The questionably melodic cacophony you hear from upstage center is not a goat mating with a penguin. It's the infamous Fat Lady, and she's closing out the show.
Keep reading for an amusing yet offensive denouement of Migraine One.
The show's over. Migraine One cashed in her chips last Wednesday, May 31st, 2023. Quietly and peacefully, or so I'm told. Probably true, as she was so strung out on pain medication she was being nice to everyone - which is not anything like the old Migraine One I used to know.
They, being everyone I know and respect, and including all permutations of same, advise me not to speak ill of the dead. Therefore, this is going to be a very short post.
Migraine One had three children of her own, and two that she helped raise. All five are successful adults. She also has heaps and piles of destitute nephews and nieces, along with a slew of close friends (well, they're close now, since it's safe) that she hasn't spoken to in years. There's a reason for that.
Like I said, five kids. She didn't raise them, but she was influential in their lives - and not always in a positive role model or supportive parent way. The kids took turns living with her, and I suppose she did the best she could for them, so long as it didn't interfere too much with her lifestyle - which centered around neurotic behavior with psychotic episodes and a drinking problem. She loved the drama.
The best parties involved loads of family members, all of whom were guaranteed to be in some sort of tiff with one or more of the others. Migraine One would find a spark and throw gasoline on it. And then, should things not be getting hot enough, she'd start up another argument between two or more family members who were conscientiously minding their own damn' business.
Then there was the bloody morning after.
Like everyone else, she'd have a real death dealer of a hangover, but she'd be the first child to show up at her mother's front door, telling her tale of woe and describing how the others were picking on her. Sometimes her mother bought into it, and sometimes not. The woman knew her own children, and she knew Migraine One was not the victim she pretended to be.
After we broke up she fixated on some other poor bastard and schlepped out to California. When that ship hit a coral reef and sank, "If you think I'm puttin' up with this shit, you are well and truly fucking crazier than I am!!!" she nailed a decent job and launched her career. You know, launched? She grabbed the bottom rung of the management ladder and started her climb, stepping on fingers and toes on the way up.
She used to call me once in a while. When Trump won the presidential election, I called her just to see how she was getting along. She was incoherent, and I'm not exaggerating. She screamed that she was going to immigrate to Canada. Ontario, I believe. I thought it was an excellent idea, but her husband put his foot down and told her no.
The thing that really kept me awake nights which I thought of it, is that some Saturday morning the phone would ring and it would be Migraine One. She'd announce that she was in town for a brief visit (didn't you get my email?) and would drop by in an hour or so. Maybe we could have lunch - a three martini lunch for me, white wine for her.
No thanks.
So I can sleep a little easier. Sayonara Migraine One.
8 comments:
Women like that give all women a bad name thankfully they not the norm because if they were where would we be
God has a reason for everyone. Sorrow for those who never actually find it.
Jo-Anne: True enough. The trouble is that all the good ones tend to be married.
CW: We, the mere mortals, cannot possibly know the mind of God. That's a good thing if you ask me.
I don't think Migraine One was a Christian, but generally speaking, we can't know what happens on a person's death bed. My own father accepted the Lord at the end of his life, and so was saved.
So - maybe, maybe not. I trust the Holy Father will handle this, because I certainly couldn't.
Curious, Jack…and none of it is my business - you can tell me to go jump in the lake and I will, rather than press it…. But,what was it in her that you saw that made you want to take up with her? I’da thunk a fella like you would be too smart to (forgive me) - “stick it in crazy”, if ya catch my drift?
I don’t get it. Over the years I have seen countless men, better men than I - embroiled in poor relationships with batshit crazy women. Some were destroyed by it. Others did it several times. By contrast, I met my soul mate in high school and we’ve been together ever since. I cannot conceive of relationships like that. What is it that motivates this insanity? Modern women will attack their husbands and sons and fathers at the drop of a hat - look at how they fight for the “right” to murder their own babies?
Ed Dutton, I believe, wrote a fascinating essay on the witch burnings. It was his contention that the events of that period were not about patriarchy and theocracy gone mad - they were actually mechanisms by which colonial communities protected themselves from feral women - the gossips, the adulteresses, the rumour starters, the harpies and migraines. Dutton posited that in colonial times, the small towns and communities had to be unified and at peace to survive. Contentious women that continually set people against each other with nonsense were seen as a threat and got taken out and dealt with.
Dunno if it’s true or not…but it has the ring of truth, to me, at least. Just anecdotally… I have never seen men going to war against their women. Even in the foulest divorces they want to protect the kids, and be fair with the women. By contrast, I’ve seen any number of gold diggers, harpies and harridans wage total war on their families. As a happily married man I don’t get any of this; these wars with no purpose or profit make no sense; attacking your family is akin to attacking yourself… but whadda I know?
I am as obsolete as the witch burners…
Keep ya stick on the ice over there Jack. 😉👍
From Glen Filthie: Curious, Jack…and none of it is my business - you can tell me to go jump in the lake and I will, rather than press it…. But, what was it in her that you saw that made you want to take up with her?
That's a good question, and one that I've been asking myself for quite a few years. Possibly a short history is in order, along with the caveat that I'm not the man now that I was then.
