The answer was in front of me all along. Or, at least, part of the answer. Less is more. The key was not to pour on the pressure, but to back off, to ease up, and let things happen.
Several days ago, prior to her most recent road trip to Detroit, as well as during, via text message, I told her flat out why it bothered me so much that she frequented the clubs and made these overnight visits, completely barring me from participation.
Several years ago, she made similar visits to various bars and clubs with her cousins. Now, her family never fully approved of me, and in turn, I can't really approve of them. My wife told me how she was the family lackey, how her mother had physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused her, how her older brother bullied her. Her family had some ill-conceived, laughable notion that their history of alcoholism, Neanderthal brutishness, physical competitiveness, and commonplace incest (no, not joking or exaggerating in the least) made them objects of nobility, demanding a 'kiss my ring' sort of admiration and fealty from anyone connected to the family. That was, until I came along. I made it clear to them, through word and deed, that they were not gaining a son, that I was liberating their daughter. I told her mother bluntly that the next time she rose her hand to her child, she'd end up staring at the bloody stump at the end of her arm. I let them know in no uncertain terms that they were living roof of Darwin's theories. Summarily, it became the mission of her cousins to split us up, by any means necessary.
They tried seducing me. The thought still brings on waves of nausea. Call me discriminating, call me aloof, call me an elitist, but I just get motivate myself to get turned on by stretch marks, flesh-pocking cellulite, and chronic STD's virulent enough to render the usual orifice for sexual congress a biohazzard posted by a detour sign to the 'back door.' That failing, miserably, they frequently invited my wife out to clubs, and every time, they had a would-be affair waiting for her, fully intending and even encouraging her to cheat. I'm grateful that she resisted, and thankful that she received no harm greater than a wandering grope, though even that is unforgivable. However, the effect on me, which I have only just begun to realize with her current clubbing, was to grow to distrust anyone with whom she had social interactions outside my view. While I am making efforts to be more trusting, it comes with great difficulty. I trust her; I'm confident enough of where I am now that I can declare that to myself without the air of trying to convince myself. Those with whom she socializes, however, I do not trust. So many so close to her have disrespected and ignored our marriage vow that the probability of anyone else doing so is to prevalent. It doesn't help that she's hanging out with men, albeit gay men. She continually tells me that they're not interested in her, or any woman for that matter. I argue back that, so long as they still have penises, there is that remote chance that they'll want to experience how the other half lives.
And though it was a far more difficult discussion, we did talk about my concern that she might want to see how the other half lives. At first, predictably, she was offended, but I held my ground and explained to her that my suspicions were not the result of anything unrequited or of mere spite, but the result of months of her hiding plans and behaviour from me. She said she couldn't believe I had asked her that, and I told her that I couldn't believe that she had gone to such great efforts to keep everything from me that I was forced to wonder and worry.
These discussions, these confessions were the small incidents that began the turning of the tide.
A few days ago, just as I was ending my shift, I sent her a love-letter I had composed on my cell-phone in a series of saved text messages. When I got home, without provocation or a single word, she sat closely next to me on the loveseat. It may seem so insignificant an act to so many, something trivial and not worth remark, but after months during which she strove to avoid any discernible physical contact with me, that position she took next to me spoke volumes. My pulse quickened, my chest became tight, and for once it wasn't some middle-aged health crisis; it felt good and right. I gently rubbed the curve of her hip, and she didn't flinch away.
Two days later, following an overnight shift and a morning pre-surgical radiological scan, we walked our youngest to school together. Half way back, on a whim, I grazed her fingers with mine; we held hands the remainder of the way back. We then sat on the loveseat again, talking for an hour and a half before I had to turn in and sleep for my next overnight.
Late last night, as we moved during sleep, the covers slipped off both of us. I awoke to find her lying naked next to me, still half-covered by the blankets. I caressed her bare back; she didn't flinch. I kissed her, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back; gentle shifting, but no flinch. We made love, fully, arduously, with passion and avarice. We held each other throughout the rest of the night.
As ecstatic as I am that we have progressed this far, I am no fool. A night of fantastic passion, no matter how wonderful, no matter how mutually approached, does not heal the rifts that have led to the past several months of hurt and accusation. We still plan on scheduling marriage therapy, once schedules and finances can be appropriately coordinated. To assume this was our solution, our fix, would put us back on the same road again, but months and months further back. We're in this for good, forever, not just the satisfaction of the here and now.
I'm unaccustomed to having things to which to look forward, to anticipate. Hope is fleeting, but it's here, available for the taking. I'm going to take my fill, hold it close, and work towards a better and healthier marriage, for both our sakes.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
A Trip To My Own Personal Asylum
Things become curiouser and curiouser.
Things are progressing with my hyperparathyroidism. I've had my first appointment with my endocrinologist, a charming Englishman with whom its a genuine delight to work. I've done the blood work and the 24-hour urine collection, and am now waiting on the radiology department of the local hospital to contact me for my appointment. The lab results are far more difficult for me to interpret, so I may be forced to wait until my follow-up appointment in roughly two weeks to see what they really mean.
Unfortunately, another aspect of my conditions that advances is the mental distress. A common accompanying diagnosis for parathyroid and thyroid conditions is chronic depression, which, in my case, is most certainly complicated by my continuing marital difficulties. I find myself running a greater gamut of potential neuroses as time progresses; in the past week, I've tracked my wife on Facebook, convinced she was having an affair one day, manically overjoyed with how well we're doing the next, in the grips of anxiety and anger on another, and so on and so forth. I do not doubt for a moment that I need help, and that speaking to a professional therapist would help, but I remain concerned about starting any deeply invasive psychiatric procedures if the source of my mental issues are solely physiological. Even the best and most respected of psychotherapists would agree that if my depression and other issues stems from my hyperparathyroidism, a sort of neuro-metabolic issue, antidepressants and other psychotropic medication would have no effect, its best intentions being metabolized away by my condition before any benefit could be realized. It is also fair to surmise, along the lines of my endocrinologist's suspicions, that if my hyperparathyroidism is primary, then it is also congenital and began taking effect on me some seventeen years ago, predating my earliest diagnosis of depression. Granted, most of my concern and fear generates from ethnic sources; the Pennsylvania Dutch trust psychiatrists and psychologists even less than they do physicians. However, I still feel my concerns are legitimate and not the mere musings of hypochondria.
