Worst Conversation With My Wife Ever

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Over the years I have made it a point to keep my relationship with my wife and our marriage off of my blog and definitely off of Facebook for sure. Granted, looking back through the years and lifespan of my blogs I see that I’ve scratched the surface enough for readers to know that I am indeed married to a wonderful, caring wife. I don’t just say that here because she reads my blog, it is said and conveyed daily in our private lives, just so y’all know I’m not looking for brownie points from her. My wife and I have a “bad” habit, we talk with each other all the time about things that actually matter, we go beyond talking about work (which is actually forbidden by both of us), the children, or the bills that pile up. Yes, we do talk about those important things but they are not allconsuming to the point where that is all we talk about. We are different in how we talk, I like to talk in a long winded manner, telling stories, and bringing the details to light. Yes, we have talked about that as well, seems to get worse as I age. My wife on the other hand is more emotional about things, eventhough she tries to be short and sweet, she suffers from a similar affliction of not being able to get to the point. She considers it a fault of hers, but I admire that she trusts me with her emotions. The other day we had one of those “out of the blue” conversations that she likes to start on occasion. Out of the blue for me but well thought about on her part. Just know this, I will be 47 next month and she just turned 40 this past June, so I personally understand we are not the same age we were when we got married 17 years ago. We’ve put on a few miles, a few pounds, a few wrinkles, and much gray hair for me personally, we don’t talk about her one or two she has pop up, we just color it and move on.

So, she asks me if I think she is turning into her mother as she gets older. I will explain my answers here as I explained them to her. A husband who pays attention to his wife sees changes over time, sees the different moods and generally knows what causes them and what cures them, he listens not only to what she is saying but what isn’t being said as well. I like to think I have a good handle on “reading” my wife and she has a great flare for doing the same to me. We have learned that there is a time and place for everything. I don’t know about other marriages but I consider ours healthy in many ways, the main one being we still love one another, it not tolerating each other, it’s wanting to be with each other, needing and depending on one another to get through each day and night. The answer to the question is no I don’t think she is turning into her mother. But, and this but raised an eyebrow with my wife, as we get older, as our children get older, I see her professional life taking over the mother and wife life. Meaning, she puts in long exhausting days at the office being a manager and being in charge of people, money, and property all with the goal of turning a profit. Most people don’t think of a doctor’s office as a business and the goal of every business is to make money. She has been an office manager there for 14 years, she knows her shit frontwards and backwards. On top of that, she does it all with just her high school GED. (Life happened, that’s all I want to say). But when she gets home she doesn’t need to be in charge, everything at home usually runs like a well oiled machine, thanks in no small way to my own personal efforts. You see, I work my 40 hour work week in three days over the weekend, so I am home all week long mostly.

Yes, I have seen her go from her early 20s to now 40, yes the body I knew for her then has changed, yes her mind has matured as well, and yes I do see the start of the crows feet wrinkles and the occasional gray hair or three. Big deal, we’ve gotten older, it was expected, I knew it would happen, her problem, in my opinion as told to her, is she has yet to accept the fact that she has now turned 40. Women, in general, in my opinion, treat 40 like a death sentence or something that is so feared that when it happens that they magically are going to change and not be wanted any longer. I have never, nor will I ever, tell my wife I want to trade her in for two 20 year olds. I like where we are in life together. Does my wife wear a moo-moo? No she does not. She does wear sweats and my old t-shirts around the house. When not at work she has her hair up in a pony tail and isn’t wearing make-up, which is what I like. I don’t like all the make-up and bullshit, but she does, so I shut up. But what she really wants to know is if I think that she is mentally, or the way she speaks, or how she acts, or how she thinks, or is anything she does show signs of her turning into her mother. This ultimately could be the question of death for me. I might need to sleep with one eye open, she does spend a good deal of time watching the I.D. channel. My fate has now come crystal clear to me, it has all been a dream, now I get to die a horrific death that nobody will ever be able to blame on her. But does it have to be so bad? I think not, and here’s why.

I explained to my wife that she need not worry about her own personal growth, evolution, and development because she should be happy that she remains her own person. It’s true, she’s changed, I’ve changed, we all change for better or worse for whatever the reason may be. I tease her a bit though, and tell her I like her mother, she has some great traits and qualities which I really admire. At the same time, I enjoy who my wife is, how she acts, how she speaks, how she thinks, how she moves, how she dresses, and especially how she makes me feel every single day, which is loved. I unfortunately do not think my answers are well taken or understood simply because I can only give likenesses and observations, because in my opinion, the only person who truly knows the truth is her and how she feels. Yes, I am her partner, but no I don’t read minds, a person can only learn by what he is shown or told when it comes to a relationship such as marriage. Is she the same woman I met all those years ago? Yes and no. But here’s the catch, I like who she is and how she represents herself, she is her own person, I feel lucky to be allowed to be with her through the best of times and the worst of times.

