I'm the New Mayor of \”Fat City.\”
I woke up Saturday mildly hungover and eager to face a morning with no house-showings or obligations. I was finally free to lounge on my back patio in my flannel PJ's and sombrero while lazily eating my Jam Pancakes.
Ah, bliss.
Until my phone rang at 10:45.
It was The Mom reminding me that LittleBrother's Birthday Party was in 15 minutes, and NOT at 3, as I had previously thought.
Unshowered, unshaven, hungover, and slightly stinky, I showed up at a place called \"Fat City,\" which is your basic Charles Edward Cheese (thanks Buttless), LaserTaggery-FoamBallBouncingy-Arcady type place.
I was tremendously relieved when I saw several sets of parents as well as The Mom and LifePartner hovering over the table of 8-year-old-pizza-eating monkeys, but I'd no sooner reached the table when ALL of the parents left. Every damn one of them.
This is when LifePartner explained to me that, since LittleBrother would follow me through the Fires of Hell, I was going to be the \"hand's on\" chaperone during their activities, while she and The Mom watched the exits for potential escapees.
I thought this would basically mean that I was going to babysit, settle fights, and mend boo-boos while The Mom and LifePartner sat and chit-chatted over beers (How cool is it that they serve beer there? Multiple bars too, so that, unlike that Rat's Party Joint, I can drink as much as I damn well please).
Turns out that \"hand's on chaperone\" meant that I got to do what I'm best at when surrounded by 8-year old Monkeys...
Act like an 8-year old Monkey.
First up was Laser Tag, which gave me a slight disadvantage as the vests were all the same size. A tad droopy on the kids meant that I couldn't fasten the buckles over my beer-enlarged bulk and was teased accordingly.
The rules were explicit about \"No Running,\" however they failed to outline their position on \"FBI Tactical Maneuvers,\" and I used this loophole to my complete advantage.
When facing a large, darkened, room, writhing with Laser-Blasting-Yard-Apes, the best way to enter any fray is a well-timed, diving-shoulder-roll, and to come up a-firing.
Intensely muttering the \"Mission: Impossible\" theme (\"DUNH, DUNH, DA-DAH...\"), moving \"cop-style\" around each and every surface, and systematically laying waste to all gun-toting urchins that crossed my path was almost as much fun as flinging my body to the ground and kicking my legs throes-of-death-spasmodically every time I got hit. This was apparently terribly entertaining to the kids as well as a couple of the mom's that were in there too, which meant that I got shot a lot.
None of them could match my cat-like agility and lightning-fast quickdraw abilities though.
Average of 23 other shooters:
Targets Hit, 31. Times Hit, 41. Shots Fired, 211. Rank, Solar Sargeant.
JuddHole's Average:
Targets Hit, 75. Times Hit, 32. Shots Fired, 719. Rank, Lunar Captain.
I Fuckin' Rock.
I more than Rock. I totally dominated at Bumper Cars against the 8-year olds (220 lbs vs. 60 lbs = Judd Wins), smashing all 7 of the other drivers into the rails repeatedly, and I hit the \"10,000\" hole on SkeeBall three times in one game. I ended up giving my tickets to ChubbyBoy so that he could get not one, but FOUR, plastic Ninja swords.
I'll admit that I was partially motivated in doing this by the knowledge that I would be joining the Ninja-Sword-Fighting Action too.
(I'm purposely omitting the fact that BuckTeeth whipped the ever-lovin' shit out of me at Tekken 4, but I'd never played before, and his crooked-toothed-lil-ass had just beat the computer 6 straight rounds to be crowned \"Tekken Champion.\" Not fair.)
I'd barely noticed that our 4-hour block of InsanelyFunninestFun was almost up while the kids were being herded into FoamBall Compound, where their parents were waiting to pick them up.
I sat down with all of the Elders while the kids were putting on their shoes, and loudly proclaimed that JuddHole Birthday Number 31 was going to be held in the same establishment in that exact style. Almost in unison, 4 little shoe-tying voices piped in, \"REALLY, can WE come!?!\"
I thought about it for a second, then told 'em, \"HELL Yeah.\"
Next September, I want to frickin' pack that place, so you're all invited too.
After all the kids were gone, LifePartner asked me to go into FoamBall Compound and retrieve LittleBrother.