In an effort to apply a practical solution, I've arranged for myself a sort of pre-emptive convalescence; I've submitted a vacation request at work and have already had it approved. I've taken off the week beginning with Mother's Day, following through to the following Saturday. I may even have the option of having off the Thursday through Saturday preceding and the Sunday through Tuesday following, if I appease the boss enough and display just enough carefully-crafted and politically correct mental hardship need. My vacation destination? My easy chair and the coffee-table/ottoman in front of it. This isn't a 'get real excited and go out and do things' type of vacation; this is a 'Christ I need some time to myself before I go postal and kill everyone around me' type of vacation. I might contact my temple and see if they're sponsoring or even permitting retreats at this time of year, maybe head to the lobby of the local library for an entire day to just read and have a tech-free day. At the very least, I hope to have a successful date or two with my wife, perhaps overcome her sexual barrier. No definite plans yet.
I realize that of late, these entries have become far too diary-like, and should anyone actually be reading these 'pages,' I apologize. I write primarily for myself as release, but any writer compelled to set word to page or screen secretly or publicly desires and audience. There is no falsehood intended by the description of the blog; there are rants and conundrums and diatribes and opinion-editorials a-plenty to be had. I just need to unpack the personal effects first. Patience, door reader. I will strive to make it worth your while.
Things are progressing with my hyperparathyroidism. I've had my first appointment with my endocrinologist, a charming Englishman with whom its a genuine delight to work. I've done the blood work and the 24-hour urine collection, and am now waiting on the radiology department of the local hospital to contact me for my appointment. The lab results are far more difficult for me to interpret, so I may be forced to wait until my follow-up appointment in roughly two weeks to see what they really mean.
Unfortunately, another aspect of my conditions that advances is the mental distress. A common accompanying diagnosis for parathyroid and thyroid conditions is chronic depression, which, in my case, is most certainly complicated by my continuing marital difficulties. I find myself running a greater gamut of potential neuroses as time progresses; in the past week, I've tracked my wife on Facebook, convinced she was having an affair one day, manically overjoyed with how well we're doing the next, in the grips of anxiety and anger on another, and so on and so forth. I do not doubt for a moment that I need help, and that speaking to a professional therapist would help, but I remain concerned about starting any deeply invasive psychiatric procedures if the source of my mental issues are solely physiological. Even the best and most respected of psychotherapists would agree that if my depression and other issues stems from my hyperparathyroidism, a sort of neuro-metabolic issue, antidepressants and other psychotropic medication would have no effect, its best intentions being metabolized away by my condition before any benefit could be realized. It is also fair to surmise, along the lines of my endocrinologist's suspicions, that if my hyperparathyroidism is primary, then it is also congenital and began taking effect on me some seventeen years ago, predating my earliest diagnosis of depression. Granted, most of my concern and fear generates from ethnic sources; the Pennsylvania Dutch trust psychiatrists and psychologists even less than they do physicians. However, I still feel my concerns are legitimate and not the mere musings of hypochondria.
In an effort to apply a practical solution, I've arranged for myself a sort of pre-emptive convalescence; I've submitted a vacation request at work and have already had it approved. I've taken off the week beginning with Mother's Day, following through to the following Saturday. I may even have the option of having off the Thursday through Saturday preceding and the Sunday through Tuesday following, if I appease the boss enough and display just enough carefully-crafted and politically correct mental hardship need. My vacation destination? My easy chair and the coffee-table/ottoman in front of it. This isn't a 'get real excited and go out and do things' type of vacation; this is a 'Christ I need some time to myself before I go postal and kill everyone around me' type of vacation. I might contact my temple and see if they're sponsoring or even permitting retreats at this time of year, maybe head to the lobby of the local library for an entire day to just read and have a tech-free day. At the very least, I hope to have a successful date or two with my wife, perhaps overcome her sexual barrier. No definite plans yet.
I realize that of late, these entries have become far too diary-like, and should anyone actually be reading these 'pages,' I apologize. I write primarily for myself as release, but any writer compelled to set word to page or screen secretly or publicly desires and audience. There is no falsehood intended by the description of the blog; there are rants and conundrums and diatribes and opinion-editorials a-plenty to be had. I just need to unpack the personal effects first. Patience, door reader. I will strive to make it worth your while.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Customer Service, NOT Servitude!
What's happened to the very concept of customer service? Doesn't anyone take pride in providing excellent service while selling their products anymore? It's an old weary complaint those of us in customer service here on a tediously regular basis, and on occasion, make ourselves of those who have the nerve to either pretend to be of our calling or to ignore that component of their own trade. We are an under-appreciated horde of professionals, often overrun with the uncaring, unskilled, and under-intelligent, treated like human offal be the even less caring, far more unskilled, and those of sub-mammalian intelligence. Yet, the high and mighty would be crippled and fallow were they to locate products and secure services for themselves in the many of our venues into which they strut, paper tigers that they are.
It is, perhaps, ironic, or tempting fate, to be writing online while a make the following assessment, yet I firmly believe it was the dubious advent of this technological age which rendered my profession so disrespected and moot. To paraphrase "Devil's Advocate," once the entire world was fiber-optically connected, every minuscule neuron coddled, coaxed, and teased to climax, every minute synapse treated as some magnum opus, the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame were insufficient, and every being barely capable of uttering cohesive syllables aspired to titanic fame and power. Add to that the more recent phenomenon of the rebirth of the rebel popularity of the criminal, specifically the 'gangsta,' which glorifies great wealth had by little labor and in defiance of anything legal and acceptable by traditional social standards, and the result is a disdain for those who serve others without avarice and in legal capacities.
Of late, we are expected by our cerebrally-challenged clientele to be able to read their minds based on semi-Neanderthal grunts or less. God knows how difficult it is to look up at the gasoline pump at which one has parked and decipher that peculiar symbol known in professional circles as an Arabic numeral, much less relay it to the person behind the counter in less than a simian utterance. I'm certain it is now commonplace and perfectly acceptable among the physically mobile, hearing, and sighted, to step no more than two paces into any store regardless of size, clarity of aisle labelling and clearance of passage, turn to the nearest associate, and bark out the name of a product or substance in thick colloquialism, expecting us to clearly interpret that as a call for help, not because the customer cannot find the product, but because it has come beneath them to do their own shopping. One of my recent customers who was absolutely incapable of communicating at which pump he had parked was my oldest son's middle school guidance counselor; what hope have we for the future when the supposedly stable past, propped up before our children as role models, behave as ignorami.
