Last night, the Toad was being particularly annoying. Okay, he's been particularly annoying all week, but last night, I had an opportunity...
The Howler had left the room, and we were discussing her Amazon.com search faux-pas...for the record, if you type in "blow ups" on their toy page, you get listings (thank God, not pictures) of blow ups. Dolls. For sex. And unless you want to be the one to explain that to my 8 year old, don't let her go there again. (and for the record, her father was the one in charge at the time, not me. I know better.)
Anyway, the Toad announced that he can help police her web searches in the future.
I had to ask, "Do you really think, Mr. $700+ in PPV Porn, that YOU are qualified to oversee and censor what she might find?"
His response? "I paid you back...and I am apparently still paying!"
The conversation turned at some point, to My Sweetie's upcoming birthday in January. The Toad, being a math genius, hadn't yet figured out the bestest part of his parents' birthdays.
Being the deviant I am, I take the opportunity to inform him...but My Sweetie, ever mortified by my skeeving out the Toad in this manner, reminds me that the Howler is still within earshot.
I decide that the most fun will be had by drawing a carefully planned picture for the Toad, and watching as the knowledge permeates his thick skull.
I told him to consider the number 9. Just 9. Then, I asked him when My Sweetie's birthday is. (January 6) Now, remember the number 9. And what takes 9 months? His eyebrow went up. The fear in his eyes grew. My Sweetie sat still, watching for the train to smack the boy in the raised eyebrow. I asked him when my birthday was. (October 3)
The Toad began screaming as the full knowledge (and mental image) hit him. My parents, apparently, were celebrating My Sweetie's coming into the world, whether they knew it or not.
Oh, yes, I am evil.
Showing posts with label toad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toad. Show all posts
Friday, December 17, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Clash of the Titans
So, you want the Easter Egg story? Wooo boy. You're a brave one.
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
We're now up to March, 2002. The Howler, as she became known, had arrived on Monday. It's now Thursday evening, and on top of being exhausted, we're also excited--it's EASTER! Yay! And we may have finally gotten the baby girl's days and nights unmixed...so there may actually be sleep in our near future (at least, sleep in shifts.)
The Gator, if you hadn't noticed, is a control freak. Queen of the Control Freaks. And she has, due to prior Christmas rants, and limited, though varied contact with my Sweetie, become convinced that HE is easy going enough to allow her to steam roll over him (and me, by proxy.)
Ahhhh. She has not yet noticed that the winds have shifted. Let's watch as the Gator gets her wake up call from the Clue Phone:
Thursday afternoon, Holy Week, 2002. Mumple kitchen. Eggs for coloring on Friday are boiling. The phone rings, and big shocker, it's the Gator. "Whatcha doin'?"
My Sweetie tells her, "Boiling the eggs so we can color them tomorrow."
Apparently, this is the wrong answer. And having had similar conversations with the Gator before, I can honestly tell you, without having heard it myself, how this went.
Gator: WHAT?! You can't do that!
My Sweetie: Yes. My mom has ALWAYS boiled them the day before. They color better when they're cold.
Gator: They don't color AT ALL when they're cold. You've ruined them.
My Sweetie: My mom's always colored just fine, so why don't we wait and see?
Gator: You've RUINED Easter for the Boy! *sob* *cough* *shriek of pain* You ruined the eggs I bought, and you've RUINED Easter. (yes, the Gator not only over reacts, she does a really mean rendition of Confessions of a Drama Queen)
My Sweetie: It even says in the instructions on the color kit box to boil them, cool them, and dry them. "Cool completely" it says.
Gator: The HELL IT DOES! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! EVER! You hate me, you hate the Boy... *slams phone down*
My Sweetie, because it's still early yet, calls her back. She answers: YOU'VE RUINED IT! I SPENT $3 ON THOSE EGGS AND YOU'VE RUINED THEM!
My Sweetie responds: Really? Why don't we wait and see?
Gator (realizing she's already losing this battle, 'cuz her opponent hasn't even squeaked a sqwak yet): Fine. Just fine. You've ruined everything anyway. The Boy LOVES coloring eggs, and you two assholes have ruined his fun!
My Sweetie: How? We're coloring the eggs tomorrow. On Friday. Tomorrow.
Gator: The Boy dearly LOVES coloring eggs. Every part of it! And by doing this today, you've taken away HIS FAVORITE PART!
My Sweetie: Uhm, What?!
Gator: You've done his favorite part of coloring the eggs without him! You two assholes ruined HIS Easter, and MINE!
My Sweetie: You want me to believe that the Boy's favorite part of Easter is watching the eggs boil? Are you serious?
Gator: YES! YES! Yes, you asshole.
My Sweetie: Do you even hear yourself speaking? Watching water boil is one of his favorite things? I find that hard to believe.
Gator: That's because, what? Well, you've ruined MY EGGS. I paid for those eggs and there's no way they'll be edible now. GARBAGE! That's all they are.
My Sweetie proceeds to blow that little "inedible" theory out of the water, by telling her that unless she eats the shells, the eggs will be juuuuuuuuuuuuust fine.
Gator shrieks more insanity. Finally, My Sweetie loses his temper. He tells her HE will throw out the eggs, and go buy more. Then it will be HIS eggs that she won't be eating. She tried to convince him to "wait and see" and he said, NO, he wouldn't want to take the chance on an egg that was boiled on Thursday, colored on Friday, and eaten on Saturday or Sunday poisoning someone. They're garbage, so OUT OUT OUT they will go.
Then he proceeds to do just exactly that. He also informs the Boy that he will be WATCHING EGGS BOIL in the morning, and he'd be better giggling like a loon when he does it. And if he doesn't like it, he can take it up with his grandmother.
The moral of the story: Pick an irrational arguement with My Sweetie, and he will best you at it. The bonus moral of the story: Even almost 9 years later, the Toad does NOT appreciate it when you call him to the kitchen to watch water boil. (yeah, we still do that sometimes.)
Sunday, November 14, 2010
He's a Keeper
And here's why:
First, the back story.
My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.
My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.
Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.
One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?
Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.
She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.
The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.
Over the fucking tree.
She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.
At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.
I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.
Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.
God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."
After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...
And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.
Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"
Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.
First, the back story.
