Gold Digging B...

I once described my generosity, on a scale, to a good friend like this:

“You want a cigarette from me? OK, no problem...here ya go.”

“You need a ride home? Wellll....OK, get in.” (Though I am quietly thinking how far out of the way it is for me)

“You need a kidney? Wow, I'll have to really think on this one.” Though if you're close to me, in dire straits and work on my idea of a 'helping' morality....I'll probably do it.

And finally if someone asks me.

“Can I have $20?” I'll say...

“Go FUCK YOUR SELF!!!!”

I suppose being raised by a CPA/Comptroller/Loan Officer/Child of the Depression parent did this to me.

Which is why gold diggers never did have too much success with me. Which is funny because I went with three of them in my lifetime. (All failed relationships, of course. I turned out to be a dry well and they left)

The trick to being a Gold Digger is to be very subtle, you NEVER ask for money. You especially don't ask for a new car outright either. Then get mad and throw a TV remote at the boyfriend when he says “No.” You act as if money isn't really of consequence but you condition the sucker, I mean boyfriend, by humbly accepting all gifts and freebies that you never asked for. Never turn them down and leave that moment hanging w/o any real reciprocity. You leave it open with the possible future payback. AKA: “Keeping the gate open.”

Any reciprocation will never be with American dollars but with a different currency, the on her back variety, to which, in her mind, isn't really much of a liability or loss anyways. (Definition? She's been through so many guys it no longer seems to matter now anymore. Emotionally and sexually cynical and burnt out)

It's delicate act to pull off for any length of time but there are a few who are artists at it.

The Two Hannahs.

I went with two girls named Hannah, both separated by decades but were both always looking for that free ride.

I should've been aware of Hannah #1 back then because she had come from a failed relationship after dating a millionaire real estate developer for about three years. I had known, and saw it all basically happen as she was a neighbor and I'd hear the stories. She was 18 and he was about to turn 40 when they first met. His treasure came from flipping commercial real estate and had a penchant for women way younger than he. Hannah found him out and tried to tie her Little Red Wagon to him. This, for her, became three years worth of free cocaine, free trips to the Caribbean and moving into his nice house in Rehoboth. I once overheard her talking to a girl friend of hers that, “Oh, I'll do it all, in my face, on my back...with another girl so he can watch...as long as I'm #1 one in his life..”

That's pretty mercenary for a 21 year old girl and a bit young to be that aware.

Well, near the end of three years there was nothing but arguments, visits by the Rehoboth police and finally her being kicked out of his life. Within one week a new girl had replaced her, which means this new girl was in the picture for a while, secretly of course.

Hannah #1 was 21 at the time and from what I could tell, had become too “old” in his eyes and was replaced by a 19 year old. This would turn out to be the case for all others in this guy's life.

So Hannah1 is now free. I really did like her because she was very spontaneous, lively and a real hellion. I liked hellions because I was the opposite. For me, life is meant to be tread carefully because of all those landmines, ruts, gopher holes and razor ribbon can snag you. If you've ever had your life upended for a few years by stepping on one of life's mines...you tend to be careful where you step from that point on.

A few hellions I've found, tend to escape without so much as a scratch when they blow up their own lives. It's gotta be luck or some very odd skill I can't locate in them. Hannah could to that and I liked the roller coaster ride she provided.

But...

Hannah liked her money, well, other people's money to be exact and as we hung out, I noticed that the restaurants she wanted to go to tended to get pricier and pricier. My radar one day came “on” when we were in Filene's in Emerald Square mall where she was looking at some pendant, ooing and ahhing over it. I suppose it was pretty. What do I know of jewelry except that pendant weighed about $300 in gold. After the girl had put it back in it's display case and we walked on, I saw Hannah's face pouting like a little girl denied her ice cream. She hadn't outright asked me to get it but was expecting me to “get the message” that she liked it so much that I'd pick it up for her.

Nope. Fuck that. My CV joints in my Dodge 400 convertible wanted money too and it had first dibs. I didn't have inexhaustible resources like her previous beau.