I need to escape this profession. As dire as the effect on my colleagues would be, we need to become a completely self-service society. I observe my oldest son, recognize the insurmountable sloth I see in him, that I despise in him, and realize that it isn't only current popular culture that promotes his indulgent laziness, it's my very profession. So long as there are individuals whose function it is to provide and retrieve, there isn't any motivation for the lazy and self-important to get off their asses and do a thing for themselves. It's time to return to the Darwinian ideal, to let those that cannot provide for themselves dwindle and die, absorbing themselves for sustenance until they're no more than empty husks. Without the proletarian, there is no bourgeois or patrician. Without the patrician and bourgeois, the proletarian survives.
It is, perhaps, ironic, or tempting fate, to be writing online while a make the following assessment, yet I firmly believe it was the dubious advent of this technological age which rendered my profession so disrespected and moot. To paraphrase "Devil's Advocate," once the entire world was fiber-optically connected, every minuscule neuron coddled, coaxed, and teased to climax, every minute synapse treated as some magnum opus, the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame were insufficient, and every being barely capable of uttering cohesive syllables aspired to titanic fame and power. Add to that the more recent phenomenon of the rebirth of the rebel popularity of the criminal, specifically the 'gangsta,' which glorifies great wealth had by little labor and in defiance of anything legal and acceptable by traditional social standards, and the result is a disdain for those who serve others without avarice and in legal capacities.
Of late, we are expected by our cerebrally-challenged clientele to be able to read their minds based on semi-Neanderthal grunts or less. God knows how difficult it is to look up at the gasoline pump at which one has parked and decipher that peculiar symbol known in professional circles as an Arabic numeral, much less relay it to the person behind the counter in less than a simian utterance. I'm certain it is now commonplace and perfectly acceptable among the physically mobile, hearing, and sighted, to step no more than two paces into any store regardless of size, clarity of aisle labelling and clearance of passage, turn to the nearest associate, and bark out the name of a product or substance in thick colloquialism, expecting us to clearly interpret that as a call for help, not because the customer cannot find the product, but because it has come beneath them to do their own shopping. One of my recent customers who was absolutely incapable of communicating at which pump he had parked was my oldest son's middle school guidance counselor; what hope have we for the future when the supposedly stable past, propped up before our children as role models, behave as ignorami.
I need to escape this profession. As dire as the effect on my colleagues would be, we need to become a completely self-service society. I observe my oldest son, recognize the insurmountable sloth I see in him, that I despise in him, and realize that it isn't only current popular culture that promotes his indulgent laziness, it's my very profession. So long as there are individuals whose function it is to provide and retrieve, there isn't any motivation for the lazy and self-important to get off their asses and do a thing for themselves. It's time to return to the Darwinian ideal, to let those that cannot provide for themselves dwindle and die, absorbing themselves for sustenance until they're no more than empty husks. Without the proletarian, there is no bourgeois or patrician. Without the patrician and bourgeois, the proletarian survives.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Drudgery Continues
I would be extremely glad spring break were over tomorrow if it actually meant something to the management of this household.
My oldest son's principal graciously collected his homework for him and delivered it to my store. There was a further two day delay getting it to him, as the manila file folder full of homework was delivered into the hands of a coworker for whom it was far less than a priority to get it to me. My son had his back homework by this past Tuesday, then added his own personal delay, cracking it open today. Unfortunately, the bureaucratic powers that be have given him ample excuse for sloth; we have yet to receive an answer or clue as to when he might be able to return to school. So much for educating our youth being a priority.
My wife has been working extra shifts, but not as a reward for exemplary service. Her ultra-'butch' boss has called in every shift my wife would have had off, a trait shared with the 'butch' shift manager I must occasionally deal with at my store. One would think that assuming the masculine role might also include increased fortitude or constitution, or at least a staunch work ethic; no such luck. It appears the warrior women of the Lambda Society are susceptible to more disease and injury than the most ill-ridden premature infant. Nonetheless, her amended work schedule has permitted the two of us even less time to talk and work things through. Trouble is, I think that's much to her liking. I don't find it merely coincidental that she has rarely, if ever been alone for confidential discussions. Gives me a great deal of pause that she'll readily and willingly participate in any marital therapy.
It's been a true struggle to get the kids to help out with any housework beyond holding the furniture down while they watch cartoons or play Xbox. We've discussed having chore teams, and working on a chore chart, but they have a poor example blocking their way to seeing things as they should: the Live-In. It's both startling and disgusting how she considers financial contributions to household expenses to be her sole obligation to my wife and I. Granted, the money she has through her working-soldier husband has been extremely helpful, and she's always ready to chip in when money runs low, but that's precious little compensation when I get home from a 10 1/2 hour shift to find every dish we own either in the sink or mouldering on the stove top, her homework for her online classes incomplete and her corpulent mass testing the springs in our couch from a prone position. As well, it's not just issues with the children that are complicated by her slothful presence; it eats away at what little privacy my wife and I had in the first place, such that we have resorted to a spoken code and communicating through text messages when we're all in the same room, which, of course, is always.
There is some positive news from the past several days. Through some creative networking with local physicians and clergy, I've located a doctoral marriage therapy clinic at the local university that charges less than half the fee the previously least-expensive clinic does. The wife still thinks it's too expensive; I think she never thought I'd find anything at all and is running out of stall tactics. Regardless, she has agreed to attend the sessions I book for us. All that remains is calling for an appointment and coordinating our schedules. This also follows that most difficult of discussions, the "so, honey, you still AC or have you gone DC on me?" talk. She claims to still be straight, acted repulsed when I asked if she and her 'bff' were more than just 'bff's'. I still retain a shred of doubt; her level of objection and repulsion suggests the cloaking disgust of those not ready to leave the safety of the closet, and she is more attached to this friend than I believe she ever was to me.
Once these appointments are made, our financial and scheduling obligations will increase. It will be far more difficult to assume classes or even explore programs, but at this point, I'm willing to sacrifice a great deal to save our fourteen year investment in each other.
