We recently renewed the contract for another year on the house we rent. We politely inquired directly with the owner about cutting the property management company out of the deal because they’re stark raving assholes and don’t do jack shit, but she said no. I figured it would have been a good deal for her since she wouldn’t have to pay them for doing nothing.
They only handled one issue from us all year and that was a broken 35-year-old hot water heater. In our defense we do need hot water several times a year.
The owner felt she “didn’t have time” to manage the property herself. Eh? Wazzup?
Then the other night came a very alarming sequence of events.
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celebrated suffered through a so-called milestone birthday. There was, of course, the obligatory birthday card with all the standard jokes about walkers, eyesight, driving, Geritol and Viagra, as required by law in all states (except Florida). As I desperately scrabbled at the card searching for currency a poem fell to the floor. (See below.) I threw out my back bending over to pick it up.
On the plus side, my wife took me to a strip club. Whoa! She cleverly got me wasted on tequila shots and pints of beer before revealing the destination so I wouldn’t enjoy and/or remember the experience. Still, it was quite a surprise and she treated me to the first “lap dance” of my entire life (I don’t get out much) which consisted of three-minutes of quasi-hugging a naked woman in a semi-private room for $40. (Which, by the way, came out of my wallet.)
Although drunk, I still possessed my math wits. I pulled my iPad out of my pants and used it to calculate the hourly rate of “lap dance” at $800 per hour. That is so not worth it.
To add insult to injury the
stripper adult entertainment professional was way more into my wife than she was with me. Downright handsy if you know what I mean. That hurt. There’s nothing quite like a birthday to reinforce your position on the food chain.
She says I can have my next lap dance in another 50 years.
Happy birthday to me!
Ode to My Husband
by Mrs. Abyss
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It was a simple request.
“You want us to watch for anything special when we hit the thrift stores?”
“Sure. A glass boot.”
(laughing) “Yeah, right. Be serious, you ass!”
“I am being serious. It’s a boot, made out of class, maybe two feet high. My parents had one. I remember it had a German beer label on it. You drink beer from it. I always wanted to do that.”
They came back with a set of of little tiny glass cowboy boots. Not exactly the same, but yee haw. Let’s fill that son of a bitch with some tequila! I think that’s perfect glassware for the Abyss.
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At least at the beach you knew where the undertow might be lurking. It was generally isolated to that narrow strip of the sea where waves expended themselves on the sand. If you didn’t go in the water the undertow couldn’t get you.
My undertow was more ingrained than that. It wasn’t limited to any geographical location. No, the undertow I dreaded was the one inside my head. I could feel it flirting on the frayed outer edges of my consciousness. It was there, an omnipresent black cloud, probing for ways to get inside and drag me under.
The waves and the primal roar of the ocean gave me no solace, so I stumbled back to the parking lot and drove away. The cloud temporarily pulled back. Continue reading →
I just thought this was funny. Two different friends ended up next to each other in my Facebook thingy. One from my old life in the Big City and one from my new life in the Small Town. The don’t know each other but apparently they’ve got the same thing on their minds.
Meanwhile I’m still working on inventing my very own tequila…
The other night my wife took me out to a Mexican restaurant for my birthday dinner. The selection of the restaurant was based on a single criteria: the availability of margaritas in the “pitcher” size.
As we ate, at a neighboring table, a giant sombrero was carried out and placed on the head of a woman as the staff began to sing the happy birthday song. They also produced a plate of the ubiquitous crispy chips dusted with cinnamon sugar and topped with whipped cream. The Mexican restaurant version of birthday cake.
I looked at my wife and, under pain of divorce, made her swear she wouldn’t mention my birthday to the restaurant. There was no way in hell I was going to go through that. She was mischievous and had me going, but eventually she relented and agreed to my request.
Then, something interesting happened. The restaurant staff produced a shot glass, slammed it on the table, and the birthday girl snorted it down.
I looked over at my wife. “I wonder if that shot was free?”
Later in the dinner our waitress stopped by to check on us. “Can I ask you something,” I said. “Do you get a free shot if it is your birthday.”
She said yes.
“Well, then. Guess what? It’s my birthday. Bring it on. But not that damn sombrero – and no singing!”
For some reason, the waitress didn’t exactly trust me. It’s almost like she thought I was trying to scam a free shot. So I produced my ID, she smiled and walked away.
Yep, sure enough, next thing I know there was a giant sombrero on my head and two waitresses and a busboy were singing to me. Argh. But oh man, was that shot good!
It was tequila and Kahlua and carbonated water (I think). Delicious!
Pride may go before destruction and haughtiness before a fall, but for me, dignity apparently goes before a free shot.