My mother desperately loves Christmas. She wants everything "perfect"...and of course, this is impossible. Because she tried too hard, I grew to loathe Christmas. Okay, loathe is probably overboard, because there are parts of it that I love. But in general? I hate it. I don't care. Let me have the parts I like, and screw the rest.
My mother, in 1999, saw those gawd-awful spiral trees and bought one. For the Toad. (of course, way back when, he was "the Boy") If you don't know what they are, they are basically a cheapass piece of curvy plastic that is suspended, ala fishing line, from a cheapass pole. The Boy couldn't have cared less whether or not we owned, let alone put up that fucking tree. You'd have thought it was the 2nd coming the way she talked about it.
Flash forward to 2000. Shortly after we started dating, it was the Christmas season. That meant decorating...and that we had to put out the lighted spiral tree she bought for the Boy. She had called and asked if we put it out--and he had no clue what she was talking about. But that wasn't hint enough for her. Of course not.
One Sunday night early in the Christmas season, my brother suddenly appeared at My Sweetie's house. We were getting ready for supper at My Sweetie's house, and the Boy was blissfully unaware, zoned on a video game. My Sweetie--the guy whom my mother had yet to formally meet. Did I say we were at his house?
Anyway, my brother shows up, to warn us that the Gator is on the warpath. Now, by "warpath" I mean, she was looking for a fight, and by God, she's going to have one. And she chose her favorite target--me. Over her favorite subject--the Toad. The issue of the minute was that spiral tree.
She had driven past my house, and there, brightly lit, was every other outdoor decoration we owned...except that tree. Unfortunately, it was freezing rain, and that tree had, in it's cheapass way, decided to blow a bulb and not light. Or whatever.
The Gator shows up at My Sweetie's house--remember? The guy she's never met. And she bursts into his home, and proceeds to rant and rave, spitting and frothing at the mouth. Like a lunatic.
Over the fucking tree.
She accuses me of leaving the Boy at our house, in the dark (never mind that at 11-almost 12 years old he's certainly old enough to turn on a light by himself) and then she begins about the fucking tree.
At some point, she had me by the shirt, near my collar. Basically by the throat, spewing all sorts of enraged, insane accusations.
I pry her fists from my shirt, and she begins to calm down. My Sweetie is going about getting supper actually on the table, and at some point, the Boy becomes unzoned and says, "Hi Grammy. When did you get here?" That may have been what calmed her down.
Supper is on the table, and, in an effort to not appear totally certifiable, she introduces herself to My Sweetie, with a slam on me.
God love him, he simply said, "Nice to meet you, I guess."
After supper (she's gone by now) we head up to my house so that My Sweetie, the Keeper, can try to fix the fucking tree. First, he tries, out in the freezing rain no less, to figure out which bulb is burned out. When his fingers are close to shattering from the cold, he drags the fucking tree inside. It's the fuse. He changes the fuse, lights the tree, sets it back up outside...
And likes me anyway! And he stays. And he comes back. And he still likes me! And I see as much, if not more of him. And he still likes me! And he laughs at how insane my mother is.
Even my sister, who always takes the Gator's side, upon hearing the story of the Fucking Tree, remarks, "You're not gonna let this one get away, are you?"
Yeppers. He's a Keeper. Wait 'til I tell you about the Easter Eggs.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Christmas Day
Well, I have to say that Christmas wasn't so bad this year.
We didn't overspend or overshop. My Sweetie did 99% of the wrapping, which was only fair because I did 99% of the shopping.
Since we had all this stuff done by Tuesday, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were rather relaxing. And somebody at WalMart.com got to keep his job--I'll post the entire saga later.
Although, my Sweetie did give me the gift that keeps on giving--a miserable head cold. I'm still feeling the love, too. Joy!
On the family side, my grandmother claimed, on Wednesday, December 24, that she was never invited for Christmas dinner. My aunt went MIA entirely, and even her children and grandsons had no clue where she was for the day.
My mother is doing a really good job of NOT being nasty about the Toad's grades. I'm so impressed! Although, if you do get her talking about it, it's MY fault--and she sights examples of how it is my fault from things I did as a teenager (I was 21 when he was born.) So she's really reaching up there for it.
My sister is, apparently, out-and-out making up things about me (again, from two DECADES ago) to bolster her view that it is, indeed, my fault.
We were singing our traditional holiday song, including the fa's and the la's.
What joy it is to be us at Christmas.
We didn't overspend or overshop. My Sweetie did 99% of the wrapping, which was only fair because I did 99% of the shopping.
Since we had all this stuff done by Tuesday, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were rather relaxing. And somebody at WalMart.com got to keep his job--I'll post the entire saga later.
Although, my Sweetie did give me the gift that keeps on giving--a miserable head cold. I'm still feeling the love, too. Joy!
On the family side, my grandmother claimed, on Wednesday, December 24, that she was never invited for Christmas dinner. My aunt went MIA entirely, and even her children and grandsons had no clue where she was for the day.
My mother is doing a really good job of NOT being nasty about the Toad's grades. I'm so impressed! Although, if you do get her talking about it, it's MY fault--and she sights examples of how it is my fault from things I did as a teenager (I was 21 when he was born.) So she's really reaching up there for it.
My sister is, apparently, out-and-out making up things about me (again, from two DECADES ago) to bolster her view that it is, indeed, my fault.
We were singing our traditional holiday song, including the fa's and the la's.
What joy it is to be us at Christmas.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
10 Minutes Today
Apparently, yesterday was penance. 129 minutes on hold with the IRS for nothing, I mean.
Today, I called, the buttons worked, and while I did not speak to a living being, I managed to get the information the Toad needs sent.
Of course, it will take 2 years (or 129 loops of the two songs on the hold loop) for it come, but it should be on the way.
The Toad owes me. Oh, yeah, he owes me BIG.
Today, I called, the buttons worked, and while I did not speak to a living being, I managed to get the information the Toad needs sent.
Of course, it will take 2 years (or 129 loops of the two songs on the hold loop) for it come, but it should be on the way.
The Toad owes me. Oh, yeah, he owes me BIG.
