Monthly Archives: September 2009

Old Men and Red Pants and Pink What?

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Boy, I suck at the blogging lately. And as usual, I will make my “busy, oh so busy” defense. But I really am.

I am in the process of trying to get the house and yard ready for a birthday party for mr b, which is easier said than done, given that a) we’re busy – duh, b) we live like big fat pigs and there is a TON of cleaning or organizing to do, and c) mr b is the king of 80% done projects, so there are a lot of unfinished projects around the house. So it’s been a delightful time for one and all in our household.

Notice how I didn’t mention mr b’s age. See, I was all ready to tell you but lately, I have been reading the blogs of some of my friends and they are also having birthday celebrations for people at or around mr b’s age. And those people are THEIR FATHERS!!!! OK, fine! He’s 50! And even though he robbed the cradle with me, I am close enough behind to feel it breathing on me. So if your mom or dad or grandma is 50, don’t tell me. Let me remain blissfully deluded that I am the same age as all of you and not enough older that I was in college when you were all watching Sesame Street. Kthx!!

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I think I mentioned that the girl joined baton. She loves it, and I am glad. I joined when I was about her age, too (and actually – Lord – stayed with it through two years of college – Titan Twirler – woo!). Anyhoo, when the girls march in parades, there are “marching moms” that walk along the parade route with them. Not so much my bag – I’m content to sit on the curb and cheer and take photos, but I am willing if they need me. Or at least I was until this Friday’s homecoming parade (the new girls didn’t march), when I discovered that the “marching moms” have uniforms. Oh yes. They have nice little white golf-style shorts with the team logo on it. Not so bad, right? Until you look down and see that they also wear red pants. No – they aren’t even pants. They’re slacks. RED SLACKS. Which appeared to have an elastic waist. DANGER DANGER DANGER!!!!!

I’m sorry, but there is no way that this ass is going onto those pants. No, never, NOOOOOO. The woman who runs it is the same that was running it back in 1974 when I first joined and her style hasn’t changed since. I take that back – she updated her style when she was the high school majorette sponsor and she discovered headbands. Sequined headbands. Worn not like a cute hairband, but like a dorky sweatband. Sometimes with poufy things on them. She still loves those – they are part of the uniforms, from the little ones up to the high school. Of course, now that I think about it, I’d rather wear a sequined headband than red slacks, but the likelihood of me wearing either is somewhere between “Um…no” and “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA…no.”

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Finally, I need to share with you what I saw today. Prepare yourself because it’s a horrible crime against humanity. Are you ready?

Are you sure? Because it’s bad!

OK, then…

I KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!

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Vacation!

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Ahhh…vacation. Even though it was short, it was awesome. Because it was relaxing and beautiful and best of all…free (mostly). Winning stuff is awesome, ya’ll!

Even though I stayed up watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia getting stuff packed, I still managed to get up at 3:00 AM to get to the airport in time. We got in early, and the flight was uneventful – though I could have done without the 5 hours (OK, minutes, but it felt like hours.) of spiraling around the airport before we landed.

We were at the report before 10:00 am, and had the whole day ahead of us, which was why I didn’t mind getting up so damned early. Here’s a news flash: It’s HOT in Arizona. We were ready to head to the pool, but we needed to eat first. We didn’t want breakfast (something about 100 degrees that makes eggs blech), so we had to wait until they started serving lunch. The pool café was the earliest – at 11:00 – so we headed there. And since it was 2:00 our time and we were on vacation, we decided to have a drink, too. Which pretty much set the tone for the while weekend.

The resort was beautiful. I would go there again in a minute. The food and drinks were delicious, though expensive. When we checked in, the people sponsoring the contest gave us gift bags, drink coupons and $200 in cash to cover some expenses, which was awesome.

After lunch, we headed to the pool, which was amazing. “Pool” didn’t do it justice – it was a whole bunch of smaller, sort-of connecting pools that formed a giant water playground. The way it was set up was nice because you never felt crowded. There were waterfalls everywhere, misters, bars, strolling waiters, comfy lounge chairs, beautiful landscaping and flowers, private cabanas, a sand beach and sand-bottomed pool area, and a kickass 3-story spiral waterslide, which shot you out like a cannon.

