Not Writing About What I’m Writing About?

I got up early today and have taken my daughter to school.  It’s not something I want to be in the habit of doing, but then, she’s already 17 so it’s a way to bond I guess.  It’s bad inasmuch as it fosters her laziness and encourages a lax attitude about time management, because she has a safety net to fall on.  It’s there, but I don’t want her to take advantage of it and just think it’ll be there her whole life.  My slightly more responsible son caught his bus.  Today she had gifts for her friends and wanted a ride so she could easily carry everything and not have the jostling and space issues of the bus ride.

I’ve had a cup or two of coffee, I’m back home and feeling nicely focused, but maybe easily distractible, it remains to be seen.  The squirrel joke is no joke.  I’m hoping I can have a little “me” time (writing here) and still enough time to walk the dog before the rain comes and get some chores and maybe a little extra catch up work done before I have to get to work today.  That upstairs…  I want my floors,  I want my desk.  It’s just that I’ve been like a pack rat for a while with no place to put “everything in its’ place,” and my wife is worse because she’s better at packing big things into small spaces.  No, NO, stop.  I mean like getting more stuff in the suitcase, or in the car, like that old game TETRIS, not THAT.  Although…  Nah, only if she wants that.  I surrender.

I started out wanting to write about a specific writer who has recently moved to the US after running into some difficulty because his government took issue with his writing.  But I tried to research and didn’t find anything accessible.  “This content is restricted.”  If his native government wants to restrict his thoughts and he restricts his audience, who knows what he’s talking about?  I’ve read a few comments and a few things in news articles I presume were quotes, and two year old or older blog things I found, and all I can think is, who the fuck cares?

It’s a fucking blog, like my own.  I guess, if he tells people to riot in the streets or kill someone or commit crimes, there’s a problem inasmuch as his words might actually have a direct impact on my life or the life of someone I know.  So yes, if he advocated violence or actual crime, I’d stand against that, but I can’t find anything to know if he did that.  And I consider myself a pretty damned good online stalker.  All I could find is stuff where he said, essentially, that both Christians and Muslims are idiots.  He’s an athiest, I get that, and again, my reaction is, who the fuck cares?

Well, radicals who profess either religion might, but I don’t.  He posted a picture online that was deemed “obscene.”  That’s stupid.   I’ve seen “sacrilegious” “art” before, and I don’t care.  Express your lack of faith in Jesus, who came back from the dead, or that “prophet” guy, who didn’t.  I don’t care.  Express your lack of faith in the government, I don’t care about that either.  America has elected a lot of presidents that people called names.

What concerns me is that people take the words of a fifteen or sixteen year old that seriously.

You want people to treat your religion with respect?  Get a religion that’s respectable, and be respectable with your faith.  You want people to treat your government with respect?  Get a government that’s respectable, and exercise your authority in ways that respect your constituency.  The people at and sum it up in short and then in long:

Image result for respect is earned not given

I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to earn my kids’ and wife’s respect.  Been working on that for more than 25 years for the latter.  Taking my daughter to school when she’s overburdened, giving a hug or a supportive remark when she’s sad or feeling insecure, helping my wife with chores and being as romantic as she’ll allow, helping my son in scouting and in becoming a young respectable man, helping the kids develop life skills and independence, it’ll eventually add up to respect.  Maybe.  I hope.  Work is a lost cause.  They want to demand my respect just from having authority to fire me, not realizing that at work, my respect can be bought, to start.  After starting with buying it with a decent wage commensurate with my experience and training and tenure, THEN it can be earned by helping me succeed in my career and developing me to the point where I can actually retire before I die, and hopefully have enough years to catch up with all the things I don’t have time to do between work and family and church and other activities.

As a blogger, if you don’t like me, you won’t read it.  You won’t follow it.  I’ll either get the message or not, but what do you care if you quit following me.  Just like the TV, or radio, if I hate the show or the commercial, I endure it or shut it off.  It has zero impact on the producers or the advertisers, but they are free to express whatever shit they want to broadcast and sell whatever shit they want.  Who the fuck cares?  And why?

There’s plenty of things I’d call “obscene” on the internet.  Why are people so afraid of someone offending someone else?  I think if a person has talent and respect, they ought to rise to the top.  But in the modern era what seems to rise to the top is infamy.  For some reason, the tacky, the cheap, the lowest common denominator, is what people want to see more of.  It makes them feel good about themselves and doesn’t challenge them to strive for better and more.  For some reason, the crafty, the villain, the ill-mannered, get the vote for fear that the one who seems honest and trustworthy might have some kind of hidden agenda the talentless, seem to get the sympathy vote because here in America we don’t want anyone to feel like they should keep on looking for their specialty, and try something new until they find something they’re really good at.  Our little baseball playing toddlers don’t keep score (but the adults do).  Art that people don’t think is art might sell to someone.  And someone might pay you to blog.  I wish they’d pay me, but I’m not holding my breath.  Plus, I need something either huge and inexhaustible, or huge and reliable over time.  I’m settling for reliable over time, but with that plan I’ll be working until I’m dead.  How disappointingly depressing is that?

I’ve vented enough, and I’ve thoroughly disappointed both of the people who strive to encourage my writing to be better.  So now I’m going to get myself ready to disappoint my boss, by working my ass off as hard as I can with my motivation high and my expectations low.  I think the boss pretends to be disappointed, and secretly they’re impressed trying to figure out how I’ve stayed so long for so little reward, and keep trying every day.  Maybe that’s why Mrs M is keeping me.  She’s secretly impressed, but also my worst critic, trying to encourage me to do better.  At doing what she wants me to do, mostly because she doesn’t want to do it herself.

I hope you find your inner motivation today.  I hope I do do.  I need to accomplish things when I take my breaks, because I didn’t accomplish anything great yesterday or today.  Except maybe I offended someone because I don’t take offense at sacrilegious, satirical, or political art or language.  If you’re offended that I’m not offended, you know what to do.  That’s right, have me arrested.  No, learn to park big things in small places.  No.

I hope you can do something good, that makes you feel good, or makes you happy because of either the sense of accomplishment or the gratitude of a friend or stranger.  Or, for a little while, do nothing, or something just for you and feel good and eventually harness the energy you have from taking a little “me” time to rest a little.  I hope I can too, but it’ll have to be snuck in between and after work, since I haven’t invested the morning in tasks.