\"You mean *I* can go in there too!?! Why didn't anybody tell me?!?\"
\"We thought you'd want to sit down and take a breather...\"
\"Shit.\" I was already in motion, kicking off my boots, and running in for a cursory look for LittleBrother.
Then I spotted them.
Air-Compressed FoamBall Cannons.
Shit, I thought the whole thing was just about jumping on, and throwing around, those little foam balls. I had no idea I could SHOOT them. I ran past the sign that said, \"DO NOT Enter if over 60 inches tall (75 inches isn't THAT much over the limit),\" and found myself an open turret.
Similar to Laser Tag, there were potential targets everywhere, but this time none of them were shooting back.
\"MWUHAHAHAHAHAA!\" I cackled as I pelted unsuspecting children with my Foam Artillery. I discovered that the guns fire better when loaded with one ball at a time, and a little 7-year old Birthday Girl named Tina experienced this revelation precisely between the pigtails on the back of her head.
It was awesome.
I was swinging the gun this way and that, blasting everything that had a heartbeat, when I heard someone shouting, \"Hey! Hey, Judd!\"
LittleBrother was standing behind me with a curious look on his face, grinning at my maniacal laughter and Foam Onslaught.
\"Mom says I'm s'posed to get you.\"
\"Oh... right... yeah... time to go.\"
For any of you in the Denver-Metro Area, my \"chaperoning services\" are also available for Bar Mitzvahs and Graduations.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Does This Officially Make Me A \”Jock?\”
To truly be a Man... I mean a meat-eating, secretary's-ass-slapping, public-gaseous-expelling, grunting-eat-sleep-and-shit Man, one must scratch their balls. A lot.
I've been told, by many a female, that this is simply an excuse to play with our stuff. Not true.
If we are going to do that, we need no excuse, it's going to happen because we actually DO need to readjust things, or just because it simply feels good.
But the scratching actually has two purposes. It helps us readjust, and you bet yer ass it feels good. Not in the keep-this-up-and-this-suckers-gonna-go-off-like-a-Fire-Hose \"good\" way either, it's just relief for the most part.
I've been feeling decidedly Manly lately. A lot. Like all the damn time. Even when I was baking a cheesecake for the most awesomest neighbors ever as thanks for taking care of Asshead during house-showings, I was still feeling very, very manly.
Things started happening because of this though. First and foremost was my complete heartbreak at the fact that I had worn a hole in the front of my favorite old pair of Carhartt's. It's not huge, but probably too big for my meager sewing skills to patch (again, MANLY, even when sewing). And not even that brief dip in icy, mountain, river coul stifle my... Manliness.
The other effect from all of this ManStuff is a little more personal.
Scary personal.
Like, who-the-fuck-do-I-talk-to-about-this-shit personal.
After a week of some serious discomfort, both mentally and physically, I finally broke down and talked to the Mom about it. She used to be a nurse, and her LifePartner still kind of is, so I figured I was safe.
The subject wasn't one that I just wanted to drop in the Mom's lap (watch it, sicko...), so I eased into it gracefully, \"Hey ma, you know that doctor you recommended for a physical? Does she... uh... you know... check alla my stuff?\"
\"Oh sure, heart-rate, cholestoral (good and bad), metabolic rate...\" she's listing things off her fingertips.
\"No. Ma. All of my STUFF. Does she check it?\" I ask uncomfortably.
\"Is there something specific you need her to look at?\" the Mom asks, obviously not getting it.
\"You could say that. I've got... ahh... a minor issue, and it's kind of freaking me out,\" and I really AM kind of freaked out.
The Mom's face falls, \"Honey, what is it? What's wrong?!?\"
\"Well, it started with this itching... now, it's... um... rashy... and spreading... and red.\" much as my face is quickly becoming.
LifePartner comes into the kitchen and, in her usual, tactful way, asks, \"Are you talking about why you've been scratching yourself so much? You been diggin' in there for a couple weeks haven't you? And you're just asking about it NOW?\"
\"Well, I didn't think much of it. I guess it kind of started not long after I got back from Atlant... oh shit.\"
LifePartner gets serious now too, \"What? What's wrong? What happened in Atlanta?!?\"
At this point, sweat is dripping down my face, and I'm seriously dreading possibly having to make that phone call. I am unable to speak, and instead work my jaw up and down noiselessly in an effort to get my mouth to explain exactly what my incredibly fuzzy brain can remember about my drunken New Year's Eve.
