I Thought I’d Have a Bit More Time, and Other Famous Last Thoughts

I knew it would happen eventually.  I hoped for more time, not so much for me, but for the illustrious POMC to finish school and to already be gainfully employed and independent from the parental units before informing me that I am soon to be a grandmother.  Really.

I also hoped that he would be married to the baby mama at that point too, but at least he didn’t fertilize either Jezebel or Psycho Chick (his two previous girlfriends) and he’s been in a fairly stable relationship with the baby mama.

Marriage and employment aside, this potential train wreck could be a lot worse.

I can’t say that I’m angry.  I’m not angry.  I’ve been there.  Steve-o wasn’t planned either.  Life happens and life is messy with all the details and you have to work your way through.  Having a child at age 20 (and she’s 18 for heaven’s sake) is no easy endeavor.  Far be it from me to add fuel to the fire and make a hard situation even more difficult.  Hearing my critique and commentary isn’t going to make anything better. No sense in shutting the barn door once the horse is already out.  Steve-o at least wants to be a man and be a dad to his child- and I will do whatever I can to back him up with that.  He’s seen too many of his friends in situations where their babies’ mothers don’t want them around and one thing Steve-o does want is for his kid to have a mom and a dad and for him to actively participate in his family’s life.  I hope he means what he says, and I think he does.  After all, his sperm donor wasn’t particularly interested in him.  He knows what it’s like.  The thought of his own child having a dad who doesn’t care is particularly repulsive to him- as it should be.

Dad is pissed.  Dad will be pissed for a few more days until he finally realizes the futility of attempting to shut the barn door and then he will come around.  His desire to see and have contact with his first great-grandchild will win out.   I do think the whole parenting dimension will make it more challenging for Steve-o to finish school and make something of himself, but it will no means be impossible.  Steve-o does have an incredible talent for doing what he needs to do when he really wants to do it.  Will he care enough about his offspring to do so?  Only time will tell, but he certainly doesn’t need my cynicism and despondency to get in his way.

I was sort of surprised at Mom’s reaction.  She wasn’t thrilled, but she wasn’t nearly as pissy as Dad.   I know she’s pissed at Steve-o for not keeping his business in his pants, but I don’t think she’s completely disappointed at the prospect of a new baby.  Life is life and things happen for a reason.  Some people try and try to conceive and can’t- or some people, like me, could only have one child.

Of course, in my elderly cougardom the only thing keeping me from rehydration via party keg is that alcohol wreaks havoc with my blood sugar and with my blood pressure meds.  I am thankful in a dark sort of way that I am not going to have to endure all the pregnancy discomforts- a sort of  “better thee than me” scenario.  I already have vintage stretch marks and a lovely c-section scar (recently accompanied by its parallel hysterectomy scar)  that haven’t gone anywhere in 20+ years.  Even if I still had the necessary equipment I am way too old for that noise.  I am going to refrain from sharing the Murphy’s Law as it Pertains to the Childbirth from Hell story with them.  Some things are better left unshared, especially with a very young couple that has just been enlightened as to the existence of a third party.

I’ll have to be the poor sucker out there scouting about for baby clothes and other stuff they’re going to need.  At least I am not the one having to go through the endless succession of prenatal visits, weight gain, having to pee every ten minutes, and of course, the Birth Experience which she is going to want to be heavily medicated for, especially if their baby weighs almost 10# like Steve-o did.  She will want to rip off his nuts.

Lord have mercy.  They are going to need it.

 

 

Funky Food, Shutting Up Is Hard to Do, and Some Cheese for That Whine?

This sign is from the frozen custard shop across the street.  Frozen custard is somewhat like ice cream or frozen yogurt only a bit thicker.  I have not ventured to try the chicken salad boat.   The sign simply struck me funny for two reasons- one, that it would have been a lot funnier had they been extolling the wonders of a tuna salad boat, (I simply adore double entendre as a form of humor,) and that chocolate covered strawberry anything does not generally go well with meat salads.  The chocolate covered strawberry frozen custard is good, but not necessarily with a chicken salad boat.

I am not a huge fan of meat salads, as most of the time they are usually made with vast quantities of mayonnaise.  I am not a picky eater for the most part, but there’s something about mayonnaise that gags me.  When I make tuna salad for my own consumption there is usually more mustard in it than mayonnaise, and the only mayonnaise I use is the low fat Miracle Whip, which doesn’t taste so much like congealed lard.

One fun food I have actually tried- and like- is spaghetti tacos.  Spaghetti in a taco shell, while messy, is quite tasty.