Have a good day.  Both of you.

Running out of Natural Resources

We now pause for a wild eyed, tin-foil wearing conspiracy theory, brought to you by Mumple Enterprises:  Back 40 or 50 years ago the geologists and other key scientists were paid off by rich investors and oil executives to predict “the end is near.”  Because it came from scientists and not wild-eyed prophet-looking people wearing sandwich-board signs, the masses put their faith in the scientists because obviously they knew what they were talking about.

Back in 1972 the price of a gallon of gas was something like $0.36.  Obviously, 45 years later, since demand has only gone up with the population, we’re totally out of gas and oil, aren’t we?  That explains why we’ve all started riding solar busses, driving bicycles and solar-electric cars, right?  All the people who could afford to do it built moonshine burners…oh, sorry, “Ethanol” burners, and then considered driving them to the junkyard when their fuel efficiency went down and they realized they were paying more for that than gas, and then had them towed there when the ethanol dissolved their fuel system seals and then ate the aluminum from exposed car parts, and left ethanol-absorbed water deposits in the engines so they rusted.  Our heaters are all obviously fueled by the solar panels the local government building codes require on all our rooftops, and we get our electricity to run our computers and ovens and refrigerators and freezers from the wind fields and our own turbines that we’ve all got installed on the our corners of our houses…  Wait, someone forgot to put those on my house, and where can I get a cheap but reliable solar/electric car?

The latest investor-driven things include greenhouse gas reduction drives.  Hey, You!! Reduce your carbon footprint today!  Climate change will definitely kill all humans within the next 40 years!  Those scientists were right about us not conserving oil, now, weren’t they?  Oh wait.  That’s still a rumor we pay more for gas for.  Food scientists have been telling us that safety studies paid for by food manufacturing companies showed conclusively that chemical additives, growth hormones and preservatives are completely safe and make our food better, and now they’re telling us genetic engineering is the future of food.  It is, if you like your green beans to taste like anchovies and glow in the dark, and your cheeseburgers to taste like burned plastic and scaly refried beans.  Mmmmm.

We now pause for another wild eyed, tin-foil wearing conspiracy theory, brought to you by Mumple Enterprises:  If they don’t get enough money through fear-mongering and rumors, they’ll start a war and demand our kids to fight against some other countries’ kids because the rich people don’t feel rich enough.  Whichever countries win or lose doesn’t matter, the rich people who are really in charge will still be richer, and we ordinary peasants will bury fields full of dead kids or body parts, or we’ll end up under radioactive dust too dangerous to bury the bodies.  Mumple Enterprises invites crazy speculation into who’s behind the terrorist attacks.  If eternal glory and a paradise full of naked virgins to abuse isn’t quite enough, how much money does a suicide bomber cost?  (it begs the question what happens when you run out of virgins and the angels you thought it was ok to mistreat, now all hate you and decide not to put up with any more bullshit?

One dreads to think what certain political leaders, who have either become or started in as millionaires or billionaires, have stirring in their Kool-Aid.  Oh, I can mention that one by name, it’s just plain good to drink.  I made some black cherry Kool-Aid yesterday and it was good.  Whatever your flavor, don’t drink the politicians’, or wonky religious leaders’, Kool-Aid.  If you come out to the bunker, I’ll serve you up a nice cold glass with some ice, hold the cyanide, castration, and hidden agenda.  If you need something stronger to relax, I’ll let you pick your own poison, and it won’t be a lethal dose.

I didn’t start out wanting to rant about conspiracy theories or extremists, but it’s been a fun little distraction, hasn’t it?

I’m already out of enough cash flow, so sometimes I figure, why not use a little to help someone else?  It’s paradoxical, but then I read the story in the Bible about how Jesus said God was going to take care of a widow lady who gave everything she had to support the ministry.  The link is to show what the coins looked like, and on the website you can buy those coins.  She trusted in God and gave the two coins she had to whatever purpose God wanted them for.  Hint:  God wanted them to show the disciples what real faith looked like, and it meant more to God that she trusted him than that the rich guy who paid people to blow trumpets who gave a lot of money because he had a lot of money.  That story is in Mark 12 and Luke 21.  I’m hopeful that I can bless others any time I do something like that, and that they will find a way to bless someone they know.  Or someone they don’t know.  So there’s that “natural resource.”

There’s plenty of clutter.  When Mrs M goes on a “cleaning” rampage, it doesn’t mean it’s clean.  It means it was urgent and whatever didn’t get processed, thrown away, or put in its’ proper place, got thrown in a box and put into the garage, or put in the open area upstairs…where I work.  My garage is supposed to be a two car garage, but really it starts as a one-and-a-half car garage and then gets full of things to process later, or things we’re storing and forgetting about.  My work area is supposed to be open and encourage my home work experience but it’s got a thin layer of important but not urgent crap on the floor– records to file,  probably some of the kids’ clothes they haven’t bothered to put away.

My plumbing adventure isn’t over yet.  I have to try to get this damned shower hose to not leak so I can take a nice, adequately pressurized shower, and so I can wash the dog, who, by the way, needs a bath again.  Our dog yells at me when I try to brush out his lovely fur, so I have to either cut it (that’d be a great adventure) wash it to get rid of the dander and to condition the fur so it doesn’t get matted or hold the vermin.  I get why he doesn’t want to be brushed.  It pulls, and it’s uncomfortable when you pull your hair.  But it has to be done.  Sometime.

Speaking of which, the natural resource I’m most stress-filled about is time.  There is not enough, EVER.  I fed and walked the dog today, the dishes need to be washed (lunch is an hour, so maybe…)  But really, I want a day or two off after a weekend, just to relax from the stress of a weekend.  But if I did take a day off, I’d need another day off because if I had a day off I would want to have energy to do things I don’t have time for.  If I take a day off, I feel stress because of the level of expectation placed on me, and if the family is off together, there’s stress because family time involves doing things that aren’t on the ever present list, which means I don’t get to process the list, so family time off represents future pressure to catch up with whatever didn’t get done that absolutely needed to get done before we did whatever family thing we did.  I don’t know how much time off I would need, to rest enough and to invest enough time to actually feel like 1) I was rested and 2) I was actually caught up with life.  Now that is a daydream “devoutly to be wished.”  But it would probably take 50 years of paid time off with triple my current “widow’s mite[s].”  My situation isn’t a scientific-sounding rumor, it’s all absolutely true.