The Mom hands me a beer in an effort to calm me and says, \"Maybe you could just describe what's going on... with your guys.\"
Stifling a giggle at my mother's use of a term I use quite frequently, I tell the both of them all of the details of my... *ahem* groinal issues.
During the entire time that I am describing my malady, in a quavering and quaking voice, LifePartner has a grin that seems to be ever-widening.
I finally ask, \"What? WHAT?\"
She supresses the smile, puts a serious \"doctor\" look on, and says while nodding sagely, \"Sounds like you may have a case of Tinea Cruris.\"
\"I DO?!? WHAT the FUCK is THAT!?! Oh, Christ, is it contagious?!? I may have to call somebody and warn 'em... I don't feel so good... does it come with a fever and fainting?!?\" I moan loudly as I begin to swoon.
\"Oh Jeezus, don't be so damn dramatic. You mean to tell me, during all your years of playing football...\" she starts.
\"Football?\" I think, \"what the fuck does this have to do with football?\"
\"...playing hockey, IN TEXAS...\" she's drawing this out deliberately. Bitch.
\"Hockey?\" I wonder again, \"now I'm getting confused. What does hockey have to do with a life-threatening STD?\"
\"...you never even once had a case of JOCK ITCH?\"
\"Jock Itch?\" I ask, \"I thought that was just a myth perpetuated by coaches to get us to wash our equipment more often.\"
\"Heh! Not quite, itchy-boy,\" she's laughing now, \"How long has it been since you washed your equipment?\"
\"Well,\" I am submerged in that mixture of incredible relief and crushing humility, \"it's bad luck to wash my stuff too often...\"
\"How often is too often?\" she says staring wide-eyed at me.
\"Um... lessee...\" I begin counting on my fingers and mumbling, \"schizzin... nozzen... feswin... Ah, beginning of this season.\"
\"Which was when?\" Both she and The Mom are so thoroughly amused that smoke is rising from our impending dinner on the stove.
\"Um... September 5th,\" I say, pleased that I can remember the exact date.
\"SEPTEMBER?!?!\" They shout in unison, scaring the corgi out of the kitchen.
\"And you wear it how many nights a week?!?\" LifePartner stares at me, mouth agape.
\"Two,\" I say, blinking casually, \"sometimes three.\"
By now, the Mom is tending to dinner, but laughing and shaking her head in that amused way that only a mother can have about her completely gotarded son, and LifePartner is absolutely hooting with laughter.
She finally composed herself enough to tell me, \"Get some Anti-Fungal cream at the Drug Store, anything'll work, and for the love of all you hold dear in that rainforest jungle you call a crotch, WASH YOUR GODDAM EQUIPMENT.\"
I'm pleased to say that even Brand-X Antifungal works like a charm, and nothing has fallen off, turned green, or spawned a small army of swamp creatures hell-bent on taking over my nether regions.
It probably isn't a very good sign though, that my equipment began hissing and smoking the instant it hit the soapy water.
I even thought I heard screaming coming from under the washer lid, but I didn't stick around in the enclosed, low-air-movement laundry room with my hockey equipment long enough to investigate.
I make no apologies for writing about my balls two entries in a row either.
I mean, let's be honest, they're a huge part of my life.
In fact, without them, I wouldn't want to live.
I'll write about my eyes, ears, internal organs, and other not-as-important stuff some other time.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I didn't freeze my balls OFF…
Getting a call from my realtor for a house-showing always makes me feel torn. On one hand, I may have a sucke... uh, prospective buyer coming over, but on the other hand, I get to spend my Friday Night making a concerted effort to conceal the fact that I am a complete slob, if not downright neglectful in regards to this partially empty house.
My alarm clock and I don't normally get along under normal circumstances, but early on a Saturday morning and nursing a mild hangover, we fight like a couple of fat bikers over the last of the Buffalo Wings.
I'll be honest though, there is something about seeing the Rocky Mountains first thing in the morning, while the rising sun is hitting them just right. After I free-based half a pot of coffee, I was able to fully appreciate the fact that even though I had to be up, I didn't really have to, and I was more able to enjoy the morning.
Since Asshead will furiously tear at the protruding body parts of any human in the house that I didn't specifically introduce, she has to leave the house with me while strangers dig through my collection of Legos and dead hookers under the auspices of \"viewing my home with their realtor.\"
The fact that Asshead loves riding shotgun in the truck, hanging her head out the window and barking at other cars, combined with the way the mountains had captivated me that morning, led us up Highway 285 into the Rockies for the day.
