Fathers and Sons

I was talking with my friend Jonesy the other day when I couldn't help but ask him what was wrong. We were sitting at my tiki bar drinking Dr. Pepper on shaved ice with crushed cherries. The sun was hot. There was no breeze.

"Oh, I'm having trouble with my younger son." he answered. "He's having trouble dealing with my divorce and he absolutely hates that I live at a nudist resort." He stirred the ice with his finger. When he lifted the glass, the beaded moisture left a ring on the bar. I'd wipe it up later.

(Note to self: put the coasters on the tiki bar.)

"What's he been doing?" I asked.

He put the drink back down near the ring.

(Couldn't he at least hit the same spot each time?)

He gave me a wry smile, "Every time we talk he feels like he has to beat me up about living here. He won't give it a rest. He thinks it's wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies."

"I thought the orgy thing was a secret?" I feigned incredulity. "Have you told him that people around here look like people you meet anywhere?"

A nudist resort does not automatically attract beautiful, hard bodies. In fact, just the opposite is true. Most good looking young people enjoy the dress up, the clubs and the sexy flirtations. The people who come here skew older and, as an act of gross rationalization, claim complete body acceptance. This allows them to be over weight and out of shape - without embarrassment. In fact, most of the people here would not go to a clothed beach because of how bad they would look in a bathing suit.

"Yeah. But he doesn't believe me. I even snuck a picture of Adele." He pulled a photo out of his pocket. Adele was a very sweet but large lady of our mutual acquaintance. Picture taking at the resort was mostly forbidden. We also knew that Adele was a free spirit and that she wouldn't mind.

He handed it over to me and said, "I was going to send it to him with the caption:

.............................See Son, It's not all about sex!

I glanced at it and handed it back to him. "Cute." I said. "Adele's husband, Roy, might object."

Jonesy took the photo back and looked at it again. "Oh, wait! This is Roy!" He tucked the photo away then picked up his glass and sloshed a little as he turned on his stool.

(Oh, look! You missed a spot.)

I changed the subject and asked, "What's your son do?"

"Besides bitch at me like we're married?"

"That's rhetorical, right?" I always have to check after that incident with the traffic cop.

He nodded, then said. "He's a teacher in Ohio."

"Oh!" I answered, trying to sound impressed. "He must be real bright."

"He is. if you're impressed with night lights. He was recently turned down by Mensa Lite. He spelled his name wrong on the application. I asked him how that could happen and he claimed it was a union thing. The teacher's union is very strong in Ohio."

I never know when Jonesy is messing with me. "What's Mensa Lite?" I prodded.

"Mensa Lite is for pseudo-intellectuals. People who talk about their degrees rather than their accomplishments. People who talk about the book reviews they read, rather than the books they have read. People who think Al Gore is an intellectual."

"So, why're you so down on him?" I wondered.

"Maybe it's because he won't let up on me. Maybe it's because when his mom left me he never once asked me what had happened or even how I was doing." He paused and picked a piece of cherry out of his drink, dripping across the bar and onto the deck.

Then he seemed to rouse himself, remembering that he was supposed to be making a joke or something. That was Jonesy's coping mechanism. Mine was wall to wall parties, naked beauties and orgies.

"You know," he said, "I remember the night he was conceived and, I gotta tell you, the sex wasn't that great."

There's the old Jonesy I know!

He sat a little straighter in his chair and I could see the gleam in his eye. He was getting ready to be on a roll. I picked up my drink and sloshed a little on the bar by way of encouragement.

"I kid around about his mother being unfaithful but I am almost 100% certain I am his father."

"How so?" I played the straight man.

"When he was born he had my last name." I smiled and he continued, "Did I ever tell you why we named him P.J.?"

"Uh, uh."

"Because his mother had called dibs on B.J."

"Cute." I said. I began to fondly remember Jonesy's ex-wife but he wasn't done yet.

"Isn't it ironic," he asked, "that being an actual bastard is passed on through the mother?"

I had to laugh.

"And why isn't there a specific name for illegitimate females? I think bitch would have been a great choice. But it was already handily taken by adult women." Jonesy has been a little bitter since the break up.

I sucked on some ice, tasting the cherry juice.

"I am wondering one thing, though."

"What's that?" I mumbled through the ice.

"Even though I am as certain as a guy can be that his sons are legitimate, does my recent divorce make them Bastards by Proxy?"

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Elegy for a Kitten

I was on my way to the store the other day when I saw the carcass of a dead cat frozen stiff by the side of the road. I immediately thought of my ex-wife. Then I started wondering how I made that connection. So I retraced my train of thought (which isn't easy): some of the tracks don't line up quite right, the transformer is a little quirky, one of the boxcars is missing a wheel and I haven't been able to find my engine in years.