It would be nice if I did, but instead, I have to get things together so I’m ready to go to work on time.  Working from home and I still feel like I need to start early to keep my head above water with the tasks my employer underpays me for, how sad is that?

I know I don’t, but I hope you have enough time for yourself today, and enough time and energy for what you need to get done.

Motivational Words Sound Like Bullshit

One of my sisters, bless her black heart, suffers some of the same things I do, and some different things that I think might be worse.  We and our kids and our dad are on something behavioral psychologists call a “spectrum.”  It’s a label because calling it “fucked-up brain” is too generic.  A LOT of people have special labels now.  I try to shy away from my special labels, but while I honestly hate to admit it, but the discoveries of a few appropriate labels have helped me understand myself a lot better.  But my sister and her kids and I and my kids have inherited and respun whatever he has.  He grew up before those labels were invented, and my sister and I grew up when they were being fleshed out with decent definitions.  And our kids are in the generation where we know what to call it, we can medicate some of it, but basically we don’t have the first clue what to do about it.

My sister sends me things, and I honestly don’t know sometimes whether she sends a given thing to be provocational, or to encourage, because it depends on her mood, or maybe it depends on mine.  I try to spin what she sends in the most positive light, since we do both struggle with some psychological things.  She got the short end of it, but came out stronger than me, at least at times.  It’s probably cyclical for her, just as it is for me.  Which sucks.  Her kids have autistic tendencies just like dad and me, and she has dyslexia on top of everything.  Anyway, this last thing she sent me was a motivational link.

It had several things that are supposed to help a person change their perspective, their thought processes, to be more positive.  You’ve guessed it (if you didn’t expect it from the title) – The link she sent me was some motivational thoughts.  I’ve paraphrased a few here:  Life isn’t easy, but take each day as a gift and an opportunity, and make the best of it.  It’s not perfect, but don’t complain about it.  Don’t be resentful about what you lack or what happens.  Be resourceful with what you have.

I paraphrased but if you find a positive thinking website that doesn’t say something like this, please don’t send it to me.  And if you find a website that DOES say something like this…   PLEASE don’t send it to me.”

Ain’t it grand though?  Such brilliance, such wisdom.

Except I’m fucking tired.

Life isn’t easy and each day the universe fucker has new ways of fucking it up.  You have to be strong enough, energetic enough, and persistent enough, to keep fighting.  I’m not complaining, I’m calling it like it is.  And frankly, I’m less resentful about what happens than I am about what people do that hurts me.  I don’t really like the extra work, when I stand close to a trash can and I release whatever needs to go in there and instead it goes on the floor.  Twice.  Before going in the trash can on the third try.    I don’t really like the opportunity to clean up after the coffee grounds do that little thing where some or all of the grounds decide to not go in the trash.  Or the opportunity to clean up after the wife and kids have given the house the gift of a mess they’ve not bothered to clean up after themselves.

Honestly, I’m already tired of being so fucking resourceful.  When you don’t have to go to the resale store, going and discovering something cool that you’d have otherwise had to buy is nice.  It happens.  But when you can’t afford it and you go hoping it’s there and it’s not, you take what you can get when you can’t you become “resourceful” enough to go without.  When I read or hear about someone who doesn’t have enough money for food, or medicine, I get upset, but I can’t do much of anything about it because I’m not that “resourceful.”  If I was resourceful, I’d have enough resources to help when others don’t.  Not just barely get by myself.

Mum loves music, so if you know those motivational, old-school musical songs, you know this one:

I picked the specific video because it mentions some things I’m mostly actually thankful for.  But I’ve lived a blessed life compared to some people.  I have sisters who really care about me.  I do have friends.  And they mostly don’t send me motivational thoughts, which makes me love them more than if they did.  And I think, when my sister sent me the link, she was at least partly being ironic, or sarcastic, or humorous, or something.

At least I hope so.  Because until I’m not as tired, and until I have the energy to fight it, I don’t want her to be serious.  When motivational speakers say things that aren’t true to me, it’s just bullshit.

But it’s a nice thought.  Thanks, sis.  And mum?  Thank you too.  At least the song is soothing, and restful.  So maybe I can sleep a bit.  Later.  Work is first, so I need to “take that opportunity now.”


Top Ten Reasons I’m Not a Pastor

10. I went to seminary too long ago, my education doesn’t count any more, and surely I’ve forgotten everything I learned.  I know, stop calling you, “surely.”

9.  A few people are afraid my theology might be wrong.  The rest are even more afraid it might be right.

8.  I think it’s more important to help people than to point out their sins.  It’s not that people don’t sin, it’s just that we all need practical, applied help, like feeding people, more than we need to feed other people’s judgmentalism and superiority complexes.

7.  Some pastors I have met and tried to help are scared of something.  They think it’s me, but all I want to do is help.

6.  Some pastors I have met and tried to help wanted to press me into their mold and make me do things just like them.  I don’t fit your mold and I can’t do it like you, because I’m not you.  I do need a basic job description, but then, set me free to do it in a way that I’m inspired (by God?) to do it.  Micromanagement doesn’t work in the world’s workplace, so why do people think it’ll work in a church?  When someone tries to control a ministry, they kill it, and the spirits of everyone involved.

5.  People want to hear what they want to hear.  If you tell them a truth that fucks with their pride, their approach to life, or their way of “doing” religion, it can get you crucified.
4.  People want to label me a liberal and wish I was more conservative.  Or, they want to label me a conservative and wish I was more liberal (see also #s 5 and 6).

3.  I believe Jesus had a hearty sense of humor, and I find some of the things the disciples reported him saying, hilarious.

2.  I occasionally will enjoy an alcoholic beverage.  I occasionally will have one when the day has been very stressful, to settle down and make whatever rest I can get more restful.  I occasionally will have one when I’m feeling sad, to lighten my mood.  And I occasionally will have one when I just want to enjoy it for no other reason than I like it.  If a proper Seder feast (Jewish Passover Meal) has 4 cups of wine, and Jesus was described in the rumor mill as “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners (v34),” an occasional drink is probably ok.  No, don’t just read the one verse.  Read the whole thing, for context, and for a blessing.  Speaking of humor, the self-deprecation of Jesus in this chapter and in this verse is pretty funny.  The writing in the sand, whatever he wrote, was also a pretty funny twist to what could have been a really bad scene.  And disappearing when surrounded?  Not just once, but a couple of times that are recorded by the disciples. Jesus could have taught ninjas a few things.  Hmm.  Imagine Christ-following ninjas…  I swear I am not drinking while I’m writing this.  It’s only 9:30 in the morning.

