Friday, July 31, 2009
So I pointed out that that was fucking rude and he said
"You only think it's rude because you're a narcissist and you think everything is about you."
I'm so glad that he explained it.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
To my mother in law. And all of you muthuhs out there who complain your kids don't call or visit often enough. Stop being so damned cranky and inflexible when we do take time to visit. Like in my case, drive hours to get there in the midst of a busy summer.
Stop giving us the very loud silent treatment when we need to curttail your precious schedule because the kids have their likes and dislikes, too. You know, our children, your grandchildren, they're people. And us? Your adult children who take the time to visit? We work during the week. This is our weekend downtime. We've devoted it to easing your loneliness. Act like you appreciate that fact, just a little bit.
I know this is hard to believe, but teenagers don't particularly like sitting around your living room listening to you roll off your list of recently departed friends and loved ones. And their various health ailments. So when they don't look thrilled and would rather watch TV, understand.
I'm sorry you're in the stage of life when everybody is kicking the bucket, I really am, but kids don't want to hear about it. And neither do I, but I'm an adult who has an attention span. The kids don't. I have sympathy for an old lady. The kids don't.
And those same heavy meals you insist on cooking, despite your son's repeated suggestions that you don't have to go to so much trouble for us? But oh wait. That's right. That's the meal YOU want to eat. We're just numerous sets of mouths around the dining table doubling as a disposal for your leftovers. It's not really about us, at all, is it? It's about you.
And when we put our foot down and go out for a meal? If you won't eat with us, you can at least order something to drink. It won't kill you to drink a glass of water. In fact, your doctor tells you to drink more water, so it could prolong your life.
So quit with the pouting and the long suffering expression on your face. And quit looking at your watch and drumming your fingers on the table. You're giving us heartburn.
In short, act like you enjoy seeing us. Have some patience. Humor the kids by asking them about their friends or their summer adventures. Get out of the kitchen and get to know them. If you always make it about you, you lose them. And you're missing out on some really great kids.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Am I the only one who doesn’t give a shit about Lance Armstrong (jerk) and the whole biking thing? How long has this race been going on? 6 weeks? 9 months? Decades? Get it over with already. Give me back my husband (who TiVos it and watches every mind-numbing moment) and my evenings!
And stop pulling me aside at work to talk about it. I don’t care. I’m that person who runs bikers over when they’re crowding my lane in morning rush hour traffic. Find a bike path, for christs-sake! Better yet, go to the gym and pedal in air conditioned comfort while listening to your iPod and drinking Dasani like a civilized human being.
Can’t wait for football….
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Yes I know that you don't do well on interupted sleep which is why I normally don't grudge you that extra 15 minutes each morning and when I do I suck it up reminding myself that you have to go out to a job and support us every day. Yes I know you can be a big grumpy bear when you think you've lost out on sleep but verbally attacking your daughter for just doing what comes naturally to her (you know, kind of like how being able to fall asleep quickly and being able to sleep all day if you have the option comes naturally to you?) is not OK. Then grumbling about how You don't have the option of a nap in the middle of the day with the unspoken phrase (like you do) tacked on to your condescending tone is not going to endear you to me. Especially since you will be taking off for the whole weekend with your buddies.
Did you know that you were actually sleeping through most of the 3 hours she was in bed with us? Did you know that she was actually sleeping for most of the 3 hours she was in bed with us? Did you stop to think that you have the option, and frequently take it (Like every day but Sunday) of lying in bed for a few extra minutes while I get up and visit the bathroom with her, give her breakfast, pour her milk and start the coffee and breakfast for us? Did you know that I don't get time off from my job? Did you know that I'm on call 24/7? Did you know that I am responsible for keeping up with her endless supply of energy and often don't nap with her in the middle of the day anymore? Did you know that you're coming off as a complete asshole dickweed douche bag?
I was just wondering
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
If you want to have a long conversation with the drop-off counselor, there's this great thing called a parking lot. Yes you have to get out of your car and walk 100 feet but you can count it as exercise. Let me know how it works out for you!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I'm sorry. I lost my temper the other night… over toilet paper. I know, such a small little thing, except it was the 9 hundredth frigging time I went in and sat down only to find the toilet paper roll empty…again. When I herded your brother out to the family room and asked you, him and your dad who had left the toilet paper empty again? The correct response would have been, "Sorry, I did, I'll go change it" not "Sorry, I did' and continue texting your idiot friends. Dude, take yourself out of my sphere of anger, be a part of the solution.
This summer when it got close to the time for you to move back, I didn't cry like last year. I thought, OK, I'm a little older, wiser, mellower and you would be too. I gave you the benefit of the doubt that we wouldn't be dealing with all the self-centered crap again. I was really encouraged when, early on, you said you would take bathroom duty, because you really appreciated a clean bathroom. So, let's see, now that you've been home for 3 months how often have you actually cleaned it? Once. And then we had to ask you to clean it, and remind you, twice, and then you didn't get around to it until .
And while we are on the topic of self centered; If you are going to sneak girls in the house in the middle of the night, when you let them out the sliding glass door, could you at least close it all the way once they're gone? You may think this is your own private brothel, but your dad and I aren't making any money off the deal, we can't afford to air condition the outside.
