Didn’t do shit yesterday, but the nice thing about dementia is that I won’t remember doing nothing for long. Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, the day I sat on my ass until beer o’clock. My next-door neighbor, Jeff, messaged that he was meeting Matt and his wife at Hops and Brew at 5:00 p.m., and we were welcome to join in. Jeff said there was room in his car, which was an extra bonus, given the ongoing rain. When five rolled around, I was waiting on the porch for Jeff to come out, and he never did. It is not like a retired Marine Colonel to be late. I sent a message to see what was up and then re-read his original message. The dinner meet-up is for FRIDAY. Damn, I didn’t have reading comprehension on my next-to-go Bingo card.
Well, Swan and I were all dressed up and had nowhere to go, so I made the command decision to spend the rainy evening on Baloy. We walked under umbrellas to the highway, then grabbed a trike to take us to the beach. We hadn’t been to DaKudos for a while, so we started there. It turns out that my old friend Jessa no longer works there. That new owner keeps finding new ways to diminish his business. We had one drink and left. I gave Swan the option of Lagoon Resort or Treasure Island for dinner, and she chose TI because it has bay views. That girl sure does love the water. We plopped down at the bar (the only place with a roof over our heads) and watched the raindrops fall while waiting for our dinner to be served.
When we finished eating, we grabbed a trike for home. And so ended a pretty much empty day, but I have no complaints. I’m still driving the body vehicle on the road of life, and if I occasionally want to spend it at a rest stop, so be it.
Speaking of life and its alternatives, Swan’s dog Snickers died today. He barked his way through eleven years here on Earth (that’s 88 in people years), and I hope I can live a similarly long life. The vet said it was a liver problem (as far as I know, Snickers never tasted alcohol), and he died peacefully here at home.
Facebook shared this memory with me today:
Today’s YouTube video features Reekay providing three reasons expats wind up broke in the Philippines. They all seem to have stupidity in common. I live on a federal pension, so my financial security is every bit as solid as the US government. Oh shit! I’ve got some savings as a safety net, so that’s as strong as the US dollar. Fuck! Well, my fallback plan is that I’m an old geezer who won’t live forever anyway. Dying in a Chinese air strike is rising on my list of ways I might go, but it is still behind crossing the National Highway in Barretto.
Things that pass for humor in my weary brain:
The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the proxy father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife goodbye and said, ‘Well, I’m off now. The man should be here soon.’
Half an hour later, just by chance, a door-to-door baby photographer happened to ring the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.
‘Good morning, he said, “I’ve come to…”
“Oh, no need to explain,” Mrs. Smith cut in, embarrassed, “I’ve been expecting you.”
‘Have you really?” Said the photographer. “Well, that’s good. Did you know babies are my specialty?”
“Well that’s what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat.”
After a moment she asked, blushing, “Well, where do we start?”
“Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch, and perhaps a couple on the bed. And sometimes the living room floor is fun. You can really spread out there.”
“Bathtub, living room floor? No wonder it didn’t work out for Harry and me!”
“Well, none of us can guarantee a good one every time. But if we try several different positions and I shoot from six or seven angles, I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the results.”
“My, that’s a lot!” Gasped Mrs. Smith.
“In my line of work a man has to take his time. I’d love to be In and out in five minutes, but I’m sure you’d be disappointed with that.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Mrs. Smith quietly.
The photographer opened his briefcase and pulled out a portfolio of his baby pictures. “This was done on the top of a bus,” he said.
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Smith exclaimed, grasping at her throat.
“And these twins turned out exceptionally well, when you consider their mother was so difficult to work with.”
“She was difficult?” Asked Mrs. Smith.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. I finally had to take her to the park to get the job done right. People were crowding around four and five deep to get a good look.”
“Four and five deep?” Said Mrs. Smith, her eyes wide with amazement.
“Yes”, the photographer replied, “And for more than three hours, too. The mother was constantly squealing and yelling I could hardly concentrate, and when darkness approached I had to rush my shots. Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment, I just had to pack it all in.”
Mrs. Smith leaned forward. “Do you mean they actually chewed on your, uh .. . . .equipment?”