Summer romances end in September for some reason. Playtime is over as the beaches close up and the days shorten. Hannah1 did the same with me, I was put away. In a month's time she had found her true love finally. An owner a medical supply/oxygen rental business. She fell in love with his assets, sorry, I mean him and dated him for about a year when that blew up as well. He was older and from what I saw, a little weary of life and got tired of dealing with her over hellion ways. She could be hard to handle at times because of her immaturity. How often do you want the police at your business because everyone can hear the screamfest and possible domestic violence?

Today? She's just turned 50 and out of the dating game. She can't snag anymore Rhett Butler's because any college age girl can out compete her in an instant. She never did bag the rich guy for the happily ever after dream princess life. She's been enslaved to the work a day life and sipping wine a bit too much.

Hannah # 2

Hannah2 was dirt poor, no real occupational skills with dreams of being well off. But that didn't include putting the effort into getting job skills. She was 30 when I met her and had spent her life working at pet shops and veterinarians as an assistant. She was also damned cute looking and she too had that black streak I liked, unpredictability. With the right amount of cinnamon schnapps, she was up for anything.

Since she was dirt poor, she drove a shitbox that was rusting slowly away and would break down from time to time. She was tired of having to fix it and wanted a newer car by the time I had met her. The repairs the car needed weren't wallet busting but just a common event that kept cropping up.

One night at her apartment in Riverside, she was hinting heavily about getting a new car, that year's model. I mean hinting in that I should pay for it. I was sitting on the couch, inwardly rolling my eyes in my head while I heard this and finally stood up and told her, “No, I'm not spending $15,000+ on you.”

I walked towards her kitchen when I hear a faint “fuck you” and I turned around and felt something smack my mouth. I didn't know what hit me but I saw a TV remote on the floor that wasn't there a half a second ago. Then I felt that funny warm watery feeling dripping down my chin. I swiped my chin with my hand and saw the blood.

She was so pissed with my denial she had whipped the remote at me. It was great timing as I was turning around and it nailed my lower lip. It was split open!

By then she was standing up, yelling, “YOU'VE go the money! You can buy it!”

I stood there in shock. “What major balls!” I thought.

“No way would I spend thousands on a whore!” I said. I said that in that I wouldn't spend huge sums of money on a whore, a newish girlfriend (her) or possibly even my own damn Mother had she needed a new car. But because I don't think sometimes when I open my mouth and everyone misinterprets what I say, she says...

“I'm a whore??!!”

Lucky I didn't answer that but my silence just set her off further.

“Answer me! You calling me a whore?”

Do you know how I wanted to say she was one? To confirm it for her so she'd hit the roof? Really toss gas on the fire and watch her implode?

I made the smarter decision and left.

Two days later I'm at work, a place called PV. Everyone noticed the healing slit on my lip. If you work with the same people for years upon years, they tend to easily notice if you have a new, tiny freckle forming on your left ear. So I have to explain the cut lip.

Later in the office I'm telling the same story to D, who spins around in his chair and speaks his final and one-word opinion of her.

“Whore...” he says.

So it wasn't just me!

Hannah2 left eventually and now I hear she's semi-happy with a divorced guy in Taunton who does something with the seafood markets out on the Cape. She drives a newer version of a shitbox now and doesn't work at any vet's office. Well, she got half of what she wanted.

Last one and it's just a vignette.

I use my kitchen table as a workbench, desk, shelf and whatever. It also means I keep bills, financial statements and a lot of other shit there in the open. I like having that stuff easily available.

A “Not Hannah at All,” a girl I knew a few years ago, was sitting at it with me and we were talking. I then noticed she was putting some exertion in looking at a sheet of paper on the other side of the table. I could tell she was straining to read it, people show everything on their face you know. She was straining to read it because it was upside down to her. It was my IRA statement from T Rowe Price.

She was trying to find that final line: Total Shares/Total NAV for the month.

In my head I nearly screamed, “Jesus H Christ, how OBVIOUS can you be!”

Look, I know anyone would read that if it was left out in the open, I would too, but most wouldn't be so blatant about it either. Most would wait for a moment when no one would see them look. “Not Hannah #3” was pretty shameless about it though.

So, kudos to you women who make your own way!

Use By Date

You've all seen it. Pretty girls who have that political capital to make doors open, or at least to have them held open for them. Along with that, they have that ability to charm which is learned at a young age. Most girls are either wired with that at birth or come to learn that quick, usually by kindergarten. So take your pretty girl and have her flash an attentive look at someone, with a mile wide smile and all of a sudden she gets the date/job/lower interest rate loan while the rest of the girls are relegated back to the pig wallow to claw and fight for the rest of the scraps.