My oldest son's principal graciously collected his homework for him and delivered it to my store. There was a further two day delay getting it to him, as the manila file folder full of homework was delivered into the hands of a coworker for whom it was far less than a priority to get it to me. My son had his back homework by this past Tuesday, then added his own personal delay, cracking it open today. Unfortunately, the bureaucratic powers that be have given him ample excuse for sloth; we have yet to receive an answer or clue as to when he might be able to return to school. So much for educating our youth being a priority.
My wife has been working extra shifts, but not as a reward for exemplary service. Her ultra-'butch' boss has called in every shift my wife would have had off, a trait shared with the 'butch' shift manager I must occasionally deal with at my store. One would think that assuming the masculine role might also include increased fortitude or constitution, or at least a staunch work ethic; no such luck. It appears the warrior women of the Lambda Society are susceptible to more disease and injury than the most ill-ridden premature infant. Nonetheless, her amended work schedule has permitted the two of us even less time to talk and work things through. Trouble is, I think that's much to her liking. I don't find it merely coincidental that she has rarely, if ever been alone for confidential discussions. Gives me a great deal of pause that she'll readily and willingly participate in any marital therapy.
It's been a true struggle to get the kids to help out with any housework beyond holding the furniture down while they watch cartoons or play Xbox. We've discussed having chore teams, and working on a chore chart, but they have a poor example blocking their way to seeing things as they should: the Live-In. It's both startling and disgusting how she considers financial contributions to household expenses to be her sole obligation to my wife and I. Granted, the money she has through her working-soldier husband has been extremely helpful, and she's always ready to chip in when money runs low, but that's precious little compensation when I get home from a 10 1/2 hour shift to find every dish we own either in the sink or mouldering on the stove top, her homework for her online classes incomplete and her corpulent mass testing the springs in our couch from a prone position. As well, it's not just issues with the children that are complicated by her slothful presence; it eats away at what little privacy my wife and I had in the first place, such that we have resorted to a spoken code and communicating through text messages when we're all in the same room, which, of course, is always.
There is some positive news from the past several days. Through some creative networking with local physicians and clergy, I've located a doctoral marriage therapy clinic at the local university that charges less than half the fee the previously least-expensive clinic does. The wife still thinks it's too expensive; I think she never thought I'd find anything at all and is running out of stall tactics. Regardless, she has agreed to attend the sessions I book for us. All that remains is calling for an appointment and coordinating our schedules. This also follows that most difficult of discussions, the "so, honey, you still AC or have you gone DC on me?" talk. She claims to still be straight, acted repulsed when I asked if she and her 'bff' were more than just 'bff's'. I still retain a shred of doubt; her level of objection and repulsion suggests the cloaking disgust of those not ready to leave the safety of the closet, and she is more attached to this friend than I believe she ever was to me.
Once these appointments are made, our financial and scheduling obligations will increase. It will be far more difficult to assume classes or even explore programs, but at this point, I'm willing to sacrifice a great deal to save our fourteen year investment in each other.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
One Side or Another of the Forked-Tongue
She said that her best friend (notably not me) had an extremely trying day. The friend had learned that both her grade-school best freind, with whom she's been having an affair, and her mother-in-law were diagnosed with cancer within a day of each other. That should have been my first clue, the first warning bell. My wife's discussed this friend often enough, made clear that her friend did not approve of her mother-in-law or her pathology for embezzling Girl Scout cookie money from her daughter, that concern over a diagnosis of cancer would bring such overwhelming and instant grief. Nonetheless, I disregarded the bells and whistles and continued listeneing as she said that she was going to run to WalMart with this friend because she needed to talk. That was 10:30pm. By 2:45am I was quite certain that story was a ruse; boring as our town may be, only the truly brain-dead and desperate would subject themselves to the manufacturer-abusing bargain aisles of WalMart in excess of four hours. Indeed, my suspicions were growing solid when I texted her around midnight to buy more coffee, replying that there was another can in the cupboard with far too many 'lol's' to be reasonable, it just wasn't that damn funny unless you were the party duping the inquirer.
I spoke with her breifly around six in the morning, after she had apparently been back for two hours, awakened by the cackle of the White Trash Witch from across the street; funny how everyone must tiptoe about for a three-mile radius when her precious bratty whelp decides to go to bed around two in the morning, but no such courtesy is paid for me eight feet from my bedroom in my own home. She said she stayed out because she's frustrated and irritated with our live-in, the one she told no one about until she was but a few miles from the house, inbound from Tennessee for eight months. No mention of WalMart, no acknowledging the lie she blanketed over her own children in order to stay out for six hours after work with minimal familial interference. Clearly irritated that I had emerged to see what had kept her out all night.
It's the lying that really gets to me, and not regarding this particular incident only. When it's just the two of us, she vents her frustration and extreme dislike of both the White Trash Witch and the live-in. Can't stand either one of them, the inability and ineptitude of the Witch's child-rearing coupled with her forcing her faults upon everyone who comes in contact with her son, holding the public at large responsible for his ill-manners while also defying their analisys of his beavior, the immense sloth and unfit physical proportion of the live-in, too tired and fat to pitch in with household chores, too satiated on her soldier husband's take home twice a month to find work, to slovenly even to get the homework for her online classes comleted on time. When together, however, their all the best of friends, even calls the live-in her sister. Makes me wonder what she says about me behind my back and to whom. The only thing certain right now is that when her lips move, she's lying.
I suppose that's why, deep down, I still suspect she's having an affair. If she lies about virtually everything else, why should I grant her trust in this, despite her angry and sarcasm-laden objections? She claims she's not having sex with anyone, and to an extent I believe her. She's not having straight sex with anyone, for the signs would take too long to eradicate, and she's not that thorough with anything short of her preparations to go out to her various gay clubs. I think there was far more than humor behind her 'sister's' birthday presents to her this year, an assortment of penis-themed drinking vessels and lolliops and an extensive collection of small-scale vibrators. If there's anyone I suspect of now being her paramour, sex or no sex, it would be this best freind of hers. To the casual observer, I'm certain it appears as though she is the spouse, and I just a dirty little secret of a cling-on from her straight past, or a meal-ticket, or sugar daddy, or something else insignificant and duped.
