I can’t talk about this because it’s a Family Matter. I can’t talk about that because it’s TMI. I can’t talk about the other because it’s tacky and in poor taste. So I talk about all this light fluffy stuff like how lovely the roses are this time of year and aren’t the fresh picked peas just the tastiest! Then I come across as this perpetually cheerful Pollyanna type, the very sort of person I want to smack just because they’re so damn annoying.
The truth is, sometimes my family drives me nuts. Straight over the edge makes-me-want-to-move-to-New Zealand nuts. Oh, not the immediate family, the ones I live with daily, they’re fine and I can pretty much deal with whatever drama they feel like dishing out. It’s the other ones, the ones who expect me to be a mind reader, who in the name of Concern and Love tell me (through a second party, because we people in my family Do Not Really Talk To Each Other, something that drives Sweet Daddio around the bend but that’s another topic) what I’m doing wrong as a parent, because obviously I am doing something wrong since 2 of my 4 children have decided to exert with great force their Free Will. If I had brought them up right they’d have graduated high school the normal way, gotten a normal education, and be doing normal successful things, things other than making gourmet caramel corn or fixing lawnmowers.
*an aside* #1, who has struggled some career wise, is now the Gourmet Popcorn Guru at the theater, with his own kitchen that he’s boss of, and comes up with his own recipes for gourmet popcorn, featuring homemade butter caramel (to DIE for! Oh man!), chocolate, and cinnamon popcorn. He’s experimenting with his recipes, and is working on a chocolate-caramel concoction. He seems to be really enjoying it, and looks like something from an Italian candy commercial, with his hair pulled back in a ponytail and a long white apron.
Anyway. Most of the time all this stuff can roll right off my back, but honestly (this is where the TMI comes in, too bad, deal with it) I’m kind of hormonal (“hillbilly with knife skills” is how it was put in that wonderful letter) and my back is all spiny like a stegosaur so absolutely nothing rolls off of it right now.
OH bloody hell. I *just* now got a call from my psychiatrists office. Apparently my lab results weren’t good, kidney function down doncha know, and this means he wants me OFF MY MEDS NOW only I’m supposed to take 2 weeks to taper down. That’s right. Off the medication that, for the last 15 years, has kept me from hurting someone or doing anything really rash or y’know, leaping in front of a moving train. “Rootie”, he said “you need to get off the lithium now.” He might as well have said “Rootie, you need to rip out your eyeballs and use your ears for fishbait because they just keep getting you into trouble.” How do you just let go of something that has helped you keep yourself together for 15 years? I rely on this stuff for my sanity and now I’ve got to quit taking it? What?? Oh well. Maybe it will be fine. Maybe my self will keep it together and there will be no glitches or hiccups or great drama. *sigh* Maybe I just won’t notice if the sanity goes on vacation.
I’m making it my goal this week to get the really messy parts of the house cleaned up and civilized. Mind you, most of the house is fairly neat…by ‘most’ I mean the kitchen and the living room. I like um tidy. The rest, however…well…however. Today’s mission, labor of love, exorcism, involved the game room.
It’s a big room- formerly a 2-1/2 car garage that the former owner closed in to make a workshop, and we further gussied up into a room the boys could use to play video games, have parties, whatever. It has a pool table, a couple of comfortable chairs and a big TV, and a wall of shelves housing electronics, games, and what-all. I tend to leave the room alone, having no real reason to go down there except to clean out the catbox and maybe play #3 a game of pool. I would ignore with extreme prejudice the mess.
Until now. #3 has moved out, and upon further review it was called to my attention that #3 was the primary source of the mess. I knew this well because of the detritus, unique to him. Cracker boxes, chip bags, and water bottles 1/3 full of tobacco juice (“No smoking” I said, thinking that would cover it. Ha.). The young man seems incapable of actually throwing something away, preferring to hurl it to the floor. I guess the good news is that roaches don’t like tobacco, so even with the cracker crumbs and chip bags, pests weren’t a problem. Or else Gracie was catching them for midnight snacks.