My Dad once opined to my Mom that women who didn't marry by 30 were losers. For men, he said if a guy didn't “make it” by 40, he was a loser. I didn't understand this till years later when I saw a few girls, who were pressing 30, freak out and got married, pregnant and acquired that 30 year mortgage. For guys, it was more of a rusting that occurred over 40 if they didn't have either the cash and/or career success. By the time they hit 45 and if they were still doing menial labor, everyone around them quietly adjudged them failures.

“Holy Shit Dad! You were right! I get it now!” Your pretty girls married way prior to 30, scoring the best guy they could and retired early as that old Janis Ian song goes.

**

Chellos is a a decent restaurant in only that their food has an amazing consistent quality. Their burgers taste the same as they did when I was five years old and for me, it holds a nostalgic quality. It's also a nice place to go if I'm too lazy to cook something decent for myself. I'll cook off a gallon sized pot luck, last-for-three-days kinda meal and I get bored with that eventually.

So, there I am at the bar at the East Providence Chello's on Newport Ave munching away on steak fries when I hear a familiar voice. I lean over to peer around the beer taps and I see her, Natalie. I don't say anything nor try to alert her to my presence and honestly, it's been so many decades now that both of us would have to do some mental detective work to rekindle those memories. I continue to munch away as I spied.

Natalie was a real Prom Queen of the East Providence High school back then. We had come to know her when some EP kids would come by Slater Park to hang out. Of course, all the guys would be entranced by her looks. It's too bad you girls can't sense what we guys feel when we see a very beautiful girl. It's hard to put into words. You'd be surprised at it and then understand why some of us actually sigh when we see it. We don't control that reaction either, it comes up from out of nowhere in us.

Anyways, Natalie, as a teen, looked like a slightly, just slightly ugly version of Helena Bonham Cater when she was young. 

 

But not anymore. Years have passed. Her beauty had a “sell by date” and I was close enough to see life had etched it's abuse on her face. That's the way time works. Fresh leather car seats turn to creases in time and so does everything else. When Natalie got up to steal a set plate from a neighboring table, she had packed on 50 or so more pounds from what I could see. From what I know and heard over time and it's decent intelligence (gossip), she had married, had a son, divorced, married again and divorced again. She was still fixing hair at various salons in EP and Seekonk for a living.

I wasn't surprised by that at all, not at my age. Everyone I know at this age has porked out, lost hair, gone gray, divorced, blown through relationship after relationship, lost their perky titties or that figure. That's age. That's how things go.

But what did surprise me was that she was still “holding court.” She was at the end of that bar with four other girls and directing it all. The conversation, commenting on the food and leading the pack of girls there as any alpha cheerleader would. The restaurant is also a stop for EP cops and when a couple came in, Natalie gets off the stool in excitement, with a bit of a shrill scream, to greet them and shepherd them to her gaggle who's at that end of the bar. Again, she directs all the action that's happening now.

“Wow..You're still at it!” I think. “Still trying to control it all. You're still 18 and Prom Queen.”

Age is hard on women. For us guys, it' isn't illegal to age. We get “distinguished.” We can get away with dating some girl half our age if we had the chops to pull it off. Our pressures are different and like I said, it's money/power that we're measured by. Do I honestly believe that? No. We're all worthy in our own right by whatever positive traits we own. But you know how society is, how people are. We tend to glorify beauty or power.

You see...we never leave high school, we never graduate...it repeats!

And women are held to a standard of beauty that is taken away, sooo slowly, with time. I've seen many times where a guy's initial attention is drawn away from the 40 year old women he's talking to, to the college girl who happens to be in close proximity. At work one time, where we used to go out back and smoke cigs or take a break, I watched a woman from the business office just glare and I mean glare, at the 18 year old hot and tight diet aid who was wearing yoga pants. I sat there and watched. I read her face and on it was written jealousy raised to the 100^th power.

This same diet aid complained of being sick of guys who constantly hit her up too. Our 40+ business office women nearly burst out of her skin when she heard that. It wasn't said intentionally either, this pretty teen girl who hadn't the experience to deal with it, had a hard time with all that attention.

