So my mother’s birthday is tomorrow and naturally — as is my ilk of late, I blew off any level of adult responsibility in purchasing and shipping a carefully selected gift. I did not say ‘choice gift’ because it is very challenging to gift wrap a booby-trapped revolver without fingerprints and UPS tracking codes. Ever since 9/11 the postal service is touchy about shipping a box filled with rattlesnakes and/or guns. Go figure.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh. So I blew off shopping and I blew off wrapping the goddamn gift till the very last-minute. Yesterday at my local global pack mail center I learned that to overnight the goddamn box would be around $90 bucks. With just a day delay (i.e., read as: miss her actual birthday date to arrive the NEXT day) the balance due was around $40. Her gift will arrive post-birthday and I’m just fine with that.
I’ve spent a lifetime tip-toeing on the fragile eggshells of her life to shield her from any distasteful or upsetting news. I suppose by distasteful I’m suggesting the mere mention that I’ve sucked a cock or two in my lifetime. But let’s not tarry along the sordid path of my life, no, let’s not.
I mean, like, I feel bad that her gift will arrive late but as you all well know I don’t have the ambition to manage the day-to-day routines that used to be, well, so manageable. I fulfill my Monday-thru-Friday job requirements but once I hit my apartment Friday evening the wheels fall off. The dry cleaner is less than 50-yards away. Why, if I was so inclined I could stand in my living room windows and wag my cock at the delivery vans loading and unloading everyone’s laundry. That’s how close I am. Still, I have 3-dozen dress shirts flung over the bedroom door crying silent tears of last week’s GUCCI fragrance.
But back to mother’s late gift. Fuck. Her. You know, I’ve always subscribed that as adults we are in control of our own destinies. I was never one to milk that ‘blame the parents’ psycho babble bullshit as to why some folks are all shiny go-getters and nicey-nice goodness while others take it up the ass for a pinch of black tar heroin. Lately I’m starting to shift on my axis though; maybe mother did this to me. And by ‘did this to me’ I mean my overall middle-aged sourpuss attitude that clouds my thinking for everyone who knocks on my door or rings my phone. You want some piece of me? When was the last time someone rang you up to give you something? See? Never. No, mostly the world takes. And uses. And spits aside the bits that provide no nutrients or sustenance. Twenty years on the job? Here’s your layoff notice and have a great day!
I used to think I was all Martha Stewart goodness in my quest for the perfect gift and the crisp corners made with quality foil papers. Mother won’t care too much that her gift arrives a day later. And if she does, well, that’s too fucking sad for her. Maybe she shouldn’t have back-handed me so much as a teen. And infused my life with her imagined neuroses and paralyzing insecurities that I have no answers or solutions for let alone any idea of where to begin a line of questioning.