homeowner me

[Trilby]

HOMEOWNER ME

I’ve no business being a homeowner. This thought crossed my mind as I tripped over some hinge-like metal contraption on the floor of my basement as I was throwing a wash in. I had no idea of this thing or its significance to my house. Could it be the lynchpin that kept the entire basement together? Is it a vital piece of washing machinery and now that it was off the washer would cause a basement tsunami? I didn’t know and I didn’t (honestly) care about the lynchpin or the coming tsunami; I only cared to get the wash going. But, still. There was that thought.

And I’ve a true Silence of the Lambs-type basement. If there was going to be water down there, there was also going to be a mudslide and cholera.

To say that I am a “homeowner” is a bit of a pretentious lie I tell myself (to make me feel superior) and to others (to make me look superior) but it’s really a misnomer. Daddy owns the house. Yes. Yes, he does. Except Daddy is getting on in years and you can’t rightly expect an 80 year-old, landlord or father or no, to be unplugging your hair-stopped sink every sixty days or hoisting in your window A/C unit come May now can you? Not, at least, if you are a proper “homeowner.”

I know what I can do, though. I can give a blow job. I’ve proven this fact beyond a shadow of a doubt as I am paid for them: maybe not in the ‘traditional’ way a person is paid ($), but paid nonetheless. I got my toilet ring fixed for one, and I keep a not-too steady supply of oxy and percs on hand for another. These drugs, though not prescribed to me specifically, are essential for when I have extraordinarily bad days; which come with alarming frequency.

Take this Saturday. My eldest, my golden, graduated (not with honors but with a lot of jock related things and a scholarship, so there) from the little high school his father had ferried him off to when the lad was only ten. Three hours away from me. I’d no idea I was that dangerous to his upbringing, but I suppose his father felt that any woman who would trade sex for toilet maintenance couldn’t be trusted with anything closer. There he was: tall, proud, and good-looking. And I couldn’t help but feel I’d only contributed to three of those things. His father, after all, had raised him. I merely supplied the others. His temperament, his good judgment, his dedication to the church… he’s not dedicated to the church! I thing I find so strange as being “churchy” minded was a major contention back when his father and I shared a dwelling. And not just any church, either. One had to belong to the same one his parents belonged to---something to do with denying and farming and hating papists. Oh, and belief in aliens. But because my mother was a papist and had sent me to a papist school, they endeavored to scrub clean my soul, but my soul, like my morals, refused to be cleansed. Hence, the three hour trip to see my son.

My son’s father is not really so bad. As a matter of fact, he’s had loads, actual haywagon loads, of women, all churchy Christian laydees willing to overlook the embarrassing fact of his first wife, move in with him, fornicate (dare I say? Yes, I dare!) with him and then leave him just as I did. It couldn’t be all me. I mean, I refuse to believe a man married four times is all my fault. Plus, he’s good looking, so there is that.

But back to my son. I was, honestly, sad that Saturday. Here he was, all grown up and entering the Big Baddie and I felt I’d missed his many milestones. No, I did not miss his first fake 9-1-1 call to the Sherriff’s office. (His accomplice, his cousin, older by 9 months, should have known better); No, I did not miss his first phone call that began, “Mom…there’s a police officer here who’d like to talk with you….” (His father was out that night---praying, no doubt, with one of those Christian ladies), No, I did not miss his first…well, there were a lot of firsts I was privy to that his father probably was not but they were mostly by PHONE CALL. I missed all the Kodak moments. (had it not been 2 o’clock in the morning when he asked me to talk with the nice policeman, I might have had the presence of mind to ask for a Polaroid of the attending officer giving the thumbs-up).

He’s off to college now. I hope our phone call relationship can still somehow work out. I hope I can always be there for him when he needs me most---I’ve a lawyer on retainer for one. And, I’m a damn good listener.

I will always regret those lost Kodak moments. I will always cherish the real ones.