129 And Holding...
That's how many minutes you will be on hold, listening to TWO classical songs, if you need to call the IRS. And then, you'll no longer be on hold when their system boots you out. You apparently max-out, and they just set you free, while you wonder if you're brain went dead or the phone did.
btw, those two classical songs? The only episode(s?) of Little Einsteins butchered the crap out of both of them by adding insipid words (note: I did NOT call them lyrics.)
So, the entire time you're on the phone to the IRS for your Toad son, you get to have bad flashbacks to Little Einsteins.
Wow. And I thought the Howler was having a bad day.
So far this year, I've had to think or deal with the IRS at least a bajillion times. And I'd like to know why the government is taking all my money and giving it to stupid people who have more money than brains, but they can't get a hold music loop of more than 2 songs.
btw, those two classical songs? The only episode(s?) of Little Einsteins butchered the crap out of both of them by adding insipid words (note: I did NOT call them lyrics.)
So, the entire time you're on the phone to the IRS for your Toad son, you get to have bad flashbacks to Little Einsteins.
Wow. And I thought the Howler was having a bad day.
So far this year, I've had to think or deal with the IRS at least a bajillion times. And I'd like to know why the government is taking all my money and giving it to stupid people who have more money than brains, but they can't get a hold music loop of more than 2 songs.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Typhoid Teddy
He finally managed to infect me.
He decided, after months of nagging, to actually start brushing his teeth. And gargling.
I told him repeatedly that he needed to get the disposable cups (screw the environment right now--you'll see in a minute why) and to NOT leave them EVER just sitting on the sink. I didn't care if he threw them out immediately after using them, but if they hung out on the sink, the Howler would use 'em and then SHE'd be sick. Which means my Sweetie and I being infected would happen within days, also.
So what does the stupid f* of a Toad do? He uses non-disposable, plastic cups; and PUTS THEM IN THE CUP HOLDER.
Being 1/2 awake at 3am getting a drink of water means that I don't focus, I simply pick up the cup and USE it.
And now, my eyes feel as if they are shrinking (while my sinuses are expanding) my head hurts enough to make me want to cut it off, sleep doesn't help much, the nasal drip is annoying and disgusting, and at one point this morning, my throat tried to crawl out of my body.
And he can't figure out why I'm totally pissed off.
It's like he's the only person on the entire freaking planet.
I've got enough crap from work without adding infecting all of them and missing more work because of illness. (I don't sweat any body the time/pay if I am sick and miss, but they sure get their knickers in knots over my calling off--even if I haven't in months.) He's the most selfish asshole on the planet. I want to beat him more senseless than he already is.
He decided, after months of nagging, to actually start brushing his teeth. And gargling.
I told him repeatedly that he needed to get the disposable cups (screw the environment right now--you'll see in a minute why) and to NOT leave them EVER just sitting on the sink. I didn't care if he threw them out immediately after using them, but if they hung out on the sink, the Howler would use 'em and then SHE'd be sick. Which means my Sweetie and I being infected would happen within days, also.
So what does the stupid f* of a Toad do? He uses non-disposable, plastic cups; and PUTS THEM IN THE CUP HOLDER.
Being 1/2 awake at 3am getting a drink of water means that I don't focus, I simply pick up the cup and USE it.
And now, my eyes feel as if they are shrinking (while my sinuses are expanding) my head hurts enough to make me want to cut it off, sleep doesn't help much, the nasal drip is annoying and disgusting, and at one point this morning, my throat tried to crawl out of my body.
And he can't figure out why I'm totally pissed off.
It's like he's the only person on the entire freaking planet.
I've got enough crap from work without adding infecting all of them and missing more work because of illness. (I don't sweat any body the time/pay if I am sick and miss, but they sure get their knickers in knots over my calling off--even if I haven't in months.) He's the most selfish asshole on the planet. I want to beat him more senseless than he already is.
Monday, January 07, 2008
But I Play One On TV
Toadwort is sick. He had strep before Christmas. He took the antibiotic, religiously. I know it's hard to believe, but he did. Apparently, he is afraid of strep. Good Boy.
Now, he's complaining of a sore throat again, and I've looked at it. Bleck. It's disgusting again. It turned the nurse and the PA green before Christmas, and it's not looking too good now.
It's bad enough that he actually called the doc's today and got another appointment to see them. He stopped here briefly, to tell me that they did culture it and sent it to the lab to see if there's something else besides the strep growing in there. Now, that's a comforting thought! NOT!
Anyway, my mother is now on a jag that he needs to have his tonsils out. Never mind that he rarely got sick as a child (even though he was exposed to just about everything that came down the pike). Nevermind that he's had, including this round of strep, 2 cases of strep throat. He was more susceptible to sinus infections.
Then, again, this is a woman who insisted that he had an ear infection because as an older infant he would hold his ear as he drank a bottle when he was sleepy.
Of course, she went to NBC Medical School--you know, that school where you watch ER whether your friends would all be talking about it the next day or not.
*sigh* She's not a doctor, but she watches them on TV.
Now, he's complaining of a sore throat again, and I've looked at it. Bleck. It's disgusting again. It turned the nurse and the PA green before Christmas, and it's not looking too good now.
It's bad enough that he actually called the doc's today and got another appointment to see them. He stopped here briefly, to tell me that they did culture it and sent it to the lab to see if there's something else besides the strep growing in there. Now, that's a comforting thought! NOT!
Anyway, my mother is now on a jag that he needs to have his tonsils out. Never mind that he rarely got sick as a child (even though he was exposed to just about everything that came down the pike). Nevermind that he's had, including this round of strep, 2 cases of strep throat. He was more susceptible to sinus infections.
Then, again, this is a woman who insisted that he had an ear infection because as an older infant he would hold his ear as he drank a bottle when he was sleepy.
Of course, she went to NBC Medical School--you know, that school where you watch ER whether your friends would all be talking about it the next day or not.
*sigh* She's not a doctor, but she watches them on TV.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Infinity
The Toad has yet another job. I'm trying hard to be positive, but I have no faith in him on this. It's sad to say, but it's the truth, and I'm not the kind of person (or mother) to put a happy face on something just because it will make others feel better about my relationship with my son, or my skill/competence as a mother.
We also got a nice shocker today.