After lounging (and drinking) all day, we headed back to the room to get ready. I – of course – was ready way before mr b, so I headed to the open-air lobby to watch the Native American dancing and have a drink (OK, actually, several delicious pomegranate mojitos). After that, we headed to a group dinner for the contest winners. It was outside, on the edge of the water, surrounded by palm trees and mountains. And the food was fantastic. I was expecting mediocre banquet food, but I was pleasantly surprised with fresh, delicious southwestern cuisine, including a spicy fruit salad that I could have eaten 6 pounds of.

Also – the sweet, hilarious southern lady sitting at our table came back from the buffet with a steak covered in cumin sauce and said, “I thought this was gravy, but after I put it on, I saw the sign and it said it’s cummin’ sauce. I don’t know if I like cummin’ sauce on my meat. Hot damn – it’s good!

Of course, after dinner we headed back to the bar area – the lobby was all open to the outdoors, so you could sit on the huge terrace outside (they had a bunch of little seating areas with comfy couches and chairs) and still get table service, and enjoy the live entertainment they had every night. This night, it was a contemporary Latin band – they played some original stuff, plus some Santana, Los Lobos, etc. They were great.

We slept in a little on Saturday, had a delicious breakfast in the room, and then headed back down to the pool. It was even hotter than the day before – at one point, I heard 103, and later I heard 105. And I know – dry heat and all – it’s true – it’s much more bearable than humid heat, but still – 105! Being in the pool, it was very comfortable, but out of the pool, you just baked.

Mr b ended up getting a bad headache, so he headed back to the room, and I stayed in the pool area, floating on a raft, drinking rum punch and eyeing the beautiful, distinguished, downright chocolicious man alone the hot tub. If it hadn’t been 7000 degrees, I might have joined him.

That evening, we got a car into Old Town Scottsdale and did a little shopping and sightseeing. Then we headed to dinner at a place that had great food and a shmillion beer choices. Yay beer! After we went back to the resort, we sat on the terrace again and listened to the traditional Spanish band and watched the Flamenco dancers. And tried more delicious drinks. Mr b liked the prickly pear margarita a lot, and I teased him relentlessly since it was pink and girly. But it was delicious. I stuck to the rum drinks, though, since college pretty much ruined me on tequila.

The next morning, I got up before sunrise, so I could take some photos. Mr b, needless to say, stayed in bed. After he got up, we had a nice, leisurely breakfast, checked out, and headed out to the airport. We stopped to do a little shopping, and got the kids some more souvenirs, then hit the bar to watch as much of the game as we could before our flight.

When we got to the gate, I saw some people were whispering and throwing uncomfortable glances in the direction of the two Middle Eastern guys waiting for the flight, but honestly – I was more worried about being locked up in an airless tube for 4 hours with The Sneezer. Plus one of them was pretty hot. Not that has anything to do with anything. Just saying. Hot.

The flight was pretty good, but again with the spiraling (this time on takeoff) and lots of turbulence. The plane was full of Steelers fans, so the captain was giving us updates, the last of which resulted in a planeful of unhappy campers. On the bright side, we did have Aunt Bunny sitting in front of us. She was hilarious. As she was getting up from her seat, she was moaning and groaning and giving a running commentary: “Oh, I’m getting up now. Ohhh. Here I go. Ooooo. My leg. I’m almost up now. Wooo. Damn. I got one leg. I need my other leg. It’s numb. Oooooweeee. Oh Lordy! My leg ain’t movin’. I gotta grab onto this. I’m getting there. Oh no, I’m not. I’m goin’ back down. Lord Jesus. Ok, I’m trying again. Oooooo. I’m up now.” She was awesome.

The only bad thing was last night when mr b called and said there was an almost $700 charge from the resort on our debit card. The room was paid for by the contest sponsor, and we paid our incidentals when we checked out, so we weren’t sure what it was. I called an found out that it was a “hold” charge. I understand why they have those, but I don’t understand why mine is almost $700. They told us at check-in that it would be $200, so where did the additional $500 come in? The woman on the phone told me that when you have incidentals, the hold charge would go up. Well, our incidentals came to $300 (paid for in cash), so why the hell was the hold charge for approximately $400 more than that? I’m pissed. They told me it would revert by Wednesday or Thursday, which is unacceptable. Also? We can fly a man to the moon, but we can’t figure out how to drop a hold charge as soon as the bill is paid? I call bullshit. Big, stinky, steaming, funky, fucking bullshit. Fuckers.