1. I swear.  No, really.  Look, just in the second to last sentence, I swore I wasn’t drinking.  I wonder what words Jesus literally said in Mark 7:19 (but go ahead and read the whole thing) and Matthew 11 :17 (but go ahead and read the whole thing) and Matthew 23:25-28 (but go ahead and read the whole thing).  Maybe Jesus never used profane words.  But he was famous for getting angry, not once but several times, and he certainly said things that upset prideful people and people who thought they had it all together at the expense of other people.

Oh, wait.  I do swear.  It’s a method of communicating and expressing strong feelings, and also as I’ve stated before, in the same way as Craig Ferguson, brilliant entertainer, swearing isn’t always angry swearing.  Although it is when your internet goes down for half the day.  Mine went down right before work, so of course I had to haul ass (and all of the work shit- laptop, mouse, phone headset, cords, blah, blah, blah – and be late reporting for work because I found out 11 minutes too late that my internet was fucked up.  That’s right, I got to the office at 11:11, and wasn’t able to clock in due to security issues until about 11:30, so my check will be light this week unless I take it as personal time off.  Which I plan to request, except it’s Friday and my boss… nevermind.

0.  I surrendered the dream of a ministry career after my umpteenth volunteer “position” at a church.  You might not know the drill, but I get it.  Everyone loves a volunteer, nobody likes to pay anyone shit if they can get you to work for free.  But I volunteered, thinking I was paying my dues and waiting for a promotion to come from within, just like in the non-church-y world.  And just like in the non-church-y world, if I even get an interview and am able to present myself reasonably well, the management are ass holes and they hire someone, who doesn’t know shit about shit, to do the job I’ve been serving under and waiting for, while they “have everyone’s resumes under consideration, to get the best applicant.” And they have, more than once, had the gall to ask me to train the person whose job I had applied for.  Fuckers.

Anyway, that’s why I’m not in the ministry, and that’s why I’m not a success in the world.  “Normal” readers would think  that means I’m a nice guy who’s persistent and caring about the job(s) I do and the things I want to do as a volunteer, but I’ll call it straight:

-1. It’s just a coincidence that this one is “negative one.”  I’m not in the ministry for this and one other reason:  I’m the “negative one,” but I look at life and can’t think this is entirely my fault.  The other reason is

-2.  I’m stupid.

Clarified Astigmatism

Clarified Astigmatism, 3/21/2017, Deon Mumple

I thought I saw you clearly,
Though we both tried to hide,
We talked and we were friendly,
Shared dreams we held inside,

What we saw was a patchwork
Of what each chose to show
I hid that I was a jerk
You hid the fears you know

Pretending I was better
Than I know me to be
The lies behind the letters
I hoped you wouldn’t see

Pretending we weren’t sore
Faked fearless, hid cage bars,
But joking showed a bit more
We both revealed our scars

I loved you and I love you
As you have shared your pains
While fearing what you would do
If I showed my soul’s stains

You tell me that you love me
We still hurt, life still stings
I see just what you show me
The safer side of things

I tell you that I love you,
My arms, the safest place,
Wishing I’d never hurt you,
Wiping tears from your face,

Is it inevitable
That I will let you down?
The looks of disapproval,
The not-so-subtle frown?

I want to be your safety,
To let you be at rest
But can I do so safely
Since this lacking’s my best?

I’ve just become your nightmare
Wanting to be your dream,
You’ve been my biggest scare,
I’m caged, long to be free

You deserve everything good
But I want to be yours
Despite ways I could or should
Strive to serve you more

You still wear let-downs with style,
I’m trapped, crestfallen, lean,
I’ve dimmed down your loving smile,
I don’t know how to dream.

A Date with the Doctor

Yeah, so I had a date with my primary care provider, as the insurance company refers to him.  I last saw him probably 3 years ago.  My wife sent me in that time, for a visual exam to check a spot for skin cancer and another place to look at something else she thought was something irregular.  I told her I was fine, and then the doctor agreed with me that I was fine, after a cut and a biopsy and a visual exam of the other thing, which was nothing.  I hate the doctor.  And I hate the insurance overlords, who have drastically increased their *cut* of my income, and not increased my benefits.

Obama was horrid to me.  Obamacare is costing me additional THOUSANDS every year.  So far, Trump is just a case of “meet the new boss; same as the old boss.”  Unfortunately, politicians who win have their finger on the pulse of whatever fears or dreams motivate people to vote for them, and they know what to say and how to say it, but once they get into office, many of them are exposed to be fucking idiots.  I hate politicians.  The ones in office are all too detached and too ignorant of real-life issues to actually serve the common good.  When you forget how much a loaf of ordinary bread, or a pound of ordinary meat, or a  gallon of ordinary milk, costs because you eat what your fucking chef cooks for you, and your only interest in the price of a gallon of gas is because you’re invested in futures, you no longer serve the common good.  And if you’ve lived in Washington, D.C., living off the taxpayer dollars, “high off the hog,” as the expression goes, for more than 8 years, you’re out of touch with your constituency and need to be replaced by someone who knows what the fuck is going on in your old community, and you need to go back to getting a regular day job so you remember how hard THAT is for the ordinary commoner.

A politician should not become a millionaire while in office, because if they do, either we taxpayers are paying them too much, or they are taking advantage of someone or some situation that we commoners don’t know about.

I digress.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled rant, already in progress:

I hate the doctor but I had a date because the Boy Scouts require a physical if you want to go camping.  They don’t want you dying while you’re hiking or sleeping in their campsite, so they want some assurance that you’ve got a reasonable chance of survival.  I told him I was fine, and again, he agreed with me that I’m physically fine.  We didn’t address the mental-ly aspects of things.  But then, to add ass-ault to (alleged) inure-y, the doctor suggested a prostate exam *after* I told him everything was fine.

