Cone Head, My Barbarian #7

Our Cone Head

A  very special thanks to all my readers this morning; I am truly mystified as to where all of you are coming from, as there has been no advertising of this website at all to date. I’ve heard from you in Maryland, Delaware, Texas, Michigan, Indiana, Colorado, and New Jersey. You have been unanimously encouraging and extremely kind, which is deeply appreciated when you sit in isolation at a computer for the better part of most days. I was amused at how many queries I received about the fate of poor Nico the cat (keep reading) and also as to the meaning of the references to Texas Toast. Texas Toast is the title of my first novel that I am writing and I like to weave little bits of that into the blog, as that is what I spend the bulk of my day working on. Namaste!

 Well, as everyone on the planet except for Nancy and Barack seems to know, election results were most excellent, not perfect, but quite good. Now if the creators of the three remaining cartoon characters, Boxer, Reid, and  Barney Frankenstein, can just erase these idiots out of existence in the next election, life will be much improved. But truly, are Pelosi and Obama suffering from Concrete on the Brain Syndrome? These two are a classic example of Washington being completely out of touch with reality. Tell you what, I’d sure like a hit of whatever those two are smoking PLUUZZZEE!!

But truly, the best personal news for me on Election night wasn’t the polling results, exhilarating as they were. It was the moment around 3AM when I woke up feeling like the warm beefy center in the middle of an eiderdown wonton, with the sweet sound of ragged purring in the background. That’s right, the puddy cat was back at home, safe and sound, also very humbled and contrite. She’s vowed to love (well tolerate) those two Sh_ t Head dogs because holiday season is approaching and there will be turkey to eat and a Christmas tree to climb and “it’s simply the wrong time of the year to go drown my silly self in the ocean”. In addition, she had heard that Poppa had Booger’s ears whacked off and a giant cone put on his neck and she just had to see this for herself!

It’s true kids. You know what really, truly sucks about matrimony? Sometimes The Spousal Unit actually gets his way . I won the big battle against Rottweilers, Pit Bulls, and German Sheppards and we ended up with a Boxer, but apparently those adorable, cuddly, floppy velvet ears just weren’t authentic  enough for The Spousal Unit, so off we went to the vet for a little snip, snip. Poor Booger has no clue about his differing spatial relationships with immovable objects since having this semi-opaque, 12” bonnet placed around his neck. He has more crashes than NASCAR; he slams and bangs his way through the house and yard, knocking over end tables and vases and when he tries to scratch his ears it sounds like wooden spoons on a tin washboard. One more day and this too shall pass. The final bandages and THE CONE FROM HELL come off Friday. Frankly, I think that if anyone in this household deserved a little nip/tuck it should have been yours truly, but that idea fell on deaf (and sutured!) ears.

Over goes another end table

WOULD ANYONE LIKE TO BUY A TEENAGE BOY?? (well, pedophiles and pornographers aside, of course). The Teenage Morose One just received a letter from his bros over at the DMV suspending his driving privileges for 30 days due to having had two speeding tickets in the past 12 months. Kind of sounds like when parents give their kids consequences for screwing up, and I bet you thought the government and we the people had absolutely nothing in common! Then, to top off the trick of losing his license, he decided to spend the night away from home last night without permission, and then compounded that by not answering his cell phone from 2:30am, so I lay awake for four hours fully expecting the police or state troopers to ring the doorbell. What is it about adorable little toddlers lurching around in their tiny footed jammies that completely makes rational adults forget that these little cuties will actually grow up to be TEENAGERS FROM HELL? Don’t tell me God doesn’t have a wicked sense of humor! So you see why I really, really, really must escape my everyday reality of maimed puppies, suicidal pussies, stubborn husbands, and sulky, morose, monosyllabic teenagers and slink back to the past, quickly please maestro.

It was for certain, on that June day in 1974, the day when I Became A Real True Bonafide NY Model! that this wasn’t the scene I had envisioned , as I slowly and reluctantly inserted my key into our apartment door and clicked it open. There on our white flokati rug (I know, I know, but it WAS the 70’s!) lay Boy, sprawled out in all his scrawny, semi-naked glory, looking something like a beached whale, watching ‘I Love Lucy’ reruns. True to form he was, scratching himself aimlessly and staring blankly up at me, probably hit by the stun gun of “you watch too much vapid TV and it’s destroying what’s left of your stem cells”. Every night, for the past four months since Boy had lost his job, this picture never varied. There he would be, slack-jawed and vacant eyed, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of his decline, half eaten bags of Fritos, M&Ms, Twinkies, and soda cans strewn about, dirty dishes piled up in the sink. After four months of unemployment Boy was just beginning to understand that being Hot Shit in a tiny Texas town in high school, with an adoring but wildly psychotic mother, didn’t make you worth the price of a subway token in NYC. He was also beginning to sense a subtle but powerful shift in the balance of power in our relationship. He had always been the bold one, the brainiac, with a caustic, but wildly witty tongue. He was at the top of his game in architecture school at UT and was the life of every party. In his own mind he knew he was destined for great things. It was the way our relationship started that probably set a wrong tone for all that followed.

 I was one of ten captains of our high school’s dancing half time drill team, and as such had to maintain all A&B’s or risk losing my position. The director of this dance troupe had a zero tolerance policy and when I was suddenly looking at a D- in Chemistry, I knew I had to take action or I’d lose my coveted spot. All the help and tutoring by my very patient teacher wasn’t helping me grasp chemical equations and the grade period final exam was looming. I went in search of the school’s biggest math geek and found him in Boy. I hired him to help tutor me after school and ended the grading period with a 98. He really helped me understand the subject matter and ace that test. So, it was with gratitude and little else that I accepted his invitation to the movies and dinner over the Christmas break of my Junior and his Senior year in high school.

It was a shock for Boy to find himself in his dream city, fired and unemployed and facing the possibility of being a loser. It was a thought Boy tried hard to push aside every night when he ventured out to one of his “under the table” waiter gigs. Usually the only consistent things that lined his pockets when he returned home were bits of paper with men’s names, phone numbers, and occasionally rather graphic suggestions of what he could do with his “Baseball Bat”. Various friends and well-meaning coworkers had tried to tell me on many occasions that Boy might be gay and I always wholeheartedly agreed with them. “ Well, yes, he certainly is very funny and droll, so yes, I guess you could say gay.” They would just roll their eyes in frustration and vow to try again another day. Parents, take this as an object lesson in overprotecting your teens from all sexual knowledge. As a “good Catholic girl’ raised by very protective and repressive parents, I was totally clueless about Boy’s leanings. In a more progressive, permissive environment I might have recognized Boy for his true colors and not found myself living with him in Greenwich Village as his “old lady” five very unhappy years later.

See you all again when I post on 11/15.

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