And finally – yes – we went there. And moments afterward the Gods of Good taste punished me with cactus retribution:

The one where you probably want to avoid the whiny baby bullshit I post and go look at cute photos of puppies instead

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I am becoming a person I don’t like and don’t recognize. I think I need help.

I don’t know if it is depression or anxiety or just plain old crazy, but I can’t even stand myself anymore. I have been through depression before and in some ways it‘s the same, but in some ways different. I’m not sad or blue at all. This time, it’s stress. Overwhelming, paralyzing stress. I am being pulled in a million directions at all times (or at least it feels like I am) and I always feel like I am on the verge of a complete breakdown.

As for the similarities to previous bouts of depression, I do feel exhausted and have no energy. While I don’t feel blue, I feel…I don’t know – sort of…nothing…numb. I am gaining weight to the point that I hate myself – I avoid the mirror at all cost because I literally cringe when I see myself. I have no sex drive and I would rather just be left alone than interact most of them time.

But the thing that is different is the frustration, lack of patience, irritation and stress. I find myself losing patience so quickly. With the kids, with everyone (of course, with mr b, but that’s nothing new). I hear myself yelling at the kids and I hate myself for it. I hate that sometimes I just want to tell them to Shut Up, already. Sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me as a mother. And even though I know it’s not true – I sometimes feel as if I don’t even like them. Mr b has always been the short tempered, short fuse, fly off the handle, hateful one. And suddenly I find myself acting just like him. And I hate myself for it. I feel like my kids are growing up thinking their mother doesn’t love them. I sometimes get so hyper-critical, so disapproving, so quick to bark at them over something. Even as I am reacting, I hate it, but can’t seem to stop.

I feel like a bad mother.

I used to be an awesome mom. I used to be the loving, patient one. I used to be the one I knew they would look back on fondly. And now, I feel like I am polluting their childhood. They are growing up right before my eyes and I am creating one regret after another. I am overwhelmed.

I know I need to do something.

I think it’s a combination of truly having a crazy, overwhelming schedule, and something internal. I think even a perfectly sane person would feel stressed out. I drive a long distance to work every day. I am constantly dependent on other people to pick up and drop off my kids (which I hate), I have to keep track of practices and meetings and homework and baths and the house and work deadlines and dinner, and so on and so on. My husband is laid off and it’s bringing up a critical difference of opinion about careers. And I don’t want this to be a husband-bashing, but I really feel like things are unbalanced around here. There are always unfinished projects, and little day-to-day help – and nothing without having to ask for it, which even if it gets done, it’s not without a martyred sigh. I have talked about it before, and even more than the actual division of work, it’s more about the heavy burden of responsibility. Add all that to whatever this emotional state I am in is, and it’s making me crazy. I don’t like myself much these days.

My reaction to stuff is off the charts sometimes. The other day, I got home after work and picked up the kids. I had stopped on the way home to pick up a few things for our trip and discovered that my ATM card was missing. Not only did that suck, but I had to dive back to the store (not a short jaunt) to get the stuff we needed, because I don’t have much time this week, between other obligations and work deadlines. So I planned to go back that night when mr b and the boy were at scouts. We were in the house and I was trying to get everyone fed (while listening to the whining) and waiting for mr b who was (of course) late, and the boy starts dropping bombs left and right – tonight’s a ceremony – I need my shirt – tomorrow I have to stay late for practice (meaning I have to arrange a ride) – I need a tuxedo shirt for next week – there’s a band booster meeting tonight. Then, the girl announces that baton signups were that night. And I still had to go back to the store. And mr b was still not home. And I lost it. I yelled (at no one in particular), and wanted to throw things, or cry, or both. Because I can’t do it all. I feel like I am slipping behind every minute. I can’t do it all.