He gave me the finger, and afterward, agreed with me that everything felt good. Well, thank you very much.  I hate the doctor. I used to just hate him as a concept, just hating doctors and nurses in general due to previous events from which I still suffer what I perceive as mild ptsd- too many doctors invading my privacy, cutting, nurses being rude and verbally abusive, all of them poking, palpating, “practicing” medicine, then more cutting.  I literally had a panic attack as a little kid because a lady in a different uniform LOOKED a little like a nurse.  If I go to the doctor, I have a stress attack, so how is that beneficial to my health?  But today I hate this specific doctor and I swear I still feel what might be a small scratch in there. I should have offered him a manicure and demanded dinner, wine, flowers and compliments, and reminded him to “be gentle with me, it’s been a long time.”

But, for any of both of my two concerned readers, my BP is down, my weight is down, my pulse was slightly elevated (only 15 bpm above normal resting rate, but hey, wonder why that happened?), my prostate is fine, and hooray, if I want to go and if I can afford it and if can figure out the time off and the repairs to my tent, I can go camping with my son and the rest of the boy scouts this year.  Woo hoo.  No, I’m not a doctor, but I seem to have my own finger on the pulse of my own health, because I’ve been right for the entirety of my adult life, about my weight, my stress levels, my vitamin and mineral needs, my mental condition, and lately, about the mole and the other skin thing Mrs M wanted to know about, about my cholesterol and vitamin D and other blood chemistry levels Mrs M wanted to know about, my general health as it pertains to surviving a Boy Scout campout that the Boy Scouts wanted to know about, AND my prostate, that the doctor wanted to know about.  And the other obvious things.  I’m allergic to some pollens and sensitive to other things, including our new dog.  It’s not his fault.  If I were less informed and self-aware, I might not feel this contempt.  But I know how I am, and I’m fine, thank you very much.

If I were a doctor, I’d want to be a mental health provider so I could prescribe therapeutic regularly scheduled, and occasional PRN romantic encounters with Mrs M.  Because those are so much better for me than going to a doctor.  PRN is short for pro re nata, Latin for “as the situation demands.”  Or, “as needed.”  I’m afraid I hold more information in my head than I know what to do with.  For example, I recall the old grammatical rule that “a preposition shouldn’t ever end a sentence.” (See the prior sentence, as the rule has fallen into the abyss of ignorance, because it’s a rule no one cares about.  I’m only sensitive to grammar rules in my own writing, but I break those all the time, too.  I wonder if I’m not aware of some rule about profanity…)  But alas, my knowledge is just knowledge I have, not knowledge I’ve let the requisite people know I know in order to “earn” some kind of recognizational documents.  I also know a lot about cooking, but I’m not recognized as a chef.

Also, if I were a doctor I’d need a much cooler name.  Doctor Mumple?  Doesn’t hold a candle to Doctor Von Doom, or Doctor Strange, or Doctor Octopus, or any of the other arch-villain OR superhero doctor names.  Any suggestions, if I ever go back to school for the doctorate, what I might have my name changed to? (Doctor Grammarian is right out, I just did the preposition thing again.)

I’m fine.  Thank God, I survived another trip to the doctor.  But they refused to tell me how much I’d be charged, so I’m waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop.  Today, there’s a little less unnecessary bullshit to handle before I go to work, thank God again.  Because there’s housework, there’s work, there’s maintenance and repairs, and then there’s more housework, because after one washes the dishes, the wife and kids return home and make more dirty dishes and additional filth.  I’m OK for now.  But I need to prepare breakfast for the dog and make sure he gets his morning workout.  Fuck!  I’m the dog’s personal trainer and chef.  Is my dog smarter than me, or is he just a brilliant politician, getting his constituency to do whatever he wants?!

Mixed Messages Sunday

It’s not just Sunday.  It happens a lot, because, as some of you know, I’m a big fat idiot.  Sometimes.  Oh, I can pull the wool over several readers’ eyes and appear to be halfway intelligent, but the truth is the truth.  There are messages coming in, and I get the intent mixed up.

Is the message meant to encourage me?  Am I ok?  Am I supposed to be allowed to rest, or am I supposed to be motivated to work?  Does she love me?  Really, or is it all a show to get me to keep doing so much housework and keep going to work at my day job?  Does my family care?  Or should I be alarmed by the message, or is it a “sign” I should pay attention to, take a warning from, or react in some way.

At this point let me confess that I started writing this blog a while ago.  I had asked a lady on the internet if I could send my readers to her website by a link.  Most of the time I don’t feel obligated but she had a note on her site that made me decide it was a better idea to ask permission than to beg forgiveness.  I sent her an email and I understand not everyone checks, because I don’t always check, but I’ve been waiting to see if she would grant the permission and she hasn’t, so I can’t refer you to her website but you can find it eventually if you research omens.  I thought the content was interesting, but being an intelligent woman of discriminating taste, perhaps she looked at my content and decided to wisely and silently decline.  It’s fine.  If you feel like searching for information about omens, eventually you’ll find her site.  Maybe it’ll be an interesting search and curious people will learn curiously interesting things.  I just published it without including the web address, and now I get a bunch of psychic/tarot/responses, and I can’t tell if they’re actually blogspam, or if they are legitimate lovely people sharing the love.  They’re sitting in the WordPress spam folder right now, I’ll decide sometime what to do with them.  We now return to ancient content.

I left the church building after hearing a message that was sort of a mixed bag of information, and we sang that song where I have to stop singing part of it.  The song is a modern choruses and it talks about God in glowing, fantastic terms that are all completely true.


It’s really a great song until 1:02 when it starts describing my own heart, and I can’t sing that because right now, and for a long time, it’s not true.  It doesn’t accurately describe my heart.

Speaking of hearts, my daughter just made me describe the tricuspid valve, I swear it’s the absolute truth.

That all (except the one paragraph) was a few weekends ago.  Since that time there have been events I haven’t bothered to write about.  All certain things do is bring out people’s fighting side, and I don’t want to be about that.  I’ll only say, as if you didn’t know what I was talking about already, that I went on record with my hatred of both candidates the American people were stupid enough to choose as their front runners, and so now we have one of them as our new President, and we have his pick as Vice President, and may God turn both of their hearts to wisdom and righteousness.  Don’t tell me “a president isn’t the same as a king.”  I know, but the Bible, figuratively as some people want to interpret it when they don’t like what it literally says, and, literally as some people want to interpret it some of the time when it suits their annoying argument against the rest of its’ context, can have literal and figurative meanings at the same time.  Figuratively, our new president is like a king, in that he is the leader of the country.  So, all you so-called Christ followers and/or Biblical scholars who just want to pick a fight and be right, maybe you and I can pray in agreement for a change, and just pray for our new President and his idiotic crony administration just like I did for our previous President and his idiotic crony administration, for God to literally guide their decisions and words so we don’t get our whole country, figuratively or literally, blown to shit.