**

So there was Natalie in Chello's. I guess losing your crown due to aging isn't fun and you clutch and grasp to keep it there, or at least replay your past as you knew it, to this day. The script she played and acted worked so well then, why give it up? It brought happiness.

I finished my burger, paid the bill and left. Going out the door I nearly stumbled on the steps going down due to my ever present kluztiness. A young waitress stationed near the door, the greeter, rushed towards me then stopped when she realized I had regained my footing.

“I”m fine” I say.

“Oh..I was scared for a moment...I thought...but your OK!” she said, trailing off.

Her face was smiling, calm and she felt safe. I can tell now, you get old and can read faces. She reacted to me like I was her Gran Dad. 

 

Loyalty

(If this seems sprawling and loose, it is. It's just a first draft)

I once knew an old co-worker/friend from decades ago in my first career in social work. I had won the job even before I graduated college, but finding out working full time and going to school full time was a feat to pull off in of itself. B, I'll call him, wasn't a college grad but someone who was hired off the streets. He was a conscientious employee, fairly open with himself but suffered from a desperate need to be liked, which became annoying at times.

No matter how many times you tried to tell him that, “you weren't angry with him” or disliked him he had to have reassurance within the hour. I once finally said, “B, if you keep asking, I will hate you!” That usually shut him up for some time at least.

Other than that, he would be there for you if you needed help. Help being the use of his pick up truck, have a beer with or just talk to, though you had to wade through his strange social skills. Many people just didn't bother to understand that but if you watched long enough, you could decipher just what it was he was doing, how he conversed and you could finally translate him.

I'm a firm believer in that you could learn about a person, or a family, on the first entrance into their home. I do what everyone does, you do a quick scan of the place and immediate start formulating an idea of who these people are. Do they stack up to your expectations? It's superficial I know but we all do it and “first times” with anything you have to rely on what little information you have. You judge the book by it's cover for now and amend that judgment as you learn newer things about them later. Most times the verdict on them becomes kinder.

When my brother was alive, he had a friend, an art historian from RISD who wanted to tour our home. I was at first hesitant but it's too late to bar him from doing so. It's rude. The other thing is that your home is a sort of a “the mask is off” display of who you really are, how you live. Once he finished walking around, pulling open drawers and such, he says: “This home is fractured and corroborate...but there are some really interesting spots, full of literature, music, odd and ends you could explore for hours!”

OK, you just convicted my brother and I of having great hobbies but fucked up pasts.

B lived with his parents still and the first time I saw the inside of his house I was taken aback. It was the filthiest home I'd ever seen. The kitchen counters had years of grim on them and on top of that was piled dishes, 14 year old tax returns, tools and various other junk. In one corner was a oversized wood stove that blasted enough heat like a smelter and kinda lifted the miasma of the grime into the air. It was reminiscent of mildew.

He gave me a tour of the home's rooms and to get to them, you followed a trail like in the woods. Along the sides of the halls, in the rooms too, was piled stuff they could not throw out. Any open space that was left was the trail.

So we sat and talked for a bit and I could see years of pathology in this family. I didn't need to know the specifics but you could sense the contagion in that home. I wasn't creeped out but the longer I sat there, the more I began to see.

Something happened to this family...many things...all dark. After seeing this, I never pressed for details. It didn't effect my life nor did I want to know.

Life does what it does and people separate, find new jobs and whatnot. B and I went our ways for over a decade when by a weird chance, we were both applying for a job at Arbor Psychiatric hospital in Attleboro, I was looking for part time, perhaps to see how the old career was. B had never left it and was looking for better digs.

So we start up a small friendship again. Mainly we met up every two or so weeks at a restaurant to chat it up. He hadn't changed a bit.

“What? Did I piss you off? Did I say something?” B says, grappling for approval.

“Nooo, B, You never said anything...Don't worry, you don't anger me at all.” I tell him, for the umpteenth time.

I have to say this though. He did change a bit, for the worse. He then started to try to prove my loyalty as a friend with actual “shit tests.” I didn't see it coming and when I figured it out later, I didn't care either that he had tried. I wasn't that invested with him because so many years HAD passed. Had it been someone I knew currently and dearly, oh..then those shit tests would have mattered.

