today and ’tis far more important than this idle banter.

Daughter: Just this morn, I was delivered a letter that will change my life forever.  The esteemed school of graduates has beckoned me to join them for study.

Mom: (silence)

Daughter: Mother, have we lost the connection?  Are you there?

Mom: (sarcastic) Splendid.  And have you put any thought to how this will affecteth those in your life that are so much more significant than yourself?

Daughter:Well… well.. yes, Mother, I believe I have.  It is my understanding that this group of scholars will meet twice a year for the short duration of ten days.  Leaving me free to toil the other 345 days per annum.

Mom: And when is this ill-advised adventure supposed to commence?

Daughter: On this glorious year of our Lord, two thousand and ten, it falleth on the first fortnight in August.

Mom: Oh, spawn of the devil, child of mine mortal enemy, must you always put upon me?  Are not the genes that I lent your tragic cells enough?  I fed you the fruit of mine own breast, an entire day.  Doth thou deserve more?  And now… this… you are to expect a reward for disobedience.  What of the store?  Hath thou put forth thought as to the plight you will be thrusting unto me?  Have you no respect?

Daughter: Honestly mother, I never believed that less than a fortnight was of consequence.  I have requested the assistance of two others so that my absence will go unnoticed.

Mom: And what about Macbeth?  Should she suffer unduly because of this Midsummer’s Dream of yours?  It’s well established that her queenly status exempts her from toiling on the Sabbath, the day before, the day after, or any such day that falls from between the Spring and Fall Solstices that are blessed with the sun above.  Don’t be daft!  Macbeth only worketh that which she desires and she desires not of much during the Summer.  Take heed, for she is an example to all and must be raised on a pedestal and diefied, Amen.

Daugther: Mother, I… I… know not what to sayeth.  My first priority hath always been to Macbeth though I have suffered greatly at her hands.  Often I feel that she possesseth some quality that I am too lowly to obtain.  Pray tell me, what maketh her so divine?  For she caused not the bat of an eyelash when demanding fortnight after fortnight, sabbath after sabbath off last year.  While my own meager requests were met with the glare of Medusa herself.

Mom: (sniffling) Hath thou forgotten that I am widowed? Widowed! Hath thou forgotten that I am sick in the heart for all the loss?   Fortuna smiles not upon me.  Fortuna hath forsaken me.  The lessons I teach should be heeded, dear spawn.  But I can teacheth not the student who wishes not to learn.  I hath tried and hath tried.  I hateth you for your own good.  Do you thinketh that all my motherly attention is devoted upon your brother because I hath chosen one of you over the other?  Nay.  Nay!  There existeth no choice to start. To say so is a lie.  God gifted me him, for he is the prodigal son, and you the bastard that seeded itself into my womb ‘ere I could rid myself of you.  I putteth you down and kicketh you while you occupy the space ‘neath my spiked heel for that is the nature of our relationship.  Accept this, spawn, and you shall be free.  I bore you, but I cannot bear you.

Daughter: Your wisdom hath no bounds, dear sweet Mother.  Had that I never spoke of this matter.  Never had a midsummer’s dream.  (raises her hand to the sky) I curse you God above.  Curse you for putting me in the way of temptation.  Curse you for an existence that has wrought nothing but misery on poor Mother.  Hath I no foresight?  Hath I no sense about me?  What foul corruption courses through my veins?

Mom: (angry silence)

Daughter: Forgive me, mother.  Alas, forgive me for not knowing my place.  Never again shall I play the fool.  This lesson hath been harsh, but necessary.  No more will I dare to stand on tiptoes, to reach for the stars, to dream.  ‘Tis this sort of guidance that I yearn for.  You hath made me a better person.  I thanketh you for deliberately withholding congratulatory remarks.  I thanketh you for loving me not equal to, but less than even the lowliest stranger.  Words cannot express the depth of my sorrow.  I apologize to you for my wrongs, for my rights and mostly for my existence.  I take my leave now to offer myself up as sacrifice to Fortuna so that you may be once again blessed with the luck that you so deserveth.   Pray that my blood shall restore you to your former glory.  I loveth you most tenderly. (exits stage in a cacophony of shameful tears).

THE END

Let’s just say that when someone you love dearly commits suicide, the wound is pretty fucking tender for a long fucking time after.  At least that’s how it is for me.  I am able to cope with my life (for the most part) until some retard has to bring it up.  It’s not the bringing it up part that bothers me, as much as how they do it.  Today for instance, some super-tramp came in and and looked at me.

She says, “Are you Stacy?” and I was like, “Yes.”