“It’s true, yes. Well, if you’re ready, I’ll set-up my tripod and we can get to work right away.”
“Tripod?”
“Oh yes, I need to use a tripod to rest my Canon on. It’s much too big to be held in the hand for very long.”
Mrs. Smith fainted.
Swan and I took a walk to the Subic marketplace this morning, and we’ll be going for a foot spa later this afternoon. If the weather cooperates, I’ll treat her to some beachside dining at Papagayo this evening. Yep, we’re getting back to normal—or as normal as it gets around here anyway.
Swan had the small Hawaiian pizza. She ate half and brought the leftovers home for her sister in the basement.
Out of context, that sounds really, really sad.
Speaking of life and its alternatives, Swan’s dog Snickers died today.
Weird serendipity. You saw Breyer’s Snickers ice cream just the day before, didn’t you?
re: “Three Reasons Expats Go Broke in the Philippines”
1. women
2. women
3. complete lack of common sense
I take back all the shit I’ve talked about Korean guys. I’ve accused Korean guys of being spoiled mama’s boys who are raised to remain dependent on their parents and aren’t equipped to cope with the world because the idea is that they marry a good woman with common sense who essentially takes the place of the mother, thus allowing the guy to continue to bumble along cluelessly through life. But in recent years, it’s become obvious to me that Western guys are also sent out into the world lacking certain essentials, and many of these guys, even after being kicked in the head by life, still fail to learn essential lessons. Not all Western guys, to be sure, but way more than I’d originally thought.
Condolences about Snickers. Was this the first-ever photo I’d seen of the dog? Didn’t look familiar at all.
Are you lying for both Swan and her sister to live at your place, John? With all the eating out, groceries, bills etc it must be costing you a small fortune. Also hope you let the sister out the basement once in a while for fresh air and to stretch her legs!
Sounds like you have a harem of women in your abode, John. One has always been too many for me. I simply can’t imagine having to deal with a murder of Filipinas as well. I tip my hat to you, sir, even though the ex threw my last hat out the window after she thought I was pouring methylated spritis in her ears to exorcise her “spic demons” while she slept.
I sure wished she was sleeping yesterday. I’m busy mixing some extract with the last drops of rancid orange juice in the carton and warm Sprite while she talks about how the US is doomed and she wants us to move overseas, an idea she’d become fixated on during her time in jail. I’d briefly considered the idea but dismissed it; reading some of your posts here reminds me that at least we have electricity and children who can afford their own candy in the US. Besides, I’m not willing to take the risk we move to a foreign country and then she suddenly gets drunk and kicks me out and/or decides she doesn’t want to be with me anymore, leaving me fucked in a place where I have no idea how the support network operates.
If there’s one thing that consistently irks me about whenever she talks about moving overseas, it’s that she never mentions her kids. She abandoned three of them when they were young, and a fourth she lied about the kid dying. I mean, fair enough it’s not really any of my business as it happened long before her and I were a thing, but it bugs me on a personal level how disinterested she is in getting back in touch with them – the least she could do is ask her kids for some booze money so I don’t have to be stealing bottles of extract from Wal-Mart all the goddamn time. I just can’t imagine someone discarding their children and shrugging “if they want to get in touch with me they know how to contact me.”
I wasn’t trying to be cruel or hurtful, but I must have struck a nerve as the ex started crying. I mean really crying, like wracking sobs and wailing. She keeps repeating to herself she “did the right thing” and her kids would have been so much worse if she stuck around. I don’t really agree with her, but I hold her and try to comfort her as she cries. There is a pungent whiff of onions emanating from her pores and I wonder if it’s another “yeast infection” or if her viscera are finally fermenting within her.
She ends up passing out, after she polishes off the last of the tequila. I am genuinely astounded. I’ve written here before about how alcohol seems to be like an upper for her and the more she drinks the more she wants to do stuff. That she succumbed to a blackout is a dubious boozing milestone for her.
We went out for dinner afterwards. A seafood place. I love seafood; she’s a vegan. I’d asked her multiple times if she really wanted to go, because there wasn’t really anything on the menu for her, but she insisted she wanted to. Why anyone would not regularly eat fish is beyond me; sure I can understand in Asia not eating fish as there is no clean water in places like China, but the health benefits are simply too much to ignore.