Last night, while she was out, via text message, she agreed to go out and do something with me, only me. Her response was brief and seemingly enthusiastic as well as insulting to my intelligence; does she truly forget that I showed her how to program her phone, that I would be dim enough not to recognize the canned response I had programmed for her? I'm honestly not certain if I'm going to hold her to this commitment, or if I'm just going to disappear for a few hours. I want to go out with my wife, but the person who now occupies half my bed is hardly my wife. She claims her changes come from within, and perhaps I still believe that, but I can't help but wonder what might have been had she never met the flock of faggot freaks with whom she now spends the vast majority of her time. Unfair as it might be, I hate them, not for what they imagine they are, but for the seeds of deceit they've planted in the woman I love, or loved. Don't really know what it is anymore.
I spoke with her breifly around six in the morning, after she had apparently been back for two hours, awakened by the cackle of the White Trash Witch from across the street; funny how everyone must tiptoe about for a three-mile radius when her precious bratty whelp decides to go to bed around two in the morning, but no such courtesy is paid for me eight feet from my bedroom in my own home. She said she stayed out because she's frustrated and irritated with our live-in, the one she told no one about until she was but a few miles from the house, inbound from Tennessee for eight months. No mention of WalMart, no acknowledging the lie she blanketed over her own children in order to stay out for six hours after work with minimal familial interference. Clearly irritated that I had emerged to see what had kept her out all night.
It's the lying that really gets to me, and not regarding this particular incident only. When it's just the two of us, she vents her frustration and extreme dislike of both the White Trash Witch and the live-in. Can't stand either one of them, the inability and ineptitude of the Witch's child-rearing coupled with her forcing her faults upon everyone who comes in contact with her son, holding the public at large responsible for his ill-manners while also defying their analisys of his beavior, the immense sloth and unfit physical proportion of the live-in, too tired and fat to pitch in with household chores, too satiated on her soldier husband's take home twice a month to find work, to slovenly even to get the homework for her online classes comleted on time. When together, however, their all the best of friends, even calls the live-in her sister. Makes me wonder what she says about me behind my back and to whom. The only thing certain right now is that when her lips move, she's lying.
I suppose that's why, deep down, I still suspect she's having an affair. If she lies about virtually everything else, why should I grant her trust in this, despite her angry and sarcasm-laden objections? She claims she's not having sex with anyone, and to an extent I believe her. She's not having straight sex with anyone, for the signs would take too long to eradicate, and she's not that thorough with anything short of her preparations to go out to her various gay clubs. I think there was far more than humor behind her 'sister's' birthday presents to her this year, an assortment of penis-themed drinking vessels and lolliops and an extensive collection of small-scale vibrators. If there's anyone I suspect of now being her paramour, sex or no sex, it would be this best freind of hers. To the casual observer, I'm certain it appears as though she is the spouse, and I just a dirty little secret of a cling-on from her straight past, or a meal-ticket, or sugar daddy, or something else insignificant and duped.
Last night, while she was out, via text message, she agreed to go out and do something with me, only me. Her response was brief and seemingly enthusiastic as well as insulting to my intelligence; does she truly forget that I showed her how to program her phone, that I would be dim enough not to recognize the canned response I had programmed for her? I'm honestly not certain if I'm going to hold her to this commitment, or if I'm just going to disappear for a few hours. I want to go out with my wife, but the person who now occupies half my bed is hardly my wife. She claims her changes come from within, and perhaps I still believe that, but I can't help but wonder what might have been had she never met the flock of faggot freaks with whom she now spends the vast majority of her time. Unfair as it might be, I hate them, not for what they imagine they are, but for the seeds of deceit they've planted in the woman I love, or loved. Don't really know what it is anymore.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Easter Weekend
It's been a strange and colorful weekend. Easter usually is for us. Not for any pageantry, not for the majesty and mystery of the Resurrection story, but for cultural and social clashes that surround these holidays, when the Christian and Christian-influenced portions of Western society try to impose their views of normalcy upon this Buddhist family.
I awoke relatively early on Saturday, considering it was a day off and that I would be working the 6:00am shift on Easter Sunday. Around 10:30am, there came a knock on the door, which was preceded by some milling about of persons unknown on my porch. I opened the door, and what to my bleary eyes should appear? Jehovah's Witnesses, two of them, and Black at that! Now this my seem as mere bigotry to the casual outside observer, but it remains a startling religious evangelical phenomenon to my Pennsylvania Dutch-raised East coast eyes. Black Jehovah's Witnesses? Do the Baptists know you escaped their clutches? Are you sure you aren't from one of those fringe, nondenominational Black congregations that speak of proper dress codes and conduct for men and women that are such the rage among local Blacks? I peered nervously around the corner for a contingency of Asian Jews or Hasidic Hare Krshnas.
The first group (yes, I said first) followed a routine script, telling me that the Watchtower spoke all about the most important figure in history, and who did I think that was? "Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ," said I, and their eyes gleamed and softened, "who got most of his ideas and spiritual practices from the Buddha." Their smiles faded somewhat. "Who?" asked the smaller, rounder, more motherly of the two. "Lord Siddhattha Gotama, who gave up his throne to become a mendicant, found spiritual enlightenment, and taught the path to enlightenment to others. He became a buddha, and due to his teachings, is today known as the Buddha." It was almost disheartening to see the fight fade slightly in their eyes. "I'm really not sure what you mean," she continued, dismayed. "Jesus based most of his teachings on sayings of the Buddha, and most of his miracles are abilities the Buddha displayed due to advanced practice in meditation, most notably walking on water and the story of the loaves and fishes." "Well," she continued, bracing herself and returning to the script, offering me a copy of the Watchtower and asking if we could go over it on a future visit. I took it, saying "Perhaps."
That visit prompted some prone shouts from the bedroom, my wife wanting to know who was bothering us while she didn't bother to rise or dress. I told her not to worry about it, since she didn't have to deal with them. Things calmed back down, the kids returned to their cartoons, my wife returned to her obliviousness. Forty-five minutes later, a second knock on the door.
