My Great Underwear change is not progressing with the dreamed-of joy conjured when the great change began.
Setting the scene, I’ve been a boxer wearer for decades, migrating from other styles while I was younger. Recently, while shopping, I spied other underwear on the shelves. Why, the materials were different. And the shapes! Perhaps I will try these newfangled garments.
I bought two styles. One was purchased at Costco. Kirkland. The second, Body Glove, was purchased at Kohl’s. Both are elasticized cotton or something. Boxer shorts. That’s where their overlapping identities end.
The Kirklands went on first. Wow, comfy. Very nice. Useful and expected, it had that vent up front that negates the need to drop trou and sit to pee. I know females are shrugging, “So you have to pull down your underwear, sit and pee instead of standing? Welcome to my world. Is standing to pee really so special? Got any other tricks?”
No, that’s my one trick.
Standing to urinate isn’t the world’s most amazing feat but I’m used to it. I’m in my mid-sixties. Learning new information is challenging. Especially when it comes to the body. The body is already rewriting its rules on its activities, sending out new advisories without warning whenever it feels like it.
“Hey, don’t move like that!”
I was in the process of sitting down. “But I’ve always moved like that.”
“Well, stop it.”
“Don’t question me! I don’t like it. And put that doughnut down. What’s wrong with you? Now go pee.”
“Again? But I just peed two — “
“Don’t talk back! Pee! Now!”
“Okay, okay, okay…” Grumble, grumble, grumble.
That’s why I still stand to pee: because I can. I almost feel young again, you know?
So the Kirkland shorts work. The Body Glove? Umm, no.
They were comfy. At first. But, they didn’t have that useful front vent.
I was surprised. I thought the vent was a requirement. I speculated, maybe men are all starting to sit down to pee, so the vent isn’t required.
It is possible. I’m not always up on the latest happenings. Take, if you will, ball deodorants. I saw a post on Trouserdog while I was flipping through the net: “How to Stop Smelly and Sweaty Balls — Defunk Your Junk”.
Yes, it is an arresting title.
I’ve never considered a need for ball deodorant. Sure, my hairy sack sometimes sweats. Smells can ensue. That’s why I wash. A quick wash and they smell fresh as rain. A sweaty/stinky testicular area didn’t seem to be a problem. Maybe it’s been one and others are too polite to mention it. Perhaps, after walking away, people turn to one another and whisper, “Did you smell him?” My wife has never said anything. Neither have my cats, who are some of the most critical creatures I know.
The second offense against the Body Glove undies is a classic: they shrank. A lot. The comfortable tight fit now felt like a girdle or leather pants encasing my skin like a sausage, i.e., tight as hell. Now, it could be that I’d gained weight. I’ll give you that. But to have gained that weight, my other clothes would also need to no longer fit or fit differently. That wasn’t happening.
I gave the BGs two additional tries after that first washing. You know, more data. They became worse and worse. Waist bands flipped over. Legs rolled up. No, I told myself. I’m too old to endure this crap. Off you go. I banished them to the giveaway pile.
Yet, the experiments have intrigued me. I saw undies that have a cool sack to keep my Johnson more comfy on these hot days. They might even keep my junk from getting sweaty and funky. I’m willing to try them as long as they’re vented and I can stand and deliver.
If my body says it’s okay. It always has the last say.
Sol’s rosy forays into the valley began at 5:38 AM on this fine Wednesday, June 30, 2021. This is June’s last day for for this year, it should be noted, unless we’re groundhog dayying it. Maybe we have been involved in a groundhog day scheme for a while but we don’t know. Only one character in the movie knew that everyone was going through the same day again and again and again…
Our cooling trend continues. Yesterday reached 99 degrees F. Today will be 96 F, a twenty degrees drop from a few days ago, and very welcome. The plants wouldn’t mind cooler times. They’re going brown and dry. I walk around, bracing myself for the tasks of culling, pruning, and pulling. Sunfall on this parched area will come about 8:51 PM. Then the real cooling plays.
The Lava Fire smoke from down Weed way in California is gone from the AM sky. Seventeen thousand acres, nineteen percent contained was the latest report that I read. The winds have died here so I hope they’ve died there. Complicating the firefighting efforts around Weed is large swaths of illegal cannabis growths.
I’m thinking “Spiderwebs” by No Doubt (1995) for my theme music today. We’re not spider killers. Spiders are beneficial. We appreciate that. They get busy with their webs, though, hurrying around 24/7, installing new webs, leaving old ones behind. I was going about knocking some of the stuff down this morning when the song came on in my brain. The song, though, has little to do with my situation, except walking into the spiderwebs. It’s amazing when the cats do it. Especially Meep, aka Papi. Meep will soundlessly jerk back and walk around the webs. Boo makes a noise and bulls through at a faster tempo. Big Tucker gives them a swat, washes himself, and presses on. I think there’s another metaphor there, somewhere.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as necessary (yeah, stories are circulating about the D variant), and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers
Mount Tam, full name, Mount Tamalpais, is part of the Marin Hills. Twenty-six hundred feet high, it won’t awe with its rise about the land the way that Mounts Hood and Shasta do, or McLaughlin. I knew abut it from living in the SF Bay area and Peninsula for fourteen years. We’d read about it, and visited twice, maybe three times, during our local explorations.
Didn’t stop me from dreaming about it. First came name confusion. I was being told to go to Mt. Tam. Mt. Tam? Yes, Mt. Tam. We exercised some Laurel & Hardy exchanges about what was being said. I’d quickly reached the point where I understood that I was being told to go to Mt. Tam. My point, which I struggled to convey with little humor, was, why do I need to go to Mt. Tam? But they — the unseen folks I was speaking to, but who sounded and seemed male — were fixated on ensuring that I understood the place’s name without clarifying why going there was important. The back and forth eventually felt as painful as a bad tooth.
