bad parenting

Really? What Message Are We Sending Here? and Deliverance (Less the Mountains and Canoes)

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Wrong on Many Levels: “Grillz” Candy

Just when you thought candy cigarettes were beyond the pale, we get another frightening candy choice marketed to the unwashed masses.  What’s so terrible about “Grillz?” you implore?  Well here we go:

1. Appealing to “gangsta” culture, which is inherently inappropriate for children.  I can just imagine the kids playing “Let’s Make a Dope Deal.”  Why not just play “Hos and Johns and Pimps” too?

2. Undermining parents’ efforts at teaching dental hygiene.  Eat this candy-rot out your teeth-get yourself a gold grille.  That’s the message I’m getting here.  I’m sure the dentist would love this one.

3. Check out the chick with the downright yellow teeth on the wrapper, as if she’s proud of it or something:

Now you could take it one step further and go directly from ghetto ho to trailer queen:

Still not a role model, even if she does look like your mama.

There’s a certain irony that I got this candy at the dollar store.  They are getting the demographic right- let’s just say the “Baby Einstein” crowd does not generally shop here, and “designer” children aren’t eating candy anyway.  While the One Percent’s offspring are eating organic fru-fru granola made with actual fruit, yogurt and grain, (have to say these days I’m right on that healthy eating train) here’s what the ghetto babies and neophyte rednecks are treated to.

I know my sisters and I munched a LOT of equally disturbing and unhealthy candy- candy cigarettes, Lik-M-Aid, Pixie Sticks, and other stuff that was just plain noxious on the sugar content alone.  The 70’s were the Glory Days of candy though- Tootsie Rolls, Hershey bars, the cinnamon gum shaped like hot dogs, Bottle Caps, root beer penny candy and so forth, but probably the closest things to socially objectionable candy were the candy cigarettes.

In the 70’s, smoking wasn’t considered socially objectionable.  You could tool right on in the supermarket burning one, and even hang out inside the hospital whilst enjoying a Marlboro Red.  The Dr. I went to as a small child smoked cigars in his office.   So nobody really thought the idea of candy cigarettes to be as abhorrent as people do today.

Just another motivational illustration on the “Steve-o, Stop Smoking Crusade.”

I hate smoking, but then the most militant anti-smokers of all are ex-smokers.  He’s turning those lovely crowns (I paid dearly for) a rather nasty shade of pasty yellow, and that sort of torques me.  Jerry, well, he’s incorrigible, but Steve-o is still young enough to ditch the cig monkey and get over it.  He already doesn’t smoke in his car (doesn’t want to ruin the smell of whatever fine leather upholstery the folks at Audi installed in his ride) and doesn’t smoke in the house.  Just take that next step and stop altogether already… but that’s probably my inner Joan Crawford going off again, except that Joan Crawford was a chain smoker.  Never mind that analogy.

Perhaps it was a bit ill advised of me to let Jerry eat Isabel’s food Saturday.  I let my penchant for passive-aggressive revenge get the best of me.  That stuff is $1.10 a can.  There’s cheaper things for Jerry to eat in that fridge. If he’d developed a taste for Miz Izz’s food it would cost me a fortune, when you figure that a can of tuna (intended for humans to eat) is only 70¢.

Over all I can’t complain about the illustrious offspring too much.  I think I might just get him that rebel flag decal he wants.

Some things never change.  You can’t necessarily take the redneck streak completely out.

Bunkies With Beezelbub, Absolute Power, and Who Needs What?

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Now we know the Voice of the Teleprompter!

Perhaps it is not very nice for me to insult Beezelbub that way, but the pursuit of power corrupts in ways that can turn an honest man crooked, and a crooked man into a ruthless despot.  This is why the Framers of the Constitution wisely included separation of powers, so that at least in theory, no one man can hold too much power.  I am not a fan of our current president, to put it mildly.  I understand it takes a strong personality and a buttload of money to get elected to public office. There have been precious few po’ folk in the Oval Office (Harry Truman was probably the last.)  How many people with strong personalities and a buttload of money are particularly moral or ethical?  Some politicians are less odious than others, some are positively vile and devoid of any redeeming features, but as far as genuinely “good,” maybe they exist, but I’d need to see it to believe it.