He had told me he needed help to move some furniture from his home to the dump on an upcoming Saturday. I gave a half hearted, “Ok, sure...” and let it dwindle at that.

“Great, you can always count on a FRIEND to help you move furniture!” he said.

I didn't realize that was the test. Would I even pass?

So that Saturday comes and right at 10 AM he calls like he said he would. I had forgotten all about it and was sitting there in my chair, dead tired and not too motivated to do much beyond breathing. I let the phone ring till he gave up. I was happy to be left alone to recover from working. Perhaps in an hour or two I would rouse myself up to do something.

A couple of weeks later passed and I had not heard from him. So I call, get no answer and finally go by his house. I knock on the door and there is no answer. I finally left a note under his windshield wiper to say I had come by and explained that I was just beat that Saturday he had called.

I never heard from him again.

I had failed the test.

**

I've come across a few scant others in my life who were like that. Their radar is on high, scanning for the least hint of betrayal and use that as a reason to ditch your faithless ass forever. I know what it is. In the past they've been used, abused horribly. So in defense, they MUST find people who are 100% trustworthy and loyal. The problem occurs is that life, people are all shades of gray with a myriad of reasons why they can fail you, for small or great reasons. But to these people like B, it's 100% or nothing. They're not easy to deal with nor is it easy to try to explain to them how small reasons are just that, small reasons and why you can't be Superman to them every time, all the time. Well, that reason ain't good enough for them.

**

So, several years ago, being the snoop that I am, I stalk people on the internet, looking them up with various search engines to see what they're up to. I looked up B to see where he ended up.

I came across an obituary that was three years dated at the time. There was his picture, obit and the various condolences to his only living relative, his brother. “Holy SHIT! He's DEAD!”

After a few moments of processing that, I really wasn't surprised. He came from a tough background and had alluded to suicide even back in '87 when I had first met him. The obit didn't say it was suicide but I knew. He was always healthy as a horse and never abused anything. I guess he had had enough.

Do I feel guilty? No. You can't save everyone. You can't be perfect to everyone either. And IF you try to 'fix' someone, you are up against a Jupiter-like tide of past devastation that happened decades ago. You need a team of trauma therapists, and a year, to somewhat fix a mess like that. Then, in my naivete, I had tried to reach him with reason, with 1 +1 = 2. The problem is that damaged people can't accept logic, their world was twisted into irrationality long ago and logic is Mandarin Chinese to them. You don't speak their language.

There's another I knew, not soo long ago, who I tried to reach. The same thing happened once again. They didn't “get it.” I steered her to a bevy of therapists who I knew dealt with these issues. She visited them and perhaps, this one will salvage a life that's worth calling enjoyable.

No Title

When I first heard the news about Cheryl's murder, a vague memory grew of her, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It finally became evident when a thought from the back of my head came fast forward. She had a brother who I knew.

Pow! A thousand memories came back in an instant. I did know her!

The first time I had met her was when K, Jim and I bounded down the stairs from his bedroom to head for the “One Way” in Slater park. The bottom of the stairs ended in the kitchen and by the refrigerator a girl turns around. She was tilting a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew to her mouth and I was quite taken. She was one of those girls who was born lovely and appealing.

Up to then, I never knew K had a sister.

However, she shot me a look like she just saw Big Foot and I knew why. I said, “Yeah, I know...I need a haircut.” My hair was awfully long and Kennedy-esque tousled (I'm being kind to myself here. Many times, I let the wind comb my hair!). She laughed and suggested that I use a weed whacker to fix it. I laughed and probably thought it wouldn't be a bad ideas, how could I look worse? Ah, I enjoyed my mussed up hair anyways, even though I'd get unsympathetic judgment.

So, off goes K, Jim and I to walk to Slater Park via Grand ave. I being 18 and having little social prudence and subtlety, blurt out:

“Wow K! Your sister is HOT!”

“What? Says an offended K.
 

“Your sister, she's wicked pretty!”

“Um...OK...I guess so” K grumbles back to me.

I'd see her often enough when we'd all hang at that house by Bobby's Rollaway in that summer of '82. She ran in a different social circle than the pre-criminal element I was associated with at Slater Park. She was too good for us but our paths crossed more than enough times. Pawtucket is small enough for that.

