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

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.

Still Sucking Up Valuable Oxygen, the Beauty of a Lean Christmas, and Being the Stealth Cougar

This morning I was reminded that God must have some purpose for me as I’m still sucking up valuable oxygen.  Perhaps it is to keep on depositing money in Steve-o’s account.   It’s always creepy to hear of a person near my own age with no known health issues to simply drop dead for what appears to be no reason.  In a way- though I’ve been warned I probably won’t make it to old age-it makes me wonder if I am going to end up one of those people who still have a mind but their body goes all to hell.  My great-grandmother (who died at age 94 and was more mentally sound than I am now until she had the stroke that killed her) had a plethora of bodily ailments- rheumatoid arthritis, heart issues, lung cancer (she was a hard core smoker for 40+ years,) breast cancer, you name it -but until the last two weeks of her life her mind was all there.  Then you have the old people whose bodies seem to hang in there just fine but their minds are gone and they turn crazy as a shithouse rat.  If I were prone to wagering, which I am generally not, I would say my body will go before my mind does.  I can’t say which is worse.  It would suck to lose your mind, but as they say, “ignorance is bliss.”  Some of the happiest people I’ve seen are mentally challenged, and I’ve seen some people with genuinely brilliant intellects who are emotional and spiritual shipwrecks.  Perhaps the wisest answer is to trust that God will get you through with the hand He deals you.  Now I know why I don’t play poker.

I am holding fast to my vow to avoid buying people a bunch of crap they don’t need and that I can’t afford.  I am enjoying the simplicity of my Charlie Brown disaster tree although I did take the time to fix the lights so that they all light and they blink when they’re supposed to, at least for now.  I will buy the nieces and nephews loads of candy- since they are still young enough to be able to enjoy it- and that will be about it.  Anyone who doesn’t like that is cordially invited to send Steve-o money to free my finances up so I can spend money on something other than him, taxes, insurance or scripts.

I have to admit I still enjoy the eye candy and I really don’t think the young dudes realize it.  I just look old enough to be your Mom.  I know, I’m harmless enough, but in a way it’s sort of depressing.  Most guys my age and older don’t offer much of an appealing visual.  There are some notable exceptions (Mike Rowe…) but what woman wouldn’t find him fine to look at?  I guess for safety’s sake I should only be looking at dudes from afar because I know just how easy I can be tempted should an opportunity arise.  The good thing is my frumpy looks and rather boring appearance are good for keeping me chaste if nothing else.  The bottom line is I don’t get offers, which is probably a good thing.  This old white chick is extremely low mileage, probably for the same reason Ford Edsels weren’t particularly popular.  Even though they ran, they were ugly and awkward and not terribly fun to drive.  Such is my fate.

I had the opportunity to embarrass the snot out of Jerry Saturday night.  One of his buddies from the shop wanted Jerry to procure him an Asian porno flick.  I’m not terribly impressed by porn- most of the time it’s just plain gross, the music is horrible and the plots are contrived- but what the hey, we were out on Morse Rd. anyway.  So I took him to the Lion’s Den.  The couple who manage the store were very gregarious, displaying toys and telling him which movies were on sale and so forth.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen him turn such a bright shade of red.  I could tell he was trying to look away as I was casually perusing the “toy” section.  We got the movie and got out fairly quickly but I have to say I enjoyed seeing him so embarrassed.  He didn’t offer to buy me any toys while we were there, which was kind of lame, since nature has dealt him a rather crappy hand in that department.    Let’s just say for politeness sake I tolerate involuntary celibacy, but I don’t enjoy it.  I really shouldn’t blame nature for his ED either- beers don’t drink themselves and cigarettes don’t smoke themselves-and drinking and smoking both are linked to ED.  As I said, he could at least procure me some battery operated substitutes, but go figure. 

I am reminded of a medical joke: A little old man goes to the Dr. for a complete physical. The Dr. asks the little old man to show him his sex organs.  The little old man wiggles his index finger and sticks out his tongue. 

Perhaps he doesn’t want to enhance my fantasy life any more than I do on my own.  It’s truly not funny although I try my best to find humor in it, lest his ED problem become yet more fodder to feed my discontent and depression.  Living with Mr. High Maintenance would be a lot easier if we had any kind of a sex life.  It’s particularly frustrating that he refuses to seek medical help or to even to try alternative kinds of bedroom fun (i.e. toys,).  And he wonders why I sleep in a separate room, in my own bed.  Part of it is because I have to sleep on an incline due to my constantly draining sinuses- to keep me from drowning in my own snot- and that’s the official answer I give, but the real answer is I see little point in the inconvenience of sharing a bed (with a snoring smoker no less) unless there’s a some action going on every once in awhile. 

I have to move forward from this subject (I almost used the phrase “get off,” then thought better of it,) before I go from slight melancholy to full blown depression.

Suffice to say that for some reason the Good Lord is keeping  me breathing, even with my laundry list of  physical defects and medical issues, when others who appear perfectly healthy drop dead for no apparent cause.  No matter how much I may speculate and think it unfair that those who have so much to live for are taken out of the world in a seemingly untimely manner, and people like me who basically are just sucking up valuable oxygen and waiting to die linger on for no readily apparent reason, it’s not my judgment call.  Go figure.  I’m not in control and that’s a very good thing.  Ask not for whom the bell tolls.