Pre-Prudie rant.
The nerve and/or common sense of people waxes and wanes like the seasons. Still, an open statement by a newly elected government official in Kentucky implying a business owner has the right to refuse service to a black person are troubling to me.
Why? I mean, really: Kentucky? Figures, right?
One, the sentence is basically true. I did not say it is legal, nor do I mean it was right and just, nor do I imply it is acceptable. It is simply true, in the human scheme of things, and specifically when uttered from a brainless hillbilly teabagger like Rand Paul.
Two, it's a bit like Lars Vilks and his brilliant move to prove the basic human right of free speech by painting Mohammed's head on a dog. He got slapped around by a few Muslims last week for it, inevitably. He was perfectly free to do what he did, and the result, I would say, was a rather robust act of free speech in rebuttal. I think maybe drawing Mohammed is fine. Drawing Mohammed as a dog and flaunting it is a crude and stupid bitch slap, intended to inflame the non-issue of free speech, which is only free in both directions. See here.
Three, take both of the above and call it what it is: baiting, thinly veiled as a political mating call. What, you're telling me the comment needed to be made? Why? We did not understand it? We need to know it? Was it educational at all? Did he seek to show us all the way of truth?
Nah. It was a moment of loud-mouthed political imbecility, more and more common of late, wrapped in a tea-stained flag and spat out offhandedly by a cheesy, well-used politician who needs a platform and, by God, will make one out of something noisy for expediency. Never mind I remain convinced that he believes every word he said.
This is in contrast to that brainless poop-licker John Boehner, who a while back was paid well enough by the healthcare lobby to actually state in public that American healthcare is the best in the world and needs no change, despite obvious facts to the contrary. That's just good old politics, and my using Boehner as an example was a simple-minded act on my part: one can only assume our current president is deeply funded enough by BP to sweep their recent oily assholery under the White House rug.
This thing is different. This is an old Southern precept, reforged again as a firm and solid stance, fueled by ignorance and hate and blind stupidity and a political machine driven most recently by the dollars spent by a goddamn Australian national who needs to protect his American tax write-offs and assets through media manipulation. Just sayin'.
Paul needed a result, and he'll get one soon enough. And when it raises it's awful head it'll show itself in many ways, including outrage and indignation from all quarters, and probably some vicious senselessness, like the comment itself. And when that happens Rand Paul will hitch up his putrid little redneck self and shriek in indignation “see? I told you they were animals!” It'll get tossed about on one side: Beck and Hannity and O'Reilley will call it much ado; on the other side, Olbermann will pop a blood vessel during his diatribe and Maddow will simply do what she does (which is always a wonder to behold, to me) and then it'll become yesterday's old story. Yet the nail will still have been driven into the word “freedom” far enough to prove, yet again, that nailing a word to a wall means you can charge admission and call it what you want, and someone will buy a ticket to see. What they see is a greasy little Kentucky fuckhead, spewing the same asinine hate we've all heard of, but never grows old for some.
I need to stick to the simpler things in life. Here's Prudies latest batch of imbeciles. Read the letters here.
***
Stuck Mother – Oi vey, woman, You mentioned you're “a young mother”, but this? Really? Recap: You are remarried, first husband is a sex offender, new hubby seems of good stock and wants to adopt your son – the progeny of the sex offender, who incidentally wants back in the boy's life.
Yeah, yeah; I understand that there are all kinds of really creepy, shitty things orbiting this little story, but there are too many black and white things that should (but apparently didn't) simplify this matter for you. Allow me.
Thing one: you are your child's mother. Do you get that? This child is yours to do with as you please, literally. From the tone of your letter I have to assume you don't want to do abusive things, which is heartening, but why the fuck are you even asking about this? You have one job – and only one job – to do, as relates to this child, and that is to be his mother. That includes feeding, caring, nurturing; all manner of subtasks that mothers sometimes understand innately. Sometimes they don't. Sounds like you are in the latter category about your status and role. Glad I could clear it up, genius.