I knew what was coming and I felt a little like I might be on a speeding train heading for a break in the track.  It’s a sickening feeling, knowing that someone is about to ruin your sanity for a while, but being powerless to stop it.  I didn’t say anything else, hoping she’d get the hint, but noooooooo! Of course she didn’t.  And then, bam, the most loathed of sentences came out of her mouth.

“How’s your mother?”

And, as always, I answer what I think is expected out of me. “Fine.”  I want to elaborate, but I don’t feel as though it’s fair.  Especially with what is inevitably  said next.

“How’s Justin?”

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

I’m usually pretty sarcastic at this point, either raising my eyebrows as I spit out one curt word, “Great!” or “Fine,” or spitting out afew of the many single syllable words for “shut the fuck up.”  She’s still not getting the hint.  She’s talking about Justin and how wonderful he is.  How wonderful London must be.  How wonderful it is for my mother to have him.

I’m feeling lightheaded and as though I’m about to puke.

To make matters worse, and to break the final rule of suicide etiquette, she says, with a big, toothy smile on her face, “I grew up with Raymond.”

If looks could kill, I’d be mopping up the pile of flesh that was once her right now.  So anyways, let’s get back to the point.  Her visit today is a perfect example of what NOT TO DO when talking with someone about the suicide death of their step-father.

Rule #1 – Thou Shalt Offer Condolences Appropriately

Hmmm, does it take a degree in rocket science to figure this one out?  Here’s what she did wrong, actually, what every single solitary retarded human being has done wrong since he shot himself.

• Who was she talking to?  Me.
• Who was not present? My mother and brother.
• Who was the person she was pumping full of questions? Me.
• And who was the ONLY person she didn’t ask about?

Me.

But of course, I’m getting used to this.  I think the first person to really slam it home to me that I’m a fucking afterthought is Sherry.  Not sure what her last name is now.  She called mom’s house a day or so after this all happened and left a message for: “Cyndy and Justin.”  Not, Cyndy, Justin and Stacy.  What really blew me away by that is the fact that I grew up with Sherry.  She was at our house (the one where me, Mom, Justin and Raymond all lived) almost every weekend for about five or ten years.  She knew me intimately.  She knew that Raymond had raised me.  Knew I called him, “father.”   Like I’ve said in other posts, I don’t exist, at least not anymore.

I confronted her about this in a round-about way this past summer.  She told me she’d left ‘that‘ message because she figured that I was a grown woman and not living in the house anymore.  Well, your logic is fucked, Sherry, because Justin is a grown man and has actually lived ‘out’ of that household for more years than I have, or at least just as many.  He’s been gone since he graduated high school, living in NH, MA, and NY.  I however, had just moved out that past Spring…  Get your story straight before you decide to try to finagle your way out of an epic failure.

People, I can’t stress enough that when you are talking to someone who has lost someone to suicide, you need to treat them like a human being.  And this my friends means that instead of offering condolences to everyone else first, their second-cousin once-removed, next-door neighbor, or family dog, you offer it to the person you’re speaking to.  It’s only right.  By not doing so you are completely disregarding the fact that they have gone through a tragedy like no other, and that their feelings aren’t as important as anyone elses.

But it doesn’t just stop at condolences.  Yes, it’s nice to hear someone acknowledge your pain, but it runs deeper than that.  In conversations there are usually two components, the condolences, which are ritualistic, and then there’s the, “How is/are you/so and so,” questions.  Even if you get the correct order of the condolences, you still must be smart about asking the how’s.

And, again, it’s pretty easy to figure this out.  Before asking “How is…” everybody and their brother, ask how the person you are questioning is.  It’s just etiquette numb-nuts.  Make this person want to talk to you and maybe you’ll get a response.  Because when the first thing you do is make out as though only everyone ELSE matters, they just want to claw your eyeballs out.  Being blind isn’t fun.  Don’t piss off the suicide survivors.

To recap:

When you wish to speak to someone you hardly know about a suicide they have gone through you,

a. Offer THEM condolences/ask how THEY are

b. Offer OTHERS condolences with them acting as conduit/as how OTHERS are

Rule #2 – Thou Shalt Not Open Wounds

Use your extremely miniscule brain for just a moment and realize that under normal circumstances, a father’s death might be painful, but when they’ve committed suicide it’s almost unbearable.  So, eighteen months after someone’s dad dies of cancer, they’re probably recovering, getting on with things.  They’re dealing with it appropriately.  Eighteen months after Raymond’s suicide, I still don’t know whether I’m coming or going.  The only way I deal with each and every day without wanting to commit myself to AMHI is by ignoring or trying to forget this ever happened.  The very moment I am forced to remember or to acknowledge his death, bad things start to happen.  I begin having panic attacks, I get tired feeling, I have the uncontrollable urge to weep and for hours after it’s brought up, I struggle to keep my eyes from leaking.