We get seated and I suggest she find stuff on the menu she might like. She calls the waiter over and says we’re celebrating. She wants to get me a sampler platter off-menu, and insists money isn’t an issue; “I don’t care if it costs $300 or $1000!” I didn’t realize she was that fucking tanked.
We share a couple of dishes before she suggests we go outside for a cigarette. On the way back she snatches out for my arm. “I can’t walk!” She slurs. JFC. “Should we go home?” I ask, “Are you ok?” She answers in the affirmative and that she just needs me to guide her back to her seat.
We sit back down and she immediately starts talking about how she feels nauseous, and like she’s going to throw up. I ask her again and again if she wants to go to the bathroom, but each time she waves it off. “I’m fine.” I tell her if she thinks she’s going to power vomit it would be best if she went to the bathroom, but again declines my offer to walk her there.
“I’m ok, it’s just my PTSD, this music is triggering me.” I immediately switch off. I don’t doubt PTSD is a thing, and I don’t knock those who suffer from it, but I’ve met so many homeless veterans like the ex, who milk it for attention and sympathy. In particular, her ‘PTSD’ flare ups always coincide with what other people would call ‘being a drunk asshole’. I’m also a little irritated by the fact we passed by the DJ booth on the way out for a cigarette and she expressly said she’s impressed there was a DJ and the music was cool.
Not wanting to gamble on the ex projectile vomiting at the table, I scoff the last of my food and order us a Lyft home. I notice her debit card on the table, half under a napkin, and figure she can lose it. I reach for it and ask her “Honey, your debit card’s there, do you want me to put it in my wal-” she immediately snatched for it. “Don’t touch my fucking debit card. You will have nothing to do with MY money ever again, you thieving cunt!” I normally carry her card in my wallet because she doesn’t have her own purse/wallet.
I tell her I’ve ordered a Lyft and I’m going out for another cigarette to wait for it, and she’s welcome to join me if she wants. She says she’ll join me in just second.
I’m outside and had barely smoked half my cig before the Lyft driver arrived unexpectedly early. I ask him to wait while I go inside to fetch the ex.
I can see her as soon as I step back in and she’s a changed woman. On my way out she had stooped shoulders and was cradling her head over a half empty Black Russian; now, she’s smiling, laughing, and gesticulating wildly with one of the barmen. Anything for male attention.
I tell her the Lyft is here and we need to go. I notice she’d ordered herself a fresh drink and she shotgunned it before she staggered towards the doorway with me. “Wait, I want a cigarette” she says. “The ride home is only like 5 minutes, and the driver is about to leave. Have one when we get home.” “Nah, wanna have one now.” Whatever, I’m not paying a declined ride fee because she wants to smoke, so tell her to get her own ride home as I climb into the Lyft.
She shows up about 30 minutes after I get home, complaining about how I ‘abandoned’ her, what a PoS I am, and how she doesn’t want to be with me anymore.
I remind her I was giving her exactly one chance not to be a drunken fuck up, and her histrionics at the restaurant violated that. I tell her to get her shit and get out. “I paid rent for this place, you can’t throw me out” she smirks. I’m not having any of it, and as she stretches out on the couch, as if to sleep, I grab her arm, hoist her up, and lead her towards the door. “Come on, out you drunken wench.”
She pulls out of my grip and dashes into the kitchen to grab a large knife. “Go ahead, touch me again, see what happens!” She waves it in front of her. I’m not risking her toting a knife around when she’s blasted and advance on her. She takes a tentative swing at my neck. I don’t flinch. “Go for it” I laugh. I lift my chin up, exposing my throat, and spread my arms wide, theatrically. “A murder charge isn’t really going to look well for you, two weeks after getting out of jail.”
“It will if I’m defending myself in a domestic vi-” I lunge then. She has her wits about her and immediately places her knife-hand behind her back. As I struggle to secure her wrist I’m distantly aware of the possibility she can just plunge the fucking thing into my chest. I’m about to headbutt her but the dandruff in her hair could blind me so I hold back on unleashing my true might.
