A BOOB on TUESDAY...

In the course of rearranging my life to accommodate the Goat's pending arrival in Nowheresville, I somehow managed to forget that beyond skipping work for two [maybe three] days, I had a few other problems to solve. So I didn't solve them. And now it turns out that my free-lance work had a meeting or two scheduled during time I had blissfully blanked out for capreolous activities, so I am scrambling to rearrange work for play, and running out of plausible excuses.

Sometimes I think I would be better off following my son's model of working no more than the bare minimum and cutting back my existence to fit my income, rather than trying to cover some fantasy of "normal" life with whatever work I can lay my hands on.

I am seriously considering giving up my steady afternoon job. It means losing contact with people under 50, but the hockey players have been thin on the ground this year anyway, and the Guy with the Ears has long since moved on to greener pastures [graduate school?]. My daughter has applied for a job as a teacher's aide at a school near "home," what used to be my home as well, of course, without quotation marks, and part of her plan for the rest of her life is to spend time with people who are younger than the teachers and older than the crumb- crushers and rug-rats...

I think I know what she means. The Goat shows no signs of wear and tear from working with hot- and cold-running teenagers, but then he is 17 at heart anyway, so that doesn't offer me much solace. Having people your own age to hang out with can be comforting.

What I need is to do is marry for money.
And it looks like I am about to fail BIG TIME for the second time in a row.
Some people just never learn.

With all my time spent commuting out to the Big Woods, I have been spending less and less time with the Queen Bee's social club, and am getting more and more shit about it. At my last appearance at an evening of rainbow-flag barn-raising, I was accosted by the QB himself, who informed me with a wry little moue that he had heard that this supposed man of mine was a figment of my imagination -- no one had ever actually seen him! [That is, "no one" -- well, you know what he means.] I remain grateful for the generous hospitality these guys offered me when I hit Nowheresville without a clue to my name, but I do sometimes find the queenery a bit much.

The Goat would of course consider it residual internalized homophobia. I say it's not residual, and it's not even too internal. It was, after all, one of the many reasons I decided I couldn't live that life [this life?] thirty years ago.

Damned if I know what's going on.

And Nate has changed "Tales of the Nate" to "Nate's Second."
Go figure

Hang in there, all.
The alternative is pretty frightening.
I've been there...
C