Kevin opened the cable bill, and yet again, we got whammied with $72 in charges that we had no idea what they were. Of course, the back of the bill itemized it all, and I must say, that "All Sex Soccermoms" and "Asian Delight 7pac" certainly sound like they'd be worth $11.99 a piece.
So far, his porn fetish has cost ME upwards of $300, and can I take a moment to just say, "WOW." All this porn in my house, and I'm not enjoying one lick of it.
Kevin informed him that the $71.94 would be paid to him by the time he paid the bill--this Friday. Toadwort had to call his grandmother and ask her to lend him the money. Of course, she wanted to know why...and why his mother couldn't lend it to him.We made sure we were listening, and he explained that he hadn't yet fully paid back the previous $267.50, and "it's the principle of the thing."
Kevin was worried that it was going to come 'round and bite us in the ass. I'm fed up with this whole life the boy is living, and I assured Kevin, in no uncertain terms, I was putting a muzzle on the dog and it was NOT going to bite anyone--except perhaps the smelly beast it's been feeding behind our backs.
My mother called us back about 20 minutes later. She was fine about it--as far as she goes, anyway. She was curious as to how the Toad managed to find a way 'round the block we put up. (He discovered that Virtual Adult channels are not blocked. Lucky us! We found out so cheaply!)
Anyway, Grammy is going to cover his ass--and I'll be waiting with baited breath to see if she really does bust his chops for the money to be repaid.
He's a smart boy--he just don't have the common sense God gave a stick.
We'll also be gone for at least 4 days between Christmas and New Years--you can bet your ass the cable will be unhooked and he won't have access to anything, not even PBS. If he wants porn, he's gonna have to go Blockbuster, and they make you pay up front.
We also got a nice shocker today.
Kevin opened the cable bill, and yet again, we got whammied with $72 in charges that we had no idea what they were. Of course, the back of the bill itemized it all, and I must say, that "All Sex Soccermoms" and "Asian Delight 7pac" certainly sound like they'd be worth $11.99 a piece.
So far, his porn fetish has cost ME upwards of $300, and can I take a moment to just say, "WOW." All this porn in my house, and I'm not enjoying one lick of it.
Kevin informed him that the $71.94 would be paid to him by the time he paid the bill--this Friday. Toadwort had to call his grandmother and ask her to lend him the money. Of course, she wanted to know why...and why his mother couldn't lend it to him.We made sure we were listening, and he explained that he hadn't yet fully paid back the previous $267.50, and "it's the principle of the thing."
Kevin was worried that it was going to come 'round and bite us in the ass. I'm fed up with this whole life the boy is living, and I assured Kevin, in no uncertain terms, I was putting a muzzle on the dog and it was NOT going to bite anyone--except perhaps the smelly beast it's been feeding behind our backs.
My mother called us back about 20 minutes later. She was fine about it--as far as she goes, anyway. She was curious as to how the Toad managed to find a way 'round the block we put up. (He discovered that Virtual Adult channels are not blocked. Lucky us! We found out so cheaply!)
Anyway, Grammy is going to cover his ass--and I'll be waiting with baited breath to see if she really does bust his chops for the money to be repaid.
He's a smart boy--he just don't have the common sense God gave a stick.
We'll also be gone for at least 4 days between Christmas and New Years--you can bet your ass the cable will be unhooked and he won't have access to anything, not even PBS. If he wants porn, he's gonna have to go Blockbuster, and they make you pay up front.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
One Last Rant
I had typed out this wonderfully cathartic post about the Toad at the other blog.
It jammed, and I lost it.
Dammit! I guess this means I go to 11.
It jammed, and I lost it.
Dammit! I guess this means I go to 11.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
epiph·a·ny *
i-'pi-f&-nE
3 a (1) : a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) : an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) : an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure b : a revealing scene or moment
Much like the prophet Jonah, I am heading to my very own Nineveh. Lucky me. Usually, when threatened with being swallowed by the fish, it's because I need to do something that is a continuation of what I've already been doing, or it's stretching out into an unknown area, but one in which I already know I have the skills or the knowledge to accomplish it. It's generally just something I do not want to do.
This time, I'm being told that I need to do the cliche "Let Go; Let God."
It comes from having spent the last few years raising a teenager. It comes from my knowing, without a doubt, where he is to head--where he is to end up, what he is to do with his life. It comes after yet another instance of the boy's blatant stupidity, arrogance, and sheer determination to do the wrong thing.
On Friday, September 7, 2007, I had an epiphany. One that was so clear on intent and so vague on details.
I have to let the boy go. I have to stop trying to get through to him, I have to stop trying to teach him, reach him, better him, guide him...you name it. The only thing I am to continue in reference to him is to love him.
The epiphany went like this:
I got in the shower. I started thinking about the latest round of stupid.
I had a vision that was of the boy, in a church, being ordained to something. I was not in the picture--in any fashion. I was glimpsing this from the very back of a church, dimly.
Stepping out of the shower, I was crying. It was clear to me that whatever it is the boy is to accomplish, it is to be totally without me.
Basically, I saw God gently showing me to "sit down, shut up, and get out of My Way."
I choose to listen, although I'm sure God knows (better than even I do myself) how hard this is going to be for me. I have control freak tendencies, and I do have an inordinate amount of emotion attached to this boy.
And, said boy is being a total screw up.
For the last three days, I have been concentrating on NOT barking, shrieking, screaming, yelling, offering advice, giving instruction, trying to explain, asking for explainations...and it's killing me. So I am also, at the same time, concentrating on not clenching my jaw, neck, and back muscles. Mostly because that ends up being a physical manifestation of my emotional pain. Both of which are intensely stupefying.
I am comforted by the fact that I have peace with this. And that peace is how I know that this is, truly, what I'm supposed to do: If I get out of the way, the Toad will eventually cease being a Toad, and become the person he is intended to be. I need, to quote the cliche, to get my oar out of it, and let it ride.
Having a strong tendancy to be a control freak (and the obligatory being-nearly-always-right that goes with it) isn't helping him, or me, be who we are supposed to be. Or, if truth be known, continue to exist on the same plane with the other.
It will, I'm sure, prove to be the single hardest thing I've ever had to do.
