Posts Tagged ‘Love’

By appearance the house is reminiscent to The Adams Family. However less in size and spooky hi-jinks.  It’s something you’d see on Hoarders. Squint worthy exterior with wet cigarette packs as lawn ornaments. Decorating the deceased & pale grass. Being internally grateful for the colored fall leafs blanketing the fucking outside ugly.

I live in a 6 unit house apartment building .  It’s a safe temporary pit stop for Eric and I. This being his actual apartment. Everything  paid for. Free Dish TV. A unit that was healthy enough in size that seemed promising. And affordable & clean. Even with the fickle toilet and small cramped spaces. We  inevitably make it work for now. No lease is also a benefit.

Often our days are pretty domestic in definition. He goes to work with suit in tact. Hair so OCD that it glides stiffly like a duo of fake tits. Grinning on with an Elvis arrogance to him.  Me bidding farewell while grumbling about some wifey clamor “But babe.. the cat needs a Cat Tree. Your so insensitive.”  Essentially just bitching to bitch.  But always finalizing with a coffee tasting kiss. We make a god damn great team.

Since I’ve started dialysis I’m legally denied the opportunity for a full-time job. Since receiving Medicare/Medicaid benefits. I am  allowed part-time jobs as long as it doesn’t pass a certain financial amount . Due to the kind monthly checks you receive while on disability. Because of this hold back.. I Kyle,  have become a Real Housewife of Spokane. Spending many of my days trapped into this housing cubicle.  Spying on my neighbors crazy antics while watching Dr.Oz and eating dry Top Roman. This is the chronicles of a male housewife.

The door closes and a rush of relief comes over me. Eric has left for work and my mind rushes for projects. My first  being depositing ass to couch. With Pookie as my arm pillow watching Court Television. Nothing arouses me more comically then white Southern trash suing over stolen DVD’s. Doing nothing to help their stereotype.  “This hoe stole mah two disc Miss Congeniality 2 dvd. Yaw Honor.”   Rule #1: Guilty Pleasure Eye Dung.  This is what one does in the  housewifey rulebook. It helps fuel our bored brain by making us feel better about ourselves *Mission Accomplished*.  So far my day has been productive.

As my brain saver clicks on i’m alerted by the time. “FUCK! i haven’t cleaned.” i yelp. Normally such a thought lies stagnant during my television cleaning hiatus. However, previously being lectured by the lack there of.  My leg begins shaking like Peg  Bundy. My ass inviting me to stay awhile. “Damnit Kyle!  Kathy & Hoda are totally smashed on todays show.” it sings. In what i imagine sounds like Charlie from Always Sunny in Philadelphia. My leg gains momentum as my ass anchors more into my sectional. This housewife shit sucks!

Housewife Rule #2 : Tenant People Watching.

“Damnit Dr.Oz,” i think. As his segments flair my hypochondria.  Multitasking by reference of WEB M.D. . Which is always like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Except you always ends on Cancer. The music of Britney suddenly catches my good ear. I slowly sway my head to the catchy hook and answer my phone. “Babe, what’s going on?” I hear . Shit it’s Eric!  My wifey animal in-stinks kick in as I rush to turn kitchen sink on.  Allowing the water to sound out any suspicion of lazy. “Ahhh nothing baby. Just doing dishes.” i fib. My face warming with guilt. “Great job Tootsie Pop,” he praises. I slowly grab a dish examining. sigh!

The call ends and I begin attempting to pursue the rubber gloves. ALWAYS being inside out which adds another half hour to fasten them. Thus beginning the tedious process of dishes.  My scowl wrinkles my face as I scrub at the crusted cheese. Wife- blaming Eric for this slavery as he recommended Calizones last night. “Damnit we need paper plates,” i scold. Looking down at Pookies confused head tilt. This housewife shit sucks.

BAM. A loud noise shakes the complex. Hope that’s 2012’s relieving me early of dish duties i joke. Once again looking down at Pookie realizing I talk to him. Damn he’s a good listener though.  Does such a thing diagnosis me as crazy? Hell, I’ll ask WEB M.D. later.