Having neither a strong personality nor buttloads of cash, it is highly unlikely that I would ever aspire to hold public office.  I have a healthy cynicism toward politicians (even Republicans who claim conservatism/fiscal responsibility when it serves their purpose) anyway.  I don’t see how it would be possible today to be honest- or at the least to attempt to stick to one’s principles- and survive in the world of politics.

Ted looked normal, anyway.

I can see how psychopaths could do very well in the political sphere.  Is Obama Ted Bundy’s political cousin?  What about Bill Clinton? To be fair, the most recent president that Obama reminds me of is Richard Nixon.  Here was a guy who was also paranoid and secretive and involved in shady business, though Dick Nixon’s a choirboy (as is Clinton) when compared to the current Obfuscater In Chief.

I don’t think anyone’s in the political game for altruistic motives.  One can argue that there is no such thing as true altruism, because people reach out to others to fulfill their own needs for belonging and self-esteem.  Obama reaches out to the entitlement crowd because to them they’re voting for Santa Claus.

I can go on for days on this one.

Of course, human beings have needs.  It’s just not the function of government to provide those needs for people who should be working and providing for themselves.

Another tidbit from Psych 101: Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

Not to disagree too much with Maslow, but I know people whose hierarchies are a lot different.  Such as Jerry’s:

Not just any beer.  Natty Lite.  Acck.

I think that hierarchy stays pretty consistent as one ages too.  As a little kid mine would have looked something like this:

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose– the more things change, the more they stay the same, and yes, I drank coffee even as a very young child- thanks Grandma, for putting the Folger’s monkey on my back!

I think part of the problem with society today is that self-esteem is over-rated.  You shouldn’t feel good about yourself if you suck.  Normal people naturally feel shitty when they know they should do something about their suckiness. Save the feeling good for when you’ve accomplished something.

I remember all the vapid little cartoons and sketches and stuff designed for kids back in the 70’s to make them feel good about themselves. I watch that stuff today and a good bit of it makes me want to vomit.  Some of it was good, such as telling girls that they can be astronauts just like the guys, and that it’s OK for guys to cry in public, even if it makes them look like pussies to the rest of the world.   The problem is that touchy-feely stuff has morphed even further into the notion that the world owes you simply because you’re vertical and sucking up valuable oxygen.  I still remember Steve-o and his attempts at the “I’m entitled because I’m breathing” tactic to get out of doing unpleasant tasks, such as, “I don’t have to clean the cat box, Mom, because I’m just fine the way I am.”  Ok, keep up that philosophy and you can talk yourself out of doing anything menial- or meaningful- for that matter.   Nice try, but I won’t let you get away with it.  I was a Mean Mommy.  I made him do chores.  It was good for him.

I think for a long time Steve-o thought I was the reincarnation of Joan Crawford, which is erroneous on two levels.

First, I don’t believe in reincarnation. Second, Joan died in 1977.  I was born in 1969, which makes such a notion logistically impossible.

Why would anyone want to improve themselves and work to reach their potential if they’re convinced that they’ve reached the apex of personal achievement simply by getting out of bed? I have a problem with that.  Perhaps it’s my flaming type-A personality shining through yet again, but if you’re going to suck up valuable oxygen, do something at least halfway constructive with it.

“You’re not a *eff-tard…You’re just a tard,” probably isn’t a very good apology when you’ve called your son an *eff-tard in a fit of anger.  I’m sorry, Steve-o.

Mommy doesn’t do well with things like empathy and compassion.

Anyway, I know this election season I’ve found it hard to hold my tongue, and while I strive for civility, I often fail miserably.  It looks like I will have to settle for my two good friends, satire and sarcasm, to get me through.

Sadly, no matter how things turn out, ‘ol Splitfoot is going to have a field day.

I Thought I Was a Crappy Parent, Not Too Bad With Dogs, and Silently Seeking Catatonia

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Go ahead, every lactating mother needs a good old case of the beer shits!