I confess that I am as guilty as the next person at taking for granted the beauty that Mom Nature consistently puts her back into every day, and it was important to get up there and fully appreciate why I love where I live and all that she does for me.
Up until the point where Ol' Mamma N tried to kill me again.
After a half hour, Asshead was becoming antsy, and I found a place along the river for us to pull off and run around a bit. I leashed her up and was admittedly quite excited at the fact that if she randomly dropped a big, smelly turd, I wouldn't actually have to pick it up unless it was directly on a trail, scenic landmark, or Park Ranger's shoe.
We wandered the rocky shore of the river, Asshead sniffing and snuffing every tuft of grass and rock for potential victi... um, playmates, and myself enjoying the fresh mountain air and quietly muttering, \"shit... shit... shit, damn you... I don't want to stop on the way back... hunker down and SHIT...\"
Whenever I'm somewhere important to me, I try to make sure that I am fully experiencing the situation, so I always do my best to immerse myself into it. If it's cold out, I want to feel the cold so that I may more fully appreciate and remember it.
At least, that's what I kept telling myself, instead of continually smacking myself in the forehead for forgetting a jacket of any kind on my little trip.
While Asshead busied herself with a bank of grass, I knelt down by the crystal clear water and put my hand into it. Jacket or not, I had to touch the water. I felt my fingers quickly go numb, and I touched them to my lips to fully appreciate how incredibly frigid the mountain stream was. Apparently the ice that lined the banks and the surrounding rocks wasn't evidence enough for me.
Since I had Asshead's retractable leash in my right hand, I knew that if I was going to get a sip of water up to my mouth, I was going to have to do it with my left hand. I found out this left me a little off-balance and vulnerable to catastrophe if Asshead chose to vigorously pull on her leash in a particular direction. A slight movement of tiny, brown, furriness in the rocks ignited the feral fire in Asshead's bitchy little brain, and she did exactly that.
She lunged, her leash pulled on my arm, and my balance left me. I teetered out over the river and attempted to pull on the leash and use Asshead's forward momentum to at least steady myself but, unfortunately, she had her fuck-that-hurt leash on, and instantly stopped her chase when she felt it pinch.
This meant that I couldn't lock the handle and have her reel me in to safety, like those real dogs on TV, oh no. If I pulled, she yelped and jumped backwards, giving me nothing but slack on my only lifeline. I steadied myself enough to make a token effort towards shore, but I knew I wasn't going to make it. My best bet was to jump towards a nearby flat-rock, and try to leap-frog to dry land.
It was about mid-leap that I realized a couple things about the rocks involved in my situation. One being that, since they were mostly in the water, there was a good chance that some of it had splashed up onto them. The other being that while it was 65 degrees in Denver, it was about 25 up in the mountains, and said \"splashed\" water on those rocks was now ice.
Most of the grace normally involved in my river-rock-leaping was lost on the ice of the rock I leapt from, and any semblance of dignity to follow vanished on the second rock, when I hit it squarely with my boot and then watched as the same boot shot straight up into the air.
As my other foot was on it's way to that bastard frosted rock, I decided that I would rather be completely wet and cold and end up landing in the river, as opposed to landing flat on my back on that fucking rock, and still ending up mostly wet and cold, but with a broken body. I aimed for a shallow spot that would produce a minimum amount of body-breakage and water-submergence.
The words \"aimed\" and \"motherfucking ice\" don't play well, and I ended up in about 4 feet of used-to-be-snow-three-hours-ago river.
As quickly as that water had numbed my fingertips earlier, it now froze to a stop every last cell and synapse in my body, with the exception of the ones that were screaming, \"Get outta the fuckin' water, dicknose! Now! Now! Right Fucking Now!\"
As pissed off at me as Asshead was for repeatedly yanking her fuck-that-hurts collar, she looked genuinely concerned as I stood on the bank and slapped my hands against my body while trying to discern what was still working and what was going to simply snap off and fall frozen to the ground.
The drive home was not pleasant as Asshead is a poor road companion and, if she isn't able to stick at least her nose out the window, will bitch and whine while stomping across the seats and my groin. In lieu of attempting to warm myself properly and having my balls repeatedly stepped on, I chose to crank the heater, warming myself slowly but placating my bitchy dog while I drove 85 down the mountain road.