To sum this all up, we all change as we age, we all make a choice to either accept those changes in our partner or to not, and sadly that is why we see marriages fail, failing because people don’t think long term, they don’t consider that maturity makes us different, and we don’t prepare mentally for those kinds of challenges. Why? Only reason I can think of is it is because we are selfish. But I’m no marriage counselor, I’m no expert in the field of relationships, I just a married man who still enjoys the company of his wife. I offer only one piece of advice, find what works for y’all and nurture that entire process and live life like there is no tomorrow, because, you know, shit happens when we least expect it to happen. I look at my late grandparents, married 83 years at the time of his death and she died of a broken heart 2 months later. That’s love, that’s needing the other person to be in your life, that’s being heart-broken when a part of you is missing.

Okay, I’m done with my story, my peak into my private life, and I hope y’all understand that our marriage is not one of tolerance but one of acceptance. We are who we are, it is what it is, and we all just need to relax and be who we are comfortable being. Or be like me, an asshole tainted by my dislikes for people in the general population of our planet. Yes, I have a low tolerance for most people, but at the same time I have compassion towards those I care about, more often than not there is no middle ground, and I don’t play well with others. With that being said, I end this post, but fear not, there will be more, much much more.

A Man’s Open Letter To His Mother

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I was trolling around the internet as I usually do, looking for things being discussed by others by reviewing forums, social media, and so forth. I like to check out what is out there at any particular moment because I don’t want to have my own information wrong if I’m wrong or step on any toes if I’m right. Well, okay, I don’t really care about stepping on toes but I do like to know the toes I’m stepping on in advance if possible. Of course, nowadays, I seem to be pissing everyone off with what I post. I had made the choice not to do anything really new until after the new year but I found something that “moved” me and now I want to talk about it. In reality, everything we post on the internet, no matter where it is posted, can be considered an “open letter” by pure definition. How so? We don’t ever know who will be reading it much less if the intended party(ies) will ever read it. I relate it to pissing into the wind, it might get on someone somewhere and then again  it might not. Take my own blog for example, I take the time to write or do other posts, push publish, and wonder who stumbled across it by accident. Neither here nor there, when I write or post something it isn’t generally pointed in a specific direction, I call them shotgun blasts because it is unknown who will see or read them. It’s not like I have a dedicated audience waiting on the edge of their seat for what I will post next. Well, that’s not true, I have a handful of fans, aka The Scorpion Army, who always inform me that they are waiting for something. All I can say is that I’m sorry, life got busy for me.

Anyway, back to my trolling, because I read something that hit home with me simply because parts of it could’ve been written by me if I didn’t know any better. It was an open letter from a thirty four year man to his biological mother he had never known existed until recently, information passed to him by his mother as she lay dying from cancer in a hospital bed. She had the need to get something off her chest before she dies. After what he describes as being hours of apologetic talk from her she discloses that she isn’t his biological mother. She told him that hours after he was born that his biological mother was returned to the medical facility at the prison she was serving time in as she had been convicted of murder. His biological mother brutally murdered the man that had shot her husband, then carjacked her and kidnapped her, and raping her sixty seven times before leaving her for dead in an old abandoned house at the edge of town. She was sentenced 99 years in prison with no eligibility for parole. She had been serving only about a month of her sentence when he was born. She had no other information. Her and her husband had been on the adoption waiting list for an infant for several years when they were contacted that they could now move forward with an immediate adoption. For thirty four years his parents had buried this secret vowing to never disclose it to another living soul. But, she wanted to die with a clear conscious and the only way she felt she could do that was by telling her son the truth.

Amazingly enough, he explained that he really had no idea he was adopted, nor that he ever had a reason to consider or entertain the idea that he was adopted. To say the least, by reading his open letter to his biological mother, he was indeed more than just a little shocked by the turn of events. As a result, he wrote his biological mother a letter, knowing to himself it would go unanswered, but felt he needed to acknowledge her existence now that he knew she actually exists. I leave you now to read his letter.

Mother – Only you knew I existed. Only you were to bear the torture of not knowing. Only you knew the pain of our separation. We will never meet, I will never see you, nor you, I. Not because I don’t want to look into your eyes and weep with you but because there is no information of who you are, the only records available by the agency show Jane Doe gave birth to an un-named male child and nothing else. In reality I’m not sure why I write this letter to you today because I know you will never see it and even if you were to see this letter I doubt you would know it was to you. I regret the fact that we will never be reunited but at the same time we are both lucky because we do not know one another. I’m really not sure if I really need to meet you. I have lived my life, raised by gracious parents, and now raise my own family. There is no room for these twists and turns in my life and I don’t think there will ever be a good time for it. I’m sorry you will spend your life in prison because life is much too beautiful to live in a cage. I will close this by saying that I pray for you even though I don’t know you as we are connected by the bond of birth if you can understand that.

Regards, GW

There are things I would like to tell GW but his life is none of my business. It is a great weight to bear being told something of this magnitude. What one chooses to do with it is a personal choice. Personally I think he is selling it all short, imagine never knowing who your biological family really is. I can say this will experience and authority as my older sister and I are both adopted. The difference is that I took the steps into the darkness, not knowing what to expect, and have made contact with my biologicals and to this day we talk regularly. Search this blog for adoption and y’all will find more than a couple entries. My older sister has a different mindset, she believes she was discarded and therefore has no wishes to ever make contact. If she knew that I have researched it all for her behind her back she might be a bit furious, but I wanted to use my personal experiences to help her. Although she would see it as me trying to sabotage her life. We will never agree on this topic and she has made it a forbidden topic to talk about. I hope, one day, she will change her mind, and when she does I hope she will ask for my help. I’m willing to help, I want to help, but it falls on deaf ears, which is sad for her. I leave y’all with a final question. What would you do if you found out one day that you were adopted? Or, if you were informed about being adopted what was your reaction and what have you done with that information since? I know, pretty personal issue, but I also know it helps to talk about the struggles and successes, even if it is with a perfect stranger.

