This Is The Way We Wash Our Face

(Originally March 2 2006)

Something about that little childhood ditty makes me so happy. I love to sing it when my cat is scrubbing her freshly licked paw across her head. Nothing seems more serene to me than an animal with it's eyes closed.

So I just finished watching "Sideways". I asked myself why, when I found myself way over identifying with Paul Giamatti's character. I asked aloud, "Why do guys like us always end up with guys like that for friends?" This on the heels of this morning's post.

My Benefactor is a stone-cold junkie, folks. Another reason I have not posted much is because I've been discovering two months worth of facets of my Benefactor's nature and I didn't want to put all his business out in the ether. I felt I owed him that much, since he went and saved my life and whatnot.

But the movie "Sideways" oh so gloriously illustrated that these stories are worth telling. Imperfect people crashing up against one another. So now I'm moved to say, think, and find something positive about the Benefactor. Like his generosity. I should be praising the fact that he took me in. But the flaws in myself keep pointing out the negatives. And the sadist in me keeps wanting to accentuate them. And the assassin in me wants to sling them as weapons against him. And I do not understand that about me.

You know what? I'm just going to go with it. It's what I know.

So my Benefactor wanted an instant friend, a cat-poop cleaner, and a babysitter (for when he brings his legal-aged teen son over on a weekend and has nothing but criticism and drunken hazed evenings to offer him. And I would've done, if not for the extremely sad condition of the boy. A condition brought on by having a father like my Benefactor).

I cannot be an instant friend. I went into this out of total desperation. That was not the best platform for friendship, in my opinion. I have never given anyone the blessings of my unconditional affection. Just ask all my ex-girlfriends. Ask my present friends. I always hold something back. I could list each person that I consider a friend and for each of them tell you what I'm withholding. I want to believe that we all do that, but I think there are some in this world who do not.

God above, how I admire those.

That in fact is the reason why I now know I have the job I'd like to keep for what's left of my life. Mental retardation is such a gift. Remember when I cried buckets upon viewing "The Other Sister"? It was the raw honesty and unbridled emotion that struck me as something priceless and beautiful. I long to be able to say everything I think. Let it all out in a flood of retarded candor. Ask for what I want without worrying what the listener will think of me then. Tell how scared I am without dreading rejection.

My job as Assistant Director of Psych Services puts me in contact with many mentally retarded people. And I find I love every one of them. I find myself not wanting to correct their flaws, but embrace them. Emulate them. For others, I will write down clinical analysis and use sterile shop terms for their conditions, but in my heart I think they are the emotional princes and princesses of this world.

I should only live long enough to have the honesty of a retarded person.