I can never claim to be any kind of a stellar parent. I’m not warm and fuzzy enough to be good at the Mommy thing.  I did monitor my illustrious offspring for signs of the Homicidal Triad.  He had one bad experience with fire (a Zippo does not double as a flashlight) but I never observed him engaging in any bedwetting or cruelty toward animals, so I think he’s safe there.   He has more than a passing interest in the opposite gender, but I disabled the pay-per-view after his first $300 pay-per-view porn fest, ensuring he would have to find his smut fix elsewhere.  Ironically enough, his best buddy worked the past few years at a porn store, so they both probably got to check out more XXX DVD’s than can be considered healthy.

I can say I never resorted to this little home remedy either:It’s amazing that any of our ancestors survived the Victorian era long enough to breed.

Even in light of my anemic parenting, the POMC has turned out remarkably normal.  The only glaring abnormality he had was that he was born with his tongue tied to the bottom of his mouth, which is a congenital defect.  The pediatrician and the ear nose and throat specialist both said poor Steve-o would not only need to have his tongue clipped, but that he would almost inevitably have speech deficits and would require years of speech therapy.   When he was six months I had his tongue clipped.  At eight months he started talking- clearly, loudly and constantly.  When he was a year old I took him to the speech pathologist to be evaluated as I had been directed to do.  After five minutes with Steve-o, the speech pathologist looked at me and said, “He’s way beyond most 12 month olds.  This child does not need speech therapy.”  As to his vocabulary, it is broad, though I would caution most of the time it is also rated “R.”

I’m curious to see how he’s going to react the first time his little girl drops the “F” bomb.  She will.  And we will all know exactly where she heard it first.

Daddy, did you have a nice effing day?

The only negative side of the tongue clipping is that freeing up Steve-o’s tongue endowed him with a really gross skill.  He is able to pick his nose with his tongue.  Couple this with the fact that he’s always been a veritable snot factory, and you get a visual that no one should ever be subjected to.  It’s gross to see a toddler with his tongue up one nostril.  It’s even more gross to see a teenage boy in the thrall of the Puberty Demon with his tongue stuck up one nostril.  It’s worse than the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos “science” experiment.

Yet, somehow, the ladies were still impressed.

The POMC even has a college degree now, YAY! – meaning he’s about 95% Independent of the Parental Units, at least for now.

I did try to be a somewhat adequate parental unit.  I was one of those expectant mothers who was paranoid enough to go over a year with no coffee, no alcohol, no over-the-counter remedies, and not so much as one diet soda.  I had visions of my child being born a one-eyed cyclops because I’d taken a Sudafed a week before I caught wind of the impending Blessed Event.  Even in the early 90’s, the common wisdom regarding things consumed was that even one Diet Dr. Pepper or one cup of coffee consumed during pregnancy or lactation could doom your child to a lifetime of slack-jawed idiocy.

Apparently the teratogenic effect of one Sudafed taken in Week 3 of pregnancy=tongue stuck to bottom of offspring’s mouth.  Then again, who knows?  Considering the genetic grab bag involved, Steve-o mostly got a pretty lucky grab. Except for the hair.  He has the world’s nastiest hair, just like the sperm donor.  It’s thick.  It’s greasy.  It’s mousy brown, and worst of all, kinky. Acck.   At least he’s a dude, so his hair can be buzzcut into relative inoffensiveness.  I would not wish that hair on a chick.  It’s too early to tell if my poor granddaughter is going to be cursed with that hair as hers really hasn’t grown in yet.  She’s not bald, but she doesn’t have a thick and flowing head of hair yet either.  Steve-o did when he was her age, so maybe she got lucky and will have normal hair, or at least more chick-appropriate hair.

At one point his hair was almost down to his butt.

I do better with maintaining dogs.  They smell better, cost less, and will never tell you to eff off.  I know had I told either of my parents to eff off – ever-  Dad would have beaten me to kingdom come (and I would have deserved it) and that’s only if Mom didn’t beat him to it.  However, times have changed, and with the prevailing politically correct “protect the offspring’s precious little self esteem at all costs” attitude in place, a kid can call his mother anything and everything but a fine upstanding white woman, and Mom’s the evil one if Mom does something about it.

Clara does not tell me to eff off.  Clara does not run up bills on pay-per-view.  Advantage: Clara!

