Still Waiting

A year ago today I wrote about how "waiting is the hardest part," quoting Tom Petty.

I also invoked George Harrison's "It's takes so long my Lord."

Like today, it was a cold and rainy morning though the sun battled mightily for supremacy in a clouded sky.

I was in a stuck place, impatiently waiting on others to get back to me.

They weren't and it was really getting under my skin!

I was trying to holy about it, saying prayers and finding hope in the tiniest of things.

A lone bird perched on a wet limb burst out in a Hymn of Praise and I took it as a sign from God that everything was working out.

Well, a year's passed and I'm still waiting on some things.

I feel stuck and it's really getting under my skin though I'm trying to be holy about it all though just now when a bird started singing outside I closed the sliding glass door not wanting to listen.

Impatiently scrolling on Spotify I listen to Tom Petty for the hundredth time in the last several days (the 1985 live version!) so I can commiserate with myself again.

Sarah's not here so I can commiserate with her again.

Besides she's as frustrated as I am.

So it's just me, Tom Petty, the dogs and God.

"Hey God," I say out loud. "Why is this taking so long?"

Laying at my feet Goddess sighs loudly.

"You are not speaking for God," I tell her so she rolls over wanting a belly rub and I give her one.

"Alright," I sigh sitting back down. "Time to get back to work ... waiting."

But somehow ... I don't know why or how ... it feels right ... faith-like ... the assurance of things hoped for ... the conviction of things not seen.

And the sun overcomes the clouds and the world is baptized in light.

A Repulsively Erotic Morning

Every single night, Winston, the Little Gay Dog (TLGD), prances into our bed room, lithely jumps on the bed and snuggles next to Sarah, fur touching skin.

It's repulsively erotic.

After licking himself, he balls up beside her bare back, falls asleep and purrs like a Pussy Cat.

Goddess sleeps on the floor in the doorway protecting us from whatever she fears may come in the night. She snores loudly and Winston, TLGD, ever-the-Diva, snarls with his eyes closed but Goddess could care less.

She's stoned.

Sarah can sleep through nuclear explosions, unless one of her girls whimpers or rolls over, then she bolts upright while some radar sensors beam through walls making certain her "little Blessings" are alright before immediately falling back into a deep sleep.

On the other hand, I could fall out of bed, hit the floor, burst into spontaneous combusted flames and she wouldn't even roll over.

That's our nights.

Every night.

Winston, TLGD, typically is staring at me when I open my eyes and the little Son-of-a-Bitch, and I mean that literally, yawns in my face.

He's having another of his "Cher" moments.

So I reach into the dresser Drawer, pull out the baggie with his balls inside and wave them in front of his face.

Sarah moans so I quickly put them back in the drawer.

Goddess is wide awake now wanting a snack.

Throwing Winston, TLGD, out of bed I snuggle with my wife.

He snarls.

I flip him the finger and snuggle Sarah tighter.

He licks himself then puts on a black sweater vest with pink words that read, "U R Why I Am GAY."

He smiles and prances away.

That's pretty much our wake up routine every day.

It's repulsively erotic.

What's your wake up routine?
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The World's Dog

"She's just the best dog ever," Chris says petting Goddess. "She's a community dog. She just loves everybody."

Chris is on his knees and Goddess is on her back. He's rubbing her belly. She's wagging her tail.

"Hell," he exclaims laughing, "she's the world's dog."

Chris works for Yates Astro Pest Control. A canister of bug poison rest on the floor while he returns Goddess' love.

"Now this one," he says turning his attention to Winston, the Little Gay Dog, "he's a little more high strung."

"He's a Diva," I fire. "Little son-of-a-bitch!"

"He doesn't bother Goddess."

"Nothing bothers Goddess."

Chris nods and stands.

"Let me tell you what the little bastard did last night," I say while writing him a check. "He loves Sarah and she lets him sleep next to her."

"NO," Chris gasps.

"I know," I say holding my hand in front of his face so he doesn't even go there.

"Well get this. The little son-of-a-bitch crawled under the covers with her last night. I put my arm around her in the middle of the night and grabbed where his balls used to be and woke up screaming in terror."

"Ouch," Chris winches leaning forward to cup himself in protection from Winston, the Little Gay Dog, wagging his tail wearing a black sweater reading "Christian Fundamentalists! The original bigots of the Anti-Gay movement."

"It didn't bother Goddess," I conclude.

We both stand in awkward silence.

There's nothing else to say.