Being Politically Incorrect: Now Fuck Off

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Where in the fuck do the politically correct morality police get off being my mother? Why in the fuck have they chose to subject me to hundreds of e-mails a week and hundreds of spam comments a week? Who the fuck do these people think they are? What in the fuck do they think they can change about my blog? When in the fuck did I become a fucking interest to the fucking politically correct morality police? F.Y.I., y’all will fucking find the morality police is only one of the many names used to describe the fucked up groups of people whose self-appointed job is to enforce standards of moral behavior and religious adherence among the general public, these bleeding pussies are here to protect us from the real world. Have these fucking freaks of nature been having a spell of moral panic? Is their moral panic over an issue deemed to be a fucking threat to, or shocking to, the sensibilities of “proper” society? How about y’all just have a very tall glass of shut the fuck up for a minute.

If you haven’t fingered it out yet, this is my politically incorrect declaration about the morality police fuctards who feel it is their god given right to bombard the Sting Of The Scorpion Blog with all of the bullshit that they disagree with that I say or I post here. So, let me start off with a big GO FUCK YOURSELF to get this kicked off. What does what I write about have to do with anything in the fucking lonely lives of the morality police? I know what I fucking post and I sleep fucking great at night. In some way I have touched these little bitches  in a special way, like how a girl gets finger fucked for the very first time. I guess because they like the way I touch them that they need to bitch at me like my ex-wife who is, to date, at the very top of my “cunt list”, but these fuctards are a very close second. So I say the word, and many variations, FUCK, does that make me a bad person? I post pictures of women with tattoos and women packing heat because those are things I really fucking like. I regularly talk about how fucked up the VA is because I’m a disabled vet who is a part of that fucking broke system.  Does the fact that I was a bartender at a full nude strip bar (and liked it) a problem because I write about it or because it is an industry that exemplifies gratuitous nudity in exchange for money? It is a historical fact for those followers of the bible that “Jesus Loves Strippers” but that is something that the morality police like to forget.

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Somewhere, somehow, the morality police opened their doors to the anti-meat-anti-hunting-geniuses because they keep trying to tell me hunting to provide meat for my table is wrong. Wrong? It’s wrong? I do not, I have not, and I will not ever condemn a meat free lifestyle if that is the choice you have made. I may not understand your decision and I might joke about your choices, but your choices are yours to make. I would like to think if you want to be left the fuck alone about not eating meat that you should close your fucking piehole about my choice to stalk the meat, kill the meat, smoke the meat, and then eat the meat with my family. Y’all really need to back off this one because it isn’t ever going to fucking change, ever. Never once, however, do these fucktards ever get real specific about what rubbed their pussies the wrong way. Perhaps that is the problem, perhaps it is because of their own experiences that they must warn me that I am on the highway to hell with what I write about. Well, you stupid fucks, I write about what is in my life, around me, or the fucking things I like or dislike. Some of those things are fucked up, some of those things are the fucktards who get so pissed off at me for talking about their beliefs and how they live their life.

I think if I was a bleeding cunt that maybe I would hold that against the rest of the world as well. Is it because you suffer that you want to make others suffer? I was told once by my dad when I was younger to never trust something that can bleed for a week and live. He also warned me of the hypnotic spell the women will put men under, he called this the power of the pussy. He tried to warn me that she with the pussy is who is in charge. It’s true, for the most part, that because you have a pussy you think that all must bow to you, begging your little twat for forgiveness because we were born with a dick. All of the haters I have all have referenced that they are female, not one male has ever emailed me or spammed my blog in anger because of my topics or language. Why do you little bitches think that is? Need a bandaid? Perhaps you are angry with me because I write about your fucked up ways and your fucked up thinking, perhaps when you whip out your grammar Nazi handbook you should show me the part where it says that The sting Of The Scorpion Blog is supposed to give a fuck about spelling or proper sentence fragmentation. Fuck you, I’m not 6. Speaking of which, no, no I don’t think I will ever write with the maturity my age states I should have. I think it is just plain time for you politically correct bleeding pussies to just turn the internet off, turn your computer off, unplug the smart car, and go for a walk. Get outside into the real world with real people. Do keep your hole closed because if you act out in public as you do on the internet you might just not like the reaction you get.

