Sundays with Sir–Poops-A-Lot and Hair Ball: Take Time to Smell the Hamper

Hair Ball

HB: Mummsy had a terribly stressful two weeks. What should we do for her? Because I don’t think the Zen music you find for her on YouTube works.

SPAL: I truly believe I need to teach her how to take time out of her day to smell the hampers.

HB: How are you going to do that, pansy-boy?

SPAL: Hmmm…(he scratches his head). I’m thinking.

HB: How about an instructional post on how to do it. (He claps his paws).

SPAL: Oh, my God! I think you actually had a logical thought. There might be hope for you yet.

They stare at each other while silence looms between them.

Five minutes later, SPAL raises his paw, plops it back onto the floor, and walks toward the computer.HB follows behind. Both hop into separate chairs at the kitchen table where the computer sits.

SPAL: Okay. Here’s my advice for mummsy and other non-fur-people. When you come home remove all your clothing and drop into the hamper with your other clothes.

HB: Then sniff. Right?

SPAL: I think so.

HB: Should they sniff from the outside of the hamper or from the inside?

 

SPAL: I suggest going inside.

HB: How far inside?

SPAL: I suggest as far as possible. But first you must topple it sideways to get the effect of the relaxing aromas held within.

SPAL: After, slowly move your body into it and take a deep inhale.

SPAL: And if that doesn’t work, go deeper into the hamper. Inhale again and slowly exhale. Stay there inhaling, hang onto it before you exhale. The point is to relax with each exhalation.

HB: How long should someone stay in there?

SPAL: Until they’ve reached a total state of peace and ecstasy.

HB: Oh, but what if they become addicted?

SPAL: This is not addictive. Trust me.

HB: That’s what they say about drugs.

SPAL: What damage can be caused by inhaling all the aromas of already worn clothing?

HB scratches his head.

SPAL: Everyone needs to take time to smell the hampers. Trust me. It works. It’s Yoga for your sniffer.

Jesus and the Crack Pipe

When I got home last night from work, I made myself my favorite cup of tea and plopped down on my favorite spot on the sofa, next to my hubby. I caught the last twenty minutes of Fringe. At about the time the Asian girl started to gasp for air, No-No came trouncing down the stairs.

“Mom,” she said, “Granny B. contacted me on Facebook.” This caught my attention. She’s someone we all kept about hundred arms length away from. “She told me J.’s in the hospital. His lungs are filling up with fluid and being heavily sedated.” Her voice sounded quivery. “He’s going to die. Should I feel bad?” Of course, she should feel bad. I feel bad even though I can’t stand the man. It’s her father.

“Of course you should,” I said.

She cleared her throat and swallowed back her tears before she said, “But he deserves it. He never did anything with his life. He was never there for me or my sisters.” True, he spent his life sucking on a crack pipe and living for Jesus. Her memories of him aren’t happy ones.

I nodded.

“I want to cry, mom.” I wanted to cry, too. A small bolt of guilt ran through me. Maybe if I would’ve stayed his life might have been different.

At eighteen I married the creep. That’s what my mom wanted.Weird, I know. My gut told me to run but I had to make my mom happy. As the saying goes, if Mom’s not happy, no one’s happy. She’s another story.

For nine years, I spent my life running back and forth to him. Was there abuse? Yes. But there were also his drugs and his drug dealings. There were numerous times I paid off dealers at gunpoint, bought stuff back from pawn shops, drove him to detox and rehabs trying to help this man. Can’t tell you how many times he became friends with Jesus.

Did I love him? Not at all. For years, I felt sorry for the idiot. Eventually, I ended up hating his guts. He stole from us, me and his girls. He robbed their bank accounts. Our Christmas monies. Wrote bad checks when he got a hold of the checkbook. He even emptied out our house one day selling everything we owned to pay off a crack dealer. This included the Tupperware my mother loaded us down with, my daughters’ bedroom furniture and TOYS, their clothes, even our wedding album. Yup. I came home to an empty house after work. We’d been cleaned out by my husband and their father. These are our memories.

This man wasted his life. Sometime after our divorce, he remarried two more times and made two more babies. He almost killed the last wife. Not long after, he disappeared. The scoop, he’d taken to the streets. We didn’t hear from him until one day about four years ago.

“I’m clean. I’ve got Jesus,” he said over the phone. “I’m living in the Salvation Army. They’re going to make me a counselor.” Heard that one a thousand times. Once he’d get comfortable with that position, he’d find the crack pipe all over again. “I want to see the girls.” D-Dell was already gone. No-No was seventeen and E-wee fifteen.

He visited his girls. Those few visits severed their ties. Yup. He found crack again.

Right now, I wonder what he might be thinking? Is he sorry? Is he going back in time in his head, thinking about what he could’ve done differently? Wonder if he’ll find Jesus again before he leaves this world? Or, will he find someone to give him a few hits off a crack pipe before he passes?