That makes me hungry just looking at it.

Jerry has been on a roll this weekend, and not in a good way.  I shouldn’t have indulged him.  I felt guilty about avoiding driving him around on his little forays into garage sale land the past couple of Saturdays, so I got up early, (forgoing my much anticipated Saturday nap,) fixed him breakfast, and took him out for six hours of delightful incessant bitching as we were trolling for garage sales in the wind and rain.  The only bright spot in that for him was that he did finally find a lawn mower, though it’s not quite what he wants.  I did find a nice long black sweater which I had been looking for but hadn’t been able to find in my size and/or price range.

But there’s only so much whining even I can take.  I know I’m in trouble when I just plain tune him out as he prattles on and on about how he doesn’t like his shoes (his own damned fault for buying those cheap ass velcro sneakers from Wal Mart) and I don’t do _________the right way or I do too much___________ or not enough_________ .  I’ve already tuned out all of his commentary on my driving.  That’s automatic, otherwise I would have to reach over and throttle him good.   I have driven many more thousands of miles than he has in my lifetime, AND, I wasn’t the one who got completely shit faced at the hell hole the previous evening.  I didn’t wake up forty proof.  If he had chosen to drive yesterday morning, he could have still got popped for DUI.   It would have been a miracle to find blood in his alcohol stream. As the sober one,  as far as I’m concerned, if I’m driving, I have the express privilege of ignoring all the drunken whiner’s comments.

I will say about the cheapo Wal Mart shoes, that he gets what he deserves for refusing to wear the good New Balance shoes I bought him.  At least I was able to send the New Balance shoes back and recoup my $70.  He can do a Howard Hughes and wear Kleenex boxes on his feet for all I care if he wants to be that way.

Jerry has continued his whiny diatribe into today.  I should have known better than to waste my time fixing him breakfast (again.)

But I don’t want hash and fried potatoes…”  He wanted to say it, but I think some little glitter of intelligence way back in the reptilian part of his brain warned him that if he did, I would smack him into next Tuesday.  He didn’t need to say it.  He just ate a couple of bites-reminiscent of Pee Wee Herman eating breakfast cereal (Mr. T Cereal, to be exact)  in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, then gave the rest of it to the dogs.  I’m sure he laid some kind of sob story on his Mom to end up coming home from her house with a big bowl of pinto beans and cornbread.  Fine.  If she feeds him, I don’t have to listen to him whine about the food.  The irony is that his Mom could give him dog food and he’d like it, and I could give him shrimp and steak and he would bitch about it.  More fun with yet another POMC.  I hope I’ve done a better job with mine.  At least Steve-o knows better than to pull the whiny shit with me.

Now he is engaged in the Dandelion War again- running around with the pesticide sprayer in thirty mile an hour winds like some deranged mental case thinking he’s going to make the yard look better than the insurance agency next door- never mind that they can afford to hire a team of Mexican landscapers to do their yard work.

All that hard work so the freakazoids from the Drunk and Domestics can use the yard as their personal disposal for their cig packs, food wrappers, drinky cups and, yes, trucker bombs.

At least if he’s outside I can’t hear him whine.

If Jerry whines in the forest and nobody hears him, is he still whining?

I would say yes.  If he’s breathing and conscious, he’s whining.

I have some Colby cheese in the fridge for him but a.) he might have to look behind something, guaranteeing he won’t find it, or b.) he won’t want Colby cheese, or he might refuse to eat the store brand.


Clara is not amused.  Clara has no problem eating store brand cheese.

The Precious Only Male Child Phenomenon

 

I have to deal with three men who are precious only male children on a regular basis- Dad, (and he was the least indulged or mollycoddled of the three) Steve-o, (who was a precious only male child simply by default- he’d have been an only child regardless of his gender) and Jerry, who was the long awaited “male heir”- coming after three older sisters.

Of course Jerry was by far the most indulged, mollycoddled and downright pampered of the three.

Old traditions die hard.   We aren’t that far removed from Henry VIII’s mentality even in today’s politically correct atmosphere.  If you must procreate, society places more value on sons.   Most men are not terribly thrilled about the arrival of children to begin with, and even if they don’t admit it, daughters are particularly disappointing for them.  I would say ask my Dad, but he won’t admit it- at least not in front of me.   A man wants his offspring to look and talk and swagger like he does.  He wants a man-child to carry on his name and all that happy horseshit.

