Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 51

Like my father and brother before me, I am dating a stripper. Not current. But Val was a Chippendales dancer back in the day. So Big Time, compared to the strippers my father and brother dated or aspired to date, assuming this was a competition, which it isn't, so I'm not sure why I am mentioning it. Oh. Because I want to win. Even when we're not competing.

My dad broke his hip and my brother wants me to call him. My dad did not call me when my husband left. I have not heard from him since I found out who his birth mother was and found him a brother and 2 sisters. His youngest daughter from his second marriage moved back in with him during COVID and I stopped hearing from Dad and did not have the bandwidth to try to keep his attention once more while my life was falling apart.

Convention demands that I call my father because broken hips in oldsters is often a death knell. Convention demands that I be sad at the prospect of my father dying. Convention demands that I keep doing what I have always done. Get in line and be the bigger person so my dad can stop feeling guilty and go back to forgetting that I exist. I am dating a stripper. So where do you think I am at with doing what convention demands? And why do my fellow stripper-daters (father and brother) expect me to get in line when these 2 bozos have never done what they were supposed to do, EVER? Because I am a lady? I think this blog has established that that is not the case. (I am brushing with wide strokes here, but you get the point. I love my brother and he does not read my blog but I will state again that I love my brother in case he suddenly becomes both a reader and an internet devotee).

So what happens if I publish this heartless blog and my father dies? Do I go straight to H-E Double Hockey Sticks? Am I suddenly leveled by the oversight of not forgiving my father before he croaked because his behavior shows so little remorse? Do I have to forgive him to be happy? The last time I saw him was circa 2003. What's the rush? The last time he was a consistent presence in my life was circa 1976. Hasn't my reality essentially been, then, that I have never had a father? So remind me what I am on the cusp of losing...

Meanwhile, Val and I are moving to the house near the beach I just bought with the money from the house I sold after i bought my ex-husband out of our once-shared home in the West. I am that asshole who ruins cheaper economies by moving from California to Montana, or Seattle to Sioux Falls, by paying cash for a home and settling in and pricing locals out of the market. It was my ex-husband's dream to own a property outright. I did this for me, not him. But while we're at it, fuck you Satan. Enjoy your new 30 year mortgage at Western top-of-market prices you old mutherfucker. Hope you pay it off before you croak.

Like my father, Val is adopted. Like me, our immediate families have a history of being problematic. Incidentally, Val asked me out. I did not go seeking a former Chippendale to stick it to my old man. I was not aware of Val's work history when he caught my eye. But isn't it interesting what we attract? Val is the bouncer I was sweet on but too shy to approach in blog 50. I halfheartedly tried to get a few people to come with me back to the bar the next weekend, failed, went alone and this time Val told me at the door that he liked my jersey. Within 5 minutes he was off the door, talking to me at the bar. Within 45 minutes he had taken my number. He'd never come off the door like that before. His coworkers were like, "WTF are you doing?" The week prior, I was compelled to wear a tracksuit with a fanny pack to the bar. I had not met Val when I made this choice. Val almost exclusively wears tracksuits with a fanny pack in his nonworking hours. It's funny what we attract. Am I magic? You better believe it mutherfuckers.

My realtor told me there was no way I would get the house near the beach. Not in this market. I set my boundaries firmly, ignored him and the feeding frenzy mentality, and was at peace whatever happened. I had never been so cool before. I had a very good feeling and told the girls on my text chain as much, as proof of my future prescience. I got the house. On my terms. For less than my final offer. Am I magic? You mutherfuckers know the answer by now.

I am my inheritance. Fuck my father. Fuck Satan. Fuck Freddy and Drummer Boy and all the other disappointments with alleged balls. I laughed so hard the other day when I heard Tanya Tucker say something like, "I had to quit wearing miniskirts cuz my balls kept hanging out." Dolly Parton's boobs are really just colossal dinosaur balls strapped to her chest. I finally attracted a man with actual balls. A man as brave as me with equipment so notable, people paid to see it. We're an odd couple? I think not.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness