High, Low and In Between

Today was one of those days when I just didn’t see a goddamn thing coming.

In no particular order:

A key co-worker who’d hit the breeze without notice in December, just before the holidays, and without whom we’d learned to manage to get along without quite nicely thank you, reappeared equally without notice this morning, reportedly demanding to know what had happened to “her paper” in her absence. (What had happened was, the guy who stepped up to pick up her slack had been trying hard to make it a legitimate news organ for its community, as opposed to the unquestioning forum for city-government press releases it was under her tenure and promises to return to.)

But then… a friend of mine—an online chum with whom I have never exchanged naked photographs—sent me a link to the new Johnny Cash album that doesn’t ‘street’ till next week. Of course I already have an official copy on pre-order from amazon, so I didn’t feel guilty about downloading the sneak peek. A full review will follow, but it was a sobering and spiritual experience on a day of the week when all I usually have is stress.

But then… and this is the in-between part, The Missus learned she’d landed herself a tenure-track professorship at a university in a town that, whenever people hear its name, invariably the first thing they bring up is the White Aryan Resistance presence in the area.

I’m very proud of Dr. Mrs. Fang, but I’d just started thinking of Christmas Island as home. I will not see The Last Boy Scout’s children and mine grow up together. I will have to return to the back alleys to score my contraband and run the risk of the local constabulary (point in my favor: I’m white!). And my spaghetti-noodle back is already howling in agony at the prospect of packing up all the shit we can’t or won’t sell and dragging it to middle, red-state Amerikkka.

And she’ll have to take a pay cut, but the cost of living is lower there and frankly, her department here at the local Christmas Island U. is considered more and more expendable every pay period. They’ve already furloughed the crap out of her and her department head is advising his employees to “seek work elsewhere.” Not to mention the fact that she’s wanted to be a college professor for almost half her life. So really, landing this new gig is a godsend.

If you like that sort of thing. I prefer my godsends in tidy lump-sums with no strings attached. Preferably delivered by swimsuit models in body paint. And as a rule, they don’t involve moving vans or interruptions in my access to weed.

It sucks that the culmination of a lifetime of hard work on her part is being met with a “but what about ME?!” from me, but that’s just the way I’m put together. I keep trying for a passable brave face for her, but all I’ve come up with so far is a perfectly-realized petulant sulk.

I’ve said it before and it bears repeating now: I am a far better father than I am a husband.

If you feel compelled to leave a comment, tough love is encouraged. Commiseration, no matter how well-intended, will only encourage me to continue my unspeakable selfishness.