Protesters, your children are watching.  I watched a little shit on the news bragging about setting a fire, and speaking about our newly elected President in an entirely disrespectful way, and I wanted to slap his ass to Iran or Afghanistan so he could learn how much better it is to live in those countries.  And his little shit family with him.  He may have the legal right to burn my flag, but that, friends, doesn’t prevent me from suggesting he find an alternate country to live in, one he can love.

I’m a patriot (though not a fan of The Patriots).  If you don’t love your country, and you can at all afford it, either step in and do something to help, or step the fuck out.  I have no time for people who promised to leave if [insert politician name] is elected to [insert political office here].  I have even less time for them if they don’t leave when it happens.  Buh bye, best of luck in whatever other country you choose.  And I have no time for rich fucks who sit on their asses and their assets and don’t help anyone.  Fucking useless.  (See also, one of my favorite verses, Proverbs 3:27, and another, Isaiah 1:17, and another )  I read these verses and I don’t understand why when someone is in need, someone doesn’t step up and help.  But all I can do is pray, for myself, and for others I know who are in more dire need than I (am).Whatever.  The rambly rant says, in short, I’m unsure of myself, I don’t like bullshitters from religious encounters or from secular encounters, and if you can do something good for someone else, as one of my relatives is fond of saying, “just fucking do it.”Insert a certain corporate logo here, you know the one, it’s in your head.And now, this:An old blog from someone who writes completely better than I (do) who is decidedly, completely better than I (am)  : if you followed all of that stream of consciousness, you’ll either love or hate this:

and this:


3/14, 3.14, π

So after work tonight I am planning a clandestine trip to the store to buy a pie.  I don’r know what kind of pie it will be, but it will either come with ice cream, or whipped cream.

I had a rant going on and it’s still there, but I was a student of math back in the day, so I feel an obligation to celebrate pi day.



Maybe even pi-tiful.


, not everything I do is going to e-pi-tomize cool-(whip)-ness.

I read an alarming statistic that 3.14% of all sailors are Pi rates.I told my wife we have to share the pi, and here’s her reason- Sine (π/2) =  1  The sine of pi over two is one.  Any way to make us two into one is a good way, and I think pi makes it all the more wonderful.  Or messy, but we will probably have pi before, not during.  I mean, nothing wrong with hot and sticky, but I want to EAT the pie, not make a mess of it and only have a quick taste.

And, see also 1:04:


I could never live in Minnesota.  Why would you name a city anything that sounds so close to Mania-pie-less?  It’s des-pi-cable, and it sounds depressing.

What’s your favorite kind of pie?  I think I like them all, but cherry, apple, bourbon pecan chocolate, and butterscotch are all right near the top for me.  Maybe I’ll make a home-made butterscotch pie…  I wonder if scotch and butterscotch would taste good together…

Maybe I’ll be lazy and just buy something.  I only thought of a few jokes, but maybe it’s the beginning of mania.

I’ll let you know.  About everything.

But first, have some pi.

Sounds Funny but Not Funny

Image result for Peanuts aaugh

Oh, it’s not all THAT bad.  But I felt it earlier in the week.  There were two very stressful episodes at work, one where the systems didn’t work badly enough to upset me, and one episode just yesterday with the dog.

When I take the dog for a walk, I anticipate he’s going to take care of whatever business he needs to take care of.  So, I took him for a walk, and he did what he was going to do, and we came back inside.  There was some pulling at the leash, which I regard as non-compliance and I stop moving.  When he went in the direction I wanted to go, we were fine, I thought.  And then he ran up our stairs, so I tried putting him in his kennel.  I didn’t check both door locks, so he of course got out, and ran up our stairway to find out if the kids were in their rooms, and they had gone to school for the day.  Since he didn’t shit outside, I anticipated he might try to go in the house.  I set him up in the bathroom (easy to clean the floor) with paper down just in case, and set the kennel in front of the door so he could have that much more room.

All it did was give him a running start.  He jumped over the kennel, and ran upstairs to impress me with his Houdini-worthy skill.  I was on the phone with a client, and he stood there wanting me to take him outside to shit, and I couldn’t put the customer and the tech support people both on hold, so I sat and helplessly watched as he shit on my carpet.  Just.  FUCK!  Oh. Sorry, seems that SHIT would be a more appropriate expletive.  Laugh, laugh, ha, ha, readers.  But I am sick to fucking death of LIFE adding MORE WORK for me to take care of because I exist, and adding unnecessary shit to my life that I have to deal with later because the dog couldn’t be arsed to do it while he was outside, and couldn’t be arsed to do it while in the safe confines of the bathroom, and I have no time or margin to deal with the shit when it happens, so I have to save up time and money and energy to handle it later.

Time, money, and energy are the frayed margins of my life, for which I desperately need significant repair.  But every time I pray for margin, more gets cut off the frayed edge, so I don’t ask any more.  And while it’s not true that my time is money, it is true that more money would buy me more time.  If I had more money, I could just call the guy when the plumbing needs work, instead of trying to do it myself, fucking it up, and then calling the guy.  Which doesn’t happen as often any more, since I’ve done that enough to learn a few things.  If I had more money, I could just pay the bills and not worry about bill collectors, overdraft notices, car repairs, the insurance bump whenever dear daughter starts driving… don’t remind me.

If I had more time, I might invest some of that in resting.  But so far, whenever I “have more time,” the dog needs something, the daughter needs something, the son needs something, or the wife expected me to have already spent that time doing something else.  If I choose to not invest that time in the expected shit shoveling for whichever demanding person demands it, a) the wife just shakes her head, does one of those life-draining sighs of exasperation and starts doing whatever she thought I should have done already, or fixing whatever part of it wasn’t complete, in the expectation that I will muster the energy to take over and handle it.  Sometimes, I can pull it together.  Not always. b) the daughter screams about how I don’t care, nobody cares,  nobody likes her, and she can’t do it because she has homework/social engagement/exhaustion/insert-other-manufactured-excuse; c) the son almost finishes and then disappears into the darkness of his room and his electronic device(s); d)the dog just stares and expects another treat for not doing shit.  Or for doing shit wherever he damn well decides to.