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Where do we go from here? It’s true, I don’t give a fuck about your feelings about what you may find at The Sting Of The Scorpion Blog. Why should I fucking give a shit and really fucking care? Come here if you want, don’t come if you don’t want, either way it doesn’t make a fuck to me because this blog doesn’t pay my fucking bills. In fact, it’s totally free. It’s free hosted, I don’t charge admission, I don’t ask for donations, and I don’t try to sell you stupid shit you don’t want. I do this shit for fun, I do what I do here for my personal entertainment, I write about the things I see or hear because it is fucking fun to do so. What’s even better that somewhere along the way I get to rub some of y’all  pussiy fucktards the wrong way on a very regular basis. Except, nowadays I think we are past the heavy petting, we are past trying to shove three of my fingers thru your granny panties, we are past you not wanting to be touched “there”, no, I think we are to the point where I expose what has really been going on here, because not everyone gets to see you as I do. I know I told you that I wouldn’t tell everyone what a fucking little whore slut you really are. I know you wanted me to be discrete about your little secret of only letting all the guys ass fuck you so you can tell your future husband you truly are a vaginal virgin. Yes, your fucked up little secret is out now, boothefuckhoo. It is also pretty fucking obvious that you suck the cum out right out of that dick after they all pull it out of your ass because all you do is talk shit. So, shove a plug in your gaping asshole because you are dripping anal ooze all over my fucking blog.

Now, get the fuck out. Let the door hit you square in the ass. Don’t stop, don’t look back. All you will see is me bending over blowing you a big fat fucking kiss. I know y’all aren’t capable of listening, that fucking point gets proven time and time again. I get it, you fucking despise and hate me. I know y’all are too fucking stupid to listen. I know y’all will be back, y’all always fucking come back for some reason. Well, just remember I may not appreciate the fact that you suck in all of my fucking oxygen but since you always arrive with your panties pulled so deep into your bleeding cunts, I give y’all a break, because I like freaks, I even like you. So, polish up your badge bitches so you can continue to spread the your fucking legs and let out all of the things that are so wonderful about the fucking morality police. Until the next time we meet please feel free to fucking piss off.

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Diary Of A Stripper Mom

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I was a stripper long before I had ever thought of being a mother. In fact, I was stripping long before I ever hit the strip bar scene. Dancing naked for money always was a way for me to have money in my pockets. I thought, when I was a sophomore in high school that stripping for the guys was a way to get and keep their attention. That evolved from stripping for weed and alcohol to doing it for money. It wasn’t large amounts of money, but for a hanfulvof bills a guy could watch me move in ways that made them “fall in love” with me. Sometimes I would get the vibe from a return guy and things would get a little closer, get a little more intimate, and get a little hotter. At times I would find myself very horny and very sexually aroused, sometimes to the point where I would let the guy touch me or sometimes I would touch him. In the end, I learned a handjob or a blowjob went a long way towards guys coming back, and when they did they brought friends who would bring money. I lived this secret little life for quite a while. Close to the mid second semester of my junior year I found out I was pregnant. The result of a party that got way out of hand with some college boys. I had gotten very wasted on something or another and appearantly I passed out. Rumor has it that 5 or 6 of them had fucked me so brutally that I was taken to the emergency room because I was bleeding so heavily. As a result of that night, the night I lost my virginity to more than one guy I would soon find out I was pregnant.

Shortly after I began to show signs that I was pregnant I made the choice to leave home, to leave high school, to leave everything behind, and live with my aunt in New Mexico. With only a month to go before my son was to be born I was approached by the parents of one of the college boys involved. They had a substantial offer for me. They offered me $50,000.00 in exchange for my son. They offered to make sure I graduated high school, to put me through college, and leave me with a healthy sum of money as a nest egg to start myself a life. The only catch was that I could never contact them for any reason and I would never be able to see my son. That was many years ago. They held up their end of the deal. Before anything was done I found myself signing legal documents for the arrangements and the adoption of my son. They paid all the hospital bills when the time came. They paid for me to fly back to Houston so I could move back home and finish high school. After I graduated high school, I made my way into the University of Houston, where I graduated with honors with a business degree. After I graduated, a few weeks went by, and I received a large manilla envelope delivered by a messenger. There was a letter in it along with three sets of keys. The letter was brief and very business like, but it explained quite a bit.

The first set of keys was for a house, included with the keys to the house was a deed, in my name, and the closing documents showing I owned the house outright. The second set of keys were for a new Nissan Titan pickup. Also included was the title and proof of insurance. The letter stated I would find the truck in the garage of the house. The last set of keys went to a safe deposit box. The only information provided was the address where the safe deposit box was located. I went to the bank that was listed in the letter and then sat in a room, alone staring at a closed safe deposit box because I feared opening it. After about 15 minutes I did open it and when I did I cried like the day I gave up my son. There were 4 items in the box. On top was a envelope with a note and a picture of a boy. The note, dated just days prior, explained this was a picture of my son at age 7. The note said the other contents, which were cash and two checks, were to get my life started. I removed everything from the box and put it all in my purse, except the picture, I walked out carrying the picture. I had been saving allot of the money they have sent over the years not knowing exactly what for.

Over the years I had more than one part time job, being a waitress was always the most productive for me personally. I found being a waitress in strip bars paid very well and often did it because it was very familiar to me. While in college I needed to form a business plan as a project and show on paper the birth and success of my business in order to pass these classes. I used that business plan and a fair sum of the money left for me to open my dream business. My business was literally built from the ground up with the help of a very special friend who was an aspiring architect at the time. After the planning, zoning, and licensing, we broke ground. Thirteen months later I opened the doors for the very first time to Club X. The club had grand success in its first two years and I took the business opportunity to open a second location in Dallas.