I opened the door again to find two more Black women, somewhat taller, more slender, but still in the uniform dark-colored, big-hatted finery found among the evangelicals who interrupt their Easter festivities to do their Lord's work. These two, I'm certain, had communicated with the first group who reported unsuccessful conversions. This group spoke along the lines of how hard people are working now, and whether or not they were working too hard, and how this paralleled some of the end-time prophecies of Revelations. I was offered a second, different copy of the Watchtower, asked if I would genuinely go through it (which I will, eventually), and asked if we could discuss my findings on a future visit. I again said maybe, as I worked a rotation of all three shifts, which of course, drew them right back in to endorse their reading materials further.
Again, the caterwauling from the bedroom, but this time she had managed to get up and wrap a blanket around herself so that she could spy on them from a parted curtain at the living room window. I reminded her again, that despite her objections and offense at their arrival, she didn't have to deal with them.
Evangelism in any form is difficult for me to deal with. It's one of the reasons I left the Christian church some twelve years ago, but far from the only reason. I understand the philosophy that some avoid conversion to one faith or another simply for lack of hearing that faith's message, but still find it offensive. In this age of technological advancement and wonder, can it any longer truly be said that every message is not inherently heard, is not available to be found by any curious enough? I greatly respect and honor the teachings of Christ, but cannot get around the people spewing them with ample drippings of self-righteousness and assumed superiority. This so-called master of the Universe certainly doesn't exhibit any self-respect when choosing his earthly PR team. I left Christianity because of the pettiness and ignorant fumblings of His followers when they so ineptly execute and misinterpret his words, but I wasn't content to merely run from something. I had to have a purpose, a goal, something to run towards. I began a search for a faith or system of beliefs that did not advocate eternal damnation for non-believers, did not shun those who chose to leave that particular flock, and , if possible, in the name of which no violence or war had ever been waged. I found Buddhism.
We are a religion for lack of any better term. It is a life path, a collection of teachings that, if followed, offers one the most moral and peaceful of existences, even superior to that Christianity had offered. The Buddhist missions ended nearly three millenia ago, and were the mere spreading of the teaching and conversions of those who chose the path. There were no conversions by torture or threat, no killings, no violence at all. Buddhism acknowledges that it is not the only path to enlightenment, and does not in any way present itself as a path to absolution. We do, however, point out that ours is the only path to enlightenment in which one is free of obligation or bond to any god or clergy. We respect all other religions and philosophies, and will pass on the teachings to any who seek us out, but we do not intrude upon the traditions and beliefs of others.
I worked from 6:00am to 3:30pm on Easter Sunday. The shift itself was relatively uneventful, but still difficult as most of the customers wished us a Happy Easter, and I was genuinely struck for an appropriate response but to regurgitate the same. I had to deal with and hurriedly fill a call-out, resulting not so much from the claimed lack of childcare, but more likely from the advent of some social or family gathering in the name of the Holiday. It is also the burden, not only of retail but of non-Christianity, to keep the world spinning so that the 'blessed' can gather to be unproductive for a day of celebration.
I awoke relatively early on Saturday, considering it was a day off and that I would be working the 6:00am shift on Easter Sunday. Around 10:30am, there came a knock on the door, which was preceded by some milling about of persons unknown on my porch. I opened the door, and what to my bleary eyes should appear? Jehovah's Witnesses, two of them, and Black at that! Now this my seem as mere bigotry to the casual outside observer, but it remains a startling religious evangelical phenomenon to my Pennsylvania Dutch-raised East coast eyes. Black Jehovah's Witnesses? Do the Baptists know you escaped their clutches? Are you sure you aren't from one of those fringe, nondenominational Black congregations that speak of proper dress codes and conduct for men and women that are such the rage among local Blacks? I peered nervously around the corner for a contingency of Asian Jews or Hasidic Hare Krshnas.
The first group (yes, I said first) followed a routine script, telling me that the Watchtower spoke all about the most important figure in history, and who did I think that was? "Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ," said I, and their eyes gleamed and softened, "who got most of his ideas and spiritual practices from the Buddha." Their smiles faded somewhat. "Who?" asked the smaller, rounder, more motherly of the two. "Lord Siddhattha Gotama, who gave up his throne to become a mendicant, found spiritual enlightenment, and taught the path to enlightenment to others. He became a buddha, and due to his teachings, is today known as the Buddha." It was almost disheartening to see the fight fade slightly in their eyes. "I'm really not sure what you mean," she continued, dismayed. "Jesus based most of his teachings on sayings of the Buddha, and most of his miracles are abilities the Buddha displayed due to advanced practice in meditation, most notably walking on water and the story of the loaves and fishes." "Well," she continued, bracing herself and returning to the script, offering me a copy of the Watchtower and asking if we could go over it on a future visit. I took it, saying "Perhaps."
That visit prompted some prone shouts from the bedroom, my wife wanting to know who was bothering us while she didn't bother to rise or dress. I told her not to worry about it, since she didn't have to deal with them. Things calmed back down, the kids returned to their cartoons, my wife returned to her obliviousness. Forty-five minutes later, a second knock on the door.
I opened the door again to find two more Black women, somewhat taller, more slender, but still in the uniform dark-colored, big-hatted finery found among the evangelicals who interrupt their Easter festivities to do their Lord's work. These two, I'm certain, had communicated with the first group who reported unsuccessful conversions. This group spoke along the lines of how hard people are working now, and whether or not they were working too hard, and how this paralleled some of the end-time prophecies of Revelations. I was offered a second, different copy of the Watchtower, asked if I would genuinely go through it (which I will, eventually), and asked if we could discuss my findings on a future visit. I again said maybe, as I worked a rotation of all three shifts, which of course, drew them right back in to endorse their reading materials further.
Again, the caterwauling from the bedroom, but this time she had managed to get up and wrap a blanket around herself so that she could spy on them from a parted curtain at the living room window. I reminded her again, that despite her objections and offense at their arrival, she didn't have to deal with them.