After getting home, hastily stripping down and climbing into the shower, I discovered something. As much as any man can feel even remotely well-endowed first thing in the morning when he is at \"full mast,\" it will absolutely flatten his ego when he looks down only to find a couple of shriveled-up raisins and a stack of dimes.
To quote the IdiotBox:
\"The water was COLD... shrinkage...\"
\"You mean it SHRINKS?!...\"
That shower saved my life, if not my ego.
That may take a while.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.I'm gonna be a RockStar, I already drink like one.
Allow me to be sappy yet again, for but a moment, and give big 'ol wet smackers to all of you for your thoughts and prayers and such.
StepMom is all good.
Seriously, you guys are the best, you deserve big hugs with lots of accompanying inappropriate touching.
I woke up this morning feeling kind of odd. I couldn't quite figure out why either.
Could it be that I am still sick with that damn Cold?
Did I sleep wrong on my head or something?
Is there a Carbon Monoxide leak in the house?
Did I really drink half of that bottle of Vodka last night?
Turns out that I actually DID drink an obscene amount of Vodka. Granted, recent events in my life kind of called for it, but FUCK ME, half the bottle's probably way too much at once.
Especially when I come cruising into work an hour late... and still drunk.
Classy.
Actually, truly \"classy\" is tripping as I enter my cube, bouncing off my chair and into the whiteboard while giggling madly.
The number of ways that I continue to astound myself grows each and every day.
At the moment, for example, I'm astounded that I made it through today, walking, talking, and eating like a normal person, while my head is literally off-set on my shoulders by about a foot (least that's what it feels like) and my stomach has been balled up so tight that any force applied to it would surely result in massive spewage.
Imagine poking the Pillsbury Doughboy and instead of emitting an endearing giggle, he bursts forth with stomach juices. Not cool.
My physical condition was only helped by a burger that dripped enough grease to lube the chassis of my truck, and fries that Good Times has highly appropriately dubbed, \"wild.\"
Immediately after shrinking my arterial passageways, I began to feel better.
Until the fucking fire alarm went off.
My cube is roughly 8 feet from that blaring motherfucker and when it started screaming... it hurt me.
It didn't help that HeliumHead the Receptionist shouted over the P.A. that it was only a test and that it wasn't necessary to exit the building. Tears were forming through my scrunched-shut eyes, and all I truly wished to do was leave as hastily as possible. Headfirst through our 6th floor windows, if necessary.
That's when I clapped both of my hands over my ears as hard as I could.
TOO hard, I found out, as I'm fairly certain my head almost burst like one of Gallagher's Watermelons.
I also felt a brief moment of panic when I realized that I could now hear nothing. NOTHING.
\"Fuck,\" my inner-voice said as the hot fire of shame crept up my face, \"I've just burst both my eardrums. I'm now deaf.\"
I was preparing for a life of witnessing extremely poor hand-gesturing when that same voice gently suggested to me, \"You're not deaf, you Dickhead. The alarm just turned off.\"
I'm not really much of a music fan, compulsively purchasing CDs and such, but I'm a firm proponent of supporting your local music scenes, so when I was last in Montana, I picked up The Clintons latest CD. I'd heard a snippet of one song about wearing a G-string in downtown Baltimore, and that was enough for me.
Not only are these guys from my native Montana, but they're good. They're my new Favoritest Bandenest Ever.
I know Jack Shit about music classifications, but they're kind of like Barenaked Ladies, I guess.
Fuck, I don't know, they rock, BUY them.
I was listening to their CD \"Kinky\" at work and decided that I should probably start singing the correct lyrics instead of whatever makes the least amount of sense and gets me to giggle.
I was checking out the band members profiles when I ran across a name that struck a chord of recognition. It took me a full minute (because I'm pretty fucking dumb sometimes) before I figured out that I went to Grade School with the guy that plays the bass guitar.
I realize that Montana has like, 12 people, but still, the World is crazy small. First that wackiness on Saturday, and now the bassist in my new favorite band is the kid that I used to tell wild lies to about killing bears in my backyard and robbing convenience stores with a pellet gun.
I may or may not have peeked in on his sister in the shower too, I'm not sayin'.