Anyway... I was on my way to the store to see if I could find some left-over Valentine's candy. I figured the stores probably over-estimated how many men would try buying their way out of trouble with a cheap box of chocolate. I just hoped I could get there before all of the fat chicks cleaned it out.

In case you haven't figured it out - I have always been a hopeless romantic. So I have to admit that the irony of my divorce coming so close to Valentine's Day is not lost on me. But the divorce is FINAL and, as a result, I feel I have learned some valuable lessons:

One, is that if divorce wasn't so expensive and difficult, women probably wouldn't want one.
Two, is the reason divorce is so expensive is that it is worth it.
And three, is that divorce is probably the last time you can completely satisfy your wife.


It also let's you finally see your partner without those rose colored glasses.

petty
adjective
1 petty regulations: TRIVIAL, trifling, minor, small, unimportant, insignificant, inconsequential, inconsiderable, negligible, paltry, footling, pettifogging; informal piffling, piddling, fiddling. ANTONYMS important, serious.
2 a petty form of revenge:SMALL-MINDED, mean, ungenerous, shabby, spiteful. ANTONYMS magnanimous.

Since it took two years after the separation for her to agree to the details of the divorce, I'm thinking #2 is the one I'm looking for. Oddly enough, the process also smells like number two.







Divorce also makes you aware of how people change. I remember, when we were young, how she used to be my playful little Kitten . That was my pet name for her. Kitten. Years later, after the kids were grown and my health and earning capacities were failing me, she wasn't so much "playful" as she was "playing me". And I came to realize that the cat that the kitten became had the morals of an alley cat. Not long after that she turned feral.


In the end, now that she has her own place, she has at least one cat that I know of and is probably well on her way towards becoming a crazy cat lady.




Did I mention that I am allergic to cats? I could go on but I don't want to be accused of beating a dead pussy.

But all of this does help explain how, in the constant conversation between the voices in my head, one of them could say, "Speaking of a dead pussy... have I ever told you about my ex-wife?"

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Stand Up - Sit Down!

Every time I've tried to do stand up I have been told to sit down.

Maybe it's my timing. Maybe it's my delivery. Maybe it's my audience. Like, I remember telling my now ex-wife one time that "marriage is the only thing that you cannot idiot-proof. Somebody always underestimates the bigger idiot."

Then we got into this whole thing about how she has never underestimated me. Blah, blah, blah.

So, never wanting to win a good battle, I forged on. "You know, I like to eat an apple right after smoking a cigar. It tends to refresh my pallet. Which is probably why I also like to eat lobster right after sex." After a long slow beat she grudgingly said, "O.K., why?" "Well, I still have that fishy taste... but it's classier."

Having just re-read that last line, I'm pretty sure it's not my timing.

Later, after half an episode of Jeopardy, things calmed down a little and I asked her if she knew why they used to call the female sailors W.A.V.E.S. She was silent for a long time. Pretty much through the whole next commercial. Then, just when I thought she had forgotten my question, she said, "Why!" "I think it was because vaginal swabs was already taken."

That was pretty much it for that night. The next morning, as she was getting dressed for work. I was still in bed, lying on my side, making circles on the sheet with my finger. I looked up at her as she was pulling some sexy under-thing on, back lit by the morning sun streaming through the blinds. Innocently, I asked, "How do you tell if a woman over fifty is HOT?" "I dunno," she said distractedly. "How?" "She dresses in layers" I answered.

I honestly don't think it is my delivery, either.

That night, over dinner, she commented that I could be a "professional comic." "Really?" I asked hopefully. "Certainly. A genius makes the difficult look easy." I puffed out my chest preparing to say something witty when she continued. "But a professional... a professional makes the routine look difficult."

While I was brooding through Wheel of Fortune, I kept thinking of all the things I should have said. Finally I turned to her and blurted, "You know, all I've ever wanted to be was a regular guy. Ex-Lax is just a Band-Aid."

When she didn't bite on that one I kept the momentum going. "Speaking of professional... I don't know if you know it, but I considered a number of professions over the years. At one time I was convinced that I wanted to be a dentist. But then I realized I just couldn't bear to see that many women spit." She got it. I know she got it. But she never even looked up. So I went on, "Then I thought, maybe I'll be a gynecologist. But after a while, I figured that I'd just end up taking my work home with me."

All I could hear were the sound of crickets. And, I swear, a tumble weed rolled past my recliner. I couldn't understand it. It must be the audience.

Later that year, I got a hot tub for my wife. It was the best trade I ever made.

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