He has a spot he likes to go, to do his business.  When I have time, not a problem.  When I don’t, I want him to learn to go where I want him to go.  I didn’t think I had time to get there and back, so  didn’t take him, so he shit on my carpet because the bare, easy to clean bathroom floor didn’t have the same grass-like appeal as my grey carpet.  He can’t see anything but black and white, maybe the carpet looks or feels comfortable like grass, but for fucks sake, it’s not shag.  It’s not even plush.  It’s another one of the things I should replace because it’s gross.  The last time I tried to rent a shampooer, it did a shit job, and I can’t blame it all on the shampooer, because the carpet is so old.  The carpet is almost as old as some of the stains on it, or possibly the reverse.  Who can be sure?.  We bought the carpet with the house, back when we had money, time, and hope.  Well now there’s another one, but I’m working on getting that out before it becomes set and older than the dog.  I’m not replacing the carpet until the dog is trained properly, which probably means I’ll replace the carpet and then the dog will forget his training and shit on the new one.  Which begs the question- does carpet come in exactly matched shades of shit brown?  Oh, wait, there’s also food stains and drink stains…  Maybe I’ll have to go with an out-of-fashion camouflage and random colors-print carpet, something like one of the busier, less orderly  Kandinsky-patterns.  Some people like Wassily, and …then there’s me.  Because to me, the paintings reflect the stress of trying to produce a sufficient number of quality pieces of art in the time available, trying to sell them quick enough to earn a decent living, and fail.  But then, maybe I’m projecting myself onto Kandinsky.  Or maybe I’m right, maybe he hates that, and that’s why I don’t really like his work.

Yesterday I ventured forth to the store to return something my wife thought I should easily be able to install.  My faux extroversion knows no limits.  First, when the installation went south, I swore (naturally).  And then I set it aside to wait and see if Mrs M would fare any better guiding dowel A into insertion point B.  It’s just a hanging thing, and one essential piece at the end wouldn’t go into where it was supposed to go, and “click.”  Did I ever mention that I hate house projects, and “easy-to-install” bullshit.  (…You’d think I’d be an expert at putting round peg a into slot b.  Alas, no, I clearly need more practice.  Someone tell Mrs. M, please!)  Thank GOD, she couldn’t get dowel A to click into insertion point B either.  (which can only mean that she needs more practice too.)  The second thing I did is to call the company who was dumb enough to print their toll-free number on the instructions.

I called, and the first lady I got said I couldn’t have a new round peg. I’d have to box the entire thing up and return it to the store, or call her corporate office.  I forgot her name.  She was nice, and even sounded like she was familiar with the very defect I was talking about, but still…  So I called toll-free number 2, who sent a request to the local store manager.  The store manager called me and said he’d take care of everything, and he did, at least, if dowel A’ successfully attaches to insertion point B’.  But I did have to box up most of the defective thing so they could return it to their manufacturer.   Anyway, returned it, exchanged for hope, and went back home barely in time for work.  Today I got that out of the box and the same damned peg in the new box wouldn’t screw and lock correctly into the insertion point of the piece of shit, made in China, from the new box.  Ugh.  The easiest sounding things are too much work.  The easiest sounding things are never easy; they just seem to add more pressure to what’s already too much.  The simplest things are too complicated and too hard to figure out, and too stress-filled.

I’m a simple thing.  (Or maybe, simple minded.)  I literally worried on the way home that I might get hit by someone and be late for work.  Heaven forbid. This is how much I hate drastic change and don’t want to be an inconvenience or a burden to anyone else.  I want to be helpful, in a world where so many people seem hell-bent on fucking it up for me and everyone else.  I very briefly thought to myself, it might have been a mercy.  Like driving off into the retention pond.  But no, see above, I resist such foolishnesses as they don’t fit- I don’t have the margin of time to deal with dying.  Or worse, not dying, and not having an excuse for why it took so long for me to not die.  I don’t really want to die.  I don’t have a preference for death over life, and I don’t have a workable plan.  I mean, life can turn around.  I’m waiting to see how it plays out, but I’m hoping it’s a decisive victory I can start enjoying at half-time, and not a game changing buzzer beater shot at the last second.  I’d much rather enjoy the journey than watch it suck as hard as possible and have to fight until the bitter fucking end.

More pressure -at lunch yesterday I remembered I was supposed to make chicken noodle soup because my daughter went to the dentist the day before (guess who got to take her, guess who was 3 whole fucking minutes late and whose daughter gave him unending grief about it all, including how fast I was trying to drive, and how I was stuck behind another, fairly slow-moving car or two the whole way and  how slow I was driving, and how we were going to be late, and how it was my fucking fault there was a string of cars between me and the door of the school and I didn’t feel comfortable just shoving around them, because I don’t drive a monster truck.  Oh, and how “[I] don’t care about [her,]” either.)  So I didn’t care but I made the chicken noodle soup and got back to my desk with exactly 48 seconds left of the hour.

But you made it back, you’re saying.  And you succeeded, you’re saying.  Well, I’ll admit, I didn’t die.  But that doesn’t mean that going into the store with an item to return after searching for the receipt and failing because it’s either in her purse at her workplace, or already out in the trash, wasn’t stressful.  I had so much time before work that I took the dog for a walk and had the presence of mind to lock him in his crate so he couldn’t escape and crap on my damned carpet again.  Which reminds me, there’s still the stain I have to try to get out of my carpet.  My life sounds funny, like one of those sit-coms you expect to resolve in 22 minutes.  But it’s not funny to live through.  Maybe in another year, after the cash windfall comes, I’ll look back and laugh.  Or maybe, I’ll remember what it felt like and be on a mission to help people who are struggling like I was back before the big lottery payouts started rolling in (what the hell, I can still hope just like the next guy) .