And this happens again and again and again. That night wasn’t unique. Tonight it was a late-running band practice, and a hungry whiny girl, and wal-fucking-mart, and big morons at Wendy’s, and laundry and once again not getting packing done. Tomorrow it will be another late practice, rushing from picking him up straight to the girl’s open house, trying to get packed, last minute nonsense, getting the kids packed up for a weekend with my parents, writing down schedules and gathering band uniforms and gear, dropping off the kids, and getting to bed early enough to be able to function for a pre-dawn flight. It’s always something.

I constantly feel like I am two steps behind. Like I am always running late. Like I am not cutting it.

The stress of it makes me miserable, is probably hurting my kids, and is giving me physical symptoms. I don’t feel sad or depressed or weepy, but the stress and frustration and anxiety and irritability are getting the best of me, leaving me and my kids with the worst. And it’s making me hate myself even more.

Still Alive…Barely

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How In the hell did it get to be mid-September already? This month has been flying by, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. My birthday was the 1st, and starting that day, I have been working crazy long hours to get a project done. There’s nothing quite like spending the evening of your birthday working until 2:00 am. The only worse birthday is when you have to work late AND your husband forgets. Oh yeah.

The project finally finished up on Friday and I was all set to have a weekend filled with naps, but we all know that didn’t happen – the kids keep me running.

Friday, we went to our high school’s first home game to see the boy march with the band. Our school in small so they let 7th grade and up participate in marching band. Of course, being a lowly seventh grader, he has to bide his time before getting a chance on the coveted snare and is currently paying his dues on the cymbals. I have no doubt he will get what he wants next year, though, seeing as how he is constantly drumming. On one hand? Yay for practicing. On the other? Loud! Drums!

Regardless, I was very proud of him:

Also – for anyone thinking that the marching band is dorky or nerdy: He loves it. He is having a shitload of fun, going a ton of fun places, hanging with his friends, learning a lot, and probably the biggest thing he loves about the band: Girls. There are lots of cute girls in the band. Older, cute girls. And they’re texting him and hugging him and giving him cutesy nicknames. He’s in heaven.

(Oh – and the first one of you that makes the “band camp” joke gets a pox on your house. That’s my baby we’re talking about)

Oh, and speaking of being proud (and also a little late) – a couple weeks ago, the girl sang Over the Rainbow on stage in front of about 600 people. Dressed as Dorothy. I seriously need to get her involved in some sort of theater program because this kid loves performing. She’s not shy, she isn’t afraid of an audience, and lord knows she’s dramatic. I am clueless about these things, though, so if you know of a local program, let me know.

Anyway, behold the cuteness:

So back to this weekend. After the game Friday night, we had to get to bed early because the boy had to be back in town with the band at 7:30 am to play at our local “great race” 5k. Rapunzel picked him up and dropped him off for me so I didn’t have to drag my lazy fat ass off the couch the girl out in the cold, drizzly morning. I gave him money so he could treat Rapunzel’s son to McDonald’s afterward, which would kill two birds with one stone – fueling up two growing boys and prolonging my fat ass couch time the girl’s sleep.

But then he called me to tell me that instead of playing with the band, he used the money I gave him to register for the race and would be running. So now, I had to drag my lazy ass out wake up the girl and get down there to a) see it in person, and b) take photos. Because I gotta tell you, my kid is not exactly a runner. Before we hung up, he asked me if I would be running, too.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HOHOOOOHEEEheeeheh. Hm.

Let me just interrupt myself for a public service announcement. I don’t run. Even when I was in great shape and an athlete, I didn’t run. So now? Running? Noooooooooo.

So here’s the public service part:

If you ever see me running? RUN.

Don’t stop and look, don’t ask questions, don’t think about it – just run. If I am running, there is a reason, and it’s one you don’t want to face –I assure you.

You’re welcome.

Anyway – he didn’t break any land speed records, but he finished, which is something given his genetic predisposition added to the fact that not only was he not wearing running clothes, but he was wearing marching band shoes. Clunky, boxy band shoes. Look how thrilled he looks:

The girl and I then went to the finish line, where she spent exactly 16 minutes being excited and waiting for her brother to “win the race.” Then she lost interest and went to the playground instead:

That night the boy had yet another band function, which we missed because we had a 40th birthday party to go to. Once again, Rapunzel was awesome and picked him up.

