Super Bowl Edition
Crooked Views
By Joseph Anthony
These Blogs are “my truths!” I stake no logistical claims, nor research to support my opinions and experiences.
“Farm living is …”
… NOT the life for me! The latter line, from Green Acres, written oppositely from the true lyrics, speaks of this, Dirty Water Dog missing fools’, longing for his old kicks. Whereas, Super Bowl edition, seemed like a good way to grab your attention, this week. There were 30,000 “cutouts” in Tampa yesterday … I can play mind games also.
I grew up eating unhealthily, delicious meals, on a concrete stoop in Brooklyn, New York — looking out at more concrete and basking in the sun. Not for its splendor — but because there were no trees for shade. The tiny NYC suburb of Staten Island, where I lived for much of my life, was a pretend suburb, with 6’ x 5’ grass patches (literally) for front lawns. It was like practice or a transitioning suburb before you hit New Jersey. It still had some of the charms of Brooklyn, as such, yard work or shoveling, still only took 1/3 of the time, as in the “real Burbs.” We lived so near to each other, in these boroughs, that you often hit your neighbor’s feet with your shovel … that is how you knew you were done (insert Rim Shot here).
Is it, that I am getting older (factor in 4 joint replacements in recent years), or am I done with domestic life altogether? I have no desire to shovel, mow, or maintain, anymore! Not to say, that I do not want to see it done … just not by me. Is it, the lack of marital bliss, that makes those obligatory chores — which are not shiny and attractive ideals, to put on your to-do list, in the first place — lack even more luster?
Regardless, and barring the overdue psychological sessions, even when I was younger, stronger (complete with real internal parts), happier, and in love, I still missed New York. I cursed and mocked the Burbs and longed for the “vibe”, the edge, the hustle, of my rotten apple. The things, we Subway Rats laugh about, in social circles, makes the average outsider cringe! Relatability … no matter where you call home, it is all about that feeling of familiarity, like your favorite jeans. Some people are like Chameleons. Others, such as this Author, are doomed to be the metaphoric, “Black Sheep” (an analogy that, somehow now, feels Racist, though not intended, in our heightened awareness of such things), even when we do try on different hats. Yes, another metaphor.
I used to take pride in the labor. Feeling, as a young Dad and a newly married man, that I was doing these chores for my family. In retrospect, I was. However, I think I was programmed into believing, that this is what the whole package meant. Because, back then, whenever I was doing labor-intense, domestic chores, I was always dreaming of being somewhere else, or doing something else, with my family, while other people were happily paid to do this work for me. It was never, “my thing,” but I did it. It is certainly not the model that I grew up with. But someone, subtly whispered in my ear, or through tiny hints/messages (follow the pocket watch), that this is what a husband, father, homeowner, does. I kept working towards and waiting for the day, when I was all done with giving up entire days of my life, to weeds or leaves, and could be free to live this life and enjoy my home! Rather than my home, being a constant burden. I used to go 30 minutes away, to the NJ shore, and stay in Motels with my family. My wife could never understand the expense of the accommodations when we lived so close. It is just that being home, meant that there was something staring at you, screaming at you, to be done.
The old stand-by does have weight. It is nice to raise your children, in a good area, with good schools, and so on. But they are getting older, on the cusp of their adult life. More and more I long for (what I am sure is nothing like the way I once experienced it), my old stomping grounds — having less — if I cannot have more! The basic home maintenance necessities, we are not even talking improvements, have become looming shadows of obligation … and I am tired folks. I am not at all interested in conversations about when brush pick up day is, or how did I get Dandelions? I am past the point of stoops and street corners. I am getting too old (and frustrated), for clearing paths in the snow and pulling stubborn mower starter cords. Even if I could, running away is a limited option during a Pandemic. So, I’ll just sit here, in this locked bathroom, and listen to Styx on a loop — Come Sail Away.
It was a weird week, readers. My son is moving back to campus (though I know he cannot wait to go), during a Pandemic and after being home nearly one year. We had a rather large snowstorm, which both exhausted me and inspired this story. Though passionate about my topic, and the literal inner struggle, this blog, felt more like a blurb! In closing, my wife, who has all but given up on me being an equal counterpart, in my desires to tackle home improvements — the way that I have “all but” given up on the notion of her greeting me naked at the front door — is, I must say, doing an excellent job of bettering our living space (BTW: FU HGTV). She barrels through project after project, on a small budget, almost on a weekly basis. While I, create more and more space between myself and my purported chores. Too flirty?