There are certain places that I prefer NOT to have to be confronted about his death.  Or, as I mention in this, Rule #2, having the Wound Opened.  Primarily, it’s where I work.  I would rather not have to have customers seeing me crying, with puffy, red eyes for an hour after you leave.  I’d rather not have to keep swallowing because it’s the only way the lump in my throat will go away.  I’d rather not have to squeak out order totals and directions to customers because if I open my mouth too much, or use too strong of a voice, all that comes out is a wail.

When you decide to bring up a suicide, choose your location carefully.  Don’t attack your victim at her place of employment.  If you REALLY want to know how Cyndy and Justin are doing, call Cyndy.  Or Justin for that matter.  Because I know that’s all you really want to know.  Stacy just happens to be the fucking mailbox for all messages and well-wishes for them.

Don’t do this in a grocery store either.   The middle of the meat section isn’t the best place to bother a complete stranger about something so personal and painful.  If you simply MUST ruin her day, do it in a parking lot, at least that way she can escape to her car when the tears overwhelm her.  She can also ram it in to a bridge abutment afterwards.  Is that what you want?  Are you doing this deliberately to drive her over the edge?  No, I don’t think you’re smart enough for that actually.  You just want to wallow in the tragedy of others because you have no life of your own.

Who gives a shit if you knew Raymond.  Unless you were at that hospital, holding my hand – holding his hand – or offering up your shoulder or strength, I couldn’t fucking care less.  Find someone who does, don’t upset me any further.

To recap:

1. If your intention is ONLY to give condolences to SOMEONE other than the person you’re speaking to, DON’T bring it up.  Don’t pass Go, Don’t Collect $200.  Just turn around and leave.  Or close your mouth permanently.

2. If you actually have a heart instead of tiny, wizzled, rotten, prune, and you’ve managed to actually be nice and treat this person as though they might be hurting too, and not just their mother and brother, then make sure you approach this subject in a good area.  Not in public, and not while they’re working.

Rule #3 – Thou Shalt Not Talk Lightly of Death

Retards such as yourself will think that death is just a fact of life and that as long as someone is buried, so are all the feelings associated with it.  I’m sick of people showing up here, even just a week or so after we put him in the ground, and acting as though all should be well.  All is NOT well you rotten beasts.  Nothing will ever be well again, and my heart will never be unbroken.  There is no cure for this disease because it reaches through the flesh and into the soul.

I don’t care how long it has been, at least acknowledge that the person you’re talking to (usually someone you don’t know jack shit about) might still be dealing with unresolved emotions.  Also realize that this was not a common death.  Daddy didn’t just get old and die.  Daddy was young and he shot himself and blew his eyeballs out and he lived for three weeks and THEN died you motherfucker.

Don’t ask questions that will FORCE your victim to respond in a way that nullifies their pain.  “How’s your mom?” They’re going to give you a canned answer. They can’t tell you the truth because they are so fucking shocked that you had the balls to ask this question to begin with.

Speaking lightly of death is when you scoff about any lingering pain.  When you say his name with a laugh.  When you reminisce about all the good old days.  Well that just sucks because the good old days are gone.  Don’t bring them up.  It’s also when you make comments like, “Your mom must be getting on with things now,” and other shit like that.

Remember, there is no set amount of time for mourning a suicide death.  I want to wish one on you so you can understand my pain, but I’m not even that evil.

Rule #4 – Thou Shalt Not Ask Prying Questions

Ya, if you don’t know me, if you weren’t there for me, you don’t deserve to know anything at all.  Ask yourself the following questions:

• Did I call her to say, “I’m sorry,” after all this happened?
• Did I send her a card?
• Did I at least send her regards via someone else, like the most important people on earth, Cyndy and Justin?
• Did I at least remember to write her name in on the card that was sent to a) Cyndy or b) Cyndy and Justin or c) just Justin?
• Did I email her to offer support?
• Did I post on her Facebook wall?

I can actually answer all these questions with one word.

No.

And as a side not, I guess the question is, how many of my actual ‘friends’ can even say the same.  I received ONE card (thank you Ashlee) and ONE phone call (I love you Glen).  Heather (whom I haven’t seen since 1992) wrote me a heartfelt Facebook message.  Where were the rest of you?  Not even my family, with the exception of my two Aunt Karens and Aunt Dixie, were there for me.  All three aunts have allowed me to say whatever it is I wanted to say regardless of how awful it was and they just listened.  They treated me like a human, with feelings and respected my loss.  This has been important.  But, I’ve had complete strangers be kinder to me than most of the people that I love and care for.  A great example of why I feel so totally and completely alone at this point in my life.  No one cared enough to help ME through this, all of the emotional support was filtered through me and onto my mother.  Justin escaped to London, but at least I can vouch that people were thinking of him.  A lot.  I never got this and I guess it’s why I’m so bitter and feel so detached from reality.