Sunday morning, the kids and I met up with Rapunzel, her son and another friend and headed to Kennywood. It was a great day for it – low crowds and short lines and great weather. Except for lunch time when we baked in the glaring sun while waiting for Potato Patch fries. That part sucked.

Oh, and also Noah’s Ark. Seriously, What the Fuck, Kennywood? They ruined Noah’s Ark. It was the longest line we waited in all day. I could have gone on my favorite ride – the Pitfall – 6 times in the time it took to get on Noah’s Ark. You locals surely will remember the Noah’s Ark of yore – it was a walk on – never a line. Now – BIG, LONG LINE. Instead of walking in, you have to go on in small groups because there is an “elevator” room (which, come ON Kennywood – this is no Haunted Mansion). So you stand there and wait and wait and fidget and listen to the kids whine for an hour before you get on. And it sucks. And the ride is stupid now. Not that it was ever NOT stupid, but at least it used to make sense – it was Noah’s Ark – you saw animal on an ark. Duh. (and walked in through the whale’s mouth, but at least the Jonah – Noah connection made a little sense). Now, you go into a mine elevator or something. Then you walk through an area with glass floors and skeletons beneath you. Then you get to a section with Noah and the animals, then you head into a room with funhouse mirrors and lights (oh, how I wanted a photo of myself in the “skinny” mirror), and then finally, you’re on some kind of leaky submarine. What in the name of Jacques Cousteau does any of this have to do with Noah’s Ark? Fuck if I know.

Although, admittedly, Noah’s Ark did give us the best laugh of the day. When you get to the glass floor section, there are “beams” and circles made of concrete, so it looks like there is no floor beneath you. The huge guy in front of us thought you had to walk on those and was balancing and half falling and contorting himself to stay on so he didn’t fall in. Then, the even better part – this section is in a square, with a door in one wall to continue to the next section. It looks like this:

So, the first time, we are following the guy in front and we are so busy watching him balance on the beams, that we miss the door. So we go around and realize we went in a circle. The last people in our group are just getting through, so we let them go, and we are laughing and talking (out loud) about how we went in a circle. We let the line go by and then we start around the circle again, this time going through the door to move on. But balancing guy and all the people behind us continue to go around the circle! When you get to the funhouse room they stop you until the whole group catches up before they let you in the submarine room. We waited five minutes until they caught up. Apparently, the entire group spent five whole minutes going around that same tiny circle before the figured it out. It was awesome.

I have no photos of the boy from Kennywood, which is sad, but he was either a) not with us, or b) being a shit:

Finally, last night, amidst the chaos of scout ceremonies and baton practices and dinner and baths and ban meetings, I discovered that my ATM card has gone missing. Awesome. Oh – and I discovered it as I was buying stuff for our trip this weekend, so I had to have the woman hold the stuff so I could come back. So way too late, I was driving back to the mall to get it. And I wrote a check and handed over my license and the girl says, “Did you know your license is expired?” Yay me. I’m getting on a plane in 3 days. I told mr b about it this morning, saying that I I hope I can get my new one quickly enough and I can’t believe I missed the expiration and don’t they usually send something and he replies, “They did send something. I put it up in the cabinet.” Blink. Blink. Are you kidding me? He never told me it was there and then basically hid it! He’s awesome.

The Good Uncle – Reprise

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I wrote this entry back in November, and have thought about Uncle Paul almost every day since. I got the call last night – the one I knew was coming – the one I was dreading. Apparently in his last days, he mended some fences with estranged family, had a reunion, and got ready for his next journey. I’m glad to hear this. I was sad, though, to find out that it happened several months ago. Apparently, he didn’t want fanfare – just his wife and kids and a quick cremation. I understand and respect his wishes, but it still hurts. It’s not like I had seen him in ages, or even would have the chance to see him again. But I hate that it happened and I didn’t know. And now that I DO know, I find myself in the weird position of grieving for someone who wasn’t even in my life anymore. But in the time we spent together, he forever imprinted himself on my heart, because he was, indeed, a Good Uncle.