*found at: http://www.m-w.com/dictionary/epiphany (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)
3 a (1) : a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) : an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) : an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure b : a revealing scene or moment
Much like the prophet Jonah, I am heading to my very own Nineveh. Lucky me. Usually, when threatened with being swallowed by the fish, it's because I need to do something that is a continuation of what I've already been doing, or it's stretching out into an unknown area, but one in which I already know I have the skills or the knowledge to accomplish it. It's generally just something I do not want to do.
This time, I'm being told that I need to do the cliche "Let Go; Let God."
It comes from having spent the last few years raising a teenager. It comes from my knowing, without a doubt, where he is to head--where he is to end up, what he is to do with his life. It comes after yet another instance of the boy's blatant stupidity, arrogance, and sheer determination to do the wrong thing.
On Friday, September 7, 2007, I had an epiphany. One that was so clear on intent and so vague on details.
I have to let the boy go. I have to stop trying to get through to him, I have to stop trying to teach him, reach him, better him, guide him...you name it. The only thing I am to continue in reference to him is to love him.
The epiphany went like this:
I got in the shower. I started thinking about the latest round of stupid.
I had a vision that was of the boy, in a church, being ordained to something. I was not in the picture--in any fashion. I was glimpsing this from the very back of a church, dimly.
Stepping out of the shower, I was crying. It was clear to me that whatever it is the boy is to accomplish, it is to be totally without me.
Basically, I saw God gently showing me to "sit down, shut up, and get out of My Way."
I choose to listen, although I'm sure God knows (better than even I do myself) how hard this is going to be for me. I have control freak tendencies, and I do have an inordinate amount of emotion attached to this boy.
And, said boy is being a total screw up.
For the last three days, I have been concentrating on NOT barking, shrieking, screaming, yelling, offering advice, giving instruction, trying to explain, asking for explainations...and it's killing me. So I am also, at the same time, concentrating on not clenching my jaw, neck, and back muscles. Mostly because that ends up being a physical manifestation of my emotional pain. Both of which are intensely stupefying.
I am comforted by the fact that I have peace with this. And that peace is how I know that this is, truly, what I'm supposed to do: If I get out of the way, the Toad will eventually cease being a Toad, and become the person he is intended to be. I need, to quote the cliche, to get my oar out of it, and let it ride.
Having a strong tendancy to be a control freak (and the obligatory being-nearly-always-right that goes with it) isn't helping him, or me, be who we are supposed to be. Or, if truth be known, continue to exist on the same plane with the other.
It will, I'm sure, prove to be the single hardest thing I've ever had to do.
*found at: http://www.m-w.com/dictionary/epiphany (Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Mother's Little Helper
There's a reason so many women are (over) medicated these days.
My reasons for wanting to fake my own death (simply as an "out") are many, and most involve my family--my Sweetie, the Spawnlings, and the Gator.
Mostly I just wish that my mother and sibs would understand that I am frustrated enough, without all them "sticking their oars in" with the Toad. They all seem to be of the delusion that they are making a difference.
They are making a difference--they're making it harder on ME.
He lost his job. I don't entirely believe his story about it. Some of it, I'm sure, is reality based, but I got over trusting him last spring. Whatever small vestige of hope and trust I had in him died early in April when he stole money from us and lied about it.
It continued its death-throes when in May he lied about looking for a job (stuffing the apps in his glove box) and when, two months later, we discovered the PPV porn.
I'm so frustrated by the Toad right now, I can't even think straight. I get mad, depressed, frustrated, and disgusted all in a whirl of seconds. I want to beat him more senseless; I want to throw him out into the streets; I want to scream and throw things. None of that will happen, however, so you can rest your 9-1-1 fingers now.
I am beyond seeing the humor in any of this. There is NO humor in it--at least not from where I sit, stand, and pace anxiously. It's like waiting for them to pronounce your death sentence.
Now, on top of all that, my Sweetie seems to be totally beyond thought--he cannot seem to remember how the Toad listens to no one; how my mother and brother are sticking their oars in (and how that means I must have at least 2 calls a day from each of them, asking "how is Toadly?")
Nobody asks "how are YOU?" It's all about HIM. Which pisses me off as well. It's like it's all my fault. Sure I know I made mistakes (and yes, they're all mine) but dammit! They act like my mother didn't spend the last 18 years undermining my authority, and coddling and spoiling him. Whatever decisions I made, they were the best I could do at that time. But somehow, that gets lost in the translation.
And somehow, it's all my fault. Even Kevin thinks so, on some level. As if HE can get the boy to do anything other than hide in his room. That's Kevin's sum total of effective authority with Toad: get the boy to disappear into Ass Caverns for the day.
The simple fact that I choose to not elevate my blood pressure AND my tension and stress (leading to the need for copious muscle relaxers and ibuprofen) is wrong in his eyes.
It also irritates me to no end that because HE screwed up, the rest of us get to walk on eggshells with each other in an effort to not take out our anger and frustration on each other. Toad does leave late every afternoon (or sooner) and doesn't come home for several hours, during which time the emotions fester like a bad bug bite. It's an itch you can't scratch enough.
Today, I yelled at Kevin, "And just what the #$@! do you expect me to be able to accomplish with him? I can't MAKE him ANYTHING. YOU TRY. How far, exactly do YOU get?"
My mother's current plan (as it always is) is to get her hands on him--and get him away from me. At this point, I don't care.
I just want this OVER. Because if it's not soon, I may need to go back on meds...and if that happens, I will probably never get off them. (and that's not my idea of a good time).
My reasons for wanting to fake my own death (simply as an "out") are many, and most involve my family--my Sweetie, the Spawnlings, and the Gator.
Mostly I just wish that my mother and sibs would understand that I am frustrated enough, without all them "sticking their oars in" with the Toad. They all seem to be of the delusion that they are making a difference.
They are making a difference--they're making it harder on ME.
He lost his job. I don't entirely believe his story about it. Some of it, I'm sure, is reality based, but I got over trusting him last spring. Whatever small vestige of hope and trust I had in him died early in April when he stole money from us and lied about it.
It continued its death-throes when in May he lied about looking for a job (stuffing the apps in his glove box) and when, two months later, we discovered the PPV porn.