Guess what? The world does not revolve around your happy little asses, kids.  The world would be a better place if there were more people in the world who would be willing to admit they suck, and it would also be a better place when people who know that someone or something sucks aren’t afraid to share that information.  I think a re-read of the Emperor’s New Clothes would be a good idea for everyone.  I’m tired of the idea that it’s somehow not OK to point out the obvious just because it may offend someone or reveal what everyone already knows even when it’s a glaring fact that person or situation sucks. (more on this topic later!!!)

I’ve actually managed to wheedle myself a couple of vacation days in which I seek to clear out my head and take a break.  It’s going to seem strange to take time off that isn’t directly related to illness, be it my own or a family member’s.  I don’t think I’ll know what to do with myself other than have a good time silently seeking catatonia.  If only those around me would let me…

Yeah, I think I need a break.

A Head Start on Contagion Season, (No I Am Not OCD- Yet) and Other Projects

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I just bought a germ mask, and I will wear it when I am surrounded by sickies.  I have no problem with that.

I really don’t want to be some kind of paranoid germophobe.  I try not to be, unless I am surrounded by people sneezing, hacking and hawking up lung pieces.  Then I get nervous.  I do try to take reasonable care of myself.  I wash and sanitize my hands often.  I refrain from eating or drinking after others.   But when someone comes into my proximity with any kind of respiratory funk (especially the rude mo-fos who don’t cover their sneeze, or who cough and snot into their hands and then finger my stuff) I get a bit more assertive regarding contagion control.

I love disinfectant.  Especially when the loogie hawkers are out there.

When someone starts coughing, hacking, and hawking up contagion all over the place, and especially when they just spread it around everywhere without mind to hygiene, like little kids do, I spray the perimeter of my workspace with Lysol and wipe down pretty much everything I touch with the Lysol wipes.  I hate being like that, but dammit, I don’t need that shit.  I don’t expect people to stay home with head colds and minor respiratory funk, but I do expect them to observe the basic hygiene rules.  Cover your cough or sneeze.  Wash and sanitize your hands, and keep your mitts off of my stuff, especially when you’ve just hawked a loogie into a Kleenex, fingered all over that, and then neglected to wash or sanitize your hands.  I do not need to experience your booger slime.  And the further away you stay from the immunologically weak (like me) the better for us all.

Keep your snot to yourself.  Or I will Lysol your ass.

When I get a basic head cold it almost always turns into a sinus infection, bronchitis or pneumonia (or all of the above,) and a good case of the strep throat could actually kill me, should it morph into rheumatic fever (again.)  I hate being sick with a passion.  It makes sense for me to be a wee bit paranoid, and a wee bit generous with the Lysol.  I do the same for others.  Should I have the respiratory funk myself, I have no problem taking steps to sanitize and refrain from spreading contagion to others.  I don’t want to intentionally (or neglectfully) spread disease to others.

I have had the opportunity to add some interesting tunes to my playlist- I got a Jethro Tull CD for a quarter at a garage sale, and added “Bungle in the Jungle, ” “Too Old to Rock and Roll, Too Young to Die,” and “Sweet Dream” to my MP3 collection.  I also added Kansas’ “Hold On” and REO Speedwagon’s “Back On the Road Again.”  I never really got into Jethro Tull back in the day but I’m really enjoying it now.

If I keep this up I’ll either have to get a new MP3 player or upgrade to a bigger memory card.

Jerry should never, ever let me dress him.

I don’t know what it is straight men have against bright colors and bold patterns.  I know Steve-o is not very good at the whole “matching” concept- as a child he would come up with the most outrageous ensembles, and I couldn’t in good conscience let him go out in public wearing let’s say- a green t-shirt with orange sweat pants and one purple and one black sock- with sandals.  It was probably good for his self-esteem (yeah, wasn’t everything…mustn’t do anything to damage the offspring’s self-esteem) that I would convince him to change clothes, or at least wear two socks of the same color, or at the very least, take the socks off if sandals were the footwear du jour.  I can’t stand to see people wear socks with sandals.  What’s the point?  Sandals are meant to let your feet air out.  If you have funky looking feet wear socks- and shoes.   The good thing was, if Steve-o did manage to leave the house looking like flypaper for freaks, the peer response generally would prevent the same fashion faux pas from happening again.