She rakes at my face with her free hand, clawing at my eyes. I can feel the nails breaking skin.. “if you try to slash me-” “I’m…not…going…to…slash…you” I pry the knife out of her hand and throw it into the next room.
“What were you thinking, drawing a weapon on me like that??” I pant. “Out. Just go.” “I’m not going anywhere and you can’t make me!” She sneers. “I can call the police!” I harrumph. “Go ahead!” She laughs and points to the bruise on her arm from yesterday, “I’ve got all the evidence I need that I’m in an abusive relationship, and they’ll take you away! And you know what? I’m going to press charges for my hip you broke!”
(For those not in the know I inadvertently broke her hip last year when she drunkenly attacked me and I pushed her off me)
“What do you want?” I ask her. “I don’t want you here anymore, I don’t want to be with you, and if I’m such a horrible person like you believe, it’s in your best interests to get out of here!” “I’m not going anywhere”, she repeats. “I’m staying until the 31st because I’ve paid rent for this place!” “Is that it?” I ask. I have no intention of leaving her here alone when I go on my next booze run, so she can destroy my laptop, kill the cat, or fuck some Mexican stranger in my bed; “I’ll transfer you the money you paid for this month, $400, and then you should go.” “$400?” She cackles, “No, no, no motherfucker, you owe me $1300 for all the rent I paid when I was in jail!” I don’t have that kind of money and I wouldn’t give her it if I did anyway.
“I’ll transfer you $400 and then you should get gone.” “I’m staying until the 31st, where I go after that is none of your business!”
She then launches into a predictable diatribe about how she doesn’t love me anymore, I’m such a PoS, the sex is bad (she even dances around the idea I raped her), I spend all her money etc. etc. She even says she’s the best I’ll ever get. The narcissist’s mask falls off. I actually giggle at that and can’t resist a twist of the metaphorical knife. I respond to one of her barbs “Yeah, you’re absolutely right, I’ve never been married and I don’t have kids, but you know what – if I did, I wouldn’t abandon them and pat myself on the back for it, you wretched scuzzball.”
3:10AM. She’s passed out in my bed. I’m on the couch. I took a gamble and snuck out earlier to get some more beer with her debit card. I was worried she’d lock the door behind me if she woke and discovered I was gone. There’s a just-opened bottle of tequila outside that she got on her way home. She’s so tanked she didn’t even drink any of it. I’m tempted to just empty it into the grass and replacing it with bleach, in lieu of waking up to her being in a booze-fueled rage again.
We’ll see what happens. Cheers to good living!
Synchronicity, I meant, not serendipity.
Thompson, it is always nice to hear from you again. It’s been a while, and I wondered if you were doing okay. This is the scariest installment in your drama-filled life so far. I didn’t realize how scary and dangerous your “ex” truly is. I’ve seen some crazy Filipinas, but nothing even close to what you are living with.
You are right; without a reliable and steady source of income, living in another country is really not an option. Changing your life by living free of the “ex” would seem like a whole other world, though. Good luck with that!
Hopefully, you can make it to the end of the month, but I doubt the “ex” is going anywhere, regardless. It’s on you to make the move, but I understand finances may make that impossible for now. Hang in there!
“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.”
― Hunter S. Thompson
Aaron, my house has a basement apartment. My two helpers and Swan’s sister each have a bedroom downstairs. They are all free to come and go as they please…they have their own exit doors and gate to leave the property. My grocery bill goes over budget sometimes, but otherwise, it’s all good.
“Out of context, that sounds really, really sad.”
Ha ha, yeah, it does have a prisoner locked in the basement ring to it. That’s not the case, of course; it’s just Swan sharing her bounty with the kid sister.
Yeah, I had the exact same thought about seeing the Snickers ice cream the day before. I guess I misinterpreted what God was trying to tell me. I don’t recall posting a picture of the dog before. They mostly stay down in the basement, so they are not really part of my life. (Swan has another dog, the mother of Snickers, still alive and well. I guess “they” no longer applies.)
You are right, male stupidity knows no borders. As you know, I’ve done some dumb shit, but I’d never let a woman bankrupt me. Still, as an ex-girlfriend told me long ago, “No man is totally worthless–he can always serve as a bad example.”