Back to the rule.  Because you did NONE of the things mentioned above, you obviously aren’t considered a “friend”.  Don’t ask me things that only serve to exacerbate the pain.  Don’t tell me “what you heard” in a conspiratorial voice because I’m not your confidant.  This is not idle gossip for me.  Don’t ask me “How is Justin” or “How is your Mom”.  Don’t ask me if she’s selling anything.  Don’t ask me anything.  You don’t deserve to know.

Rule #5 – Thou Shalt Not Disrespect the Dead

Okay, I know this sounds hypocritical, considering I absolutely hate Raymond for doing this to us.  But you have to understand that at the same time, I would do anything to bring him back.  And I will always love him no matter what irrepairable damage he’s done to my entire being.

So this rule is pretty simple.  Don’t talk smack about him.  That goes for you Mike.  You Mark.  And others, I’m sure.

He’s dead, and while his final act might have been atrocious, he can’t defend himself anymore. Don’t make me feel as though I have to do it for him.  When you say bad shit about him, you’re just rubbing salt in the wound.  And pissing me off further.  One day, ladies and gentlemen, you’re going to push me too far.  One day you’re going to get an earful that you will never forget and quite possibly a 3×9 pillar candle up the ass.

Stop tormenting me.  I can’t take it anymore.

It’s etiquette.  If you’re a stranger, just like you wouldn’t fart at the dinner table, don’t bring up Raymond to me unless you’re planning to be genuine.

The “deal” that was established when Santos came to live with us was that he keeps a ‘C’ average in ALL of his classes.  He gets one D and he goes back.  He’s known about this from the start.  The only time we’ve had to crack down on him about anything is when he’s in the midst of a string of lies, F’s and D’s, or a bad attitude.

The ONLY thing he’s not allowed to do is use my Blackberry to play on Facebook and Myspace.  He’s allowed to use the spare laptop or HIS computer to access these social networds.  Providing he’s a) done his homework and b) done the dishes (his ONLY chore inside the house).

He’s only had phone privileges taken away from him ONCE and that was just for two days.

He’s never been told he can’t go out with friends or over to friends houses.  The only rule is that we know about it in advance (because we have jobs with weird hours) and that we have the name and phone number of the person he’ll be with during that time.

He has never been not allowed to do ANYTHING.  If he tells you that we won’t let him use the phone, it’s a bold-faced lie.  If he tells you that he can’t come over to visit, it’s a bold-faced lie.  Here’s the real reason: He didn’t ask or even mention it until after it already happened.

We have let him go out with friends every single, solitary time that he has asked, even during times that he was actually grounded.  The Halloween Party and the Movie trip to Rockland are good examples of this.  Both times he’d received F’s on his progress reports, but we felt bad for him and let him go anyways.  We have repeatedly asked him to ask his girlfriend  to go out to dinner with us and he won’t call her to ask or says she’s busy.  We have tried and tried and tried to keep his social life healthy, but he would rather lie, and suffer, and blame it on us.

2. What He’s Given For Chores

Santos is suffering from the delusion that he’s the ONLY one in the household that contributes anything of value.  Apparently our jobs don’t count as anything beneficial.  He told me three nights ago that he did ALL the housework.  That Dan and I do NOTHING.  He said to me that he does all the dishes, the laundry folding and the bathroom.  If this is all the housework, I want THAT job!

Let’s clarify…

He is expected to do ONE ‘inside’ chore, and ONE chore alone.  The Dishes.  He doesn’t have to do them by hand, he doesn’t even have very many to do.  He doesn’t even do them every day. We even just bought a brand-new, high-end dishwasher.   In fact, he admitted to me today that he does dishes about every other day.  So, three times a week he does this chore.  Not much if you ask me.  When asked how long it takes him, he answered 5-10 minutes.  Here’s the issue.  This is what I expect done, each and every day as his “payment” for living with us for free and getting all the benefits of life here, while we have none in return.

a. Put ALL the dishes in the dishwasher
b. Put detergent in, close the door and push “start”
c. Clean out the sink (traps in garbage and rinse)
d. Wipe down counter and stove