Well, life is like bus station. People come and go in your life. Our connection died on the vine and she, her brother and our gang drifted apart as time passed.

That until the other day when I saw the news about her. It then all came back.

You know the immediate second thought I had when I had heard about it? I saw her again at that fridge downing the soda and the hypothesis was this: “At 17, she never had a clue her end would come from a 9mm being fired four times into her chest by a wannabe and incompetent Bonnie & Clyde. None at all.”

The point I'm making is that none of us have the slightest idea what our future holds, or how we'll go...or how spectacular our end might be...or not. I never knew I'd be where I am today at 18. Then, I'd probably laugh in your face if I was told I'd be in healthcare, laying bets on a stock trading platform and one that day, that I'd be peering into the caldera of Mt St Helen's volcano. “Ahhh..you're full of it!” I'd say. But then guess what happened.

Her violent death astonished me really because my memory of her was of a pretty, young and healthy girl...who would continue to be that kind of person...forever. How the hell do you end up getting popped for no reason at all? She wasn't the intended target either. It was a pure “being in the wrong place at the wrong time” chance. And that's how stupid life can be. How often do you answer the door and get shot?

I guess this stuff happens all the time all across the world, but when it hits home...

I will probably keep that memory of her chugging Mountain Dew that afternoon. It's the one I've always had. It's funny how certain recollections just burn themselves into your brain. It's a far more kinder and respectful memory vs. seeing that shattered door glass and knowing what was inside. 

NOT the Marrying Kind

“Why aren't you married yet?”

Many of us singles, who will never cross the threshold, girl and boy alike, for whatever reasons, feel a bit miffed when asked.

It sounds like an accusation.

“Why aren't you married yet? Are you gay? Lesbian? A boozer? Mentally Ill? A misanthrope who hates everyone? A total and complete LOSER?”

We can take it like that.

I once countered that question from a girl I knew years back with this retort.

“Why aren't you divorced yet?”

It was common knowledge her marriage was in tatters and I had several beers in me. Warning: Don't ask me anything too personal because if I'm buzzed, I will answer honestly. Alcohol is a truth serum to me. I got slapped in the face once for this in my 20's. I've gotten better with spilling the truth as I have become older...sort of. When I do shove my foot in my mouth, I can really get all of it in!

**

I look back on my life now. I guess as I get older, and get a clearer picture of what happened back then due to the perspective I have now, I can't help but look back. If you don't do this in an older age, I feel sorry for you. Things come full circle and you better tie up all those loose ends or you'll end up as a ghost haunting some family ala Poltergeist. Spookily coming out of a TV set and causing all sorts of havoc because you haven't settled things when you were alive.

So why didn't I get married?

I made a silly chart to show why. I found out that most of the girls I knew were what I called, “roller coaster rides” and I don't mean anything sexual (though that did have a part in it). What I mean is that I was addicted to anything exciting. I enjoyed the adrenaline rush! In fact, I can point to a particular girl I knew who ruined it me for years. “D'arby” I never had a better ride than that. It was like shooting amphetamines, cocaine and then standing on the third rail of subway train. It was one hell of a summer I spent at Misquamicut/Matunuck. I never forgot it. Of course it never lasted, these meteors burn out fast! After her, I kept looking for that elusive ride again. I had a hard time recreating it.

I once did find a very nice, pretty stable women about 10 years back. She had a decent career, two kids who themselves were smart and not hellions and overall, their family unit was intact. The ex husband stayed the hell out of her life except for the kids and there was no animosity from what I saw between them.

I ended it eventually as I lost that spark.

Why? She was boring.

At a restaurant in North Providence one night, she was complaining about her ex and why he strayed.

“He called me DULL! That was the reason he was going with his co-worker! DULL! Of all things to call me stuffy and stodgy!”

I sat there and thought to myself, “Wow, it's not just me who thinks this....her own husband thought and said the same thing! You are a bit stuffy!”

Well, we were both right, he and I. She was a great person but...but..she lacked that fun aspect to her, a bit of unpredictability is nice once in a while. I mean manageable unpredictability, not “Let's rear-end a State cop car, drive off and see how far we can get away with it!” kind of recklessness.

