“What good is wailing, aloof and alone
Solace is sips away
Life is a Cabernet, Old Chum
Savor some Cabernet. . . . . “
It was Christmas at County Market Sunday. Carlo Rossi Burgundy (a lousy wine for song parody fabrication) was on sale for $7.00. I was almost through the bottle I thought was a gift from God at Shop ‘N’ Save for $8.19 about a week ago, so when I saw THAT price tag, I snapped it up like a thirsty guitar player.
I’m working more at my unofficial employer than I expected. Besides leaving me less time for my many profitless pursuits an unexpected paradox of attitude is slowly saturating my outlook. When occasionally I have embraced the brewed barley or fermented grape after returning home from substitute teaching — something I did, at most, on an occasional Friday night — I was rewarding myself for successfully engaging and teaching through the slings and arrows of outrageous students and to dull the echoes in my hard hard head. Now I’m finding WORK is my new HOME. Everyone is friendly and glad I’m there. I”m making real progress tweaking the merchandising approach, producing some advertisements and improving the company web site. It’s coming home that’s driving me nuts. This is when I need consolation in a bottle.
A tag announcing the post office’s attempt to deliver a Certified Letter to my last name at my same house NUMBER but on a DIFFERENT STREET was waiting for me in my mail Monday. There were no indications of a first name, a sender’s name, a sender’s zip code. The form simply asked for my signature. Would YOU sign a receipt for a letter not addressed to where you live? I won’t. Instead I wrote the postman a letter (in longhand because I haven’t had a working printer in a week and a frikking half) explaining the situation and leaving my note attached to the unsigned form in my mailbox when I left for work today.
I was having too much of a good day to consider what the heck to do about the certified letter, and on arriving home, I simply decided not to touch my mailbox until tomorrow at the earliest. I would much rather be not at home now. Work is my harbor, home is my maelstrom of incapacity.
Where did I put that Burgundy?
The only downside is that I’ve worked four times as many hours as I’ve been paid for. And the wolves are scratching at my shoes. My employer is having the same kind of travail I’m causing my howling creditors to endure. They’s HONGRYwolves, and I don’t feel pleased about my not paying what I honestly owe them. And I don’t even fault them for scratching at my shoes. They have their obligations.
So I’m not going to open my mailbox until after dawn on the morrow. If any creditors I owe money to are reading these words, don’t bother calling for the next few days; just email me. I probably won’t be checking my voice mail either.
“So suck it up; start inebriating,
Right this way your crutch is waiting. . . . .”
Live long . . . . . . . and proper.