If you dress like them, they will come.  Hawking loogies and bearing snotty secretions.

Now that Steve-o is an adult straight male, his ensembles generally consist of: loose-fitting man-jeans, white socks, skater shoes, assorted white, black, grey and blue t-shirts, often with catty sayings.  In winter one might add a black Monster hoodie to the mix.  There are no matching skills necessary with his wardrobe.  He wears uniforms to work, which solves the “what to wear to work today” question.  That is probably a blessing, considering some of his own personal attire.

Safe boating?  Probably not.

Jerry’s wardrobe is remarkably similar to Steve-o’s- except that Jerry likes the button-up oxford type shirts in addition to t-shirts.  He likes the same boring colors though- white, blue, black, gray and occasionally brown.  No patterns, and unlike Steve-o, no catty sayings.  Jerry does like a front shirt pocket for smokes though.  I find shirt pockets to be vestigial and at best, decorative, as far as my own purposes.  It’s awkward for an ample-chested woman to use shirt pockets.  Grabbing to get something in your pocket makes onlookers think you’re grabbing your bazongas, which is just about as socially taboo as a woman having a nice long scratch on her nether region.  Besides, if I really want to keep tabs on something, I’ll shove it in my bra.

It’s probably for the best that men don’t generally go for the complicated or outlandish when it comes to attire.  Imagine this:

A world of guys dressing like this would be interesting, but rather scary as hell.

More Sins of Omission, Explaining One’s Offspring to Others, and More Awesome Tunes

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Old-time Catholicism is a bit masochistic, but you gotta love the artwork.  I have nothing against Catholics- some of the best Christians I know adhere to Catholicism, and I’m not going to argue the small points- other than to say that by definition I cannot be considered a Catholic because I don’t agree 100% with the Catholic Church.  Agreeing with Church teachings 100% is part of the deal.  I’ve read the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and I agree with a good deal of it- but I do disagree with some key points of what the Catholic Church teaches, and I don’t agree 100% with their theology- especially what I consider to be the bizarre extra-biblical stuff like purgatory and indulgences and praying to saints.  It would be dishonest for me to claim to be Catholic when I don’t agree with everything the Church believes and teaches.  So those who claim to be Catholic but embrace some very un-Catholic and very un-Christian thought processes are effectively lying their pants off.  You either take the whole hog or not at all- that’s the way that Catholicism works.

Joe Biden: claims to be Catholic, but if my grandfather were still alive I think the descriptive would change to “Crazy as a Shithouse Rat.”  Though in the end he- and we- are accountable to God alone.

As a confessional Lutheran I don’t fall terribly far away from the core beliefs of Catholicism, and theologically I am well within the sphere of orthodox (small “o”) Christianity.   I’m not into weird stuff like God being a space alien (who knows, He might be, but I doubt it) and I don’t believe that I’m part of some elite nerd tribe whose destiny is to be spirited up to heaven in a space ship with Marshall Applewhite and company.  I’m definitely more conservative both socially and theologically than most of the people who go to my church, which does give me pause at times, and does cause me some cognitive dissonance, but there’s an important point to be made with that unease.  If I were to seek out a very literal, fundamentalist church (at one point I almost became a Southern Baptist) I wouldn’t hear any viewpoints remarkably different from my own. (I do differ with the SB’s on the subject of infant baptism, which is an important point of dissent- but otherwise I can pretty much get right on the bandwagon.)  I need to be challenged to see viewpoints that are different than mine, and I need to be challenged to be compassionate to those who are coming from a different perspective.  As a confessional Lutheran I have considerable freedom to ask theological questions and to hold differing opinions on non-essential issues without being considered heretical or completely outside the box of Christian orthodoxy.

I think we can agree: This dude was one crazy mo-fo.

I don’t like to argue theology with anyone.  I will gladly explain what I believe and more importantly in Whom I believe- and why, but I’m not going to pound anyone in the head.  It doesn’t work.  Some of my closest friends are atheists and agnostics, who likely view my faith as something archaic and quaint- but they still talk to me and there’s still a relationship there.  Jesus was all about building relationships with unlikely people in unlikely ways, so if it worked for Him, why not?  I learned long ago that the number one way to dissuade people from faith and a relationship with God is to act like Dana Carvey as the Church Lady.