Mothers of only sons tend to be more protective of their precious only male children.  I hate to admit it but I am guilty of it too. We defend them, we indulge them, we let them get away with far too much because we understand that testosterone short-circuits their brains and makes them unable to cook, clean, pick up after themselves or remember to wash their bits and pits while showering.  We assume that other females are too capable and able to tend to their own needs for us to cater to them- and besides, they have to learn Life Skills sooner or later.  We need not explain to other females that if you don’t cook you starve, if you don’t clean you drown in squalor, and if you want something, get off your ass and get it yourself.  Women do learn faster than men.  The testosterone-addled minds of male children, (probably a good number of adult males as well) however, can’t seem to grasp the concept that meals do not cook themselves, shampooing while showering is not “optional,” and we do not choose which pair of pants to wear based on whether or not the crotch passes the “sniff test.”

I have actually said this phrase out loud, and with all sincerity:

“Steve-o, if you wore them they’re dirty.  Don’t sniff the crotch.  Put them in the wash.  NOW!”

Steve-o has actually become somewhat functional in the self-care department.  He cares too much about his sex life to neglect his hygiene. The bad point about this is he cons his girlfriend into washing his laundry for him. She’s going to get really tired of that stinky chore.

Jerry I must say has good personal hygiene for a man, but his commendable life skills pretty much stop there.

I think his brain would explode if he had to:

Brew a pot of coffee (he doesn’t drink it so he wouldn’t bother anyway)

Wash a dish

Make his own Dr. or dental appointment

Get his own scripts

What is it about precious only male children that renders them helpless and unable to function without all sorts of high-maintenance interventions?No, I don’t dress him.  Not anymore.

 

A Cynic’s Contrition (Sort of,) Taco Tuesdays, and Dysfunction can be Fun!

Perhaps I should forgive Jerry his utter lack of appreciation, consideration and/or common human decency.  He was raised by wolves after all. Ten minutes with the in-laws is all it takes to see just how true this is.  This is how Jerry’s mother typically greets him:

“Where you been, asshole? You got my money?”

‘Nuff said.

His mother is actually the most compassionate one of the entire horde.  His dad is a tightwad to a fault and is 100% devoid of warmth or compassion (never trust anyone who hates dogs!)  I do find it funny that he will only go to Taco Bell on Tuesdays because that’s Senior Discount day.  Apparently 89 cents for a taco is just too much without getting that extra 10% discount.  I would rather fix my own tacos at home so I know what’s in them.  Then again I don’t eat out much.

I don’t trust any of his sisters any further than I could throw the largest of the three, who is probably 4’8″ and 220#- since she lost all that weight. (Seriously!)   In some ways I do feel sorry for him and his rather frightening upbringing, even though as the “precious only male child” he was the recipient of many special perks, such as his own room, special meals (his mom thought he was “too skinny”) and new clothes.

I know too many couples who have kept on trying to have kids until they end up with that “precious only male child.”  I work with one guy who pretty much ignores his daughters and dotes incessantly on the bratty son because he thinks the kid is going to be some kind of amazing sports prodigy.  I am far more realistic with my own son. I simply hope that someday he is gainfully employed and self supporting and that he stays out of jail.

My parents gave up on that “precious only male child dream” once I was born.  I don’t blame them.  Three kids are way too many.  One is more than enough, trust me.  I’m sorry for them that they ended up with all daughters.  Hell, if I knew better- even though I got the “precious only male child” on the first try, I’d forgone childbearing altogether and stuck with dogs.  They cost a lot less than kids and don’t get smart mouthed with you.


Any time is a good time to insert gratuitous pics of the illustrious, and beautiful, Clara. Belgian Malinois rule. Clara is likely a crossbreed between a Malinois and a German Shepherd, (she is a rescued dog after all) but she has the primary characteristics of a Malinois.  Excellent, intelligent, wonderful dogs.

As far as dysfunctional upbringings go, my parents (as well as my sisters and the kids at school) beat me too.  That was normal in the 60’s and 70’s.  Get over it and move on already.  Try to find the humor in it.  It’s the only way I stay relatively functional and sane.  I don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for me because I was raised in a rather screwed up way.  I do admit Jerry’s family was probably worse than mine (his parents have about a fourth grade education between them, and a good deal of their sorry parenting was due to ignorance) but not that much worse.

How many kids today can say they’ve survived being tossed head first into garbage cans, being chased around a classroom by a crazed pervert as he’s chanting, “titty, titty, titty,” and living through the divers and sadistic tortures of one’s evil siblings?

Apparently there are people out there with far worse upbringings than either mine or Jerry’s!