"OK, I gotta go," he says quickly fetching the canister of poison. "I'm gonna spray outside so keep Goddess in for a couple of hours."

"What about Winston?" I ask.

"Your call," he yells sprinting down the stairs.
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Friday at the office just kills me!

On Fridays people don't read my stuff.

I'm savvy enough of a social media guy to occasionally read the tracking of whose reading what I write. It's looks pretty good except on Fridays when the lines on the graph plummet.

On Friday's you people suck.


I don't blame you.

We're all excited it's Friday.

Who want to read?

Who wants to do much anything except ... PARTY!!!!! ... however you define it.

But it's not officially the weekend yet. I have lots of work to do today.

Making it worse, the managing partner is in her office, clamoring around and banging stuff. Occasionally she glares this way so I'm trying to look very busy.

Goddess is passed out in the kitchen and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is wearing a sweater vest that reads, "Homosexual Agenda ... spend time with the family ... be treated equally ... buy milk" while he kisses the managing partner's ass.

His nose is so freaking brown!

Literally!

The little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally too)!

Gypsy, the gender confused, paranoid personality disordered cat, is giving himself a bath in the kitchen sink which is just ... bizarre.

The Cat Lady has the day off and is on her back deck wearing a dirty yellow bathrobe, fuzzy pink slippers, and a blue towel wrapped around her head so she looks like Marge Simpson on meth. She's staring at a weed whacker. Her buff boyfriend of the week is lighting candles in her bedroom. I'm trying very hard to not think about what they're up to.

I just threw up in my mouth a little thinking about it.

The managing partner just stormed out of my outdoor office. She told me a bunch of stuff, apparently each thing important, but I have no idea what she said.

I'm trying to concentrate on writing.

Besides it's Pirate Fest on Tybee Island and I wonder how we're dressing. Our friend Wen McNally is evidently wearing an eye patch and flip flops.

It's going to be hard for Sarah and I to top that costume!

Winston storms into my office, lays at my feet and starts licking his G-spot.

I guess his weekend is starting early.

I wish mine could too but I have to finish this blog no one's going to read anyway.

It's Friday.

Monday Morning Staff Meeting

The managing partner has a meeting at the other end of Corporate Headquarters and isn't at the staff meeting I've just called to order.

Sitting at the conference table under the umbrella on the Beloved Back deck, I'm taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

To my left is Winston, the little gay dog, in a pink sweater vest that reads, "Closet? What closet?" Wearing sunglasses, he's hyper and wants me to get started because he's got other things to do.

Beside him Goddess is passed out and snores in the chair with empty bags of Doritos littered on the floor. She was here when I arrived, finishing her hourly medical treatment of medicinal marijuana for the glaucoma she swears she has.

At the opposite end of the table is My Guardian Angel who looks terrible, taking long drags off her cigarette followed by sips from a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon. She seems distracted and lost in thought. Her white robe is dirty, the blue stole wrinkled, her long black hair hasn't been washed in weeks and hangs limp in her face as she blows halos in the air.

The Cat Lady wears her dingy yellow bath robe with a blue towel wrapped around her head. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth and cat hair falls every time she moves. Smelling like kitty litter, she's looking into her yard smiling at the thirty or so feral cats wandering everywhere. Her buff boyfriend of the week is shaving his chest and legs and keeps winking at her.

On my immediate right is Gypsy, the gender confused cat, obviously wondering why he's here at all. Gypsy normally shies away from most everything because of his paranoid personality disorder. He and Winston, the little gay dog, don't get along and both constantly vie for the managing partner's attention.

"All right," I say, "let's get started."

"Screw you!" my Guardian Angel snaps.

Gypsy darts from the table and runs downstairs causing the Cat Lady to jump up and run after him leaving a blanket of cat hair raining down on us.

Winston, the little gay dog, takes this as a good sign and flashes his evil genius smile while fumbling for nail polish in his man purse.

Startled, Goddess wakes up, yawns and says, "People! Please! Why can't we all just get along?"

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

My Guardian Angel angrily flips me the finger.

"Is everything alright out there?" the managing partner yells from the other end of Corporate Headquarters.

"Yes Dear," I lovingly answer.

The Cat Lady is chasing Gypsy screeching, "HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!"

Goddess rolls another Dobie and Winston, the little gay dog, paints his nails orange ... because the little Son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) knows I hate that color. My Guardian Angel throws another empty beer can in the back yard and another magically appears from nowhere.

I sigh heavily.

It's a Monday," I mutter under my breath.

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