One Charmed Motherfucker

It Really Is The Thought That Counts

Over the years, my mom has kind of become the Discount Gift Warehouse. If something is on sale and even remotely cute, she'll buy it and store it in the Gift Closet. Here, piles and piles of picture frames, candles, dime-store toys and things made of wicker stand like dutiful soldiers, waiting to be shipped out to the next baby shower, birthday party or "Fuck, we forgot to get something for your aunt Deb's kids" holiday event.

I don't have that problem.

My problem is that I'll buy something that is perfect for a specific person - it's timely, adorable and affordable. I'll buy it with the intent of rushing home and putting it in the mail immediately so that person can get stomach butterflies when they discover a large, unexpected personal parcel. I anticipate what it would be like to see them open it up and squeal with delight at the perfectness of this "Just Thinking Of You" trinket that is so thoughtful and wonderful that they can't help but say to no one inparticular "Gee, One Charmed Motherfucker, you're the bestest!"

But do I ever make it to the mailbox? No. The shit just stays on my kitchen island, until it eventually gets rotated into my closet. My closet merely has a Gift Corner, which is so totally different from my mom's Entire Closet Devoted To Gifts that to draw any kind of comparison would be laughable. Laughable, goddammit. "So totally different" because these were items bought with one recipient in mind, and I sure as hell can't use this shit. Who in the fuck is ever going to need pink-and-green-striped Halloween toe-socks? My ex-roommate on Halloween, that's who. But by Thanksgiving I had given up on the dream of ever sending that package, and eventually called her to give her the details of this oh-so-thoughtful gift that she could now buy herself at Target for seventy-five cents if she really wanted a pair.

Today I'm unpacking a woman's size medium St. Patty's Day "Life Is Good" shirt that I bought for a trainer that I work with. She's big into Life Is Good as both a brand and a personal philosophy, and I saw the shirt and new she needed one. (I bought one for myself, and may very well adopt them as the official t-shirt of One Charmed Motherfucker. ) I bought the shirt, wrote a note to go with the shirt expressing how "I couldn't help but think of you when I saw this," and put them both in an envelope ready to ship. But I never got off my ever-expanding ass and went to the Post Office. And now it's been a full week since St. Patty's Day, and nobody but One Charmed Motherfucker would wear this shirt outside the 5-day radius surrounding March 17th. So into the Gift Corner Of The Otherwise Regular Closet it goes.

Only once have I ever adopted an intended gift as my own. If you ever see me about town in a Boston Red Sox hat, it's not because I'm a baseball fan. I bought the hat for a friend of mine after the BoSox won the World Series. It sat in my closet for months, until the day I rolled out of bed and didn't have time to shower before leaving the house. And now on a bad hair day, people accuse me of taking this Irish Charm thing a bit too far.

The gift corner of my closet is littered with books, DVD's, garments and trinkets that I'll never use and prolly never get around to giving to anyone. But to get rid of them or return them to the store would go against my natural inclination to horde and collect. Apparently it's programmed into my goddamn DNA to have a Gift Closet, and I've got to accept that.

Wrecks Felis

Today, while bagging up a dead cat:

"Jesus, this thing is heavy."

"Yeah, they're always heavier when they're dead."

"Uh....how many dead cats have you handled?  ...this week."

I think the past month has really taken a toll on me. Not just "changing jobs," but taking on a whole new career... I guess that's pretty stressful stuff. And I'm still trying to tie up loose ends from the previous job. I know I've disappointed and possibly infuriated some of my former clients, which I absolutely hate to do. But sooner or later you have to let some shit slide, right? It's a fun ride, and I'm glad I'm on it. But I have been in a funk for the past couple of days.

Lucky for me I've got good friends, free money, live theatre and a dead cat to cheer me up.

On any given day that you opt to go over to a friends house and bag up a kitty cat murdered in cold blood, on that same day you should be allowed to go see a kickass rock opera and come home to a goddamn check waiting in your mailbox. Not a paycheck, not an expense account check, just a little boost to the pocketbook that says "Hey, Special Guy. You've had a rough month. Go out and get yourself something nice."

...like groceries, toilet paper and a massage with a happy ending.

Don't Call It A Comeback, I've Been Here For Years

Recently, One Charmed Motherfucker  was offered a fantastic opportunity. An opportunity to mentor under a brilliant businessman, break out of debt almost instantly, and avoid burning out altogether from my previous vocation.

...at a price.

When you're as Motherfucking Charmed as I am, there are people out there who would love nothing more than to see you fail. And a big part of being One Charmed Motherfucker is making your own luck. Not in the snooty, bastardly "Fuck the women and children, I'm getting on a lifeboat" way that Billy Zane made his own luck in that Titanic movie. This is more like "eliminating the possibility of being unlucky."

Hopefully, OCMFv2 will provide me the same forum to be myself and speak my mind that I've always enjoyed, but also provide the anonymity that, while somewhat required by my new job, is also just a good fucking idea.

Thanks for hanging in there with me. I'm looking forward to the relaunch.