The Good Uncle

My mom called me a little while ago to tell me that my uncle is dying. He’s not really my uncle – not anymore. He married my Aunt Twin when I was just a baby, but they haven’t been married for many, many years. But he was there throughout my childhood, so regardless of blood relations and divorces, he has always been Uncle Paul, and I have always loved him.

He was an awesome uncle. The kind that is silly and fun. Always joking, rarely serious. Quick to stick up for you when you’re fighting mom for a later bedtime, or one more cookie. Generous with his money and his love. And he had lots of famous friends, which was pretty cool. Although, looking back, some of the closest of these friends – in retrospect – said something about him, I guess. I won’t mention their names, but I can say that they might possibly rhyme with Feet Blows and Weevil Believel. Back then, though, this stuff was all the makings of a Good Uncle. Good Uncles don’t always make good husbands, though. Mr. Good Time isn’t generally Mr. Responsible.

But Mr. Good Time he was. They had a beautiful house in Florida – it was big and exquisitely decorated – for the 70’s that is. I was in love with that house. Every room had a different color scheme or theme. Each had its own bathroom, which was unheard of (to me at least) in those days. The bathrooms were two rooms and Aunt Twin always had these soap sculptures on display in the outer room. I adored those things – they were beautiful and they smelled so good. We spent much of the summer there every year and I probably spent 10% of that time just taking in all the beautiful things she had there. The formal living room with the fur couch. The Florida room with the black patent leather couches and red hanging lamps. The bullfight statue that I used to imitate with my best friend Tracy and almost broke my nose. I still have the scar and the chipped bone.

I remember the kitchen with its mushroom theme and the state of the art appliances. My room was my favorite, because it was mine of course. It was crazy psychedelic blue and green, with twin beds (a novelty to me, since I had a big bed at home). There was white modern furniture including corner table that one bed slid halfway under when not in use. And there was a stereo built into it. God, I loved that room. My second favorite room was my Aunt Cee’s. She was a teen during those times and she got the super psychedelic room, with the black and silver wallpaper and the black furry bedspread and the groovy wire-sculpture hanging lamp and the white tree with hidden colored lights. I know it all sounds crazy and tacky now, but this was the 70’s – trust me – it was AWESOME.

He had a great mind – he was a businessman. He invented and marketed an exercise device that was very successful. His brother was a very famous NFL player and he himself was in the NFL for a while, so he had lots of connections to athletes that he used in his ads. He was clever, too, and had some funny, smart, and sometimes risqué advertising campaigns, which contributed to his success. But he liked to spend and party and gamble and live the high life. He made tons, but spent more. He had a wandering eye,. Hard for a wife to take when she is already 15 years his junior, I imagine. When I was about 11 or 12, Aunt Twin and Uncle Paul moved back to PA. I didn’t know why at the time, but I guess they were struggling both financially and emotionally. I didn’t know any of this until years later, so when they split up, I was devastated.

I cried and cried at the thought of losing my favorite uncle. The one that took me to get ice cream even though I didn’t finish my dinner. The one who would pose for photos wearing big, silly hats and glasses. The one that bought me presents just from him. the one that could always make me laugh, no matter what. I knew that no matter what happened between them, he would always be my uncle.

I was wrong.

I didn’t see him for years after they split. By the time I was an older teen, there were a few brief sightings and (I think) a graduation card. I sent him Christmas cards over the years, but never heard anything in return. I invited him to my wedding and never even got a response. If it were anyone else, I would have said, fuck him; he’s an asshole. But not with Uncle Paul. Even after years of no contact and rejection, I still loved him and missed him. After the boy was born, I sent him a card and letter, telling him about his new “great-nephew” and telling him how I felt – that I still loved him, that he was still my favorite uncle. He didn’t respond.

I never tried again, but I caught news of him occasionally through Aunt Twin, who got her news through the grapevine. Occasionally – as and recently as this summer – I would google him to see if there was something – anything – out there. Sometimes there was, and recently I even saw a photo. I was struck by how old he looked, since in my mind he is still big strong Uncle Paul.