I peek my head out to see a young man  near his car out front. Man in unit E, i see.  He’s pacing back and forth in a sort of meth manner. His face sunken as if  giving the Blue Steele. A golf like cyst occupies his forehead like a hanging mistletoe. I watch the glow of his cigarette run down the stick in urgency. This man has had better days.  So begins the chore of tenant watching as dishes can wait. This building complex is notorious for DALLAS themed drama. My eyes open with anticipation as I continue to creep.  This man seems to be aggressively packing up his things. A fight has clearly occurred?  Unsure as Unit E is a studio and houses two men. I create characters (nicknames) for everyone in this building. The skull face being the houseboy to the other tenant . An older man with two Pomeranian’s and a butt-plug walk. You do the math.

Skeletor begins tossing black garbage bags into the pea green Honda. Always a sign of a quick getaway. The bag rips indicating the quick manner of packing. Clothes overflowing and occasionally falling about . By now his cigarette greets the filter as he still moves in a neurotic rhythm. Fighting back his anger while picking up trails of dropped underwear.  Finally there is it. THE GLARE.

  [GLARE]  :  noun, verb, glared, glar·ing. Context to Relationships

  • Definition. Ahh hell no’s. You gone n’ fucked up.

Skeletors cold glare captures his units window. Our stoner upstairs neighbors to be exact. A minute and a half of piercing drama continues. His eyes speaking words his mouth can’t exhaust, i think? Trembling lip as he stares up at his partner. Who I believe is looking on in a Juliet manner. He shakes his head and lights another smoke. Unfortunately bringing attention to that god damn bowling ball of a cyst. Yet. As if a movies ending. The young man darts into his green machine and is off within blinks. A love story gone weary? I dunno? But most definitely a story that ended in sadness. A sadness I sympathize as if a soap opera. That pea green car never returned after that.  “Well Pookie!.. That was a fun show.”  I turn off my blinders.  Chore # 2 accomplished. Productive as hell today, i’d say.

Housewife Rule #3: Procrastination Nation

3:30 pm. “SHIT.” This time of day causes the most anxiety. Eric is going to be home soon. Normally my alarm is when Anderson Coopers awful talk show is coming to an end.  I use it as an alert to get my procrastination into gear. Usually such a thing involves hiding clothes in drawers, quick garbage pick ups and a Febreeze hosing.  Like OJ I whip those tight rubber gloves on and violently abuse those dishes clean.  It’s perhaps a super power that I can manage this. But usually the result is less than satisfactory. Though enough to where my daily wife duties are met with contentment.

I do my final hose through as the smell of “Winter Cinnamon Frost” hot boxes our little apartment. I strategically turn on fans using toes if have too. Watching as Pookies face reads dumb shit at me. I grab our mini vacuum and rush to clean the dog & cat hair. While still watching Anderson as if a timer counting down.  I fall to me knees and begin coiling the vacuums cord. Sweat tickling my cheek as I focus at the TV.

Credits roll. The key enters  the door handle as it begins to seizure. I run to the kitchen to drop the vacuum off. Admiring my quick clean job. Maybe even giving Pookie a quick eye wink of cockiness.  “Hey Babe,” I hear mumbled from the living room.  I catwalk out from the kitchen with a shit eating grin. “Wow the house looks amazing!,” he says. Closely examining the house with a level of  doubt in his voice.  ” A hard day of being a Wifehubby.” i respond. Wiping the sweat from my cheek dramatically in hopes he sees. “You have worked hard today. The house looks good. Did you work on this all day?”

I pause for a moment and smile back. Allowing my cryptic smile to answer that.  I realize my cleaning duties are rather lackluster or lazy. And to be honest I am thee worst at being domestically wifey. And Eric knows it. And loves me anyway.  Definitely not bred for such things. But as I await my kidney and continue my crusade as a househusband. I can only imagine strengthening my skills… that or strengthening my short cuts 🙂



Expression on my face lies dead and cold as the camera blankly looks back. I’m guessing the person watching has decided to take their sweet ass time granting me access and my patience grows thin. The sky change blues and I nurse my iced Americano and distract myself by going through unread texts and Facebook notifications from the prior night. I’m welcomed with a beep as the slider door opens. I exhale a huge sigh and stumble in.