Could it be….SATAN?????

I may differ even with some of my more orthodox cohorts in that I believe Satan is real and that there are real evil forces at work in this world.   But most of the ills of this world can be attributed to human beings doing what we do best- screwing up.  The sin of the Garden was not so much, “The devil made me do it,” as “I screwed up and did the opposite of what I was told.”  Is this not the underlying theme of human history?  I know it’s the definitely the story of my life.  I am an example, and a good amount of the time I am an example of What Not to Do.

A sin of omission is knowing what you’re supposed to do, but not doing it for whatever reason.  I know I should refrain from laughing at Jerry when he can’t find the beer in the fridge because it’s behind the milk, but I laugh anyway.  Technically that’s a sin of commission because I did laugh, though.  Sins of omission are more like knowing I should iron Jerry’s shirts, but not doing it because I hate ironing, and because I know it’s something his lazy ass can do for himself.  He should be happy I’m washing them and hanging them up for him, but if I were really good I would be doing the ironing thing too.  That’s the omission thing, sort of, anyway.   I should be a missionary in Africa giving out food and water to pitiful orphans, but my selfish ass is too satisfied with sleeping in the A/C and not having dysentery.  There’s always something I should be doing but for whatever reason I’m not.  Take it right on back to the old Catholic guilt trips perhaps, but there’s a grain of truth there.  I know full well I do things I shouldn’t and neglect to do things I should.  Which segues quite well into my hit-or-miss parenting.

This won’t be the last time he will be cajoled into sporting his daughter’s clothes- heh-heh!

As far as Steve-o goes I am delighted that he is remarkably normal in many ways.  He is gainfully employed, only has a couple of weeks until he graduates from college (YAY!) and is very close to Independence from the Parental Units, which in my mind is the ultimate goal of parenting to begin with.  As far as I’m concerned, I did not give birth and work myself into the ground to end up with a thirty five year old acne-ridden, obese couch jockey stinking up the basement with greasy Taco Bell wrappers whilst clogging up his brain cells with assorted online interactive video games 24/7 on my dime.   I do wish Steve-o would have listened to Mother a little more intently in regard to abstinence, chastity and so forth, but hindsight is 20/20.  I love my granddaughter and wouldn’t trade her for anything, but it would have been better if they would have waited a bit.  However, life is such that you wish in one hand, or shit in the other, and we all know which one fills up first.

The two most common elements in the universe are:  Shit and Stupidity.  Figure out how to convert either into energy, and screw foreign oil.

Today’s playlist is just as awesome as Friday’s:

“Urban Angel” from Neal Schon’s I On You

“Double Vision” – Foreigner

“Evil Woman”- ELO

“After the Fall” – Journey from Greatest Hits Live

“Somebody to Love”- Queen

“Smells Like Teen Spirit”-Nirvana

Duct Tape, Bad Body Work and More Unsolicited Parenting Advice

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Oh, how I love examples of creative body work.  It seems the Kroger parking lot has yet again yielded me rich comedic fodder.  I wonder if the duct tape is simply holding the front fascia on or if the unfortunate owner of this POS is asking duct tape to do more than it was ever intended to do.  I don’t think the celebrated silver strapping would be terribly effective as a weatherstrip, so whoever is sitting in the driver’s seat better be prepared for a wet butt on rainy days. 

I have driven things worse than this, but not by much, and that was a very long time ago.  When the air was dirty, sex was clean, and Steve Perry looked awesome in Spandex.

Last night I was treated to an impromptu road trip to Cincinnati to pick up Steve-o.  I was also reminded why I don’t buy used cars with the exception (and I wouldn’t do it now because leasing is not a good option for me any more) of my own lease returns.  He bought that tasty Audi he was eyeballing forever back in September, and it appeared to be well-maintained.  He did his research and inspections and for all intents and purposes it seemed to be a good solid ride.   For what mysterious reason I have absolutely no clue, he decided to have the ECM flashed to change the presets- the things that motorheads will do in the name of performance- only to have the clutch plate fall apart on it as they were pulling back into the shop.  It was an interesting failure- the pressure plate springs were bent, the disc itself was warped and missing pieces of lining, and the rear main seal was leaking to top it all off.  Then again anyone who replaces a clutch without doing a rear main and input shaft seal is a bloody fool.