When he does everything, it generally takes him 15 minutes.  That’s it.  Total.  Yet, of the 3 nights a week he actually bothers to do dishes, he only bothers to do it the right way, maybe once.  The rest of the time he does this:

a. Puts 5-10 dishes in the dishwasher, leaves the other 5-10 on the counter, stove and sink
b. Puts detergent in, closes door, doesn’t push “start”
c. Leaves food debris in sink
d. Leaves counter and stove dirty

I don’t think I’m asking for much.  But even the little I ask him to do is apparently too much.  He told me today that all I ever do is  complain.  He isn’t making the mental leap that if he could just figure out a way to do this simple little task without me having to finish it for him every time he attempts it, there’d be no complaining.  He thinks I’m a terrible bitch.  I think he’s terribly lazy.  Do it right, you won’t hear me complain.  Keep doing wrong, keep hearing me harp.  You should have learned how to perform this chore flawlessly by now.  It’s been a year since you were first made to do anything besides be a spoiled rotten little punk, should have been plenty of time.

Santos claims he does ALL the housework, yet when I asked him how many times he’s cleaned the bathroom, he answered “twice.” (in almost a year) And, this is accurate.  I know this because I’M the one who cleans the bathroom from head to toe once a week.  I’m the one with my hand down the bowl scraping off his poop, I’m the one wiping the base because him and Dan have poor aim. I”m the one flushing his ass tampons down almost every time he takes a shit.  I’m the one who scrubs the tub, the one who washes down the sink, the mirror and the floor.  I’m the one who generally takes out the trash too.  Both Santos and Dan won’t throw anything away in the bathroom.  If a tube of toothpaste empties out, or a bottle of shampoo or gel, they’ll leave it on the floor.  Won’t even consider putting it in the trash can.  And he does all the housework…

I asked him if he’d ever mopped my bedroom floor, he said no.  I mop my floor regularly.  I asked him how often he’d dusted or de-cobwebbed the living room.  Never.  Well, I do this once a week.  Asked him how many times he’d mopped the floors, he couldn’t remember.  How many times he’d wiped down the fridge, cupboards, walls, windowsills.  Never.  Well, I do some of these once a week, some twice and some every other, depending on how much homework I have and how many days I’m working.

He changed his line to, “Well, I never see you do any cleaning.”  I asked him if it was okay for me to tell his girlfriend that he never brushed his teeth because I’ve never seen him do it.  He responded by saying, “I brush them every morning! You’re just asleep!”  I told him that I clean when he’s at school during the day or at my dad’s on the weekends.  He needs to get a fucking clue.  You can’t accuse the person who’s providing you with a place to live of not cleaning  her own house.  Especially when she spends too much time cleaning it to begin with because two other people aren’t putting in their fair share.

Santos claimed the other night that he does all the laundry and folding.  Perhaps this is why every other weekend, I spend the good part of my entire 2 days off catching up on laundry that builds up during the week.  Yes, he does help me fold when I go to  do this task, but I’ve never made him and I’ve folded the laundry many times without his help.  He just believes that he’s the God of Housework, because his brain is too small to think outside of the box.  Just because something is out of sight doesn’ t mean it’s not happening or it doesn’t exist.

When you put your pants on, does your penis disappear, Santos?  When you hang-up the phone with your mother, does she cease to exist?  Did Lincoln cancel classes today because you weren’t there?  Come on.  Get a brain, or use the one you have.  This whole thing is ridiculous and things need to start changing.  Stop giving me reasons to ship you back.  Start giving me reasons to want you to stay.  This arrangement is of absolutely no benefit to Dan or I, and I take the brunt of your teenage angst.  You snap at me, snarl at me, slat around, talk-back, get sarcastic with me all the time.  I don’t even dare to speak to you when Dan is gone because you jump all over me.  Make me want to keep you around, because you haven’t convinced me yet.

Just because I prefer to clean in PEACE without you vegetating on the couch glued to Spongebob Squarepants while I do it (pisses me off actually to watch you watch me clean a house you helped to mess up), doesn’t mean I don’t do it.

Let’s recap:

You spend 30 minutes a week (tops) doing the dishes, or… sort of doing the dishes.  I spend that much time or MORE going behind you and finishing what you’ve neglected to do.

You fold laundry every-other week, much of which is your clothing.  This takes you about 20 minutes.

You water the chickens and let them in and out (sometimes).  Dan does this more often than you actually do.  This takes you 2 minutes each time, a total of 4 minutes a day.

So… do you think that 40 minutes of chores per WEEK?  Or, let’s break that down to days… 5.7 minutes a DAY, is too much to ask in return for us:

• Providing a roof over your head
• Transportation to and from school and activities
• Food
• Clothing
• Electricity
• Showers
• Clean Clothes
• Internet
• Computer
• School Supplies
• Heat

???