I'm so frustrated by the Toad right now, I can't even think straight. I get mad, depressed, frustrated, and disgusted all in a whirl of seconds. I want to beat him more senseless; I want to throw him out into the streets; I want to scream and throw things. None of that will happen, however, so you can rest your 9-1-1 fingers now.
I am beyond seeing the humor in any of this. There is NO humor in it--at least not from where I sit, stand, and pace anxiously. It's like waiting for them to pronounce your death sentence.
Now, on top of all that, my Sweetie seems to be totally beyond thought--he cannot seem to remember how the Toad listens to no one; how my mother and brother are sticking their oars in (and how that means I must have at least 2 calls a day from each of them, asking "how is Toadly?")
Nobody asks "how are YOU?" It's all about HIM. Which pisses me off as well. It's like it's all my fault. Sure I know I made mistakes (and yes, they're all mine) but dammit! They act like my mother didn't spend the last 18 years undermining my authority, and coddling and spoiling him. Whatever decisions I made, they were the best I could do at that time. But somehow, that gets lost in the translation.
And somehow, it's all my fault. Even Kevin thinks so, on some level. As if HE can get the boy to do anything other than hide in his room. That's Kevin's sum total of effective authority with Toad: get the boy to disappear into Ass Caverns for the day.
The simple fact that I choose to not elevate my blood pressure AND my tension and stress (leading to the need for copious muscle relaxers and ibuprofen) is wrong in his eyes.
It also irritates me to no end that because HE screwed up, the rest of us get to walk on eggshells with each other in an effort to not take out our anger and frustration on each other. Toad does leave late every afternoon (or sooner) and doesn't come home for several hours, during which time the emotions fester like a bad bug bite. It's an itch you can't scratch enough.
Today, I yelled at Kevin, "And just what the #$@! do you expect me to be able to accomplish with him? I can't MAKE him ANYTHING. YOU TRY. How far, exactly do YOU get?"
My mother's current plan (as it always is) is to get her hands on him--and get him away from me. At this point, I don't care.
I just want this OVER. Because if it's not soon, I may need to go back on meds...and if that happens, I will probably never get off them. (and that's not my idea of a good time).
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Enticing Thoughts
Monday, at dinner, I asked the Toad to go to the pantry in the basement and bring up the new jar of pickles.
He refused.
Now, I may be wrong in my thinking on this, but he's still sucking air while owing me $200 for pay per view porn, so I thought he'd be happy to appease me and do this.
He still refused.
I told him that if he hurried, the jar of pickles would be on the shelf, spread eagle, flashing it's bits for him to watch, if he wanted.
He almost shot burger out his nose, but he still refused..
Kevin gave me a silent high-five.
He refused.
Now, I may be wrong in my thinking on this, but he's still sucking air while owing me $200 for pay per view porn, so I thought he'd be happy to appease me and do this.
He still refused.
I told him that if he hurried, the jar of pickles would be on the shelf, spread eagle, flashing it's bits for him to watch, if he wanted.
He almost shot burger out his nose, but he still refused..
Kevin gave me a silent high-five.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Joys of Being Childless
The Howler is at Grandma M's this week. She is attending Vacation Bible School, mini-golf, showers of attention and love. Good for her. Good for us.
Last night, the Toad (whom I have managed to not kill or disown) was not coming home. Good for us. (I refuse to judge the good for him part, I am unsure whether or not they were ordering porn on his friend's parents cable.)
Kevin & I had a child-free, worry-free, whine-free evening. Spent most of it watching each other sweat (temps started at 85F at 8am yesterday).
Why the excitement, when we have AC in the bedroom?
Why do you think?
We're the Mumples.
In all that heat-and-humidity, of course I had a crappy day at work. Mean, rude people calling me a pain in the ass, telling me I was stupid, bitching about having to show their IDs with unsigned credit cards...how I managed to not say most of what I was thinking, I do not know. My jaw hurt though.
Oh, but it gets better: how you ask? We are the Mumples, and being child-free for a while means that I have my period. There's only so much fun consenting, married adults can have with that....and with the heat-and-humidity, we were both exhausted.
We're hoping we can ditch the Toad in a few days, before the Howler comes marching home again (hurrah, hurrah).
*sigh* we are the Mumples.
Last night, the Toad (whom I have managed to not kill or disown) was not coming home. Good for us. (I refuse to judge the good for him part, I am unsure whether or not they were ordering porn on his friend's parents cable.)
Kevin & I had a child-free, worry-free, whine-free evening. Spent most of it watching each other sweat (temps started at 85F at 8am yesterday).
Why the excitement, when we have AC in the bedroom?
Why do you think?
We're the Mumples.
In all that heat-and-humidity, of course I had a crappy day at work. Mean, rude people calling me a pain in the ass, telling me I was stupid, bitching about having to show their IDs with unsigned credit cards...how I managed to not say most of what I was thinking, I do not know. My jaw hurt though.
Oh, but it gets better: how you ask? We are the Mumples, and being child-free for a while means that I have my period. There's only so much fun consenting, married adults can have with that....and with the heat-and-humidity, we were both exhausted.
We're hoping we can ditch the Toad in a few days, before the Howler comes marching home again (hurrah, hurrah).
*sigh* we are the Mumples.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Trouble, Right Here In Mumple City
Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble Trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble trouble ....
That starts with "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for
PORN.
Everybody sigh and get it out of the way.
I am not a Puritan, and I am, by no means, a prude. I love a dirty joke and I am not interested, personally, in porn. Been there, looked at it, got over it.
I also, for the record, do not think that if grown, consenting adults want to look at pictures of nekkid consenting adults they don't know (or maybe they do--not judging here), I don't care. (I'm not talking about the more perverse things in the genre, and I'm not talking about addicts of any nature, so just keep your head from spinning.)
Even being relatively open and honest, sincere yet unabashed attitudes about sex, I am astounded (and frustrated, and angry) to discover that the 18 year old Toad spend the bigger part of May, all of June and at least 1/4 of July ordering Pay-Per-View porn when we weren't home.
We now know why he was spending so much time in the livingroom.
That starts with "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for
PORN.
Everybody sigh and get it out of the way.
I am not a Puritan, and I am, by no means, a prude. I love a dirty joke and I am not interested, personally, in porn. Been there, looked at it, got over it.