Seriously, go buy their CDs, they're a good deal if you get them here and not from those rotten cockbags at Amazon. You can probably guess where I purchased mine without shopping around.
Fuckbugger.
All the guys in the band have blogs too, so I'm not feeling as special anymore about my fame. I mean, these guys are freaking Rock Stars and here I am just writing about kilts and getting drunk and shit.
I just found out that my old Elementary School Chum isn't even in the band anymore, so I can't even be a Rock Star by association.
But hey, I can play the bass guitar.
Actually, I can't.
I can fake it through an audition for the band though.
I mean Hell, they ARE just Montanans. If I bring 'em beer, a snowblower, and a couple of sheep, they'll probably make me their manager and give me first dibs on all their groupies.
Oh, The King Pimpin Ninja of Diaryland hooked me up, and I'm all registered and shit.
This place is now officially The JuddHole.
You can send me emails too, at any address you want. I already checked, and fucknugget, hamburgerbuns, and monkeynuts all show up in my InBox.
How cool is that?
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.My father asked me for a favor.
I've written in here about my brother, the coolest human on the planet, and my mother, the second coolest, but I've barely mentioned my father unless it was in conjunction with the phrase \"worthless piss of a...\"
My father.
A Texan, born and raised, who relocated to Podunk, Montana, on a whim and the promise of a free building for his medical practice as well as an insanely good deal on a huge house in a small-ass Montana town.
Not quite possessing of the \"nuclear\" family, as he had just adopted his new wife's two-year old boy, he was patient and waited 4 years before they conceived of his only biological child... me.
5 year passed, and he had become so absorbed in his role as a \"healer\" and \"the doctor,\" that he never noticed how unhappy his wife was, and how she was growing away from him.
He was caught completely unaware when she left him for another woman.
The ensuing court battle for custody of their two children was ugly, to say the least. Many tears were shed, many sessions with \"professionals\" were held, and the youngest child, myself at 5 years old, retained absolutely no memory of any of those proceedings.
His wife moved away, maintaining only weekend visitation rights while he had sole custody of me and my brother.
He was ill-equipped to raise two boys on his own, and we were both the extremely fortunate recipients of the \"village-raises-the-child\" system that only a small town seems to be capable of.
I found it odd when my brother actually sat down and shared a meal with my father and I, so when he finally left for college, it meant little more to me than I got to move into the basement apartment that he previously inhabited.
I figured myself as lucky, being granted such freedom while growing up, as I only had to inform my father of where I would be and for what duration, and I could absolutely do as I pleased.
He only seemed to pay attention when I made him \"look bad\" in the public eye. If I did bad shit that nobody ever knew about, he didn't seem to care that much.
When I was 15, he made the mistake of telling me a week in advance that he would be out of town for the weekend, and I would be looking after myself.
I did what any peer-acceptance-seeking sophomore in High School would have done.
I had a party that blew that fucking town UP.
It was an absolute blast, for all involved, but the unfortunate side-effect was that it tore my father's house to shreds.
He was pissed, to say the least, but he didn't shout, he didn't throw things, he didn't rant and rave.
He didn't even ground me.
He simply pulled me aside, in the middle of our gravel driveway, and explained, very diplomatically, that I had done the unforgivable, and disrespected his belongings in his own home.
I was told that we were no longer father and son, but that our relationship was that of \"roommates\" from now on. He explained that he couldn't continue being a \"father\" to me if I was to act as I had.
I went to live on my friend Robert's ranch the next day. I was there for two months before my father asked me if I planned on spending any time at \"home\" again.
I asked him why, and he told me that he had been giving Robert's family money for my \"room and board\" and it was starting to get expensive.
I told him that I was earning my keep on Robert's ranch, that I would earn my way in this life, and that I didn't need a \"goddam dime\" from him, ever again.
I found out later that he'd given them $200, and that they refused to take it.
I used my first month's wages from working at a neighboring ranch to buy a bull at auction, and I sold it a year later for enough money to buy my very own truck.
I eventually started spending more time at \"home\" in my own apartment in the basement, and soon came to enjoy the freedom of my own living space with almost no parental supervision.
As I came to appreciate this though, so did every swinging dick in town, and I ended up \"loaning\" out my room to wayward lovers so much that it became known as, \"The Love Palace.\"
I would have lived full-time at Robert's family's ranch, except his beloved girlfriend lived but a few blocks from me in town, and he utilized \"The Love Palace\" more than the entire football team.
