Modern Maturity

Families can be like a house of cards on the fulcrum of a seesaw. Any shift in balance has the potential of causing disastrous results. I don’t think all family relationships begin this way. As children mature and come into their own as adults, they take criticism as a personal affront to their character. Such unsolicited advice implies the bumbling aimlessness of a child rather than the maturity of a grownup. Parents are not programmed to discontinue being parents simply because their children become taxpayers. The angst of puberty may dissipate, but it is often replaced with the bitter taste of not living up to parental expectations.

In situations where siblings are spread out in age, there are substructures in the authority. The greater the age difference, the greater the likelihood older siblings will view themselves as having a parental role over younger siblings. The oldest lords a self-procalimed maturity over the younger charges making balance more difficult to achieve. The youngest will take exception to all these “extra” parents, and never feel as though he or she has been given their due in the realm of credibility.

In an act of flagrant rebellion, the Missus and her siblings avoid mature interaction when they gather. In taciturn agreement, no serious subject is ever broached in the presence of their mother. If only two siblings show, all bets are off…so this power of three isn’t a pop culture myth, after all. By reverting back to the immature scheming of ten-year-olds, balance is restored and everyone saves face….almost everyone. The Missus’s mother is usually left maintain order over thirty and forty somethings giggling like a trio of adolescents in an art museum at nude sculptures. Peace always has a price.

By reverting back to childish antics, everyone can stand to be at the same homestead for an hour or two. Bonding as adults isn’t terribly different from bonding as children. It usually involves Easter eggs, firecrackers, or cookies… Hmmm that’s a short list. Who knows how the balance will shift when their mother is no longer maintaining order. Will relationships dissolve further, or will they evolve into something new? Only time can tell. For now there is a semblance of bonding, and that’s all that really matters.

Have Fun, Go Mad

This month, I’ve been living up to my reputation as a slacker. It’s more humane not to post than to fill the page with uninteresting drivel (obviously meaningless drivel is allowed and encouraged). The energy in the house has shifted. The human’s are consumed with insignificant tasks that take hours to complete and amount to little in the way of pleasure. Life has become unmemorable and draining like a socialist leader sucking greedily at the tit of an emaciated society (Sorry I got a little distracted by the dude in the white pajamas handing out flowers in the airport. Please, turn off the damn TV!).

Liv and I were talking about the lost art of having fun. It was a continuation of this post. I can’t speak from the parental angle, but it seems common for partnerships to bog down in responsibilities, (hell, burdens) and forget what attracted them to companionship in the first place. Responsibility eclipses fun, and fun mutates into stress management.

Everyone enjoys a good workout or fifteen minutes to masturbate, but when did those activities bypass the actual having of fun. Those practices shed a little nervous energy, which is important to the head, the heart, and the libido, but diversion and stimulation don’t replace pure unadulterated fun.

Pleasure evaporates slowly, until one day your cup is empty, save mineral deposits deposits where the liquid should be. It’s our responsibility to make sure we refill the vessel when the level falls. Fun is becoming so commercialized we hardly enjoy it. Society places so much emphasis on consumerism and keeping up with the Joneses, that achieving an elevated state of enjoyment becomes as enjoyable as a panic attack at the D.M.V. Marketing gurus work daily to convince us getting is more important than experiencing. I don’t blame the gurus for trying, but I’m disappointed we fall prey to pre-packaged artificial fun.

Fun doesn’t always have to be intricately planned or uber engineered. It can be as basic as seizing the moment. An impromptu water gun fight (step away from the computer), pressing your bare ass against the window when the power walkers are on patrol, setting your sprinkler timer to hose the neighbor kids as they retreat from the school bus, randomly hand out candy to strangers (this confuses the hell out of people, and the give you spare change for your “cause”), teach your nephews the proper posture to produce an armpit fart, but most importantly pay attention to the little joys that bloom around you and appreciate the purity of small moments.

So, what did you do for fun today?

Since I didn’t have a word for Poetry Friday, I thought I would choose a random drawing from my sketchbook that had no relationship whatsoever to this post. This is an architectural study based of a flying buttress on a German cathedral.

Girls Weekend?

Could someone please explain to me, what in the hell is a girl’s weekend? And why do women indulge themselves in such debauchery? (I hope there’s debauchery, otherwise why bother). I’m having a hard time piecing together what happened last weekend, and the Missus has practically ignored me since she got home. I will not tolerate such disrespect!

Fact One: The Missus left Friday afternoon with her laptop, several changes of clothes, and directions from Google.

Fact Two: The Missus returned early Sunday evening with the her laptop, a collection of dirty laundry, and a kitchen apron belonging to one Kenny Rogers. WTF? Who the in the Hell is Kenny Rogers and why isn’t he wearing an apron? Did I mention her clothes smelled like shrimp?