I also, for the record, do not think that if grown, consenting adults want to look at pictures of nekkid consenting adults they don't know (or maybe they do--not judging here), I don't care. (I'm not talking about the more perverse things in the genre, and I'm not talking about addicts of any nature, so just keep your head from spinning.)
Even being relatively open and honest, sincere yet unabashed attitudes about sex, I am astounded (and frustrated, and angry) to discover that the 18 year old Toad spend the bigger part of May, all of June and at least 1/4 of July ordering Pay-Per-View porn when we weren't home.
We now know why he was spending so much time in the livingroom.
The problems I have with this are as follows:
- He didn't have a job to pay for his viewing pleasure (ewwwww)
- He is only now awaiting a start date on a job
- He was, at the time he was spending this non-existant money, not even looking for a job to pay for his viewing pleasure
- If he had ASKED, we would've found him a way to have his viewing pleasure without costing me the if I'm lucky it's only $200
I have concluded, this weekend, that he has judiciously waited until he turned 18 to begin all these nasty, petty, EXPENSIVE little rebellions.
It's a lot of money to be pissing through in just 6 months (and these are just the big ones):
- Damage to the Beast: $100
- Insurance for the Beast: $600
- Cable Pay-Per-View: $200 (?)
If he'd have pulled this crap over the course of two or three years, I could almost not be mad enough to spit nickels. But since he's pulling it all in just a few months, I will soon be faced with having to choose to pay for his idiocy or make my car payment (my payments aren't that high, either).
I want to hit him, frequently, and with much power. But I can't afford to do that--or I'd have to pay to have someone stitch him back together, too.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Nothing Costs $100
So, the Toad did something to the Beast.
We're not sure what, exactly, as he's not speaking up. He was driving it for at least several days with it "dog tracking" down the road. How he managed to stay in his lane is beyond us. He claims he hit "nothing" and that it must be something with the power steering.
Apparently, he thought that, much like a Borg ship, it would self-repair and self-correct.
The Idiot. Anyone who has driven anything would be able to tell there was something seriously messed up on this car. Anyone who had previously driven this car could tell there was something messed up on this car.
The rear passenger side wheel was, to use the technical term, WONKY. Absolutely at an angle that is not normal for a tire on a safely functioning car. There was a chunk of the aluminum wheel gone.
When Kevin got underneath it, he could see scrapes and dings--with no dirt or rust. No way this happened weeks ago.
The boy is still saying, "It must've been when I spun out." and "I thought it was the power steering." As if, between self-proclaimed Car Guy Stepdad Kevin and myself, we're total morons. Does he think we're Amish and have never driven a car?
Anyway, a new, matching aluminum wheel cost $50 and the alignment cost $47.95. AND we may have to take it to a body shop to get the body straightened out. It depends on how it drives--like we trust the Toad's assessment at this point.
The Toad is rather surprised at how much we DO actually know about what he did, and he's more surprised about the cost. Self-repair isn't as cheap as he thought, I expect.
My frustration level is at it's limit. Perhaps, if he were a true idiot-savant, and not just playing one on TV, I'd be less angry and frustrated. He doesn't have the common sense God gave a goat, and he seems to think that this is somehow my fault.
During the first conversation I had with him about the damage to the Beast, he implied that, because he's 18 and has only had his license a month, somehow I was missing the point. He got pissy because, apparently, I've been through all this before, and he hasn't. He is under the impression that he has older brothers and sisters that I have parented and raised, but have never met.
I can honestly say that as much as I believe it totally sucks sideways to be a teenager, I can say that it sucks worse to be the parent of one.
We're not sure what, exactly, as he's not speaking up. He was driving it for at least several days with it "dog tracking" down the road. How he managed to stay in his lane is beyond us. He claims he hit "nothing" and that it must be something with the power steering.
Apparently, he thought that, much like a Borg ship, it would self-repair and self-correct.
The Idiot. Anyone who has driven anything would be able to tell there was something seriously messed up on this car. Anyone who had previously driven this car could tell there was something messed up on this car.
The rear passenger side wheel was, to use the technical term, WONKY. Absolutely at an angle that is not normal for a tire on a safely functioning car. There was a chunk of the aluminum wheel gone.
When Kevin got underneath it, he could see scrapes and dings--with no dirt or rust. No way this happened weeks ago.
The boy is still saying, "It must've been when I spun out." and "I thought it was the power steering." As if, between self-proclaimed Car Guy Stepdad Kevin and myself, we're total morons. Does he think we're Amish and have never driven a car?
Anyway, a new, matching aluminum wheel cost $50 and the alignment cost $47.95. AND we may have to take it to a body shop to get the body straightened out. It depends on how it drives--like we trust the Toad's assessment at this point.
The Toad is rather surprised at how much we DO actually know about what he did, and he's more surprised about the cost. Self-repair isn't as cheap as he thought, I expect.
My frustration level is at it's limit. Perhaps, if he were a true idiot-savant, and not just playing one on TV, I'd be less angry and frustrated. He doesn't have the common sense God gave a goat, and he seems to think that this is somehow my fault.
During the first conversation I had with him about the damage to the Beast, he implied that, because he's 18 and has only had his license a month, somehow I was missing the point. He got pissy because, apparently, I've been through all this before, and he hasn't. He is under the impression that he has older brothers and sisters that I have parented and raised, but have never met.
I can honestly say that as much as I believe it totally sucks sideways to be a teenager, I can say that it sucks worse to be the parent of one.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Driving Me to Distraction
Toad turned 18 yesterday. YAY!
First, I want to say that he is old enough to be 18. I don't think (or feel) old enough to be the parent of an adult. Not that he's overtly adult anyway.
There is, apparently, a grace period for those who have trouble with reality--that would be the Toad. He doesn't graduate from HS until June, so he's got a 6 month grace period in which to become a functional adult.
Yesterday, he also took his driver's test. He passed. He's now sanctioned by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to handle a vehicle weighing several thousand pounds.
It adds another dimension to my role as *Damage Control.*
You see, when he was younger, say, about the Howler's age, I discovered that my main function as a parent was Damage Control. The difference is that now, it really is as much "Damage to the world as well as damage to him" in meaning.
Pray for me; coupling this with turning into my mother does not bode well for my life, either.