They gradually led me to believe there is something in Mt. Tam, the something never being explained, continuing my stretch of exasperation. I’m supposed to go to Mt. Tam to get something that’s there that I’ll know what it is when I get there. Seems significantly vague.
Then, going over the dream, I wonder, was Mt. Tam a literal destination being directed to me from my dream masters or a metaphor for matters churning through my subconscious? Bonus discussion points, for me, anyway: how much of this dream was influenced by The Overstory, as I’m currently reading that. For that matter, how much is generated from wrestling with the novel in progress?
Nightfloof (floofinition) – Nocturnal animals.
In use: “The heat compelled the cats to sleep from just past sunrise to just before sunset, firming their predilection to be nightfloofs to the household’s detriment, as their escapades and earnestness to have others join in their fun kept awakening everyone.”
Pat drank coffee. Sheetz, black and sugary. Squinted. Eyes burned. Little sleep. Too much night telly. Too much sunshine. Possibly vodka, too. And beer chasers. A Marlboro was lit, sucked, stared upon with distaste. Vile habit. Had him in his grip.
This little mélange of acknowledgements about his underlife stirred anger. Anger fed determination. Get ‘er done. He threw down the cigarette. Tramped it. Picked it up and carefully added it to the small baggy in his pocket. To be thrown away later. Litter was terrible. He wouldn’t be part. Smoking might be killing him but litter embarrassed him. ‘Specially butts on the ground. Fuckin’ appalling.
He stared up at the house, shifted himself, and moved. Now he was ready. Pumped himself up. Drank more coffee. Marched the walk. Pavement needed repaired. Up the steps. The rot on them caused a grimace. To the front door. It stuck. Required a shoulder and a grunt to push in.
Mom’s house, without Mom, waiting inside. He had, he was certain, never been to Mom’s house without Mom being there. No, wait. He nodded. Yes, there was the time when she was hospitalized. Yes.
Eyes went to the steps where she’d fallen, flipping over the side, where there was no rail, bouncing off furniture. He’d warned her. Damaged shoulder, black charcoal and gray clouds covering her fair, flabby skin. Pierced lung. Broken ribs. Could have been worse. Gone into Mercy for three days which became ten. Had to come back for items she needed. Dan lived with her then. Her fiancé. But Dan, Mom said, “Can’t do it. He doesn’t know where things are.” The man lived there with her for twelve years and didn’t know where things were? Come on. But Dan beat Mom out of the house, dying while driving, crashing his Prius into a tree on a snowy winter night while the icy road laughed. Fuckin’ roads.
Yeah, only he was left. Shit. To go through Mom’s stuff. Shit. He brushed away tears from his eyes’ corners before they could get a rolling start, finished the final coffee ounce, tossed that cup and looked. Shit. Where was he supposed to start? He was the last of the children. Mom outlived them. Well, till now. Him, the oldest. Cancer took two. Shit. Both non-smokers, just a year apart, pancreas. Just him and grandchildren now. Well, widows and widowers. But they…yeah, no.
He’d called his ex to help. She couldn’t. Sympathized but couldn’t. Busy with their kids, going to Disney. Second wife just laughed. “No. Not bailing you out this time.” Like, when had she bailed him out? Made it sound like he’d been in jail. He’d never been in jail. Third wife was in Vegas with her fourth. Cried a lot on the phone but made no commitment. So here was Pat. Alone. Cleaning out Mom’s life. Shit.
He’d walked, he’d sat, he was thinking. Didn’t know how to do this. Despite everything with Mom, he thought she’d keep on living. Always thought somehow, impossibly, she would outlive him.
He bent his head with a heavy sigh. Yeah, he was wrong. It would take more coffee, more cigarettes, more time.
He was not ready.
Tuesday’s sun beats in the dawn with a hot flash at 5:37. We rise, another day older, deeper in debt. Well, some. Your condition may vary.
So has begun 6/29/2021, much like other days have begun. Let’s talk about the weather. Discuss world affairs. Lament politics. Recall game delights and heartbreaks. Let’s huddle by Zooms and perch in cubes, hunker in offices, rush to flights, beat the traffic, and drink to that. Let’s pursue the dream like smoke in a valley. Train for the impossible. Gird ourselves for the effort. Drink the Kool-aid and move on.
Sunset should bring its mercy at 8:51 PM. Temperatures today are lower. Some claim we will break triple digits. Others say, no that barrier is safe. Yesterday’s scorcher saw 113 to 118 around here. Then, strange salvation from a wildfire down south, the Lava Fire by Weed in California. Smoke drove in along I-5, cutting the solar influence, giving us an early respite. Flipside, air quality went from good and clear to moderate, start watching out.
I’ve been awakening with the melodic strains of Kansas, “Dust in the Wind”, occupying my brain’s whorls. Wonder each day, are dreams calling it out, conscious thoughts inviting the song to the party, something wired in my brain, or just serendipity? Maybe when I die, I’ll go to this great exchange, the Afterlife Market, where all your life mysteries can be seen and explained. You can know just what happened when that girl ignored you, you didn’t get that promotion, a cousin disappeared one quiet night after a party, or why Mom went mad. The truth is in there. You can learn everything you want at the Afterlife Market.
As with other mornings, “Dust in the Wind” gives way to other tunes. An old favorite has hurried in. I played it once before as my theme music. Think I’ll do it again today. Remember, stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, can the vax when you can. Thanks.
Here’s Molly Hatchet with their 1979 offering, “Flirtin’ with Disaster”.
We’re flirtin’ with disaster, ya’ll know what I mean
And the way we run our lives it makes no sense to me
I don’t know about yourself or what you want to be, yeah
When we gamble with our time we choose our destiny
h/t to Genius.com