Evangelism in any form is difficult for me to deal with. It's one of the reasons I left the Christian church some twelve years ago, but far from the only reason. I understand the philosophy that some avoid conversion to one faith or another simply for lack of hearing that faith's message, but still find it offensive. In this age of technological advancement and wonder, can it any longer truly be said that every message is not inherently heard, is not available to be found by any curious enough? I greatly respect and honor the teachings of Christ, but cannot get around the people spewing them with ample drippings of self-righteousness and assumed superiority. This so-called master of the Universe certainly doesn't exhibit any self-respect when choosing his earthly PR team. I left Christianity because of the pettiness and ignorant fumblings of His followers when they so ineptly execute and misinterpret his words, but I wasn't content to merely run from something. I had to have a purpose, a goal, something to run towards. I began a search for a faith or system of beliefs that did not advocate eternal damnation for non-believers, did not shun those who chose to leave that particular flock, and , if possible, in the name of which no violence or war had ever been waged. I found Buddhism.
We are a religion for lack of any better term. It is a life path, a collection of teachings that, if followed, offers one the most moral and peaceful of existences, even superior to that Christianity had offered. The Buddhist missions ended nearly three millenia ago, and were the mere spreading of the teaching and conversions of those who chose the path. There were no conversions by torture or threat, no killings, no violence at all. Buddhism acknowledges that it is not the only path to enlightenment, and does not in any way present itself as a path to absolution. We do, however, point out that ours is the only path to enlightenment in which one is free of obligation or bond to any god or clergy. We respect all other religions and philosophies, and will pass on the teachings to any who seek us out, but we do not intrude upon the traditions and beliefs of others.
I worked from 6:00am to 3:30pm on Easter Sunday. The shift itself was relatively uneventful, but still difficult as most of the customers wished us a Happy Easter, and I was genuinely struck for an appropriate response but to regurgitate the same. I had to deal with and hurriedly fill a call-out, resulting not so much from the claimed lack of childcare, but more likely from the advent of some social or family gathering in the name of the Holiday. It is also the burden, not only of retail but of non-Christianity, to keep the world spinning so that the 'blessed' can gather to be unproductive for a day of celebration.
Friday, April 2, 2010
A Retail Wage-Slave's Rant
My doctor's appointment didn't turn out so bad, actually had some mixed results. On the plus side, all talk of surgery has been put aside for the time being. My doctor pointed out one of the first things I learned about hyperparathyroidism, specificly the difference between primary and secondary hyperparathyroidism. The two are difficult to diagnose, so we're going to approach it from the secondary interpretation; I'm now taking heavy-strength prescription vitamin D supplement, which should, hopefully, correct my calcium level, which in turn, should lower my parathyroid hormone level. The minus side is that in the course of the examination, the doctor discovered a horrible case of veinous insufficiency in my left foot, the result of a deep vein thrombosis roughly three years ago. So, in additional to a referral to an endochrinologist and a vein specialist, I was prescribed medical support socks, knee-highs. I fully expected top find an AARP card in the mailbox when I returned home, complete with a complimentary truss.
My shifts at work over the past two days have been challenging at best. Something happens in the more guttural neighborhoods of this blighted city when the weather warms up. The furry vermin head indoors for room service, and the two-legged ones wander out to spread their filth and disease, in the process spilling those pesky brain-cells and their burdensome IQ points with every puff of reefer-laced cigarillo and regurgited malt liquor. I grow very tired frustrated with retail. It's not exactly the sort of job that requires a great deal of intelligence or skill, and thus garners precious little respect, especially in the convenience store industry, but oh, how bitchy and incompetent are the mighty and the miniscule when faced with the options of finding something on their own or fending for themselves. There was a time, some forty or fifty years ago, when customer service commanded a particular level of proletarian nobility, and a well-earned modicum of appreciation. Wearing a uniform wasn't laughable, playing Steppin Fetchit for meager pay wasn't castigated, and wasn't so meager, either. One could earn a liveable wage seeing to the demands and custom of the average bourgeois and lower. Until the questionable advent of the Technological Revolution, that is (and yes, I am keenly aware that this diatribe is delivered because of and courtesy of that very revolution). Within a pitifully short degree of time, customer service became confused with and overrun by the eroneous concept of customer servitude. Because we didn't ply the wares of the new technology on anything but a macroeconomic basis, we were determined to be below average, studpid, uneducated. We were assigned a quota for scorn to be received by the very bastards we serve. Those assumptions regarding our abilities, opportunities, and options rankle me daily. It is horribly difficult to tolerate the treatment receive from my clientel, spoken to as if I were an idiot by the flotsam and jetsom of society whom I could easily outhink and intellectually overwhelm, being requested to re-asess a receipt and make certain of my calculation by thugs that can't be troubled to, or are incapable of reading the simple Arabic numerals on our gasoline pumps.
Ours is an industry that discourages collective bargaining, advocacy for career-minded employees, fair treatment for our workers from both upper management and client alike. We have not yet adopted such lofty and modern concepts as the internal customer, evidenced by the harsh treatment we receive from our maintenance and retail supply departments, entities that wouldn't even have work were we not to exist. I do my best to compensate by backing up the associates under my purview, supporting them against the irate customer even when I feel, privately, that a particular policy or ordinance is being over-interpreted by the employee. The vast majority of customer still believe the falacy that 'the customer is always right.' That myth, that laughable rallying cry of the rude and ignorant still persists from an ancient time when there was no liability law, no government agencies and regulations regarding myriad aspects of sales and transactions, before products of particular qualities were restricted to purchase only by those who met stringent requirements. When a customer utters that foolish phrase, it can virtually be guaranteed that the employee is either being scammed or ask to disregard and violate a law, and suffer the consequences because of some 'honor-among-thieves' code under which they imagine we live, like troglodytes. Get used to it people, you must be over eighteen to purchase tobacco and lottery, and over twenty-one to purchase alcohol. Furthermore, if you don't appear to be exorbitantly over those respective ages, we are obliged to ask for proof, in the form of pictured identification from a recognised government body. We don't like it either, but not from the petty concerns of the inconvenienced consumer of those vices. Our burden isn't just not being able to drink or smoke; it's incarceration, conviction, long-term felony records from both state and federal charges, as well as loss of employment and virtual blackballing form an industry that, while we seek to escape it, provides us with a near constant demand for trained, expereinced employees.