First, I want to say that he is old enough to be 18. I don't think (or feel) old enough to be the parent of an adult. Not that he's overtly adult anyway.
There is, apparently, a grace period for those who have trouble with reality--that would be the Toad. He doesn't graduate from HS until June, so he's got a 6 month grace period in which to become a functional adult.
Yesterday, he also took his driver's test. He passed. He's now sanctioned by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to handle a vehicle weighing several thousand pounds.
It adds another dimension to my role as *Damage Control.*
You see, when he was younger, say, about the Howler's age, I discovered that my main function as a parent was Damage Control. The difference is that now, it really is as much "Damage to the world as well as damage to him" in meaning.
Pray for me; coupling this with turning into my mother does not bode well for my life, either.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
It's Happened!
Last night, the Toad had his final high school Christmas Concert.
I sat there, watching my boy sing (and rap. OMG! He's too white for that!), and all I could think was, "OMG! Look at that girl's hair. And that one's. Do they really think that's attractive? And those clothes! Could she show any more skin and not get arrested? His mother let him out of the house in THAT?"
Those were my thoughts during the concert. Each thought lasted seconds as the next moved up to take it's place...until the final blow: This sounds so familiar (the voice in my head, not the Christmas music).
OMG! It's happened! I sound just like my mother.
*sigh*
I had been doing so well.
I sat there, watching my boy sing (and rap. OMG! He's too white for that!), and all I could think was, "OMG! Look at that girl's hair. And that one's. Do they really think that's attractive? And those clothes! Could she show any more skin and not get arrested? His mother let him out of the house in THAT?"
Those were my thoughts during the concert. Each thought lasted seconds as the next moved up to take it's place...until the final blow: This sounds so familiar (the voice in my head, not the Christmas music).
OMG! It's happened! I sound just like my mother.
*sigh*
I had been doing so well.
Monday, November 06, 2006
The Fish Slayer
First let me begin by saying that from the beginning of the Toad's childhood, fish seem to have extremely limited lifespans when in my house.
He won a goldfish at the fair. It died within days. Not really a big shock, but we purchased a replacement fish. It died within days, spawning a new childhood rhyme:
One fish
New fish
Dead fish
No fish
If my mother is in charge of feeding the fish, there's a good chance we'll come home to a cloudy fishtank and dead fish. The Fish Slayer gene is apparently hereditary.
Kevin, the Howler, and I left on a Wednesday evening. The Toad was given specific instructions: feed and water the cats, feed the fish. The cats are easy--if the bowls are empty, fill them. Feeding the fish, however, seems to be akin to doing brain surgery--how much is a pinch? What do you mean by "Twice a day"? Too hard....must kill fish.
We get home on the following Sunday afternoon, and the fish tank is not only cloudy and populated with half-and-half fish. Half are dead, and the rest look like they are dying.
Kevin cleans the tank, all the while muttering about Theo the Fish Slayer. He fishes (HAH!) out the dead ones and we hope for the best. More fish die.
Kevin is now singing along with cartoon theme songs, changing the words to reflect the Toad's new title: Fish Slayer.
He won a goldfish at the fair. It died within days. Not really a big shock, but we purchased a replacement fish. It died within days, spawning a new childhood rhyme:
One fish
New fish
Dead fish
No fish
If my mother is in charge of feeding the fish, there's a good chance we'll come home to a cloudy fishtank and dead fish. The Fish Slayer gene is apparently hereditary.
Kevin, the Howler, and I left on a Wednesday evening. The Toad was given specific instructions: feed and water the cats, feed the fish. The cats are easy--if the bowls are empty, fill them. Feeding the fish, however, seems to be akin to doing brain surgery--how much is a pinch? What do you mean by "Twice a day"? Too hard....must kill fish.
We get home on the following Sunday afternoon, and the fish tank is not only cloudy and populated with half-and-half fish. Half are dead, and the rest look like they are dying.
Kevin cleans the tank, all the while muttering about Theo the Fish Slayer. He fishes (HAH!) out the dead ones and we hope for the best. More fish die.
Kevin is now singing along with cartoon theme songs, changing the words to reflect the Toad's new title: Fish Slayer.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Pavlov's Cat
We've been opening the windows with the screen on the top half, because we're gone all day and it's warm (very warm)...yet, if a rain comes up, it ALWAYS comes in the windows. So, the screen moves up, and we open the windows from the top and if it rains, not-so-much wet.
The Toad is not the King of Observation. Hell, we're lucky he doesn't walk into the wall first, bumping along, until he finds the door some days. He, apparently, hasn't noticed this window switch we've been doing.
I asked him, yesterday, to open windows (if we don't ask, they don't get opened at all). He did. He opened them around noon.....from the bottom.
Here's the scenario. No screen on the bottom of the windows. Three cats, one of whom is usually desperate to get outside and RUN--RUN AWAY--RUN AWAY NOW! Neighborhood cats wandering about, sometimes during the day--and one of those cats is known at my house as "mean cat" or "bitch cat" because she doesn't seem to care much who she fights with, as long as she fights 'em.
I realize, about 30 minutes after I get in the house (by this time, it's almost 5pm), that the windows are open--really really open.
I try and count cats, but can only find 2 of 3. Not good. I shake the treat can. I get 2 cats. Well, heartless as it seems, trying to find the wanderer outside will simply make her bolt and hide. So, I'll just keep checking the porches and when she rolls her skinny butt home, I'll get her inside--if I can.
Pretty soon, here comes the wanderer. From upstairs. She is, apparently, too stupid to realize that she's "home free" if she just gets up in a window.
Now, this is a cat who has made several attempts at freedom through an UPstairs window. You can still see the patch/repair work on my kitchen ceiling from several years ago when she made a break for it out the bathroom window and the contractor had to lurch to catch her, and ended up stepping between the rafters (he'd gutted the entire bathroom) because there's no floor. He saved the cat and had to pry himself out of the kitchen ceiling, then fix that too.
Second story windows are okay to jump out of, but the first floor ones aren't? I think this cat really is retarded. (Same cat from previous posts about the Howler stuffing her into drawers and things)
Go figure. She's so used to the screens being there, she just believed they were there and never tried to escape.
Poor stupid Pavlovian kitty.
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