I’m just curious, because it doesn’t seem like 5 minutes a day is a whole lot of your time.  Especially when I spend 7 hours a day working to pay for all the things you’re getting.  And Dan works 8 hour days.  I’m even in college full-time to boot.  How is it that our 7-8 hours a day of “work” isn’t calculated in when you bitch about your 5?  Do you work?  No, you go to school and slack off all day.  And, when you get home, you start holding down the loveseat.  It’s as though you’re afraid it’s going to sneak off or float away.  You spend more time on that couch than you do anything else in your entire life and that’s pretty pathetic.  Particularly when you’re trying to claim that you are the sole person responsible for all of our housework.

Oh, and I’m writing this in “Note” form because you refused to speak to me about it today when I tried to talk to you about it.  Remember?  You told me that “you weren’t going to talk about this anymore”?

Throughout my life, I’ve often noticed things, things that make me different than others.  And by others, I mean men.  At first I thought it was just sensory, but after many years of careful analysis, have decided it goes far beyond my eyes, ears, nose or mouth.  It extends into the realm of foresight, intuition and reasoning.

What was it, you ask, that prompted this realization?  Nothing more than a nondescript, and rather filthy garbage can.  But not just any garbage can, a garbage can brought to planet Earth many generations ago by super-intelligent aliens from the Orion Nebula.  It’s has a cloaking mechanism that actually allows normal garbage, once it’s been in contact with the rigid, plastic polymer that coats it, to become invisible.

Yesterday started off like any other.  I worked until about 4:30pm, my boyfriend worked until 2:00pm.  He came home, played on the computer.  His little brother, Santos, watched Spongebob.  When I got home at about 5:00 I walked through the front door into the living room and set my things down.  Dan and Santos both went into the kitchen and I followed them.  This is where things began to get hinky.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a great and terrible pile of trash.  Spewed out along my newly stripped kitchen floor were coffee grounds, egg shells, wrappers, bottles, cans, baggies, you name it.  All sporting a fresh coating of grunge.  Santos stood at the sink, rinsing out a cup.  Dan was digging through the dishwasher to get a plate.  Both were within five feet of this indoor landfill, yet neither seemed to notice.

“Do you see that?” I asked them, first looking at Santos, then Dan.

“See what?” Dan replies.  He looked at Santos as though asking, “What could she possibly see on this immaculate kitchen floor that I don’t?”

“Santos, do you see it?” I ask this time  directing his gaze, with my own, towards the pile.

“No.”

I look at the pile, back at them.  They stand, dumfounded, acting as though I might have finally flipped my bic.   When I don’t question them further, they go back to doing what they had been before our conversation.

And that’s when it dawned on me.  I’m the only one capable of seeing it.  I… I have… Oh my God!  I HAVE THE POWER!  These mere men, so lousy in design, don’t possess the powers that would allow them to see the invisible trash pile sitting in the middle of my kitchen floor.

Life’s mysteries were finally being answered.  Not  only did the new understanding of my superpowers allow me access into the male psyche, it showed me why every man I’ve ever been with has called me irrational.  If this garbage is invisible, how many other things in the house  are?  How many relationships have I sabotaged because of this lack of knowledge.  When I used to get pissed at my ex-husband for leaving dozens of piss filled soda bottles all through my house, he must have been thinking, “What kind of drugs are you on?”  Evidently, these piss bottles were of the same ilk as this garbage can.  Invisible and therefore incomprehensible to the inferior, superpowerless male.

I glanced around the rest of the kitchen and started to see more clearly.  At the bottom of the sink sat a grisly, decaying pile of watered down food particles, all trapped in the strainer.   Every day of my life I used to bitch about this, now I know that they weren’t deliberately not cleaning it.  They just couldn’t see it.

The surface of my glass-top stove was covered with a thick film of grease, burned on food and other particles.  I see now  that when I used to say, “make sure you clean all the surfaces in the kitchen”, that they weren’t neglecting it because they didn’t feel like it, it was just that to them, my stove looked like four burners that hovered in mid-air, seemingly defying gravity.

I immediately made my way to each corner and crevice in my kitchen, examining the dust and dirt that was collecting.  Fingerprints on the switchplate, on the fridge, on the cabinets.  Dust on the trimwork, grime both on the edges of my cabinet doors and along my kickboard.  I needed further confirmation.

“Do you see this?” I asked, pointing towards the wall separating the kitchen and living rooms.  It was littered with fingerprints, smudges and splatters.

They look at the wall, puzzled.  They look at each other.  They look back at me, perplexed yet again and cock their heads to the side.  Like dogs do when they hear strange sounds.

“See what?”

