Rant in D Minor.

This will have no substantive value.  It is a rant for your own pleasure and entertainment.  Right now I’m getting this shit off my chest, and I’ll use my platform to deal with it.  I call it “Adventures in Parenting With Unrepentant Fuckwits,” or “What Happens When You Make Me Go Full Gorilla At 6 PM For Stupid Shit.”

As an homage to Bill Hicks, let’s shorten it to “Rant in D Minor.”*

One reason I relish being a solo practitioner and my own boss is because I love my kids and want to be there for them when a crisis situation occurs. About 10:15 this morning one of those crises moments happened.  My wife rings my cell phone.  It’s her vet tech, and she puts me on speaker.

“Your son is running a 101.9 degree fever.  You need to go get him.”

Cursing like crazy at this point, I hop in the car and dash off to the day care.  They’ve got rules there, rules I can’t complain about for protection of children against contagious diseases, and one of them is if your kid has a fever running over 100 degrees then they have to be without fever for 24 hours, pain medication and fever reducer free.  I’m just glad it’s the son though, and not both the kids, because if it’s both then I’m getting nothing done besides telling my daughter it’s not okay to lick the television.

We get back to the house and I give my son some Motrin.  His fever goes down immediately, and I get a strong suspicion he’s teething again.  Every single time he’s cut a tooth he gets a fever, and this was no different in my head.  He ate well, took a good nap, and I got some work done until he got up (Including three, yes three posts at Fault Lines you’ll be able to read tomorrow).

When my son awakens he’s not in the best of moods, but it’s to be expected.  Temperature’s still low, though.  By dinner he’s lethargic, not willing to eat, his fever’s gone back up, and I’m starting to get worried.  My wife, who is home by this point, confirms our son is teething.  It’s not just any teething, it’s a molar, which means it’s painful as all hell for him.  Fortunately, there’s a remedy for such things, but I have to go get it from a place called “Bohemian Baby.”  It’s an all natural teething oil called “Punkin’ Butt,” and the stuff works wonders.  My wife says she can either go or I can go get it.  I opt for the latter decision because of a couple reasons.

The first is that when it gets to a certain time of night and my kids are tired, they turn into the pint sized equivalents of drunks at the bar on last call.  My daughter is the one white girl who doesn’t want to leave and is protesting loudly because she’s just downed her twelfth shot of Jager and “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”  My son is the bro who’s ready to fight anyone over anything, and protesting loudly because he just lost his last game of Beer Pong or Flip Cup.  Reason two is that “Bohemian Baby” is about two miles away,  I just ordered Chinese food, and I figure I can get the oil, be back in time for the kids to go to bed, and nothing go wrong.

I make it to “Bohemian Baby” and there’s a sign on the door that they’ve moved locations.  However there’s people inside this store, and it looks stocked.  A lady opens the door and asks what’s going on.  I ask if I can purchase a container of “Punkin Butt.”  The lady, who is lit brighter than a Christmas tree and smells as though she’s just stepped out of a Colorado dispensary, says “We have that, but like, we can’t sell it to you here.”

“Why?”

“Because this is like our online distribution store now, you know?  You want to buy it in town, you have to go to the West Town Mall location.  That’s our…what do you call it…um…yeah man…”physical location.”

I politely explain my situation and ask if I can make an “online purchase” somehow at this store.  She declines, and tells me the place to go is “Next to Sears, so you don’t have to worry about going in the whole mall, man.  I mean that’s a good thing, right?  At least I wouldn’t go near one of those mass commercialism centers.”

I thank the young lady, and turn to leave.  She says “Wait.  You’re going to want to go to the…wait…is it the first Sears entrance or the second Sears entrance?  I’m….wait….I think it’s the first Sears entrance.”  None of this exchange meant a damn thing.  There’s no telling what this stoner meant by “first” or “second” entrance, and there’s no telling even if she knows what planet she’s on.  I thank her and drive to Sears.

When I get to the entrance of Sears that leads into the mall proper, “Bohemian Baby” is nowhere to be found.  I ask at least three store owners if they’ve heard of “Bohemian Baby” and where the location is.  None of them know where this store is, if it’s open, or what it’s about.  If you know me, by this point you know it’s an exercise in restraint for me to continue keeping my cool.

One store owner, the guy running a place called “Wireless Toyz,” points to a mall cop and says “Hey man!  The Mall Dick will know where the place is!”  Thankful for finally sensing a useful function of a Paul Blart, I ask the guy where Bohemian Baby is located and if he can point me in their direction.