Pity be on those technicians, as putting a clutch in an all wheel drive car (worse than a 4X4 truck by all accounts) with a longitudinal engine (longitudinal: the crankshaft runs from the front of the car to the back, rather than transverse which is side to side- most front wheel drive cars have transverse engines) is no easy task.  I really pity them if Steve-o doesn’t get his car back tomorrow after paying the extra freight to get his clutch goodies overnight. 

I figure after 20 years I might not get stuck being his deus ex machina every time he gets in a spot, but at least I’m not paying for this repair work. I got off easy just having to get him and Spencer and cart them back as far as Columbus.

As the return roadtrip progressed and I treated the boys to dinner at Taco Bell (I am still paying for that 5 layer beefy burrito, but where else can three people eat for $17?) the conversation somehow turned to creepy things. 

Dad and Spencer had the misfortune of meeting up with the male biological contributor of Steve-o’s DNA at a car show last summer.  He thinks Spencer is Steve-o.  That’s fine with me.  It’s also fine with me that I didn’t have to witness his transformation into Jabba the Hut.  Jerry has his faults, but he would never be mistaken for livestock or for a beached whale.  Apparently my illustrious ex has gotten a tad bit portly in the past 16 years.  However, the way Spencer described him, it sounds as if he’s munched and pieced and gorged himself into the “morbidly obese” category.  Sad thing, that, especially because I can remember a time when he was not only thin, but obsessed with remaining so.  I wonder what the hell happened – for a minute- but in the grand scheme of things, since I don’t have to pay for his chow, replace the furniture, smell him, or clean up after him, I could pretty much care less.

Any dude with a swinging johnson (one that works anyway… but I really don’t want to go into my musings on the sad and deprived world of ED) can be the male contributor of a child’s DNA.  That doesn’t take brains.  I am sure that if one were to investigate the number of convicted felons, chronic government moochers, correctional institute inmates, and so on that it could be proven that some of these low lifes have sired many offspring.  There are plenty of “baby daddies” out there who have done absolutely nothing to contribute to the physical, emotional or spiritual maintenance and growth of their offspring.  For these types of scrounge puppies I have nothing but contempt. 

Granted, it can also be said that it is in a woman’s best interest to scope out and screen any potential breeding partners so that only the gainfully employed and nominally vertical and breathing get through, but it doesn’t always work out that way.  Sometimes decent women for whatever reason end up procreating with the scum of the earth.  It happens, especially for those naive enough to “listen to the heart” instead of being like my oldest sister and examining the dude’s bank statement and earning potential before getting emotionally involved.  Then again some of us can pick and choose while others of us don’t have that kind of luxury.  Hindsight being what it is I should have simply gone to the “lives alone with cats (and dogs)” step, but life is to be lived and learned.  The difference between ignorance and stupidity is in learning from one’s mistakes.

I have confidence that Steve-o will be more than just a sperm donor.  He better be.  Or I will kick his ass.

 

Truly Tasteless Holiday Decor, Stupid Parenting, and Gratuitous Self Pity

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I have a pink Christmas tree, complete with pink lights.  Mom got it for me last year.  Believe me, I am putting it up.  Watch me go.

Like most people, I have a deep ambivalence toward the holiday season.  I enjoy the decorations – especially tacky ones– but I sincerely abhor crowds, especially when all I’m trying to do is get basic grocery staples or scripts and I have to fight off the unwashed hordes.

I don’t like feeling as if I have to do all kinds of shopping either. My relatives already have way too much crap they don’t need.  I do too.  Please forgo the kitschy crud and either give me a gift card (Target, Kroger’s or Speedway, especially) or even cash.  That way I can get something I need rather than another hideous green sweater, or hinky nasty dinky earrings that I will never wear.  I hate shopping unless I can do it online. Whoever isn’t happy with a gift card and/or what I can manage to get ordered online, sorry about your luck.