I  knew it.  They can’t see anything!  By now I’m beginning to  worry though.  What evil plans must the aliens have for our planet if they’ve turned all dust, dirt, fingerprints, garbage and grease invisible?  It’s V, but real.  The aliens are trying to turn us against each other.  Instigating a revolution. They figure that if they make women do all the cleaning, that eventually we’ll get so pissed off that we kill them off.  Completely.  Entirely.

Must resist.

Must clean.

• Less than an hour
• Less than two hours
• Less than four hours
• More than four hours

I definitely think that forty four hours qualifies as “over four hours”.  A little ridiculously long if you ask me.  Here are some options that I’d like to see the next time I have to visit their outage reporting site:

• I stink so bad from lack of a shower that I’m unsure I can afford the anti-fungal medication it’s going to take to cure me.
• I’ve had to throw away all $300 worth of meats that I just bought three mother-fucking days ago because it all unthawed my power has been out for so long.
• I’m about ready to take your phone center hostage because lack of electricity, shower and heat have turned my normally neurotic behavior psychotic.

These are just a few, I have many more suggestions.  But, I’ll save that for our next epically long outage.  CMP really needs to start looking into ways to fix this problem.  Their circuits are way too long, encompassing too many roads and too many customers.  They claim that they are doing massive tree trimming efforts yet 90% of the trees I found down on Friday, were all big ‘ole pine trees that were about five feet from the line.  I don’t give a fuck about any bleeding heart landowner anymore, cut the fucking things down.  Hack ‘em up.  Use ‘em for firewood.

Here are some pictures of the damage in case you didn’t get out to see them.  Right now, I’m too unclean to even bitch for any length of time, so I’ll leave you now as I get into the shower for the first time since Wednesday (three days ago for those that can’t count).

This is a tree that fell on the Jefferson end of Bunker Hill Road.  Not affecting the power on my end, but probably keeping “town” residents in the dark until later Friday morning.

This is the “culprit” tree that was making me suffer unduly.  It fell down on the Newcastle end of Bunker Hill Road, just outside the Hingston’s house.  This one killed our power at 9:00pm 2/25/10 and the next morning at 10:00 and afternoon at 4:00pm, it was still bent over the road.  When Dan went to work on Saturday at 5:30am it was still across the road, but by 9:30am when I to work it was cleared.

This pine tree (seeing a pattern here?) was down on the Alna side of the corner of 213 and 215.  This one took them about five hours to clear, having started the job at 9:30am and just finishing around 3:00pm.  For one tree, the damage was pretty extensive.

This poor old Dude, just across from Alewives Fabrics, in Newcastle (The Mills), was unfortunate enough to have been in the way of an ancient (Ash maybe) as it’s main branches came down and took out his roof and even the side of his porch.  You can’t see the extent of the damage from this crappy picture, but the roof is exposed down through the rafters and his siding is punched through as well.

Daniel and I have been involved with each other for the following holidays:

4 – Christmas

4 – Valentine’s Day

4 – Birthday’s

That’s a total of TWELVE gift-required events.  Now let’s review the actual gifts I’ve received.

Daniel and I began our relationship before it was entirely appropriate to do so.  Sure, it was platonic, but there was a definite interest.  I sent him a Christmas card the first year with a Yankee Car Jar in it.  It was small, but I had hoped he might return the sentiment.  He didn’t, but that’s okay.  You can take this Christmas off the Shit-List because I guess it doesn’t really count.  Neither does the first Valentine’s Day.  We weren’t really a couple, but… the fact remains that he could have sent a frigging E-card for Free and this certainly wouldn’t have been a commitment.  Fast-forward a few months.

Daniel and I begin dating for “real” in June of 2007.  We met, decided we liked each other and kept in constant contact with each other over the summer.  By the time my birthday rolled around, we were a true couple and by rights, the fucking little bastard SHOULD have felt compelled to at least send me a FUCKING card.  He didn’t.  I had hoped he even might have flowers sent to me.  He knew my address, knew the date.  It came and went without so much as a hint that he remembered.

Daniel and I moved in with each on November 1, 2007.  I was all excited about our first Christmas together and ordered him a gift (which was backordered), but at least I made an effort.  We spent Christmas day at his mothers and I was never so embarrassed as when she, Santos and Samantha turn to me and ask, “What’d Dan get you?”  Umm… Nothing… “Daniel!” He had no response.  Well, he made some excuse about how his sister normally does his shopping for him.  Lame.  So fucking Lame, Daniel.  (Do you hear the anger in my words?  Well you better, because right about now, I’m THIS far from finding myself someone that WILL remember me on V-Day! And don’t think I’m not!)

