Hotter than the Hubs & Crazier than a Loon

Actually, it’s relatively cool out there on the back porch: only 105° in the shade. Which is just NOT that hot.

My son is on his way over here — or soon will be — presumably to scold the bedoodles out of me. Again. Apparently I was rude to one of my coreligionists. Again. Gawd only knows what I said this time!

My mouth runs loose all the time — always has, ever since I was a little kid. And I really never know quite how I offend. Only that I do offend.

All.
The.
Time.

God only knows what I said this time. All M’jito says is that I offended the woman.

He has a pile of other issues to chide me about this afternoon…what those are, we shall soon hear. And hear. And hear.

See, my problem is that I’m fundamentally not a nice person. The upshot of that is that people tend not to like me. And I tend not to like people.

Result: hour after hour after hour of blogging. And other kinds of writing.

This, you see, is why I’m a writer. Because I can’t speak to my fellow humans without setting them off.

The issue only became noticeable in the first grade. We didn’t have kindergarten in Arabia, and so I had an extra whole year in which NOT to make little toddling enemies. But as soon as school started, I quickly had everyone hating me.

That’s OK. Who needs friends, anyway? F**k’em all, I say.

Actually….it began earlier than grade school. The first time I became aware that other kids hated me, I was a toddler. It was before we went to Arabia (I turned three years old when we arrived out there). My mother and I lived in Sausalito, California, while my father, a merchant mariner, went to sea. One day the two neighbor kids and I were playing in the sandbox in front of our house, there in California. We were about two years old at the time.

All of a sudden, out of the blue, the little girl (they were brother & sister) scooped up a shovelful of sand and….WHAM!!!!

She slammed it into my face. Shoveled that sand right into my eyes.

Ohhh GOD! How that hurt!!! I remember it to this minute — one of the only things I do remember from that age. I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. My poor mother came running outside, horrified and mystified.

That was, I guess, the first time I understood that other people hate me. 

Why they hate me: that usually escapes me. I have no idea what set that kid off. Only that she did what she could to hurt me the most she could in that moment.

And…well…that’s the way most people have acted, over the years.

You see where I find my affection for humanity, hm?

So: fast forward to 2025. 

I don’t know what I said to my coreligionist, but apparently it wasn’t nice.

Seriously: I cannot recall saying anything that I can imagine would be offensive. But apparently I did. And apparently it was bad enough that she reported it to my son.

Most of the time I have no clue what I say to offend these delicate flowers. But I sure as hell DO offend.

Welp…I imagine I’ll get an earful of it pretty quick. He hasn’t shown up yet. But he will.

He will.