Dirt, Cheap?

I clean.


Big deal, right?


Maybe you don't understand.


I CLEAN.


It wasn't always an obsession, a war, if you will, against dirt. At one time, I really didn't care about the matter, or more precisely, I ignored it because everyone else in my family was so obsessed with it. Ignoring it was my of telling them to F off.


It's not like you have to go out of your way to be messy. Just don't do anything, and watch dirt slowly, but surely, take over. Dust wisps in, coating every surface. Grime permeates shower tiles so subtly you hardly notice the build-up. Floors, once smooth and slick on your bare feet, become course and grimy.


My room growing up was deplorable. Mold grew freely, green patches formed like lily pads on all my wooden furniture. Discarded food crusted, molded, then crumbled to dust before ever being acknowledged. One of our eight cats frequently pissed under my desk, he wasn't neutered.


There were two spots that I kept clean, or at least free of clutter, my bed, and my porn collection, which was stored high lest the cat desire some reading material to shit on. In drunken stupors, I'd lie in filth, face down, careless.


Given the fact that she screamed about it constantly, I can only surmise that Mom saw Satan in dirt. She hunted it like a marksman, paling in comparison to her mother, who'd move all the furniture just to give the room a rim job.


But then...something happened. Dirt bothered me. I noticed it. Everywhere. The first time I cleaned a hardwood floor I stood over it, unconvinced the mop picked up all the dirt. I knelt with towel in hand, and wiped up my arch enemy, glaring at my mop the same way one looks upon a traitor.


Once I moved into my own place, things went from bad to worse. I worked long hours to make it on my own. Sunday I scoured. Monday I relaxed. Tuesday, dirt's assault began, showing up in the corners, random dustbunnies scampered across the floor. Wednesday, I'd clean. Friday. Sunday. Random spot checks on non-essential cleaning days. God forbid someone invited me out. I'd have declined, knowing full well dirt loves an empty house.


My therapist calls the behavior a neurotic loyalty to Mom. He must live in filth. Dirt and I have reached an understanding. It accumulates. Sometimes I let it, others I don't. It's hard to keep up an obsession, especially when you live with people who don't seem as offended by dirt's existence. It's not that Rachel is a slob, she just has better things to do. It's ironic how I've spent a good deal of my life trying to combat the very thing I'll be buried in when I pass.


Unless I'm cremated and mixed into a vat of 409.


Get my lawyer on the phone. Time to change my will.

White is Right

It's a good god damn thing we keep those niggers behind fences!


She declared. It surprised us the same way a blown tire might have if it was blown by a laser from an alien ship. My brother and I looked around at first. I checked the radio to make sure we weren't tuned to WKKK while my brother rolled up the window, either because he thought it came from outside, or to keep the flagrant racism in.


Grandma sat in the back, purse clutched to her chest, wig secured by enough bobby pins to set off a metal detector. We were driving by a low income housing development just after gorging on Thanksgiving dinner.


Her rascism was usually more subtle. The tightening of her grip as we walked by anyone of color, the forbidden line that dissected the neighborhood, white from black, the generalizations spoken under her breath to friends, They all steal, you know.


When we were caught robbing jewelry stores and plastered all over the 6 o'clock news, she was devastated. I can't imagine the embarrassment, humiliation, and shame. Her peers would look down on her as a failed Mother.


She blamed it on a woman, Some girl did this to your father, brainwashed him into stealing, he'd never do it on his own. My therapist says she's right, it was a woman that brainwashed him, her.



I don't talk to her was her response when Rachel asked if she ever saw my sister. She ruined the family's good name by having a baby with a black man.



The family's good name? I thought. Didn't Dad single-handedly drive a wrecking ball into that long before my sister gave birth to the anti-Christ?



Classic Grandma.



John McCain will receive a vote from her not because he stands for what she believes in, but because he's the 'right' color. I fear others, black and white, are going to the polls this November to pick a color, not a candidate.



Maybe we should keep them behind fences.

Just Curious

Who is this?

Wow! I found your blog last month and read all the entries that same night! I came back tonight to re-read the one that mentions my name, although, it's mispelled (no "ce" just a "z")I'm glad you're ok and I think you are a great writer... hopefully, you have some better memories of me...

My brain is sprained trying to figure it out.

Miss Bossy Pants Meets Mr. Sensitive

It’s as if she said give me the Demi Moore but they gave her the Hitler. Since it’s been short things have changed. Now she’s Miss Bossy Pants.

Colonel Rara demands Mow Mow and I walk in tight formation. Mow Mow on my left, my eyes forward, shoulders square, feet always pointed in the direction I intend to walk.

Warden Rara says lockdown is at 11pm sharp. Mow Mow is to be crated regardless of whether or not she’s tired. The Warden needs her sleep, Mow Mow needs routine. There will be no discussions about going to bed without me.

The accounting firm of Rara & Rara says that the procurement of dog treats are no longer allowed through a vendor, “We can buy ten pounds of ground beef for what pet stores charge for lips and assholes.”

Maybe it’s because she’s under the most stress ever and works a million hours. Is it possible I’m misinterpreting all this? Could bossy really just be determined? Maybe her discipline offsets my wanting to spoil our dog rotten.

Could there be some transference going on here?

Nah, it’s definitely the hair…