**

So here's the chart. Those dots are various girls I have known and I noticed they all clustered in the “fun” or “danger” category. They were NOT the marrying kind. I guess neither was I.

Do I regret not marrying? Probably not. You can't miss what you never had and then there are all those divorces I've seen happen to people I've known over the years. Jesus H Christ does that seem fun huh? Sure, I'd like to be out of money, pissed off and have my kids treat me like an ATM machine because they are plying both my ex wife and I off one another to win the kid's affections. Or...the threat of being divorced and staying in the marriage would feel like jail.

Co-mingling assets. I was warned about that. I like my assets right here in MY pocket!

Is there a chart for you girls? There sure is! Look below!

Merry Xmas!

12 Periods of Christmas

(Ok, I can't think of any more Xmas stories and I'm too lazy to come up with one so here's a piece from a few years ago that still makes me giggle.)

1-5 years old

You're too young to understand the concept of Christmas. Toddlers enjoy the pretty lights, the gingerbread cookies and popcorn ball treats, the songs and carols and everything fun about the holiday but they don't quite yet understand the power of Xmas. To young kids, Christmas feels like a second birthday except the gifts are doubled, there is no blowing out of birthday candles or parties with ponies taking embarrassing dumps in the backyard. At this age the toy or the box it came in is just as fun to play with. Chewing on the Christmas light cords like the dog does is also fun to do.

6-8 years old

This is the Christmas sweet spot. The age when anything...any gift, magical event, or wish is possible thanks to a fat man living up north in a house full of midgets making toys strangely identical to major manufacturers (yet no one seems to mind). The holiday also includes the greatest gift of all — a week off from school and the constant torture of teachers, bullies and the inability to take a dump for eight hours a day because no one would dare use a bathroom at school...under any circumstances. This is also the age where breaking your new toys can be fun too. This was hard at one time because Tonka made their toys out of real metal. You kids have it easy today!

9-12 years old

Santa was a lie! You had an idea a few years earlier but now all signs point to your parents shoveling you bullshit for the first decade of your life. What else have they been lying about? Oh just tooth fairies, bunnies delivering chocolate and your uncle who stopped coming by the house a few Thanksgivings ago. He’s not in the Peace Corp, he’s doing 12 years at Danforth Federal Prison, but they won’t say exactly what for. Maybe lying to his kids about a jolly fat dude with a perverted sounding “naughty” list and a tooth collecting broad with more singles than a main stage stripper on a busy Saturday night to dole out. This is the age where you begin to play the same game back to your parents by ever so deftly manipulating them into getting the gifts you want. This is especially easy if your parents are divorced. You can really haul it in! Work their guilt and hateful competition of one another.

13-20 years old

It’s not about asking for toys anymore, you're a teen, it’s about getting gifts to elevate social status. Designer clothes, expensive kicks, flashy tech gear and maybe even a car if you’re old man is willing to finally give up his beater of a ride, buy something built in the 2000s, and fork over the keys. You also loathe yourself for getting so excited over a Christmas gift basket filled with stuff you need at college. You just kissed your parents for the thoughtful gift of bulk toilet paper and rolls of quarters to do laundry. You also realize that getting any clothing is a great gift because you didn't have to spend your own money to get it yourself. That sweater your GrandMom got you at a eleven years of age wasn't a sucky gift after all.

21-25 years old

You’re out of college. You’ve got a job. It’s now your responsibility to buy gifts for your entire family. Thankfully, Jesus invented gift cards (it’s in the New Testament) so gift buying is a cinch. Unfortunately, you spend the day after Christmas in return lines because your family has no idea what clothes you wear, your actual size, what music you like, and that you haven’t read a book since Lit 101. And seriously, what the fuck is a compact disc? You also discover that the Chinese are heathens and don't celebrate Christmas and mercifully keep open their restaurants on Christmas night so you can escape your family and go get drunk with your other 20-Something friends. You won't feel like a loser alcoholic because the place will be packed with others doing exactly the same thing.