Apparently, Aunt Twin talked to his brother recently – what prompted it, I don’t know – and found out that he is dying of cancer. I guess the brother passed on her love and this morning he called her. He was very kind, telling her how sorry he was. He said that his good time friends always told him what a mistake he made with her, and that he knows it. Even though he’s happy now, he still has regrets.

And then he asked how his favorite niece was.

He said how he missed me and how he wished he had stayed in touch. He said he was so moved when he got my letter, and that he regrets never replying. That he loves me. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I shouldn’t grieve him, but I will. I shouldn’t be crying, but I am. I’ve missed him for years, and now I am going to miss him more.

I love you, Uncle Paul.

Kids are Assholes

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Recently, someone I like very much took a hell of a beating for calling her daughter an asshole on her blog. It was an amazing yet typical example of holier-than-thou bandwagon jumping that resulted in her being accused of being a bad mother, a bad person, not appreciating her kids, not loving her kids, and escalated into predictions that her kids were growing up damaged. Damaged! Not only is this absolute fucking nonsense, it’s grade-school name-calling, character assassination, and completely distasteful bullshit.

And it pisses me off.

Because if any of these shit-throwers would bother to a) take the sticks out of their asses, and b) pay attention to more than one word in one post, it would become absolutely clear that she is a smart, caring, funny, devoted mother who obviously loves her children. And even though I’m a little late with this and it’s probably been practically ages since she said, “eh – fuck it,” I still feel the need to defend her. Because seriously.

First off, she is funny. She writes funny stuff. Tongue-in-cheek stuff. She rants about kids and a husband she clearly adores. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty – a lot of us are. And we’re also adult enough and intelligent enough and laid back enough to overlook the potentially offensive because we know it is said in jest. Dude, if I got uptight over that shit, I would not know the total awesomeness that is Eddie Murphy Delirious. I’d be too busy bitching about the poor welfare kids and alcoholic dads and abusive moms and hairy-ass bigfoot aunts, all “That’s not funny!”

Loosen up and give me a break. She didn’t day it to her daughter, she said it about her, and there’s a difference. Although, really, there’s a certain age at which it wouldn’t bother me if she did because sometimes they need to called on it. I tell my son not to act like a jackass all the damned time – don’t like it? I couldn’t give a fuck. And let’s be honest here – kids are assholes. That’s why God (or Buddha or The Flying Spaghetti Monster – child assholery crosses many boundaries) makes them so cute – to balance the assholery.

Case in point:

I was at the Salvation Army store the other day (shut up- I once found a $400 Lladro for $12). Anyway, I was trolling for bargains when I heard a blood-curdling, “DAD…DAD!!!” Again and again and again this kid screamed “DAD” at the top of his lungs. I walked over to where he was and asked if he was lost, and he scoffed (actually scoffed) at me and said, in the snottiest voice ever, “NO! I just want him to come look at something!” and stomped off, still screaming (and I mean SCREAMING). A minute or two later, I heard a man scream from the other side of the store, “WHAT?” They proceeded to carry on a screaming conversation for the next five minutes.

Then, the kid moved on to running around the store like a maniac, making loud sound effects, grabbing things off shelves, ripping open sealed packages, crashing into things, sliding across the floor, and pretty soon, just screaming at the top of his lungs for fun. I couldn’t wait tot get the hell away from this kid, and as I was checking out, a woman came up and got behind me in line. Just then, there was an announcement over the PA system asking that parents please keep their children with them, and not leave them unattended in the store because packages were torn open and items were damaged. And then, as the announcement was still going on, this kid walked up to the woman next to me and called her Mom. And she never said a word, made a face, gave any indication that she gave a shit that HER KID IS AN ASSHOLE. Because he is. Not only that, he’s a FUCKING ASSHOLE!

So I say we lay the hell off my friend who jokingly calls her kid and asshole, motivated not only by humor, but by GIVING A SHIT about her kid’s behavior, and let’s put our snooty disapproval where it belongs – on the actual ASSHOLE parents of actual ASSHOLE kids, who perhaps need to call their kid an asshole once in a while.

Assholes.

To my friend – My asshole kids and I love you and your asshole kids.

PS. I’m not linking to her because I don’t want to send any more shit her way.