After two and a half solid years of buying my own groceries, clothes, gas, and comic books, I finally graduated High School, and moved in with AdoptedBrother and his father outside of Billings. I cooked and bartended at a shithole bar while saving up money for college. I'd been accepted at Texas A&M and it wasn't looking like it was going to be affordable, but I was going to attend there if it broke me for life.
At the end of the summer, my brother took a week off of work, came to Montana, and helped me pack up my meager belongings for our trip to A&M, where he also attended.
I loaded everything I owned into the back of my '88 Ford Ranger, kissed my dogs goodbye, and prepared to leave my hometown forever.
My father stopped us at the front door.
He had in his hands a stack of Savings Bonds that he'd been purchasing, as a tax write-off or something, for the majority of my life. They were all in my name, and he told me that they had always been intended for my college funding.
Not knowing anything about Savings Bonds, I counted them all at face value, and became excited that he'd just handed me $10,000 in cash.
He gave me a brief hug and said, \"Good luck.\"
I thanked him and we left, my brother never making physical contact with him during his entire visit.
At the bank in College Station, we found out that bonds need to \"mature\" to achieve full face-value, and that ours were only worth about $2,500.
While I figured this was enough to get me started into my college/work career, my opportunistic brother talked me into \"investing\" in his side-business and promised me that I would never have to hold down a job while school would be \"paid for in full.\"
4 years later, I was still as broke as the day I gave my brother that money, and found myself pulling parts at the salvage yard my brother managed, making slightly over minimum wage and working with not a single soul that spoke English (Spanglish or Ghetto were the only choices).
I left for Denver, Colorado in the summer of '97, with $137 in my pocket, and everything I owned, now including a small brown bitchdog, packed into my '88 Ford Ranger.
The longest period of time I'd spent in my life with my mother since I was a child, was the 3 months that I lived in her basement in Denver, saving up for an apartment and searching for a decent job and a local school that would accept me.
I worked and slaved away at CU-Denver, eventually receiving my degree in '01, and landing a solid job. I bought a new truck, paid off some debt, and bought a house with The (ex)Girl within a year.
My contact with my father had diminished to two phone conversations a year, one around my birthday and one around Christmas. He remarried, and his wife, my stepmother, whom I love to death, began pestering me to visit more often.
My father never asked me for a thing, much like I never asked him for a thing.
A couple years ago, my stepmother was diagnosed with breast cancer.
As testament to her feisty nature, she expressed nothing but extreme annoyance at this faceless thing that sought to interrupt her life without permission. But it laid her quite low, and things were iffy for a long while.
She recovered though, her hair grew back, and her piss-and-vinegar personality once again shined through.
We grew fairly close during this time and I'm fond of saying that the only thing that I really can't stand about her, is that she married him. Other than that, she's great.
My father called me tonight. He never calls, but he called tonight.
He wasn't kept \"in the loop\" during the \"break-up\" of me and The Girl, and only found out tangentially, so he thought he would \"make a more concerted effort at communication\" and give me his recent news himself.
My stepmother's found a lump again. They're checking her out as I write this.
For the first time in my life, he asked something of me.
He asked that I pray for her.
That hardened, judgmental, self-righteous, prick that I grew up with, had his voice cracking on the phone, as he asked me to keep his beloved wife in my prayers tonight, for she will most likely need them.
I told him I would pray, though I haven't done so in 12 years and have no real religious beliefs.
I told him I would because he asked me to.
I find myself wondering at what age any of us can ever reach before we stop seeking approval from the gruff, controlling men that had such power over our early lives.
I sat on the back patio, smoking a cigarette, and wondered what had changed about me that meant I was finally \"grown up\" and what had changed about my father that meant he could finally tell me that I had built a good life and that I was a good man.
What changed with us that he could call and finally ask something of me?
Things haven't been easy for me lately, and I'm still given to seemingly random fits of depression, so I only noticed the tears when they made a wet, thumping noise on my denim jacket.
It was then that I realized I've been waiting 25 years to hear such simple words from one person...
\"I'm proud of you, son.\"
If my stepmother knew I was asking this, she would be genuinely pissed, so I'm not going to actually ASK, but...
Do me a small favor, and just put your thoughts towards someone close to you right now. If you know anybody that is facing something tough ahead, give them a little extra, for me.
I'd sure appreciate it.