Playing hardball with difficult customers is both the least favorable part of my job and, at times, the most rewarding. There's nothing quite like turning that sarcastic attitude back on its issuer with greater flair, greater skill, and the assurance of righteousness under the law as back-up. I have frequently and with glee refused sale to indiviuals who, although they may be well over the legal age for consumption of any restricted product, couldn't be bothered to renew their identification or driver's license with the state, quite often by as many as five years or more! I have absolutely zero tolerance fort someone who claims to be an adult yet exhibits the irresponsibility of their own children, or, often, grandchildren. And for those of you who like to whine, cry, and bitch that it's your right, your right to purchase tobacco or alcohol? Please point out the passage in the Constitution of the United States of America that secures unto you that right? Please, feign intelligence, maturity, and literacy, and point it out! I DARE you! Like it or not, WE are in control of that transaction, WE have final say, so if you want excellent customer service, cough up some damned CUSTOMER COURTESY!
Needless to say, I'm thrilled that I have tomorrow off. I need the rest, and wouldn't accept an additional shift if the call came. It's nearly 2:00am, but I've only been home for about two and a half hours, and still have a great deal of unwinding to do. My wife should be returning home from her road trip to Detroit within the next two hours, a growing and aggravating new tradition that's cropped up within the past several weeks. We have much to discuss, much to resolve, before I accept that marriage counselling isn't futile, that she hasn't turned from me completely and is engaging in mere humoring. I've set an arbitrary deadline of this coming Monday. Fact of the matter is, if she can't be troubled to find the time to give our marriage a little first aid in the entire weekend, then there isn't a marriage to save; it's been dead for some time, and I've been refusing to smell the rot.
My shifts at work over the past two days have been challenging at best. Something happens in the more guttural neighborhoods of this blighted city when the weather warms up. The furry vermin head indoors for room service, and the two-legged ones wander out to spread their filth and disease, in the process spilling those pesky brain-cells and their burdensome IQ points with every puff of reefer-laced cigarillo and regurgited malt liquor. I grow very tired frustrated with retail. It's not exactly the sort of job that requires a great deal of intelligence or skill, and thus garners precious little respect, especially in the convenience store industry, but oh, how bitchy and incompetent are the mighty and the miniscule when faced with the options of finding something on their own or fending for themselves. There was a time, some forty or fifty years ago, when customer service commanded a particular level of proletarian nobility, and a well-earned modicum of appreciation. Wearing a uniform wasn't laughable, playing Steppin Fetchit for meager pay wasn't castigated, and wasn't so meager, either. One could earn a liveable wage seeing to the demands and custom of the average bourgeois and lower. Until the questionable advent of the Technological Revolution, that is (and yes, I am keenly aware that this diatribe is delivered because of and courtesy of that very revolution). Within a pitifully short degree of time, customer service became confused with and overrun by the eroneous concept of customer servitude. Because we didn't ply the wares of the new technology on anything but a macroeconomic basis, we were determined to be below average, studpid, uneducated. We were assigned a quota for scorn to be received by the very bastards we serve. Those assumptions regarding our abilities, opportunities, and options rankle me daily. It is horribly difficult to tolerate the treatment receive from my clientel, spoken to as if I were an idiot by the flotsam and jetsom of society whom I could easily outhink and intellectually overwhelm, being requested to re-asess a receipt and make certain of my calculation by thugs that can't be troubled to, or are incapable of reading the simple Arabic numerals on our gasoline pumps.
Ours is an industry that discourages collective bargaining, advocacy for career-minded employees, fair treatment for our workers from both upper management and client alike. We have not yet adopted such lofty and modern concepts as the internal customer, evidenced by the harsh treatment we receive from our maintenance and retail supply departments, entities that wouldn't even have work were we not to exist. I do my best to compensate by backing up the associates under my purview, supporting them against the irate customer even when I feel, privately, that a particular policy or ordinance is being over-interpreted by the employee. The vast majority of customer still believe the falacy that 'the customer is always right.' That myth, that laughable rallying cry of the rude and ignorant still persists from an ancient time when there was no liability law, no government agencies and regulations regarding myriad aspects of sales and transactions, before products of particular qualities were restricted to purchase only by those who met stringent requirements. When a customer utters that foolish phrase, it can virtually be guaranteed that the employee is either being scammed or ask to disregard and violate a law, and suffer the consequences because of some 'honor-among-thieves' code under which they imagine we live, like troglodytes. Get used to it people, you must be over eighteen to purchase tobacco and lottery, and over twenty-one to purchase alcohol. Furthermore, if you don't appear to be exorbitantly over those respective ages, we are obliged to ask for proof, in the form of pictured identification from a recognised government body. We don't like it either, but not from the petty concerns of the inconvenienced consumer of those vices. Our burden isn't just not being able to drink or smoke; it's incarceration, conviction, long-term felony records from both state and federal charges, as well as loss of employment and virtual blackballing form an industry that, while we seek to escape it, provides us with a near constant demand for trained, expereinced employees.
Playing hardball with difficult customers is both the least favorable part of my job and, at times, the most rewarding. There's nothing quite like turning that sarcastic attitude back on its issuer with greater flair, greater skill, and the assurance of righteousness under the law as back-up. I have frequently and with glee refused sale to indiviuals who, although they may be well over the legal age for consumption of any restricted product, couldn't be bothered to renew their identification or driver's license with the state, quite often by as many as five years or more! I have absolutely zero tolerance fort someone who claims to be an adult yet exhibits the irresponsibility of their own children, or, often, grandchildren. And for those of you who like to whine, cry, and bitch that it's your right, your right to purchase tobacco or alcohol? Please point out the passage in the Constitution of the United States of America that secures unto you that right? Please, feign intelligence, maturity, and literacy, and point it out! I DARE you! Like it or not, WE are in control of that transaction, WE have final say, so if you want excellent customer service, cough up some damned CUSTOMER COURTESY!
Needless to say, I'm thrilled that I have tomorrow off. I need the rest, and wouldn't accept an additional shift if the call came. It's nearly 2:00am, but I've only been home for about two and a half hours, and still have a great deal of unwinding to do. My wife should be returning home from her road trip to Detroit within the next two hours, a growing and aggravating new tradition that's cropped up within the past several weeks. We have much to discuss, much to resolve, before I accept that marriage counselling isn't futile, that she hasn't turned from me completely and is engaging in mere humoring. I've set an arbitrary deadline of this coming Monday. Fact of the matter is, if she can't be troubled to find the time to give our marriage a little first aid in the entire weekend, then there isn't a marriage to save; it's been dead for some time, and I've been refusing to smell the rot.
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