Bent Words

Bent Words

January 28, 2021

Half time.

I couldn’t get out any sooner. I couldn’t altogether breathe. I couldn’t see my way into the bar. Too many faces and not enough open spaces for me. I stood between two people I almost know and listened to the din of those who had been there much longer than me. The girls with the pointy nails and fake eyelashes, the couple who are always making out and used to be neighbors in the Putney Building, the owner, a dog and pink and blue hair.

I wanted to talk. I wanted to listen. I wanted – needed – to pay better attention. I wanted to be not so overwhelmed or encumbered by the enormity of it all. I wanted to drink in the details and slow down the clock like I did that one night about a year ago when I was able to back the fuck up from my mind. Every other drink a beer to keep my mind moving and everything clear. I’d settle up in my seat and be unaffected this time. I’d be objective and reflective. I would see everything I needed to see and hear every word and remember every single little thing from the top to the bottom.

I would write it all down and never forget. The temperature, the time, the commercials, the shots. How someone always says, “No, you’ll like this stuff – this is good tequila!” as though there were such a thing. If there were, you’d know about it by now because you’re 40-something years old and know what is good for you (Coors) and what is bad (Goldshlager) for you. But you do the stupid shot anyway because someone out there paid for it and you can’t just walk away from booze like that.

Plus, what else was I supposed to do besides wallow in a Packer loss?

Ten years ago they didn’t lose. They played the Saturday night my apartment building went up in flames. I was hoping for a bit of that on Sunday (not the fire part but the not losing the game part) to sort of cancel out the memory but we don’t always get what we want.

Even if we want it really badly…

(slipped on the ice on the sidewalk on my way to my truck which was the cherry on top)

Girl Crush


My dad never needed anything more than a single stage Toro snow thrower so I don’t know what that monstrosity is in the garage with one wheel deflated but where the fuck is my Honda?

Fine. Whatever.

I’ll take the dog out and shovel but then kindly don’t yell at me that you will do it when you intend to sit down for a half hour to wake up before taking care of the mess. By then, the Big Kid will be gone to school so I won’t have anyone to watch Mister. The garbage will get missed for the delay in snow removal but I suppose this could just be the second week in which I “don’t worry about it.”

Never fucking mind dirty diapers and dog shit – love that fresh smell!

“Just go get your work done so I don’t have to hear you bitch about it.”

Well NOW you’re gonna hear me bitch about it because it would have been way smarter to take Mister in right away since the vehicles are cleared off (completely – not half assed with only the windshield showing since you tend to LOOK out more than just that one window) so we don’t have to worry about him while effectively removing snow. How am I supposed to get my work done with him crawling all over the place in the basement?! Your sense making skills are hard at work, huh?

Don’t tell me I wasted my time. Don’t tell me shoveling is stupid. Don’t tell me not to yell at you because you’re being a big, dumb dick and deserve exactly that and more. Just step up or step aside. I can take care of it myself. And I could do it much quicker if I had my snowblower at hand. The like-new one. That you didn’t use last week when it snowed so now we are enjoying the ice left underneath last night’s blanket of white shazz.

Same knee I fell on on Sunday.


Written at 3:57 p.m.