My dad is home from the hospital.  Nice of him to give mum a day of rest while she was sicker than he was, eh?  Both of them have this really tenacious, killer bronchitis that’s not quite pneumonia, just like my daughter has had for a month and a half.  I went to the hospital and spent time with him, and then when his dinner arrived I went to mums.  She was sleeping, so I started washing her dishes.  She heard me and got up.  I made her sit back down when she started coughing uncontrollably.  And I poured her some whiskey.  I wanted some for myself, but she lives across town and I needed to be able to get home before having to sleep anything off.  While she sipped and rested, I finished the dishes and mopped the cat hair, cat food, and other, off the kitchen floor.  I so wanted to do more, because her house is almost as bad as mine.  Or worse, since I know what to do with my own shit, it’s hers and dad’s and I don’t really know what to do with it all.

Mum, she just sat and sipped and stopped coughing for a bit.  I checked in today  and they are both doing better but they have the severe bronchitis same as my daughter.  If you want to avoid a fight with someone, start cooking or cleaning for them and listen while they shut up.  Recalling this, I invaded the sanctity of the maelstrom in my daughter’s room yesterday and made her bed for her.  She was so happy, she took a nap after school, which made her feel even better.  But if I start doing any of those things and they keep bitching, I leave it for them to finish.

I may or may not have a bad habit of rage quitting.  It’s a gamer’s expression, but so fitting to my life.  Because fuck you if you’re not working to help me or staying out of the way, fuck you if you’re stressing me out as if it’s my fault, fuck you if you don’t appreciate it when I try to do nice things for you.  And fuck you if I’m not fast enough to satisfy your impatient bullshit.  With family, the best way I know how to do this still isn’t a good way.  Rage quit means I shut the fuck up, stop talking, finish what absolutely has to be finished, and leave the offenders in my dust.  Or their own fucking dust, if they made the mess I was trying to clean up.  I wish the solution was the same for work.  But no, I have to be a team player to claim I’m a team player and I work well on my own.  I can operate in both modes, but the team part is me faking well.  What I wish I could do is different.

At work, if someone fucks something up, I want to make them fix the damn thing and leave me the hell out of it.  And I want to wait patiently until they fix the shit, so I can do my job.  At work, if a tool I need isn’t working, I want to report the issue and wait until the tool is repaired and when it is repaired, step in and do my job.  But what I have to do instead, is sincerely apologize to our clients, and work that much harder to do what I can until it’s working, and then apologize again to the clients, and work that much harder to do what I couldn’t do until the company lets me play catch up.  If all of corporate America is on thin threads like this, maybe there’s a company out there hiring hack writers who retain their sense of humor, however grim and twisted it may become, in the face of adversity, stupidity, hypersensitivity, insecurity, and reinforced inferiority from all the people who demand I treat them with abject deference to their perceived self-superiority.  Ass holes!

I shredded paperwork dated anywhere from 2011 to 2015 yesterday, and I had two and a half trash bags full of shreds.  I ran across some interesting documents.  They showed us struggling financially, climaxing in 2013 and hovering near bankruptcy, leaving us stuck through about 2015, and we’ve been making slow progress getting out of the shit since then.  Thankfully, “for richer, for poorer” included “for poorer.”  The documents even showed us asking for help, and then there was the letter from one of the places we asked for help.  The letter reminded us that we had asked them for help a year and a half before, and how they counseled me then to “just” figure out how to make more money.  Great advice from great people.  I remember both visits.  I was humbled and discouraged going to them the first time. I left feeling completely humiliated and more depressed both times.  It was worse the second time, and then they added their letter of encouragement.  Thanks so much for the help.  I hope I never have to go back, and I hope no one else gets the same counseling advice from those rich fuckers.  I didn’t shred the letter.  I want a time in the future when I’m in a place to help one of these people and they’re placed in a position of need, and I share with them a) my experiences from 2012 to 2015 and how hard it still is now in 2017, AND their damned letter, b) Proverbs 3:27, and c) my blessings.  They have enough money that one of them could have fucking hired me to work for them for more than I earn now, and I would have worked my ass off to earn their pay.  Or, they could have hired me to work on staff for the organization-this was one of the places I already worked as a volunteer, and it would have been a dream job if the position matched my training, successful previous experience, and credentials.  But back then, I would have worked as a janitor, for fucks sake, and done a better job than the idiot who does a shit job cleaning for them still to this day.  Instead they gave us a one-time gift, which was helpful, once, and the second time we needed help they prayed for us and then told us to piss off and figure it out for ourselves.

This blog started, at least influenced, if not pushed to profanity, by those experiences and others, and my journey into discovery of why I am how I am was twistedly encouraged by them, so, do I owe them a debt of gratitude?  I think the answer from a human perspective is a a tiny yes for the gesture of the gift, and an emphatic “FUCK, NO,” for the way I felt during and after both experiences of humiliation, and for the consolation letter we received instead of help the second time, but I think if I ever have the money I’ll give them back their gifts with interest, and tell them to piss off and figure it out for themselves as to why I don’t really care if they make it or not.

So today, not that I want to do any of this, I remembered I have to get a Boy Scout physical, so I called the doctor and set that up.  I gave the person at the other end unnecessary grief, because of the last episode,that cost me $700, for the experiment I damned well knew the results of before the blood was wrestled from the perceived safety of my veins.  However, I asked how much it was going to cost me and the person was not forthcoming.  She mentioned a normal fee and then said that they don’t do copays for that, they submit it straight to my fucking cheap-ass insurance company, and then the insurance figures out how much they want to squeeze, how far they can elevate my blood pressure without actually killing me directly, now that I’ve lost a little weight and it’s gone down a little.

They charge me an extra hundred from each paycheck than they did before Obamacare, and they have yet to repeal it, so I’m more broke and even less able to afford any experimentation or equipment breakdown.  Yeah, and my income went up zero dollars to help me afford that insurance rate bump.  And I still have to pay copays for doctors and dentists, which is bullshit if I pay this much for healthcare coverage.  I’d go bankrupt if I ever had to go to the hospital like my dad did.  Because those rich fuckers always get their money, and they don’t really seem to give a shit how they’re getting it or what they’re putting people through to get it.  So if by some ill twist of fate I come up sick, I’ll just wait until I’m dead and check in to one of those really small rooms in the basement, that only have minimal amenities- no heat to pay extra for, no extra nursing care, and only one door that opens from the outside.  They don’t charge cadavers in the morgue.  Just the survivors.  If that fucking $700 bill for one tiny tube of blood is proof, evidently the insurance company thinks I earn a great income already!

And I do.  For someone who worked between 1910 and 1940.