I keep my head down as I enter the unit to avoid eye contact, as today is an especially grumpy day. As of late, I have been pondering the word love. A word so frequently used I have been unable to define the definition in oneself. At my age and the trending topic of marriage and kids running all around, I feel late to the game. My history in relationships, I have only told three guys I love them. Three guys in total I have dated,  which allowed the vulnerability enough to even express such a toxic word. Have I become that jaded gay who once relished the idea to being a complete pessimist? My heart can’t take the injury of another end.

“Good morning,” is heard as I take my seat at 18.  Trevor; 27, walks over to me with a smile that goes unphased as my mood and deep thought is unwelcoming I’m sure. He makes route towards me as my focus goes directly to his scrubs and that bulge of his. I anticipate it has to be the most discussed topic amongst the girls, as its become the elephant in the room. Whenever he walks around and has conversation with the nurses, I swear I see their eyes just pan down met with the “Oh my lord,” expression slowly after.

“You don’t seem to be your perky self,” he proclaims as I just dismiss the obvious by flipping through my Blackberry and nod. Trevor is the veteran technician at the unit and the most liked. His vivacious attempt at everything is so charming it gives me a fucking headache. Trevor takes a seat next to me and prepares four needles to begin the morning.

Patty or.. Patricia I’m assuming,  is Queen Bee of dialysis by inhabiting the number “1” chair.  She wears the same navy blue, fleece sweatshirt every run and somewhat looks like an old english woman to me. She has light ginger hair and always wears sunglasses inside, which adds to her bitchy demure. Early on in my beginnings I was unfortunate to have her as a chair neighbor. After my first week of dialysis she had complained to the nurses about my loud iPod music (thank you Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and my laugh? Apparently both things where distracting her bitch ass from sleeping. This only led to me listening to more obnoxious tunes, which evidently drove to me being changed to seat 18.

Upon her red and green striped blanket I see a book. It lies open and pressed against her chest  as she sleeps. The book is in sync with every breath she takes, making it hard to focus across the room at the title. What can such a sullen woman read? I see the author Robyn Cook printed in large font upon a green cover. Still no title. My curiosity gains more momentum.

My utter distaste for this woman runs deep, yet with no real substance to why?  Am I being over critical to a woman who simple wanted sleep? or is the fact she’s a ginger add to the hysteria of a woman who’s so bleak she’s out for blood. I simply laugh to myself and continue writing in my journal.

“Trevor said you where grumpy as hell this morning,” Elsa;24, says with a smirk of curiosity as she comes to put the wall barriers around me.  The most embarrassing thing to deal with is the routine given upon having to pee. There is two ways one can approach the situation. 1) Being completely unplugged from dialysis and having a tech walk with you to the restroom. It adds more time to your overall four hours, and its frustrating for the techs. This technique is rare to see. 2) Having white shelfs on rollers brought out with a plastic odd-shaped container given, to somehow fit your dick in while sitting. Extremely frustrating.

The white walls are placed around me and Elsa makes it clear that she’s coming back to press my much-needed attitude adjustment. I struggle in my chair and get myself upright enough to allow pissing to commence. I have to watch out that I don’t move my left Fistula arm, in fear my needles would break out and cause one bloody fail. By achieving success I must arch my hips sideways (90 degrees) and push my body upright in a yoga pose using my right arm.  It’s the multitasking of both that is hard, not to mention the piss fright that’s given with the minor fact Dotti and Dennis are a thin wall away.

“What’s going on with you today?” Elsa asks as she clears away everything. “I’m thinking about love and my defeat  in keeping it,” i joke. Elsa perches herself up and shakes her head at my response. “Every experience of love is rewarding in its own right, whether negative or positive. she replies. “Plus you must not seek love as it will come to you.” Good point I think. When did Elsa suddenly become Maya Angelo? And how come she has nailed exactly what my problem was. Impatience.