And don't park in the driveway. Seriously. We had this discussion a hundred times last summer. We have a one lane driveway, your dad and I park our vehicles in the drive, when you pull in, you block us. This may not seem like such a big deal until we have to wake your ass up at to move your car so we can go to work. And you bitch about it. There is plenty of room to park in the street, you're an athletic kind of guy, you can walk thirty feet to the door. I know this. We pay all the chiropractor bills from the injuries you sustain from dropping the girl cheerleaders on your head when you're 'stunting'.
I know you are working hard this summer, two jobs and a class to get through school. But when I come home from work to find the kitchen, family room, your room, stacked with dishes/cans/bottles from all the food you have consumed (yeah, that three pounds of boneless, skinless chicken your dad grilled up was supposed to be for all of us) and you are stretched out in the recliner playing X-Box or Wii or whatever it is, I get a little annoyed. Oh, and why the fuck do you get out of the recliner while it is still reclined and leave it that way?
One of your jobs is at a restaurant and you work until closing some nights. It is not OK to come in at and start making a full meal, banging around the kitchen, and slamming the microwave door (hell, even using the microwave which has one of the loudest frigging beepers I've ever heard, you don't know this stuff when you buy these things). Our bedroom is right behind the kitchen. O
But back to the toilet paper, how do we go through three times as much when you are home? What are you doing, padding your briefs? Your dad once told me you were a well endowed kid,
Your dad even sympathized with me for a minute because he's fucking tired of telling you to turn off the lights, only to come home (or get up in the night) and find half the lights in the house on.
And for the love of God, would you blow your freaking nose? I know you have allergies, we pay for all the shots. I know we have pets that make them worse, but if you can't blow it out, stop snorting it back into your head. Christ, you sound like coke addict with a cold.
After I went all crazy ass bonkers over the toilet paper, you told your dad you didn't want to stay here anymore, (God, if I'd known it was that easy I would have flipped a lot earlier). So why is all your shit still here? Pack it up and take up your mother's spare space. And by the way, for the rest of the summer, you are staying with her, in her tiny little condo, with your mono infected little brother. (We knew that chick was a skank).
Monday, July 20, 2009
I am splitting up with my significant other, father of my children, companion of 15 years. My world is shaken to its foundations. My children will turn into insolent, handbag stealing crackmonkeys. I will die alone, my face eaten off by my scrawny toothless dog (yeah she's going to GUM my face off. It's slower but she'll be very persistent). But you, in your wisdom, have decided that this isn't nearly enough. No, you must SHARE with me. Share things I have NO need to hear. Share details of your disturbing relationship issues, and worse, so much worse, your sex lives.
Why? Why in the name of all that is holy must you do this to me? How can knowing that my parents used to "fall into bed together" for years after they split up help? It CAN'T, thanks dad. This is worse than the time you got that really short dressing gown for Christmas and wore it until I thought I would go blind. Suddenly I am fourteen again, pinned to the spot with mortification as you tell me, in your special sensitive voice, that if we feel we "still need to make love, you should". UGH. NO. Quite honestly, the words "make love" should never cross a father's lips. They should be excised from your vocabulary in the delivery room, as your newborn is placed in your arms. This is total dereliction of your duty to view me as your tiny perfect pre-pubescent princess and to believe my children were conceived through the miraculous action of the holy spirit. Even though we are both atheists. I am horrified. Do you not remember how you once mentioned the Pill to me and I couldn't look you in the eye for six months?? I thought we had a deal. You talk about your job, I listen, we both get drunk then you shove a fifty pound note at me "for a taxi" and I take it, hating myself. It's worked fine for years? Why fuck around with it?
And you, stepfather! You with your vast brain and interest in Russian romantic literature, expressionist art, 20th century poetry and the philosophy of grief! WHY must you of all people choose this moment to tell me about your continued identity as a "sexual being". Aaaaargh. Do I need to know that your girlfriend won't sleep with you? No! I need you to make vaguely comforting noises, talk to me using an extended metaphor I can't follow, and quote to me extensively from a long boring obscure poem where my eyeballs start to roll back into my skull by the fifth stanza. It has served you well in the past. Why now? Why me?
Let me beg you family. In the name of all that we are, and all that we have shared. Do NOT let it out. Keep it in. There's a reason why we British are repressed. Well, maybe there isn't a reason. But we are and we should stay that way. It's the British way dammit! This is how you raised me and it's the way it's supposed to be.
Now I am going away and when I come back you are going to talk to me about the weather. You may also talk about major sporting events, or the financial crisis. If you really must, you can give me single firm pat on the back. I want you all to act as if none of us even HAVE any genitals. We have the smooth plastic crotches of Barbie, or Action Man. Ok? Ok. Glad we sorted that out.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Please don't tell Uncle Sam on me...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Dear Mr. Mechanic,
When you send me an hour and a half north (to DETROIT, no less!) for a part for my air conditioner, please make sure it's the correct part. There's nothing more frustrating than getting up there and finding out that X part does not equal Y part.