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little stones
Saturday, June 3 2000
Despite the hell of last night, we undid a lot of the bad energy this morning by making love, completely nonverbally.
It was another day spent bent over my trusty computer, getting in what development work I could before memory leaks drained away available RAM and I'd be forced to reboot.
To replace the skip-plagued stereo in the healing room, Kim bought a new Sony micro-stereo at a fancy electronics place on Wilshire. On the way, Kim stopped to return something at fashionable post-hippie nick nack shop. "This is where I've been spending my money lately," she declared. There is a sunburned bum who hangs out across the side street from the nick nack shop all day long. He doesn't seem to do any begging; he just bides his time and works on his brown bum tan. I noticed that his big black boots are almost brand new.
Going to a fancy electronics store on the edge of Brentwood is a good way to familiarize oneself with all the ways it's possible to spend money once one becomes truly wealthy. For example, for a modest $20,000, one can buy a plasma screen HDTV about the size and shape of a standard classroom American flag. It hangs neatly and unobtrusively on any wall. The salesman told Kim that Madonna has one.
After I installed it in the healing room, I found Kim's new stereo was oddly lacking in one department. It had no bass or treble controls. I've never seen a stereo without such basics necessities.
The other day Kim had me register Bathtubgirl.com for her. This afternoon, yet again, she lived up to her name. Like an idiot, I attempted to take a bath while she was in the house. I left the door slightly ajar, but I closed the curtain somewhat. Under her tyrannical rules, I mustn't close the door. She says she wants there to be a "free flow of energy." But to me it just feels like she wants to spy on me and keep me from masturbating.
Eventually she came into the bathroom on the pretext of "lighting a candle" for me. (Oh how romantic!) When she saw that the curtain obscured her view of my body, she demanded that I open it somewhat. That's when I began to loose it. When she stood there making further demands against my privacy, I futilely started shouting, "Leave! Leave! Leave!" at the top of lungs. I was irate. She kept up with her "energy" schpiel, but it made no at all, at least not in the world I want to live in. I told her bluntly that I would break up with her if I didn't have the right to bathe with the door shut. Then, to further point out the preposterousness of her demands, I asked what would happen when we eventually had children. Would Daddy have to take baths with the door open? "Why does Daddy have to have the door open when he takes a bath?" Gus Jr. would ask. Just thinking about such a future was humiliating. Compromising a little, I agreed to take baths with the door open, but that I would never (as she's been asking me to do) marry her. No fucking way will I sign my life away to a person who will prevent me from having one of life's greatest pleasures: the joy of bathing in privacy. It's something I came to expect as a child, and no matter what manipulation, mind control, and hippie "energy" talk Kim beats me with, there is no way I'll ever be giving up my desire for private baths. "Should I ask my mother if I have the right to privacy while I bathe?" I asked.
Somehow the fight eventually wound down, but without any real resolution. Still, I intend to continue pushing my point on this issue in the future. I cannot stay with a woman who demands the right to interfere with my baths. That is absolute.
In the evening, Kim complained that the Insinkerator (the in-sink garbage disposal engine) wasn't working. So I reached down into it to see what I could find. Now I know most of you are probably reading this nervously wondering how I'm typing this entry, but no, nobody did anything foolish at this point. The foolishness happened some hours before when Kim unthinkingly dropped some small gardening stones down the drain. They were just big enough to stay stuck in the grinding area causing problems but just small enough to be very difficult to extract. I spent a good half hour reaching down through the rubber mouth of that Insinkerator into that gnarly unspeakable zone below. I ended up with abrasion sores at the widest spots on both my hands.
I was in a condescendingly irritated mood as I fished those damn rocks out, lecturing an unusually contrite Kim. Periodically I'd test the Insinkerator to see if it was a lost cause. It would run for a second and then seize up again. "This is gonna be expensive!" I'd groan.
I lubricated the grinding teeth with copious amounts of soap, hand cranked it a few times from below with an allen wrench, and crank it over again. Eventually the Insinkerator was once more working normally, but I'm still wondering how long it will last. The moral of the story: don't feed an Insinkerator your spare garden stones!
Kim and I watched Wild Things on teevee tonight. It started out with all the promise of a cheesy outdoor Miami soap opera, but became something better as the plot twisted and turned unpredictably through a bizarre fraud conspiracy. Best of all, there was one especially racy threesome sex scene that you might have difficulty finding at your friendly neighborhood Blockbuster.
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