Butthole Stuffing

It was an unexpectedly emotional day. I had gone to my parent’s house in Kentucky to celebrate Christmas the exact same way I had done the previous 35 years of my life. I had encountered much of the same things I had grown to expect. The same catch up conversation with relatives, the same dead grassy lawns with mismatched lighting and the same trips to Wal-Mart for the sake of entertainment had all played their roles in this year’s Christmas pageant. But once again, it was time to leave.

Going there I had mixed emotions. I was overly sensitive due to a real estate investment gone wrong and a general hatred for my job at the time. The house payments were killing me financially and the job was simply too corporate, non-creative and not paying enough to justify my misery. With that said, I had been borderline suicidal for months and an albatross to all who came in contact with me. But I was desperate to not let any of that show during the holidays. Whoever said money doesn’t bring happiness obviously had so much of it they didn’t know the value of a dollar. Or a quarter, dime, nickel or penny for that matter. Let me be the first to admit that I’m one miserable son of a bitch when I live paycheck to paycheck.

My visit with my parents had been one of the best ones in years. We have a joke at my house that I can last about 48 hours before I loose control and say something to ruin the rest of the bonding experience for the entire visit. Not this time. This time was different. I was filled with my much-needed one-on-one time with each of them and I was leaving feeling as thought we had caught up on whatever we needed to while forming a bond all over again. I’m extremely close to my parents and although I only see them twice a year, I talk to them on the phone two or three times a week.

I had packed up my borrowed black Honda CRV and was headed back to Nashville, two hours away, for my flight out. That’s when it happened. I was saying goodbye and giving final hugs and kisses when my Mom started crying. I have always hated that. It’s like some sort of trigger for me to lose it.