So, I cleaned today. 2 black garbage bags of trash (it’s a big room- like 20×30, plenty of room for trash without even affecting one’s ability to walk from hither to yon). I swept and dusted and put away. I threw out an old broken down recliner, and will go to the Habitat Store on Saturday to see if I can’t find a replacement. It was a satisfying task and the remaining boys (#2 and 4) are not particularly messy types, and will appreciate the effort. Maybe Sweet Daddio and I can play a game or two of billiards without fear of treading on something mysterious and smelly.
Filed under: Uncategorized
AN OPEN LETTER TO
MR. JAMES THATCHER,
BRAND MANAGER,
PROCTER & GAMBLE.
February 6, 2007
Dear Mr. Thatcher,
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core™ or Dri-Weave™ absorbency, I’d probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I’d certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can’t tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there’s a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from “the curse”? I’m guessing you haven’t. Well, my “time of the month” is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I’ll be transformed into what my husband likes to call “an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.” Isn’t the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you’ve no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers’ monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it’s a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend’s testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey’s Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: “Have a Happy Period.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness—actual smiling, laughing happiness—is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you’re some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything “happy” about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don’t march down to the local Walgreens armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn’t it make more sense to say something that’s actually pertinent, like “Put Down the Hammer” or “Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong”? Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that’s a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX
When #1 left home at 18, it was under less than ideal circumstances, so that was the only thing I had to compare a kid leaving home to- shouting and all. This time , tho, #3 (ok, he’ll be 18 in July and he dropped out of school in January- not my idea but there’s no convincing a hardheaded 17 yr old). He dropped out with a plan- he has a full time job making decent wages, he’ll get his GED (eventually, more eventually than I’d like but there we are. Once again, there’s no convincing a hardheaded 17 yr old), everything will be grand. We we going to start charging him rent when he turned 18- a token sum, really, of $75 a month and that included whatever meals he chose to eat with us. However, he had other plans. A couple of weeks ago he announced that he found a studio apartment at a friend’s house, for only $150 a month, and for an extra $200 a month he can have meals there. What a bargain! For $350 a month instead of $75 a month he gets to live in a room at a place where he doesn’t have anywhere to work on his truck or keep his tools!
But, he’ll be On His Own, and I understand that. He came by yesterday to get the last of his stuff, and stayed to watch the race and eat hot wings with us. He admitted that the first night out was alot of fun, but we woke up the middle of the second night and realized he missed us, and felt sad. He promised to come by at least once a week and eat supper, and maybe lunch now and then.
I guess I kind of miss him. Knowing that he moved out on good terms helps with that. I don’t miss the way he drinks all my cranberry juice, or treats his little brother like his personal toady. I definitely don’t miss laying there at night wondering when he’s coming in, or if he is. I don’t miss his derision and disrespect. When he was here Sunday he behaved like I’d hoped he would- comfortable in the house but as a well-worn guest and not as the owner of the outfit.
I spent a couple of hours this morning getting his room finally packed. 3 bags of trash to the dump, 2 boxes of shoes and hats to Goodwill, 1 box of stuff he might want, like deer scent (phew!), a can of FixaFlat, a blanket his Grandmother made for him, and 1 box of stuff he won’t want but I can’t bear to part with- Grandad’s old lariats, those Little League baseball trophies, that kind of stuff. It’s all organized and ready to go when Sweet Daddio loans me his truck. Now the room needs a fresh coat of paint (good bye hotrod flames!) and some furniture. We’re going to turn it into the guest room, because it’s downstairs and mostly our guests are people who have trouble with stairs. The mattress (he didn’t need it) is outside airing in the sunshine, because I don’t care how clean a kid is (and he’s not, really), there’s a funky aroma left in a mattress used by a hormonal 17 yr old male. Bleh. Febreze and sunshine, that’s the ticket.
So, am I feeling melancholy, baby? Oh no. I know where he is, how to find him and all. I know he wants the independence as much as I want him to have it. I wish he’d waited until after he got his GED, but that can’t be helped. Give it a couple of months, a couple of bill cycles, and we’ll see how he’s doing. He always has the option of moving back (provided he’s in school), but I’m thinking we’ll all find how much we enjoy being on these different terms with each other.