I managed to drop a few angry clues over the next month and low and behold, stop the presses, blow me over, he actually ordered me Roses for Valentine’s Day.  They were very pretty and I believed he had turned a new leaf.

That June we moved back to Maine and my welcoming home present was rather special.  My step-dad thought that he’d give me  a good bullet through the brain to help me settle back into Maine life.  (Thanks Raymond!)  Now, considering the shitty fucking summer I had, you’d THINK that my boyfriend would have gone out of his way to get me something for my birthday.  He got me nothing. And nothing for that X-mas.

Almost a year later, 2009, he actually orders me flowers for V-Day.  It wasn’t his fault, but they were delivered late and came frozen and wilted.  Since this time we have established that Damariscotta has several local sources for very nice flower arrangements.  Hannaford, Louis Does, Cottage Gardens, you name it.  Hell, even most convenience stores sell those cheap single stem roses for Christ’s sake!

Dan must have forgotten this.

Fast forward again.  My birthday, 2009.  It’s the big 35.  I’m sick, waiting to find out if I have Breast Cancer or not.  You’d think, ya… thinking is obviously something that Daniel does NOT do, that he might, just might have realized the horrible fucking time I was going through and try to cheer me up on my birthday.  Nope.  Not a card, not a gift.  Nothing.

This Christmas, we did nothing for each other.  But it was consensual.  But… guys should know by now that if a girl says not to get her anything, it is their utmost duty to get her something.  Anything.

Twelve holidays… Two gifts.  I think that about says it all, doesn’t it?

Now let’s figure out why Daniel is incapable of recognizing me in this manner.  He likes to get gifts himself.  My family makes sure that they get him Christmas and Birthday presents, each and every year.  He likes to spend his certificates, wear the clothes.  They have even done for his brother like he was immediate family.  There was no hesitation, no conditions.  They just did.  Is this a display of selfishness?

Daniel only works 28 hours a week.  He doesn’t even have a difficult job.  He runs a register at a convenience store and that’s it.  He doesn’t do housework, he hasn’t had to do much shoveling this winter.  He drops Santos off at school, picks him up, goes grocery shopping.  It’s not as though he’s working himself to the bone and can’t muster up the strength to drag his ass to Louis Does to buy a bouquet.  Or, make a fucking phone call for that matter.

He knew I was working Friday and Saturday before V-Day, he knew I was working the Monday after.  He had three perfect opportunities to have flower’s delivered.  I know that he likes Lindor Truffles and… I assumed that he had done something for me so I bought him two big bags of Truffles and wrapped them up nice in a sparkly box.  It was a gift, something I hoped would make him smile.  He should have had the same fucking consideration.

All day long on Saturday customers came in and wished me a happy V-Day.  I was actually excited to go home, knowing that he’d have flowers waiting for me.  After all, he only worked until 2:00pm.  I get home, no flowers. No card.  No gift.  I gave him his anyways.  Hoping it’d serve as a hint.  He’s all excited but tells me, “Today’s not Valentine’s Day!”  I had no idea actually.

The next day, Sunday, I have off and he works until 2:00pm.  Again, he could have gone to Hannaford and gotten me a cupcake, flowers, you name it.  He was in town, had the opportunity and the debit card.  He came home from work and I was all excited… for nothing.  He carried no flowers, no card, no cake, no nothing.

I said nothing at first.  And then I thought, well, maybe he’s having something delivered tomorrow.  That’s when Santos says something about it.  Turns out that he didn’t get me anything.  And then he had the balls to blame it on me.  I had mentioned that I wanted to go to Home Depot to get flooring and to Gardiner to pick Santos up a bed.  Well, I couldn’t get ahold of the bed guy and I had a headache, so decided not to drive all the way to Augusta on my one day off.  Dan informed me that the reason I didn’t have a gift for V-Day was because I decided not to go to Augusta.  He claims that he had planned to buy me something while we were up there.  How convenient?  A failed trip that was to be his “saving” grace.  Ya, right.  He just needed to pawn the guilt off on me, typical male.  And he didn’t win himself anymore points.

Now, Dan had all day today to redeem himself.  He didn’t have to go in to work until 2:00pm.  He drives by a florist on his way in.  And after the florist, he drives past my shop.  He knew I was working until 5:00pm today.  He knew I was pissed about not getting a gift yesterday.  He could have taken five motherfucking minutes out of his busy Facebook Ponzi, Castle Age, Mafia Wars, day and called to have flowers delivered.  Or… he could have picked some up and delivered them himself.  I work less than a mile from the local florist.  He works less than a mile from me.

He did neither.  And, as soon as the battery on my phone allows me to send a text today, he’s being informed that he can stay with my father until further notice.

Fucker.