The cooking business is actually something I enjoy as long as I have the time to do it.  My grandmothers ensured that I was proficient with the culinary arts (at least the old-time redneck version thereof) so there will be no shortage of such holiday favorites as pumpkin, apple and chocolate cream pies, scalloped potatoes, turkey-and- dressing, homemade gravy, homemade noodles, baked mac and cheese, cheeseballs, etc.  I like to serve the old-time comfort food.   If other people want to bring funky stuff like spinach casserole (not bad, really) or hummus (got to love the extra garlic version) that’s cool- I am not a food snob and will try just about anything once, but make sure the staples are covered.  I would hate to see Dad disappointed because there were no scalloped potatoes or reduced sugar chocolate cream pie, or have the nieces and nephews wonder why I didn’t bring the baked mac-n-cheese.  Lasagna is lovely (I made both red and white lasagna Sunday night that is divine if I say so myself) but it’s not a substitute for turkey with homemade dressing and gravy. 

Although I have rather diverse and eclectic tastes in food, there are some items commonly served around the holidays that I can do without.  I find fruit cake to be just plain vile.  I can’t eat it.  Fruit cake might as well be head cheese or pigs’ feet, which are two items that I have also tried and find positively gut-wrenchingly disgusting.  I’m also not a real big fan of green bean casserole.  I like the stuff that goes in it, but there’s just something about the combination of green beans, mushroom soup and deep fried onions that doesn’t thrill me.  I can eat it, but it isn’t something I find imperative to serve.  Sweet  potatoes (some people call them yams) are another item that I can do without.  Since I am diabetic I can beg off the candied yams (gross, gross, gross) without too much trouble. 

Yesterday’s news proved yet again that there is no shortage of the second most common element in the universe: stupidity.  Suffice to say that anyone stupid enough to leave one’s offspring in one’s (running) car whilst running into a convenience store to get smokes really shouldn’t be left alone with children.  I am glad the mother got her little boy back safely, but I’ll bet that’s the last time she will leave him alone with Baby Daddy for a long time.   I was certainly no shining example of superlative parenting, but I never left my kid alone in a running car regardless of whether or not he was strapped into a car seat- no matter how bad I needed smokes.

Ironically, Steve-o, in preparing for his upcoming role as Baby Daddy, seems to be a tad bit on the OCD side of things. He’s reminding me a bit of Mom and her Clorox obsession.  When Steve-o was a newborn (and a large, robust one at that) Mom tried to Clorox everything that came remotely close to him.  I swear she bathed him five times a day and changed his (freshly Clorox’d) clothes on the hour, every hour.  His dire concern with everything being Just Right and Super Clean for his little girl is not only reminiscent of Mom and her fussiness with the POMC, but it’s also richly hilarious- considering that he ran from Mom screaming bloody murder when she chased him down in her feeble attempts to cut through all the little-boy crusty filth with wet wipes and/or Kleenex.   He is in for a rude awakening.  Tee-hee.

I am wondering just how long it will take him to realize that his little girl is not made of porcelain, that baby puke and poop both stain and reek, and there is no known medical explanation as to why a two year old can extract an infinite length of thick green snot streamer from his/her nose.  

I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun, but I can’t wait until my grandchild showers him in a spray of snot, spit and half-eaten Cheerios.  Children are many things, but filthy is universal. You just haven’t lived until you have been showered, caked and drenched with the offal emanating from your offspring.

I must really be becoming my mother now that I am taking delight in the same phrase she liked to use: “Wait until you have kids.”  I have to remember to send Steve-o a copy of the news article above as a cautionary tale.  Never leave the kid in the car (especially with the car running) when you run to the shop-and-rob to get smokes.

Parenting taught me a few interesting lessons, above and beyond the average toddler’s infinite capacity to generate toxic waste of divers kinds.  I learned you can drown out a screaming kid pretty well by cranking up Led Zeppelin and/or Ozzy.   I also learned that until the kid’s about sixteen or so, while it’s rude, it’s often necessary to wheel the grocery cart down the middle of the aisle, and to inspect the contents often- unless you want to explain to the cashier why you don’t want  the 15 boxes of Pop-Tarts, the economy pack of extra-heavy duty disposable douche, the “For Her Pleasure” multi-colored condom assortment, and the six tubes of Prep-H that magically appeared in your cart.

I guess I really shouldn’t feel too sorry for myself.  It could be a whole lot worse.