One day, out of the blue, the head of security for the club entered my office and announced I had a visitor. A young boy, around 11, introduced himself to me in the politest way I have ever heard. He handed me an envelope so I could read the documents inside. I broke down in tears because I was reading custody papers involving my son. Releasing me of my prior contracts and legal agreements. I looked up to see my son walking to me, telling me everything will be okay now, I am home now momma. Indeed he was, my baby boy was finally home. Skip forward now, several years, in one short week I will watch him walk across the stage to graduate high school.

The above accounts were never told to me while I was an employee (bartender) at Club X. Instead, I received a letter from my former boss along with a graduation invitation from her son. I was given her permission to retell her story here. I guess this goes to show that even though you might think you know a person, you never really know that person. The above picture was taken two months ago at her 35th birthday party where she performed as a part of the festivities. She still performs flawlessly as y’all can probably imagine. Now, to keep my blog out of trouble, y’all only get to see the one picture. Why? Let’s just say that Club X was born a full nude strip club and has always remained a full nude strip club. It was a cool night for me, however, because I always wondered what was underneath her attire and unlike most employees. I got to see my boss dancing in her birthday suit on her birthday. Bonus for me. As a note, this post was written a few days ago, sent to her via email for approval, and is now in the green for posting.

Over the years I have tried to bring a human touch to the world of the strip club when telling individual stories on “Scorpion Stings Bartender Stories” but so far, this had been the one that will forever leave its mark on me. I offer an invitation to all of y’all who might have a story to tell of your own, just email it to me with your pictures and I will put it in one of three categories, The Sting Of The Scorpion, Scorpion Stings Bartender Stories, or The Magic Weekend. I am always looking for new life stories to add for people to read. You can find descriptions of each category within the links found to the top and to the right on this blog.

Expect The Unexpected

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I briefly mentioned a question my 17 y/o daughter asked me while out for an evening walk in my last post’ “Shake Your Tail Feathers” and I promised to write about it since I didn’t want to sidetrack that post. Well, here we are. I really don’t know what she will think about me writing what I will be writing since she will not be previewing it, she will read it for the first time after it is published as will everyone else who makes the choice to read it. I ask that y’all hold your judgements, if any, because as a household certain decisions have been made for very specific reasons. My daughter, who will be 18 in less six weeks, has been dating this same guy now for about 2 years. I have held, in reserve, my opinions of the relationship after my initial thoughts were expressed. I have nothing against him personally, but he is 2 years older than my daughter and I always considered that a problem. But, as we can tell, life has pressed forward and we are faced with the present day and the challenges she offers for us. Over time the boyfriend has grown on me and impresses me that he has embraced his own life challenges and found the courage to pull himself up by his bootstraps and literally kick some ass to ensure his place in this world. In fact, let’s start there, let’s start with a brief history of the boy and you will see why I have grown to like him a little.

A few months before they began to date (they had been friends for who knows how long) his dad passed away. The death came fast as it was a fast moving cancer in his main organs that was never diagnosed. When it was caught he was admitted to the hospital and passed away a few weeks later. It is said he and his dad were pretty close, the only problems or mixed words they had were about his step mother who was unliked by the boyfriend from very early on. Within days of the funeral he was kicked out of the house he had grown up in and was lucky his aunt lived near by because he accepted the offer to move in with her. Since he had already graduated high school he at least didn’t have to worry about that as well. Skip forward a bit and soon the relationship between him and his aunt deteriated which is when he decided to move in with his older brother. His older brother helped with the part time job but also wanted him to help with the monthly rent and utilities. So what did he do? He got a second job and soon replaced the part time job with a full time job. He has been working these two jobs basically to keep a roof over his head and a little food in his belly. In a way, that’s where we come in, since he eats dinner here almost every night and spends his off time on the weekends in our spare room located right across from the master bedroom. Life isn’t great but he is surviving it for now. Then, three weeks ago his brother (and roommate), dropped a nice bomb on him. It was announced that he and his girlfriend were moving to Las Vegas, getting married, and staying there ton work and live. Now he has a predicament because he cannot afford rent non that apartment on his own. Enter my daughter and her solution.

So, while we were out walking she decided to ask me what I thought of him and his whole situation. I knew she was going somewhere with it but I just didn’t know where yet. Then she hits me with it, she wants permission to ask him to move into our house. A very bold request coming from someone who does not pay any of the bills. When she was done selling me her idea she looked at me as if I had an immediate answer to give her, which I did, but thought it be best to discuss it with her mother anyway. Needless to say she had already spoken to her mother and she was told it was up to me. It took her a week to get up the courage to talk to me according to her mother. She was hoping her mother would break the ice but she never did, never even dropped a hint, and never warned me either. We sat him down and hadna long talk about the arrangements which by judging the looks on his face was the first time he had heard about the solution. I wonder where my daughter gets her sneakiness.

We don’t know what his answer is as of yet because his pride is kinda getting in the way, he doesn’t want the handout. Like I explained to him, life happens, we have all been in a place which had no real way to succeed and some of us were lucky we had family or friends to lend a helping hand to us. Plus, as I explained to them all, he will not be living there for free nor will we become his maid. But, with that being said his life will become significantly less burdened since he will not have to throw away so much money on rent. I am looking long term, I know they will get married one day and if I can help make that a better transition then I will do it for both of them. At this point I really don’t know what tomorrow holds for him because nothing has been set in stone yet.