They’re on the other side of the fucking mall, and closing in twenty minutes.

I used to train Parkour regularly.  I do cardio regularly as a morning routine, if it’s walks, runs, cycling, or otherwise.  I can tell you with absolute certainty the next few moments consisted of me running for Bohemian Baby faster and more nimbly than David Belle’s iconic chase scene from District B-13.

I make it to the store as they’re slamming their gates shut.  My foot lands in the door of the store.

“I’m sorry sir, we’re closing.”

“No, you’re making one more sale tonight.”

I’ve been told in moments of sheer anger I’ve developed a certain penchant for a “thousand yard stare.”  It worked tonight, as the young lady planning on shutting down her shop asked what I desired most.

“One container Punkin’ Butt, please.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a member of our rewar…”

“No.”

“Do you…”

“No.”

I hand her my card, sign off on the dotted line, and leave.  My kids are in bed asleep now, and we got our Chinese Food this evening and wine.

If I ever see that fuckwit from the “online distribution center” again, even if it’s in my office on an emergency matter, right now I’ll refer her happy ass out the door to someone else.

These are the things you do when you’re a dad.  You deal with the fuckwits of the world, and you do your best to protect your kids from them.  Soon I’ll write a post about the three kinds of Dads I’ve encountered in family law.  I just hope I do my father justice by setting an example for my kids.

*D is for Dad, in case you were still puzzled.

I am, and I am not

I Am.

An attorney.

A mediator.

A conflict resolution professional.

A communication theory fan.

A theatrical pickpocket, hypnotist, and card cheat.

A writer.

A rogue with a love of reading about con men and the con game.

An affiliate partner for certain businesses.

Someone who strives to be honest, fair and plain in language with all people.

A father.

A husband.

A friend to a very small group of people.

An unapologetic Freemason.

I am not 

Your fucking therapist.

No seriously, I’m not.  Especially if you’re not paying me.  There’s only a minor amount of bullshit I’ll take from you if you’re paying me, and when you call me, email me, text me, whatever method you use, and attempt to take up the limited amount of time and energy I have I will probably not take it very kindly.  Don’t like it?  That’s your problem, not mine.

I’m putting this out there for everybody to know because it’s got to be ridiculously clear-cut.  I’ve spent enough time today dealing with OPFs (other people’s fuck ups), especially ones from people who owe me money and are unapologetic when they call and tell me they’re not honest enough to honor an agreement.  When I’m paying someone else for goods and services, I expect those services to actually work and for people to do their jobs.  It’s amazing how many people just don’t give a damn when performing their jobs.   Yes, it’s gotten me a little upset.  I’m not really sure why I used the word “upset,” because upset would mean I was even the slightest bit angry, and I’m really not.  There’s a reason for that.  I don’t like spending time, even a short amount, having to meditate and engage in self-hypnosis to get back to a default state of relaxed confidence.

Despite all of this, I get to know that I’m going to a meeting with some business investors tonight and make up for losing about two hours of my day to asshats.  That’s $800, thank you, and I’ll be taking the payment within fifteen days’ time.

And I’ll still keep writing, because I can do that.  Even on days when I have an absolute shitstorm brewing around me, I’m still standing.  I almost died once because I gave a damn about what other people thought. Now that I have restricted that field of “give a damn” I’m a lot better off.  We’ll talk about that soon enough.

In the meantime, know that when I get people who want to waste my time and energy to the point where I have to go “reboot” my brain with a healthy dose of positivity then I’m not exactly in the best of minds.  I’m probably going to do something to screw with you if you’re not someone I really care about.  I have the ability to switch off the “give a damn” mechanism in my head, because I invested in being the best I can possibly be for this environment.  I am the person people fear when they see me walk into a room, and the person some people love when they see me show up.

I took the Bar Exam with one eye.  I was hospitalized after a brush with death.  I’m still standing.  You cannot beat me.  You cannot put me down.  Every time someone struck me down, I always rise more powerful than they can imagine.  That’s how I work, because that’s what a Professional Opportunist does.  I had a meeting today with someone who took an NLP technique taught regularly in the states and then made it better within fifteen seconds.  That’s the calibre of person I work with.

Get on my level or get the fuck out of my way.

[/end rant]

Buy the book that teaches you the “Wrongless Approach” to life.