culture shock

Creative Parenting, Culture Shock, and a Wardrobe Malfunction

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I didn’t think the yellow rose would bloom this year- but it’s doing pretty well.

Oh, where do I begin?  The past week and a half has been absolutely insane, especially with all the stuff going on with Dad.  I have been trying to distract myself from the medical mayhem as much as I can- partially because I’ve already spent way too much time in medical facilities and hospitals due to my own laundry lists of ailments, and partially because it’s really difficult to see him incapacitated in that way.  My sympathies to the people at the rehab center- especially if he gets pissed or starts feeling a little too frisky- but I am very thankful he’s doing well.  Of course, because of Dad’s illness and surgery, I have been spending a lot more time up north, which is always a bit disquieting even when everyone is healthy and things are hunky-dory.  Things move a lot slower in a small town, and that’s different enough, but there are more subtleties for the vigilant eye to observe .  I don’t think I’ve seen white landscapers since the late ’80s. 

I thought only Jerry after a six pack or more, (or Mexicans) could get these things to run.

Here’s a solid case against the sale of multi-colored duct tape, and a caution against painting green moustaches on lame mid 90s GM sedans. Acck.  And this piece of work was sitting in the hospital parking lot. 

Along with the slower pace of life, one encounters a few things in rural areas that aren’t nearly as common (or perhaps as easily overlooked.)   I’ve seen some unholy pieces of attempts at do it yourself automotive body work, though to be fair, it’s more typically trucks that are customized in this fashion. 

It’s really scary that there’s someone out there who thinks the “General Lee’s” color scheme looks cool on an old lawn mower.

It would, however, be cool to be able to jump over cop cars like that.

Worse than the vehicles “pimped” by denizens of the trailer park, are the denizens of the trailer park themselves.  I had to have viewed at least as many bad tats just in the Wal Mart alone (though I admit I did not have the courage to get pics) as one would expect to see during Bike Week at Sturgis. 

Uh, I know this is your sixth margarita, but your pants are falling off…

I used to be a binge drinker, so I really shouldn’t make fun of the shitfaced, ’cause I’ve been there myself.  I really couldn’t help myself on this pic, though.  I was able to take this one relatively safely because with my good friend, digital zoom,  I could stay conveniently out of view.  Suffice to say the take home lesson from this tragic pic (and I cropped it so nobody can see her face or guess who it is) that if you’re going to get shitfaced with your buds, please wear pants that are going to stay up.  I’d even say wear suspenders if you think you can operate them seven or eight Kamikazes into it.  One would think it would be rather breezy with one’s cheek hanging out of one’s pants, but alcohol can hamper one’s ability to keep one’s drawers up- and it can obscure the knowledge that one’s drawers are dangerously low to begin with.  I get to see it all the time at home.

Now I know what to do with Jerry the next time he’s passed out.  Get creative with a red Sharpie.  Sure it’s not technically parenting, but I do have to manage a 55 year old toddler.  I need to have a little more fun with it.

I’ve always been one to practice creative parenting.  I discovered a long time ago that there are ways to keep your private things private.  Boys find certain things to be inherently mysterious and disgusting at the same time.  Nobody’s going to be looking for an extra $20 in the Summer’s Eve box, for example. 

A box no man will willingly open.  Even if he thinks there might be yuppie food stamps inside.

I found a creative way to hide perishables also.  I am not a huge fan of chicken gizzards, although I can prepare them in such a fashion that they are somewhat edible.  Though Jerry will look down at and refuse to eat dishes I might consider as delicacies, such as cocktail shrimp, Jerry and his buddy Bob adore gizzards whenever I can get them.  While hiding things in the gizzard container is not effective at all in deterring Jerry from investigating the contents, Steve-o would always steer clear of this:

Gizzardlyicious!

Even better if I fill those containers with cocktail shrimp.

Raised by Wolves, Culture Shock, and How to Avoid Criticism

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Steve-o can partially be excused for his puerile behavior due to his age.  When you’re a 19 year old kid it’s funny to flip off the camera and moon people, especially blood relatives.  I don’t have too much problem with it when it’s all in fun.

But when you’re almost 54 and still partying like it’s 1975, it’s time to get a clue.  It’s not funny any more when you’re of the Geritol set but still think you can drink a twelve pack a night and blare the stereo.  Yes I have the noise canceling headphones and have been enjoying some 80’s Robert Plant, REM, Journey and other aesthetically pleasing music.  Otherwise I’d have to throttle the old goat.

I know Jerry was raised by wolves (my in-laws came from deep in the hollers of rural WV and have about a fourth grade education between them) and I am no authority on Appalachian culture or the lack thereof, but come on.  Just because your parents grew up having to share a double bed with sixteen of their siblings and/or cousins (let’s hope that there was a bit of diversity in that gene pool) does not mean you necessarily have to become a crude and rude beer swilling, loud music blaring deviant.

I tried to be a good mother.  I know, I failed.  But Steve-o does have an expansive vocabulary when he chooses to communicate with verbal or written language instead of the extended middle finger.  I did something right, I think.

Today I heard a wonderful little axiom that was music to my ears, especially when everyone is so overloaded with so much politically correct touchy-feely mind-numbing swill these days.

How to Avoid Criticism:

Say Nothing.  Do Nothing.  Be Nothing.

Dad’s bit of wisdom on these lines is a similar sentiment, though a bit more pragmatic.

If you aren’t screwing up, you aren’t doing anything.

Well, let’s see.  I get a lot of criticism so I must be saying and doing something.  I screw up a lot too, so if nothing else, I’m busy.

This is a pic of Steve-o when he was a week old.  He weighed over 10# and looked like he was at least three months old.  That was the first and last time he ever wore that outfit.  A word to the wise- when buying baby shower gifts, a few people should bypass the newborn to 12 month sizes (this was a six month outfit and he only fit into it once) and get some of the larger sizes in case the poor woman gives birth to a behemoth child who will never wear newborn sizes.  Just a thought.

Oh, can I wring his fool drunken neck yet…pass out already I’d like to go to bed.