I have, at this point, consumed the remainder of my bottle of Jack Daniels (after having consumed a fried fish Po’ Boy earlier), with a healthy dose of Diet Pepsi. I liken that combination to the consummation of a Pan Galactic Gargle  Blaster: about which, the Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy says:

Consuming a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a piece of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick.

Frankly, I don’t know if I got the quote right, because I’m seriously wasted. Ergo, I don’t much care if I did or didn’t. The point of this exercise is to determine if I can even come up with a coherent journal entry (I hate the word ‘blog’) when I’m very drunk.

I’m hoping I’ll rediscover this little gem during one of those nostalgic romps through my journal that a journaleer often takes when bored or distracted; maybe I’ll be sitting in front of the PC some weekend with nothing to do and read this entry and go ‘Holy %$&*#@!, I wrote that!?’

Anyway, I should get to it.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, 2009. My Father-in-law, here from the other side of the country, hours earlier has told me something very upsetting (not about my beautiful Butterfly–something else entirely, which I won’t divulge here due to it being inappropriate for a public journal entry), and I’ve spent the vast majority of the day up in our bedroom moping about it. Moping like a little kid. And chastising myself for doing so.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter, to use another Douglas Adams-ism, a pair of dingo’s kidneys what anybody in the universe thinks of me, the marriage that my beautiful Butterfly and I share, or my ability to be a good husband. This is my second attempt at husbandry. It’s Butterfly’s third attempt at wife-ery. With any luck, it will be our last; we’re both pretty good at it by now, I think, having made most all of the mistakes along the way (separately, of course) that married people do. Thanks to our vast experience, we’ve worked through some pretty serious difficulties with love, caring, compassion, and understanding for one another that many copules in our position would be envious to enjoy. I’d very much like to think that, at long last, I have finally found my soul-mate, and she, hers.

I seem to have suffered the onslaught of in-laws that one is always forced to endure come holiday-time. And it is with a mighty slurp of the last of my Double Jack-and-Diet-Pepsi (heh–doubtless my second-line manager, a subscriber to my Facebook page [to which The Corsair Journal is cross-posted] is positively cringing at the mention that I have imbibed such a horrid concoction) that I share with you that I have dived, naiive and ill-prepared, into the waters that are my in-laws (I’m going to think that line is so damn corny when I’m sober).

Honestly, if one dares to put their private thoughts in a public space, then one should be thoroughly prepared to share with anyone who stumbles across those thoughts their state of mind when those thoughts were conveyed to the medium from which they were henceforth absorbed.

So let me ’splain. No, ees too much; let me sum up:

Butterfly’s previous husband, prior to me, will be convicted in the coming weeks in Federal court on charges of operating a Madoff-esque Ponzi schheme. Butterfly’s brother, cajoled by Butterfly’s ex into becoming a salesman for the “company,” is now–at the behest of the FBI and SEC–testifying against him, in exchange for a reduced sentence. Butterfly’s brother has not yet been remanded to Federal custody, but my in-laws fear he likely will be immediately following a sentencing hearing on Tuesday the 1st. Butterfly’s brother’s sentence, while not nearly as hefty as Butterfly’s ex’s (largely owing to both his reduced role in the alleged crimes as well as his cooperation with the Feds), will nonetheless be pretty substantial–in the several-years range.

Worse, Butterfly’s brother will be leaving behind a wife and very young son while he serves his time. And right now, the family has no idea where, or for exactly how long, that time will be served. The latter will be revealed at the hearing. The former, despite a request to serve sentence at FCI Miami, is really anybody’s guess.

Butterfly, naturally, is not feeling particularly wonderful about the fact that her brother’s association with her ex has had the unintended consequence of costing her brother his freedom.

It makes one’s head swim, if one were to think about it hard enough. It’s like a scene pulled from some absurd nightmare that even Danté wouldn’t buy tickets to.

So it seems that this is the last Thanksgiving (or major holiday of any kind, for that matter) that Butterfly, her brother, his wife and child, his Dad, Mom, nieces and nephews (and me, the lone in-law in this equation) will all get to spend together for who-knows how long. Butterfly’s Dad, hailing from the other side of the country, is staying here at our place until the hearing on Tuesday, and I couldn’t have been more happy to host him–that is, until today.

Naturally, there’s a little pressure associated with this situation (I do have a gift for understatement); and, due to it, Butterfly’s Dad–by his own admission, a crotchety old fart (his words, not mine)–said something to me earlier today that really, really caught me completely off guard and upset me very greatly.

Exactly what he said is not important. My job, given the circumstances, is to keep the peace. I’m fully cognizant of the gravity of this situation and I refuse to let some childish hurt feelings spoil what, as I have said earlier, could be the last family Thanksgiving dinner this family will enjoy together for G-d-only knows how long. I can’t control what he said, or how bad it stung, or how unfair I think it is that I feel I’m being punished for the transgressions of the man that Butterfly was married to before me. This is not about me.

This is about a family who is hurting because they are about to lose someone they love, for a long time. All I can do is support my Butterfly while that happens.

—

My beautiful Butterfly is lying next to me right now, deep in blissful slumber, as I write this rambling treatise. She loves me just as much as I love her–and for that love I am more grateful than one can imagine; I think she knows how proud I am of her, and she has made abundantly clear how proud she is of me. We cling to one another though the great goings-on that take place around us.

My place is clear. My duty is clear.

And maybe this entry, despite the pretenses under which it started, has turned out more lucid than I thought it would.

My boys and their mom (and her fianceé and his daughter) came to trick-or-treat in my neighborhood. I live out in an upper-class subdivison of McMansions, so the pickings were really good in my neck of the woods. There was some guy ( a dentist, presumably) giving out–and I swear I’m not making this up–teddy bears. Yup. Swear to God.

Once again, I marched out the award-winning Blind Referee costume… probably for the last time (of course, I say that every year, but every year I still manage to extract more fun out of it).

Me as the blind referee

I had to meet the mishpacha overat a local restaurant across the street–and I could sense that the lady behind the counter could not actually tell if I were blind or not. I, of course, wasn’t going to help her determine one way or the other, and her doubt was further exacerbated by my kids–who, knowing the costume, played along “led” me to the table when I was done paying.

I’m always a little uneasy fooling people into thinking I have a genuine disability–in these days of rampant political correctness, you can’t be too careful–so I usually, time and circumstances permitting, will let the marks in on the joke of the costume. If someone came up to me and asked outright if I were really blind (and kudos for the ones that do; most people couldn’t bring themselves to do so), I would immediately answer no and demonstrate my ability to see. But those in on the joke have to hold back the laughter as I tell a mark “Yeah, my wife made this costume for me. She won’t tell me what it is, but she did say that everyone would get a big kick out of it.”

But the costume has won at least three Halloween costume contests (maybe more; I’ve actually lost count) and several awards. I get a chuckle out of almost everyone who sees it. No pun intended, of course.

I think I will actually have to either retire the costume, or turn it from an NFL referee to a college referee–starting with the 2008 season, the NFL has officiating crew has switched to a custom-made jersey that has become very difficult to reproduce–and absolutely impossible to acquire on the open market.

Current NFL referee attire