I complain allot about not being needed in the daddy role so much any more and that will probably never change. What can I say, I miss my babies. I miss the days when the dilemma was a scratched elbow or lost toy in the treeline. I know, we get older and our roles in our children’s life change. Seems that I am in a support role now. Its not a bad place to be I guess. I sure hope life’s problems get easier to solve. This will all work out I am sure, he will move into the spare bedroom of my chosing and we’ll just press forward. I used to be such a great hard ass, I wonder what happened to me.

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Onsen (温泉) In The Land Of The Rising Sun

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I have been asked numerous times to write about my experiences living in Japan, the Land of the Rising Sun. So, I thought I might start a new series here chronicling how things were while living in Misawa Japan. Yes, it was the United States Air Force that brought me to Japan, but I want to talk about living there and not so much working there. The easiest place for me to start this all off is to tell about certain traditions that I chose to be a part of while living in the local economy. We rented a house deep in the heart of farm country, nothing new for me since I grew up in southeast Texas. The great thing about the location of this house was straight out the back door and across the parking lot there was an onsen (温泉) (public hot bath). This was important because the bath tub in the house was the size of a postage stamp. We were informed of what exactly it was and the traditions around the onsen there locally by our realtor.

My (ex)wife decided that going to the onsen was not something she was going to take part in. My wife was never real keen being naked in front of other people, high school gym and sports classes proved that fact to me years before. Which is strange because she was quite the quiet exhibitionist when it was just her and I out in public places. She was a closet tease to say the very least. However, that is yet another story altogether. We had it explained to us that the onsen setting was not unlike group showers in American high schools or in public and private gyms. Fair enough, seems like the Japanese got the whole keeping clean thing under control because most local neighborhoods had an onsen or three. Not to mention the large resorts that were centered around the very ornate onsens inside them. We were lucky, we lived in billeting (on-base hotel) for close to two weeks because of the snowstorms that had blown through. This time allowed our belonging to meet us in Japan and gave us time to purchase the other furniture we needed. All we shipped were our clothes, a television, a vcr, towels and wash cloths, dishes, pots and pans, a hand-me-down couch, and my king-size water bed.

The day arrived where we took possession of our rental house. It was brand new, one of eight houses built-in this courtyard style block. It was a townhouse, like the rest, we all shared a common “drive” which all of the houses faced with a one car car-port to the side. We were the first people to ever live in the house since it was built. It had a layout we were familiar with which was way different from other houses we looked at. On that same day our belongings arrived and were hastily unpacked by 2 very fast men. Also, the other furniture and furnishings we purchased were also delivered and set up. After some unpacking we needed to go back to billeting to gather our belongings and check out. It never crossed my mind, looking back, to grab a quick shower after such a long day. When we got back to the house she was tired so she laid out on the couch for a nap. I looked in our bathroom for the bath tub, I wanted to soak my cold bones for a while. What did I find? Well, the entire bathroom was a shower basically, if that makes any sense, and in the corner there was a tub created out tile set around three feet into the floor. This “tub” measured 30 inches by 30 inches square. No way to lay out in that tub for sure, it wasn’t happening.

I needed to get cleaned up however, so I told my wife I was going next-door to check the onsen out. It was the 2nd week of January, the temp was about 3 degrees farenheit, the wind was blowing at around 40 mph, and there was close to 4 feet of snow on the ground. I grabbed my wallet, flip-flops, shave kit, my shoes, a towel, walked out back across the parking lot. I had no clue what to do and everything was in Japanese. We lived far enough from the base that they didn’t see too many Americans on purpose. Luckily, the women who was clearing the water and snow from the entrance “showed” me where to remove my shoes, place them in the cubicle, and put on my flip-flops. Then she pointed me in the direction of the lobby. In the lobby there were a multitude of vending machines that sold everything, and when I say everything I mean anything from food, drinks, toiletries, clothes, cars, a date, porn, and tokens to the hot bath of course. I was surprised, the token for the hot bath was the U.S. equivalent to about 65 cents. As soon as my token dropped I heard a grizzly grunt at me who was the man behind me holding his hand out pointing that I should put my token in it. So I did and he then led me the men’s side of the bath house.

It had a typical look to a locker room I guess. Benches to get undressed, sinks and mirrors, and toilet stalls as well. As I was getting undressed I wasn’t sure where to put my belongings so I had to look around like a pervert stalker to see what others were doing. Okay, it’s really simple, place all of it into what looks just like a laundry basket, and then place that into one of the cubicles. I found very fast that I had to get over my trust issues because nothing is secured or locked up. I grabbed my stuff out of my shaving kit and placed it in a small plastic container which I then took with me into the next area, following others as I was unsure of the “process”. Watch and learn right. The next room was the washing area. Reminded me of once when I was in 4H of the washing stations for the livestock. There were three double-sided concrete barriers which had numerous “stations” that included a mirror, a shower head, and the faucet. One sat down on a 6″ tall stool to bath. But watch out, I found out by being smacked in the leg, not to put any body part in the trough that ran at the base of the wall, which served as the drainage that led to a large grate down at the end. Who knew. I had picked a cozy spot right in the middle. I found out later that the desired spots are those at the top of the trough. Lesson learned.

