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One of the least pleasant realities that accompanies adulthood is having to learn to deal with constant mind games. When you're very young, it's more a matter of whose dad can deal the biggest thumping... how much you can sneak around without getting caught... what you can break and get away with. All of which are still on the table in larger degrees when the time comes to stand on you own two feet, funnily enough. Playing with others' heads to put the screws to them... that's a product of experience. Like the Clash sang, "the men at the factory are old and cunning...." Besides kissing ass, this is one of my most serious taboos. Probably why I'll never aspire to political office, legal practice, or middle management. There comes those times, though.... Like today. This debacle with getting the bath remodeled.... On the one side, here's the landlady trying to squeeze the last penny on getting the job done right; on the other, the contractor trying to get away with the least amount of work to cash in and split from the scene. In the middle... my precarious ass wishing only to shave, take a shower, and excrete indoors in my own home. My wants, at times, are simple. Not having the benefit of knowing the details of the contract, or the expense involved, I had to make a stand... and stir up some grey matter. With an early morning call to Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS, outlining all of the crappy work and absences (and finding out what was spelled out in the contract), I was forced to motivate the irresistable force. And asked to call back when the immovable object of Bob the Bilker arrived, for a chat... gestapo-a-mano. Elevenish, in strolls the troll attempting to reinstall termite, water, and doofus damaged trim, already a week late. Not seeing the trap when explaining how hard he's worked, and I dialed the number for the showdown. Badda-bim. Yeah, I ratted on the bastard. Oh, the sheepish apologies... the calming reassurances... the immediate return to the confines of the water closet. Macht G�t, Ilsa! Her words (I swear)... "it will be done by tomorrow, or face a raving maniac!" She Mach Schnell'd his hairy butt, big time. You Go, Leibchen! And not a hint of shame do I feel. In the meantime, it became another day of confinement to the grounds (and peeing behind the Cortinas). Tackling nagging chores. Trying to make up Miss Jane's mind for her (her favorite pasttime), so she'd stop fencesitting a GO to her daughter's house for a birthday party, for God's sake. Which she didn't. Dang... what an anti-aphrodisiac. Which set me thinking about single life. Many single women live their lives on the hunt for comfort. Single guys hunt for... yes, beer and bootay, but also: subject matter. Easy street versus X-Box. Sugar Daddy versus love slave. Me? I just wanna get back on track. Make some use of all this breathing. Lust. Create. Innovate. Get On With It. With minimal mind fuck. |
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