Since coming out 6 years ago I haven’t really had much time single and alone. In fact, I would say after my four-year relationship ended, I immediately jumped from one 6 month relationship to another 6 months. If I do the math right , I have only technically been single roughly a year and half scattered upon that time. Was I allowing myself to settle and jump into anything that seemed delicious enough? Perhaps in order to achieve love and happiness i needed to cool my jets and allow the process to naturally come. Brilliant  you are young Elsa. Using time alone will help coordinate a mental check list of what I seek in a partner. I should not compromise anything anymore. I have decided to take the next year+ off from any relationship, and focus on Kyle. A sorta abstinent approach in order to find myself without the distraction of a relationship.

As i continue to scribble on, I notice that Patty has awoken and has started eating baby carrots. Must be 9:00 am I shrug. I have noticed that Patty does everything pretty routinely. She eats baby carrots and applesauce every run while making sure to not miss Quick Fix Meals with Robin Miller  on Food Network followed by E! News. She even sets her phone alarms for such events, which I find awfully cute.  I make eye contact to allow myself one fulfilling eye roll, as I tentatively listened to Peaches. Listening to her gives me this “fuck you attitude,” that would be best saved for when i work out. I look and see her book has moved, yet no title to be seen. *Rats.

I decide I’m going to watch Robin Miller, along with the bitch in chair 1. Overall these food shows are very addicting, yet frustrating too. They always so vague about ingredients needed.  “Please take your saffron from your cabinet and sprinkle on your clams.”  says the host in such a stepford wives manner. First of all Robin, what the fuck is saffron? I thought this was easy fix meals? And if so, why the hell are we making a clam alfredo pasta? I sigh, as i realize I will never be a kitchen wife. Such a trait seems pretty lost this late in my life. I will probably spend the rest of my days going out to eat or making chicken and rice.

My machine goes off as my entire run has come to an end. Travis slowly starts to unplug me, which is a process that takes about fifteen minutes. “What’s the story on Patty?” I ask, in hopes to add fuel to the already negative persona I define her in. “Oh, she is pretty new to this place,” he adds. “She has been here a year and she’s still struggling with the idea of dialysis. She is a pretty nice woman. Intense sometimes”  I feel  guilt bubbles in my stomach form.  He continues. “She is a nurse at Sacred Heart and usually works right after dialysis most days. So you can only imagine how tired and hard such a thing could be.”

I suddenly feel a wave of nauseousness as I start to analyze the situation at hand. I realize I have acted like a child this entire time and haven’t given this woman a benefit of the doubt.  The subplots that have defined our relationship start to slowly resolve themselves in my conscience. I realize now that she in fact, needed her sleep. That such a strong woman was able to juggle both work and dialysis, was something of inspiring to me.

Trevor takes out the last remaining needles, and covers them with gauze pad. I wear a plastic glove on my right hand and hold down both wounds with my fingers, to stop the bleeding. This process in my last task for my day.  I look at Patty, with what now is a face of sympathy and wrongdoing. She lies relaxed, glasses on and watches her E! News with a face of no emotion. I get up from my chair and make my way towards her. In doing so, I’m still pressing down on my needle entries. “Hey Patty, I hate to bother you.” I say as I feel the heat rush to my face. “I was wondering what Robin Cook book you where reading?” Patty slopes from her chair and removes her red and green blanket. “Oh.. she says,”…. “It’s called Crisis. a court room drama. “I usually have a love hate relationship with this author, and in this case..much hate. I would let you barrow it when I’m done, but I think I’m doing you a huge favor.”  she smiles at me.  We haven’t yet experienced a connection thus far, and I proudly let out a laugh. I feel relief. I engage her more with my presence in hopes that this will be new beginnings. “I hope you have a wonderful day,” i added as I slowly make it back to my chair to gather my belongings.

Lesson learned i thought as I made my way through the exit. Every day I come here appears to be something beautiful I leave with.