Fact Three: She was too tired to rub my belly and proceeded to take out the trash, do the laundry laundry, suck down ibuprofen, and mumble about her inability to lift her right arm over her head after a yoga class. HELLLLOOO, I’ve fallen at your feet, can’t you just touch me?

Fact Four: She cleaned and freshened my bowls, as well as scooped out the litterpan, and she did it during the evening. How scandalous! Everyone knows that’s a morning activity. Every morning at o’fuck-thirty, not whenever you damn well feel inclined.

I’m suspicious of the Missus’s loyalty. I discovered orange cat hair on her black pants. Not just a passing rub, but a carpet of cat hair. In terms of feline behavior, it wasn’t like flirting; it was more like making out. I think she might be having an affair with Billybob, or worse, Allie. A friendly rub against the leg for social niceties is permissible, but when you rub another cats tummy, couples counseling is in you future.

Liv didn’t return any of calls over the weekend. I thought she would text me a little smiley face, at least. I worry that I’m being replaced. What does the Missus have that I don’t have, certainly not testicles. Sure, she can legally drive on the interstate, but that’s never held me back before.

Liv, hon, if your reading this, I just want you to know, I am really trying to do my part to make this relationship work. See I’m brushing up on my yoga and everything.

Guestpost: Billybob

Most of you are aware I’m absolutely smitten with Liv . She’s a very vibrant woman. What you might not be aware of is I am also on intimate speaking terms with her first love, Billybob. Billybob has been kind enough to supply me with many intimate details about Liv, including cocktail preferences and grooming habits.

As a special favor to Billybob, because he has in fact bagged the woman of my dreams, I will allow him to appear as a guest-poster on my site. He doesn’t yet have a blog of his own, and I think he might be intimidated by the technical details.
So without further rambling, I present your guest-host Billybob:

Billybob says….

Cats commiserate sometimes. Most recently, I was licking myself when I realized that the piece of shit kitten that Liv brought home does not listen. That damned kitten is incapable of conversation, much less empathy. I decided that borrowing Patches’ blog might be a good idea since I can generally get no one to listen to me. Sure, Liv put on a good show while Ms. Chica was visiting over the weekend, but she fools no one. It’s a new week, and she’s back to business, namely yoga.

Honestly, I do not know why she is in the business of yoga since she has encountered more people who annoy the piss out of her than ever. Never mind the fact that she has abandoned her children for hours in order to pursue this “career.” Think nothing of the fact that meals are delayed, items are forgotten at the grocery store, the litter pan is scraped with no consistency, and worst, she’s grumpy all of the time. My mother yells at me to be quiet, she fusses at the little kitten, she endlessly calls out, “Kids! Come on! Stop it! Mummy’s working!”

Do you know why? It’s because of these people who she refers to as clients. Who are these clients? They are sometimes called “seekers,” but that’s French for “they don’t have a fucking clue.”

In any business, there will be some people who will be burrs in your side. One such person is a man who shall be known as T. T was referred to yoga by his psychotherapist. (When Liv learned this, she gritted her teeth, rolled her eyes, and asked exactly whom she could thank for the kind referral!) T is 45, recently divorced, and is as pathetic as a man can possibly get. He has a hang-dog look about him, body type like a skeleton and is about as tightly wound as anyone who you’ve ever seen. By his outward behavior, you’d think he deliberately does everything in his power to make everyone around him completely and utterly bat-shit crazy.

T does not stroll into the studio. He throws the front door open, slams it shut, heavily tramps across the bamboo in his shoes, slaps his shit down, immediately goes to the toilet, slams the seat up, and takes a leak. What he doesn’t know is that everyone in the studio is rolling their eyes in irritation. In class, he rubs his legs audibly. He grimaces like he’s constipated. He bellows questions in his grating voice. T is bad for business. He also buys a monthly, unlimited pass.

Liv has talked to him nicely, rudely, flippantly, sarcastically, and still nothing changes. Another teacher has demonstrated how loud he behaves in the studio, and yet he persists. This man has no body awareness, and talks in a shout. He makes my mother want to consume massive quantities of alcohol, but still she knows this is not acceptable, and stays sober. T makes her want to drop his ass in the parking lot, but she doesn’t. Why? Because he loves yoga.

What really irks me is that I know my precious mother is losing her yoga. She is losing her practice because her energy is being drained by T, and people like him. She teaches too many classes each week to develop her own asana practice. She is on autopilot and things have to change. If she doesn’t get inspired soon, she will no longer be inspiring.

But, what’s a cat to do to improve things? Quelle burden.

Poetry Friday: Girl

Mona has returned to lead us down the road on enlightenment for Poetry Friday. This weeks word is Girl.

Since many of us read in the same circles, many of you are aware Egan has become the father of a brand new baby girl, the lovely Anna Elizabeth. So I pilfered though Egan’s photo album for the inspiration for this weeks drawing. (Uh, Egan can I borrow a photo reference?) Without rambling any further, this weeks poem, and congrats Egan and Mrs. Les Singes.