Don’t you love it when something good happens, completely unexpected and without any reservations attached? It makes me smile when life takes a turn like that. 2 things have happened recently, each one independent of the other, and each equally smile-inducing.
The first one involves an envelope in the mail, addressed to me. I love getting mail, don’t you? (besides the bills thing…personal mail, I mean) I noticed the letter was from the Savannah Scottish Games and I thought “how nice, they sent me a brochure.” and I set it aside to look at maybe tomorrow. So, tomorrow (yesterday) rolled around and I opened it up to find…how nice! 2 tickets to get into the Games, and a note attached asking me to bring my camera! I guess they liked the pictures from last year. Affirmation! I love it! Since I was planning to go anyway, and always bring the camera anyway, it was a nice pat on the back. Thanks, Niell!
The second happy-making situation is this 2 week vacation thing I mentioned earlier. Sweet Daddio and I chewed over various ideas for what to do for 2 weeks and he came up with the Brilliant Idea of a Driving Tour of the Southeast. We’ll start by taking #4 to the grandparents near Muscle Shoals, Alabama, then proceed through the foothills and Appalachia, driving with the top down during the shady bits, and sleeping at those weird little backwater hotels you see in the 2-horse towns. A cooler full of drinks, a basket full of snacks, and a well charged pair of camera batteries, and we’ll be set. It could be fun!
#3 is in the arduous process of moving out, 1 box at a time, and probably wearing thin the generosity of the people he’s moving in with. I expect to see him back here within a month, maybe 6 weeks. Not because he can’t handle it, or because I’m pining away for him, but because his landlord throws him out for being a User. He’s used to getting his way, to charming people into compliance with his will. I know one day someone will not be charmed and won’t he be surprised! I am staying out of the arrangement entirely. What happens is between him and his landlord, and up to him to handle.
Day before yesterday, Sweet Daddio made an announcement. It’s taken until today to say anything because it’s taken that long to process it it. It’s amazing! Stupendous! Unprecedented!
No, we aren’t moving, he hasn’t been made president of the company, and I haven’t been hired a maid.
Better than that! (almost)
He’s getting TWO WEEKS of vacation in July! 1 week, sure, happens all the time. But 2 weeks? Oh no! Never! His boss, the company president, is having psychological kittens over the announcement, made by George, the Owner. 2 weeks off! That’s 2 weeks of time not spent Producing! Ridiculous!
SD is, understandably, over the moon. I, understandably, am wondering what to do with a man in my house for 2 weeks. #4 will be with grandparents. #3 will be living elsewhere. #2 could very well be in Chicago, undergoing Basic Training.
Too bad he won’t have the motorcycle by then. What an opportunity to tour the Low Country in great style.
The last place he worked had a very generous vacation policy. There was all kinds of time off. His current place of employ is managed by Ebenezer Scrooge, who believes that if you give people time off they’ll take it for granted and become slackers. It has been a serious source of contention for me, because I believe that a rested work force is a happy work force. In this current economy, with all the layoffs in local businesses, the people who have decent paying jobs are happy to have them, and won’t (in general) take them for granted. The Boss doesn’t see it this way, choosing to believe instead that everyone is laying awake at night, coming up with ways to cheat him.
But all that doesn’t matter, because in just a couple of months, Sweet Daddio will have TWO WEEKSoff! I’m thinking a Food Tour of Atlanta is in order. Maybe even a trip to Six Flags that we don’t tell the kids about. He can talk me into riding the Free Fall and I can talk him into the Deja Vu. But all that matters not. Oh no. Not when there’s Dim Sum to be had, and cheeses, and European sausages. (I wonder if Westphalian ham is available yet). I wonder if we’d take Carmina, and ride with the top down, or Fred, in all his practicality, so we can purchase an antique and carry it home with us.
We’ve briefly explored the possibilities of 2 child-free weeks. Charleston, Jacksonville, St. Augustine. Tybee Island and a couple of stunt kites. Maybe we’ll stay home and he can take the time to actually make another bit of furniture. He’s wanting a liquor cabinet, craftsman style. With #3 and his truck gone, he’ll have the pole barn to set up under. That would be a treat. Maybe we’ll go to Savannah and test drive an Electra-Glide.