Now, the funny part for you. I’m 6’8″ in the land of the little people, which got me more than one funny or cross look. This place was not built for people my size for sure. Now, it was allot like being at home, I shaved, brushed my teeth, washed my hair, bathed, then rinsed off. I need to mention the water had one temperature, freaking scalding hot. About midway through getting clean a very, very, old man, my guess was he was well over 100 years old, sat next to me. Standing to the rear of him was a young girl, I figured about 16 or 17, completely nude as well, began washing the old man. First thing I noticed is he took out his teeth and handed them to her to clean, which she did with what looked like Lava soap and a brush one would scrub floors with. I’ll admit, she had my attention. I think more so because we were on the all male side of the hot bath so she was quite an unexpected surprise. Perhaps she could see the confusion in my face because she squatted down next to me and began to talk, in great English I might add. She explained she was the great, great grand-daughter of this man, and it was tradition for the youngest to assist the eldest in daily tasks. She also explained that girls up to the age of 19 can assist on the male side and boys up to the age of 13 can assist on the female side. Interesting tidbit of information to say the least.

Nobody, and when I say nobody I mean nobody, paid her any attention whatsoever, except for me it would seem. More out of curiosity than anything really. Here I had only been in Japan for just a few weeks and I already have seen my first live nude Japanese female. I know what you are thinking, and yes she was young, but it was hard not to stare. I got up to go to the first sitting pool which was so hot I sat on the edge with only my legs in it at first, which were turning bright red as I sat there. The girl walked over her grand father to pool I was trying to get the courage to get into and helped him straight in up to his neck. Damn. She then scampered off to do her cleaning. When I forced myself down into the water, which took my breath away, I couldn’t help but to notice she was back. She entered the pool right at my eye level and tended to him. She sat with the old man for a while. I had seen others get out and move to the next pool, so I followed suit.

Now, I only thought the first sitting pool was hot, this one had it topped by at least 500 degrees, but I was able to slither right in because I was already cooking. The men sat in this one for a short period and then moved on. Like a lost puppy I followed them to the next pool. There should have been a sign on this pool, something that reads “Caution. Water Will Melt The Skin From Your Bones. Caution.”, but there was no warning for this Gaijin (外人) (look it up, it was the nickname the Japanese called the servicemen) and I found out the hard way. But, damn, did it feel good after the shock went away. One didn’t sit in this one very long at all. Then, they head to the steam room, a quaint, small room that had a 2 minute egg timer because it was so damn hot. So, in and out it was. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs were on fire, and I wanted to just die right there. Yea, clean up in the sauna please. When I exited the sauna I was basically grabbed by the arm to stop me from walking, I was shown to watch the man in front of me who was in a small “tank” which he was squatted in up over his head in the water. He was out and I was in. One fluid motion until the water covered my head, it took my breath away because it was a temperature just above freezing. Out of there just as fast as I went in. A quick wash off and I was on my way out.

After getting dressed I felt drained of all of my energy and will to live. I don’t think I have ever been that relaxed in my entire life. When I left the dressing room I was guided over to some tables where I was sat down. Soon after I was brought a cup of warm herbal tea and a bowl of some of the blandest noodle soup I have ever tasted. Come to find out, it was ginseng root soup and they weren’t noodles after all. It was to recharge a person, to put a little wang back in your step before you left. It was relaxing and it does bring the energy back. Come to find out it is all included in the price of admission. So far, I’m liking the onsen just behind my house. It was one hell of an experience and became my daily bad habit. I probably went there almost every single day for close to the five years I was there. When I went back home after my first time I really wanted to talk to my wife about it, but she didn’t show an interest or really care because she wasn’t ever going to try it out for herself.

About a year after my daughter was born my parents came to Japan to visit as their big summer trip. This part of the story I have been forbidden to ever tell my mother because, in my dad’s opinion (because he is old-fashioned), he saw things that he should feel guilty for seeing. Anyway, going to the onsen became my everyday, twice a day, habit because everyday that tiny postage stamp size bath tub got smaller and smaller. My dad made the comment that he wished to retire for the evening and was going to get washed up before bed. The look of horror on his face will remain forever priceless when he entered the bathroom and just as fast came out asking where the shower or tub were. So, I explained to him what I knew, well, not everything, but I explained how things were here. You see, he is 6’4″ @ about 265lbs, which makes it hard for him to squeeze into anything. After a brief discussion, we collected our things to head to the hot bath. I gave him one instruction, which was to just follow my lead and follow what I do so he doesn’t embarrass me.