25-30 years old

You’re in a long term relationship and you're already spending the Xmas money you don't even have yet (credit cards!) on engagement rings and first homes. The holidays start feeling really different, since you don’t spend them with your own family anymore, but with her family, her friends, and maybe if there is time you can swing by your parents house to visit your mom who’s pissed you’re not spending the holiday with your family and an old man who has been drunk since his work Christmas party in early December. Stopping by with the right excuses may lessen the jealousy of your parents. Remember to leave the girlfriend home at her parent's place. Realize as well that come Decmeber 26^th, Christmas never existed nor happened as you are back to your regular workaday world and have to spend most of your attention on that. A reminder? Your Chase Bank credit card bill will arrive in two weeks.

30-40 years old

This decade sucks one massive Yule Log. You’re married, you’ve got kids, and those kids demand toys considered “hot ticket items” which oddly get released the week before Christmas that Hasbro has been hyping the shit out of all season. So you're traveling in circles around the state just days before Christmas, sometimes even across a couple state borders, to find one stupid Hatchanimal. As you frantically search each store hoping for a miracle (does Home Depot carry toys?) the only thought circling your head is the kid's disappointment because the toy isn't under the tree. You've failed as a parent. You SUCK. You’ve given them a love, a home and attention but couldn’t deliver a fucking toy every other kid will get and wave in the faces of your kid. Hopefully the arresting officer will go lightly on your situation after you punch a nun buying a cart full of Hatchanimals for an orphanage. It’s a Christmas miracle you didn’t give her a concussion.

40-50 years old

You've got kids in their teens and early 20s. The toys turn into gadgets and the holiday morphs into an event exorbitantly more expensive than ever before. As if footing the bill for six years in college and another year “finding themselves” isn’t enough of a gift. You don't like anything about the holiday — from the songs you've heard for a full month each of the last four decades. The Classic radio stations you love now play this crap 24/7. Also the decorating, the traffic, the commercials and those Charlie Brown specials you adored in your youth but now feel like PSA cartoons about the dangers of bullying in school. Seriously, if ever there were ever a cartoon kid to shoot up a school, it's Charlie Brown. A mindful jury would exonerate him.

50-60 years old

You don't care about Christmas till a week ago. Your wife (if you're still married) does all of the shopping, you only have to buy for her, and yet you still manage to screw that up. Your kids visit for a couple hours, just to collect their gift cards and eat, and shuttle out the door to visit their future in-laws because they are “splitting time” between families this year. You’d all celebrate together but your in-laws are fucking morons with big mouths. You're also not allowed to eat half the food on the Christmas table because of high cholesterol or that just-starting heart problem you've been diagnosed with. You go to the buffet table in the other room alone where you can to shove all that salami into your mouth, as long as they don't see it, it can't hurt. You end the day in a drunken sleep.

60-70 years old

The holiday is slightly more enjoyable. You're older now, semi-retired, and living off a smaller salary so no one expects absurdly expensive gifts. There are also grandchildren. It's fun to watch them open gifts, get excited for Santa and get wrapped up in the festivities like your kid's did — and you — did so many decades ago. It's also enjoyable to witness your own children, now grown, slowly lose faith in the holiday while chasing down the newest piece of crap toy. You're laughing your ass off, chugging spiked eggnog and grinning “welcome to the club” with a warmth that’s probably thanks to the brandy spiked chocolates and double rum cakes. If there is one thing to celebrate during the holidays it’s booze-infused baked goods. What's also good is that at this age, you can complain of feeling too cold or tired and your kids will drive you home early and you get to avoid all the drama.

70-80 years old — You don't notice, or care, it's Christmas time. Many of your friends are dead, all your kids are gone during the holiday, visiting your grandkids or just refusing to spend time with a miserable old bastard like you. The good news is no one expects shit from you as far as presents because you're living off a pension or meager social security benefits. Retirement? Ha! Bigger bullshit that Old Saint Nick. Your family would rather you not buy them gifts anyway since you're terrible at buying gifts. It's because you always left it up to your wife. You'd buy gifts that had meaning to you, 50 years ago! Where is your wife? Well, it depends which wife you're talking about. Also, you spend at least five minutes on Christmas day thinking about your own death. It will kill the mood of any retirement community holiday pizza party.

80-90 years old — Christmas? You call this shit Christmas?!? When I was a kid, THAT was Christmas! You refuse to talk about the Christmas that's going on now and prefer to speak of ones that occurred right after WW2...during the German Reconstruction period. Also, each Christmas you manage to see keenly reminds you of the next one you, by probability and Social Security longevity statistics, won't see.