2 weeks of vacation! Maybe we’ll actually squeeze in an early morning round of golf- it will be too hot by 10am to play, but a 7am tee time would be Just Right.
*happy sigh*
#3 called last night, asking that Sweet Daddio and I be home because he had Something Important to talk to us about.
Alright- background. In January, #3 dropped out of high school. He was 17, and could do so without our approval. He found full time work, making decent wages, and got in trouble with the law over an issue with beer in his truck and a certain flight-response involving a cotton field and an overweight sheriff’s deputy. This resulted in 60 hours community service (which he has almost entirely worked off) and visits to a probation officer for the next year. His problem, not mine. He is supposed to get into a GED class, but thanks to some STUPID-ASS Georgia law, when he does, his driver’s license will be suspended, so he has been balking. And there he is.
Last night he announced that he found a room to rent, with his own bathroom, in the loft of a friend’s house. Alrighty, I said, I need to talk to the adult of the house. And so I did. Haw…his rules are a bit stricter than mine, plus #3 won’t have free food. No smoking, absolutely no drinking, no friends over, he has to keep his room clean, and he can’t have his guns there. I’m ok with all that, but I am wondering why #3 would want to pay $150 a month, when we’ll charge him half that AND throw in the food. Oh- and he has to take the GED. No GED, no room. Period. Sometimes it takes someone unrelated to force an issue.
I know why. It’s the whole freedom thing, being Not At Home, with a different set of obligations and all.
The nice thing about all this, is that it’s an amicable situation. Last kid who left home was thrown out under very unhappy circumstances, and I had a knot in my stomach for months. This time- totally friendly. He just trying on his wings.
He has already agreed that he’ll have to get rid of his project truck (boo hoo). There is a locked shed where he’s going, that he can keep his tools in, and this will give Sweet Daddio the pole barn to set up his woodshop in.
The nest is rapidly emptying. #2 has plans to sign up for the Navy in May, with a boot camp date of September. At least #4 is only 10, so we have a few years yet before I have to start buying small quantities.
And then there’s SD’s motorcycle. reckon we can squeeze #4 into a saddlebag? Maybe get a sidecar?
So how am I feeling about all this? I’m ok with it. Sure, I’ll miss him, sort of. I won’t miss his overdeveloped sense of entitlement, not will I miss the socks everywhere. I won’t miss him drinking my cranberry juice, or the cigarette butts in the flowerpot. I will miss his constant affection, the wet kiss on my cheek as he heads out the door, and the evening pool games where he thinks he can beat me. I will thoroughly enjoy converting his bedroom into a genteel guest room. The grandparents will like that as well, as his room is down stairs and the current arrangement is hard on their knees. And, it’s not as if he’s moving to Tucumcari. He’ll be on the other side of town, and free to come over for supper a couple of times a week, if he lets me know ahead of time.
I am not entirely sure how I feel about all this yet. There’s no knot in my stomach this time. There’s a few things I need to do, as a motherly peace of mind thing. I want to make him up a simple first aid kit- aspirin, benadryl, neosporin, that sort of thing. I’ll take him to the grocery store, show him how to buy food and if he wants, teach him some simple cooking. He can already make eggs, quesadillas, and such. He doesn’t know if he’ll have use of their kitchen or not. If not, we’ll see that he gets a microwave and a small fridge. He can eat stuff from a can, and apples. I am sure things will come to me. He plans on flying the coop May 3. The day before my birthday…it’s #44 so nothing special there.
I think he’ll do ok. He’ll stub his toe a couple of times, but generally speaking, he’ll be ok.
Filed under: Good grief, I see old people, Sometimes she thinks too much, man i'm bored, spouse
Because I want to, and there’s all this stuff flying around about young guys and frankly, I think men with a little experience are more interesting.
It made me happy when Sweet Daddio started showing some grey, and got laugh lines around his eyes. Young men…bleh. Old men…oh yeah.