I'm seventy years old, in poor physical condition with high mileage. This wasn't always the case, though. In reminiscence of the years from 1973 through 1983, here are a few scattered yet pertinent parts of the story.
I was an auto mechanic, and I was sick and tired of working outside during the artic winters of northern Ohio. Trying to get a jitney started in twenty below zero (Fahrenheit, you heathen!) weather at ten o'clock at night is not my idea of a challenge; it's unadulterated misery compounded by a customer who knows very well why the car won't start - it hasn't had a tune up in five years, and it's ten years old.
I decided to change careers, and saw an ad in the help wanted section for a ballroom dance instructor, no experience, paid through training. So I cleaned up and went for an interview. The short of it is that there were two men in training class, and the other guy dropped out. I hung in there and discovered the social and emotional benefits of ballroom dancing. I also discovered that, for the most part, the staff didn't believe their own bullshit.
Upon completing training class, the entire staff (men only for this little outing) went out to a club to celebrate. Now, I'm only twenty-one, and the sum total of my experience with faggots consisted of a few choice encounters I had while working the night shift at a gas station. I was a pump jockey, and one guy I had to threaten to slug with a pump nozzle if he didn't back off. So, we get to the club - and the men and women are divided. The dance floor has men dancing with men, and the stage has a few men dancing on it, and the women are in an area by themselves. Well, this is weird, but so what? I'll tell you so what.
About one drink in, they, being the male staff, tell me that they are all gay. I tell them that I'm straight, and the last guy who tried to put his paws on my salami wound up in the emergency room with five broken fingers and a major dental problem.
They backed off.
To Be Continued
Continued
I showed up for work Monday, and life continued. The manager, Rat Face, was the only one who wouldn't quit. One comment after another, and a lot of pressure to turn gay. He actually told me that if I turned gay it would help my dancing. A fairy nice guy, right? The other guys (we didn't have multiple genders back then) were the Latin Lover (a South American joy boy who was AM/FM), Pud Pounder, and First Faggot (a nasty piece of work, he was an office thief).
Then Migraine One applied for a job. The manager needed a good looking woman, as the staff consisted of Hippo-Hips, Sherri-Sweetie (she was married to the Latin Lover, and acted so fucking sweet I'd practically get diabetes whenever she walked in the room), and Country-Loser (she was tall, lanky, and lacked refinement). Rat Face put Migraine One in training class, and I was the instructor, and, well... what do you expect?
Rat Face was good enough that he actually had me wondering about myself, but after that first night no one had any question at all about me or my preferences. The trouble was that Migraine One was kind of nutty. She'd take offense at anything, any little thing that I said. She tried gas lighting me, and when it didn't work, she doubled down. I liked her mom and her family, though, and I guess they liked me okay. She had one brother that was very talented and intelligent; he worked his way up to plant manager, and he could play drums, guitar, and keyboard, as well as draw and paint. Her mother was nice and used to defend me against Migraine One's nutty accusations.
Through all this Migraine One continued to substantiate my heterosexuality, and did so with a certain enthusiasm that I found appealing. So, we'd have a major fight over something, I'd pack it in, and we'd stay apart for a while. Just your nice, healthy, completely normal on again off again relationship.
After ten months Rat Face fired me. He did so by office memo, being afraid to tell me in person. In my letter of termination Rat Face stated that I had no talent for the dance business; I couldn't dance, teach, or sell dance lessons. I felt pretty low about that, but I got my revenge.
You see, Rat Face had been in the dance business for three years, two of which were spent as a junior executive in the third largest dance studio in the U.S. The thing is, being a good salesman and working in a large studio does not make you a great manager of a very medium size school, yet Rat Face thought he was great. Since no one did anything to dissuade him of these delusions, his staff suffered for it. When he fired me, I went down the street to the arch rival and applied for a job.
To Be Continued
Continued
The man who interviewed me listened intently to my situation, then pronounced it a result of bad management. The assistant manager agreed. Then they asked me if I had a girl friend, and when I affirmed I did, they were all smiles. Because, you see, they hired straight guys. The owner was Big Swingin' Dick (BSD), who is literally a legend in his own time. I didn't know this when he hired me, but judging from his reputation and success, this would be a bit like a fresh college graduate going to work as a writer, directly under Samuel Langhorne Clemens. BSD improved my dancing and taught me to sell. In my first six months working for BSD I became the top salesman in the four state region - Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, and Tennessee.
Migraine One quit Rat Face for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that she discovered he had the offices wired for sound, and would listen in on conversations that people believed to be private. She got hired at the same place I was working, but she couldn't make it there. For one thing, no one would put up with her crap. So she got a job as a cocktail waitress and continued her college education, getting a B.A. in English and eventually becoming an investigative reporter and moving up to editor.
For myself, I ran into Rat Face and his lover at the supermarket. When the little weasel snickered and asked how things were going at the competitor, I told him I worked for BSD. He turned pale, stuttered, and asked what BSD was doing in town.
Years later I discovered that Rat Face would mention me at his morning meetings, and brag about how he fired me. I don't think his staff saw that as a major accomplishment.
Thanks for Reading
If time, fate and space permit…we are gonna have to do coffee one day, Jack.
😊👍
Post a Comment