We made the walk across the parking lot, it was fairly warm this time of year so the walk was pretty leisurely to say the least. We went through the “tourist” mode where I had to explain everything in the lobby to him. After 1 1/2 years I have really gotten good at reading Japanese and knew a handful of phrases to always get me on my way. After getting our tokens we entered the area to change out of our street clothes to get ready. Shortly after sitting down to begin the washing of ourselves I get a nudge on my arm from my dad. When I looked over to him he was 12 different shades of red with embarrassment and was holding his wash cloth over his privates. He was showing me that there were young females in the room so I had to go through the ordeal of explaining the traditions and protocols here. He played it off but I could see he was pretty bothered about it all. I remember my first time and after that it became common place, even routine enough where one doesn’t notice it as standing out any longer. We continued with what my routine had become, it really gets shortened to about a 30 minute trip as time moves on because one gets in and gets out. We did sit and have the tea and soup when we were done, sitting there in silence except for one simple command, “never speak of any of this to my mother, not even at her grave”. Unfortunately for my dad, this was his first and last trip to any of the hot bathes in Japan, he decided he could and would make do with the facilities we offered at the house.

Over the years I frequented a large sampling of onsen in my extended local area, my absolute personal favorite was a resort on the edge of town that was very cool. I didn’t go there too much, 3 or 4 times, because it was a fair drive and much more expensive. I was wondering how to explain the one at the resort because it was out of this world. Minecraft players or those familiar with Minecraft will understand better. Imagine taking the elevator down, getting of said elevator, and entering through some very large opaque glass doors. The changing area looked like all the other ones I had seen, pretty basic, but going into the hot bath area was incredible. Imagine opening a door and being in a very dense forest, looking up you see the tops of the trees and the stars in the sky. This place looked like being outdoors the way it was done up, it looked so real it made you touch the fake trees and the walls just to remind yourself you were a few stories underground. It’s just hard to explain I guess, but it throws all your senses for a loop with the big waterfalls and whatnot.

My (ex)wife never went to an onsen the entire time we were living in Japan, however, my daughter went with me on occasion once she started toddling. I learned allot while I was in Japan, beyond the language difference, beyond the cultural differences, and beyond the cuisine differences. Tradition is complex and deep-rooted, everything, and I mean everything when I say everything, had a meaning of some sort. The people I interacted with where I lived locally became to know me all to well. I would get invited to a stranger’s house a few doors down for snacks or people would bring local cuisine or gifts to my house as gestures of our “friendship”. Fortunately for me, I chose to immerse myself in the culture and get to know as much as I could. The hot baths were just the tip of what I would take away from Japan when I left. Ask my (ex)wife and she would only be able to tell you the tourist places we went to go visit. Its sad, but very true, but then again, she never got over being roughly 6600 miles from her mother the entire time we were there.

So, this was interesting and fun for me. It was nice to take a trip back in time to a place I really enjoyed living on the northern tip of Japan. I look forward to writing more of these specific subject related posts about living in Japan. Who knows, maybe I will expand and just write about everywhere I have been. Well, I can’t write about “everywhere” I have been, but I can give some insight about place x and place y without giving away the actual place or why I was there. Everywhere I traveled in the world was a “challenge” in its own special way. Until we meet again, thank y’all for taking the time to read a little bit about my life in Japan.

Onsen, as defined by Wikipedia:

  • Onsen (温泉?) is a term for hot springs in the Japanese language, though the term is often used to describe the bathing facilities and inns around the hot springs. As a volcanically active country, Japan has thousands of onsen scattered along its length and breadth. Onsen were traditionally used as public bathing places and today play a central role in directing Japanese domestic tourism. Onsen come in many types and shapes, including outdoor (露天風呂 or 野天風呂, roten-buro or noten-buro?) and indoor baths. Baths may be either public run by a municipality or private (内湯, uchiyu?) often run as part of a hotel, ryokan or bed and breakfast (民宿, minshuku?). Onsen are a central feature of Japanese tourism often found out in the countryside but there are a number of popular establishments still found within major cities. They are a major tourist attraction drawing Japanese couples, families or company groups who want to get away from the hectic life of the city to relax. Japanese often talk of the virtues of “naked communion” (裸の付き合い, hadaka no tsukiai?)[1] for breaking down barriers and getting to know people in the relaxed homey atmosphere of a ryokan with an attached onsen. Japanese television channels often feature special programs about local onsens. The presence of an onsen is often indicated on signs and maps by the symbol ♨ or the kanji, 湯 (yu, meaning “hot water”). Sometimes the simpler hiragana character ゆ (yu) is used, to be understandable to younger children. Traditionally, onsen were located outdoors, although a large number of inns have now built indoor bathing facilities as well. Onsen by definition use naturally hot water from geothermally heated springs. Onsen should be differentiated from sentō, indoor public bath houses where the baths are filled with heated tap water. The legal definition of an onsen includes that its water must contain at least one of 19 designated chemical elements, including radon and metabolic acid and be 25 °C or warmer before being reheated. Stratifications exist for waters of different temperatures. Major onsen resort hotels often feature a wide variety of themed spa baths and artificial waterfalls in the bathing area utaseyu (打たせ湯?). Onsen water is believed to have healing powers derived from its mineral content. A particular onsen may feature several different baths, each with water with a different mineral composition. The outdoor bath tubs are most often made from Japanese cypress, marble or granite, while indoor tubs may be made with tile, acrylic glass or stainless steel. Different onsen also boast about their different waters or mineral compositions, plus what healing properties these may contain. Other services like massages may be offered. People often travel to onsen with work colleagues, friends, couples or their families.

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