Ok, of these 3, who would YOU like to egregiously objectify?
For many, many (well, how long have we been married? 23 years?) years I have been absolutely opposed to the idea of Sweet Daddio owning a motorcycle. It wasn’t going to happen, ever. Why is that? One only has to see a single accident involving high speeds, pavement, and the vicious removal of a man’s face to be turned against motorcycles. For most of our marriage, there have been small children, and the threat of widowhood did not appeal to me.
So what changed? I don’t know. I guess it just doesn’t seem like such a bad idea any more. Copious quantities of life insurance helps, as does the realization that he’s wanting a big touring bike, and not a rice-rocket. He also probably wants me to be a widow about as much as I want to be one.
So, I have relented. I’ve even offered to pay for part of it, since, if he’s going to have a big touring bike, I’ll need to go touring with him. To keep all the long-legged babes away, doncha know.
One of the images that changed my mind was a mid-60’s couple at the Vicksburg travelers station, on their sparkly red bike, stopping to stretch their legs. We chatted a minute and they assured me that it was the Way To Go, especially since children were no longer an issue.
I don’t believe I was wrong to be opposed to motorcycles all these years. If I were to go back in time, knowing what I know now, I’d probably do the same thing. It’s just that circumstances have changed. Sweet Daddio works extremely hard (like, 14 hour days, in a hot, stinky textile mill) and deserves a reward, something that is a real and tangible thing, that will give him pleasure. It needs to be something that *he* will enjoy, not something that I think he’ll enjoy. On fair days he can ride it to work, and that will give him an hour of fun (if he comes home the long way). He and I can go touring the Low Country, stash some snacks in the saddlebags and take off toward Parris Island.
I wonder if he still has those boots? I wonder if that Carhartt coat would suffice, or does he need something leather full o’ zips and stuff? Will he get a tattoo? Will he want me to get one? Will he modify his beard into a goatee and shave his head? Probably not. He is, after all, *still* a manager and needs to keep up appearances.
*sigh*
At least we have plenty of time to think about it. It will be after the first of next year before anything is done.
This is the white horse he’s looking at, walking around, checking the hooves.
Remember a couple of days ago I talked about taking this wife of a new hire all around town, and easing her mind that she wasn’t moving to the Darkest Amazon? At the end of that I invited all of them (hubs, wife, 2 kids) over for dinner Thursday night- last night. Great! I’ll grill hamburgers, make a pitcher of tea, all will be well.
(tell me if you can see where this is going)
Yesterday around 3-ish, #1 shows up. Great! I say, stay for dinner, there’s plenty. “I need to change the oil in my car and #3 said he’d help.” he said. “Ok!” I said. “He gets home 4-ish, y’all can change the oil and be done before 6 when the guests show up.”
So, 4 rolls around and #3 gets home, says “this will take 10 minutes.” and they commence to changing the oil. Only, the oil filter was apparently screwed down by Bill Kazmaier some time in the early 90’s, and all the cussing and struggling isn’t getting it off. #3 comes into the kitchen at one point, covered in oil in my nice clean-for-company kitchen, and says “it’s mocking my manhood.” At 17 that can be a real issue. By 5:30, Sweet Daddio is home and pissed because they chose to change the oil right in the middle of the driveway, blocking all parking and forcing him to put his truck on the grass. He stomps and snorts his way upstairs to change, and commences to working on the stuck filter. “Man!” he says (well, not ‘man’ per se, but this is a Family Blog), “Bill Kazmaier must have screwed that in, I can’t get it loose.” By this time, the boys have tried everything they deemed “logical”, thus boogering up the filter so bad SD couldn’t get a strap clamp on it.
Then, the company shows up. A clean and freshly showered family of 4, nicely dressed and all. Mr. Company sees what’s going on, asks a couple of questions, and next thing you know he’s under the car, getting the filter off.
“Welcome to the Toot Household, where you have to change the oil in my car before I’ll feed you dinner!”
Good grief.
The rest of the evening went ok. #2, Dairy Queen Grillmaster Extraordinaire, cooked the burgers and did a fine job of it, too.