Thing two: this deck of cards may or may not have been dealt without your permission, input, or your bet on the table. Having said that you better suck it the hell up, because these are the still the goddamn cards. Your son will have some things to learn someday, get it? If you can't look him in the eye and tell him (Now, later – your call) truthfully and straight-up, then you really suck ass as a mother, and should surrender him.
In short: the real dad needs to be told to fuck himself (if that's your choice) and the boy needs to be adopted (if that's your choice) and you need to grow the fuck up meantime. The consequences of your actions today do not trump the shitty situation, but today your responsibility as a mother trumps everything, no matter what anyone says.
Note: you don't sound like you completely lack instincts here. Listen to them and start trusting them some day soon. He'll grow up with or without your instincts present.
***
Not Happy About It – Did I write this letter in my sleep and send it to Slate? Recap: you can't find a job and it bothers you when recruiters notice this fact.
Really? Gosh. How...unusual. Not.
I went jobless 18 months. It bothered the shit out of me the whole time. When I finally realized I'd better just get some money in the bank and turn my back on a 17 year career, it was both liberating and humiliating. Turns out I needed the former as much as I needed the latter.
Let me tell you about recruiters for a moment: you are not a flesh and blood human being with skills and feelings and a strong will and desire to achieve greatness. You are a limp tool they use mercilessly to make their money. You bill for hours, they get paid. You are the whore, they are the pimp. You please the client, they keep you, and everyone continues to make money.
There is no argument about what you are. You are just haggling over the price, Xaviera.
In the end, you are about as valuable to a recruiter and the hiring company as a filing cabinet, a desk, a wastepaper basket.
Fuck the recruiter, and fuck what they think, and besides, how hard is it to say “this market has been particularly hard on me for some reason”?
Here's my little story, which might seem similar yours: One day I was the co-owner of a lovely and robust consulting startup making $300K a year; some crazy religious zealots flew some big airplanes into some big buildings in New York and 18 months later I finally got a job selling computers at Circuit City for seven bucks an hour. In the interim, $65,000 worth of cars were repossessed, and I found myself driving a 9 year old Windstar my mother bought for me. I owned a pretty pink stucco home in Southern California which I had to dump at a loss to avoid foreclosing, then I was living at my folks house with my 4 kids, then we stayed at my sister's house, then we rented a double wide after I started at CC.
Everything was gone, including my dignity.
Slow and steady. Eventually I got my career rebuilt, and though things are tight in this market we're holding our own while my wife finishes school.
Just go make money, now. Get some time under your belt. You don't need to put McDonald's or Best Buy or whatever on your resume later. When people ask about that employment gap in your resume tell them “I was doing some interesting post-education study, like a sabbatical” but putting “fry cook at Hardee's” on the rez is just stupid.
Get out there and put a little money in the bank, even if it's ten bucks an hour setting tile. Note: get knee pads and good boots if you do the tile thing. I still have scars on my palms and knees from it.
You don't need to take over the world today. You can do that later.
And for God's sake don't stop looking for the right gig, and don't give up. Your attitude will be whatever it is – just move forward and use the recruiters to your advantage, as they do to you.
***
Almost Fed Up – I know EXACTLY what you're saying! Recap: your daughter is being screwed out of her rightful place as sole salutatorian because some little brainless tramp pulled a good grade in some remedial course. Schools these days pull this shit all the time, giving credit to stupid children while the brighter (and MUCH harder-working) ones are lumped into the same level as the lazy, lower class kids. Oh, and there's a boy there too who was made co-valedictorian even though he...
Huh? Oh. This isn't your daughter. It's your sister in law. Ah. I see.
Lemme circle back: I know EXACLTY what you're saying! You are a shit-picking nagging twat-headed intrusive manipulative snot, and there's an injustice afoot that has nothing to do with you, and you feel compelled to snuff it out in order to achieve a sense of smug self superiority over members of your family who you find unsavory. I should mention that you probably have a history of doing this sort of thing.
My advice: you don't need anyone's advice, do you? You have probably already fired a few salvos of snippy invective at your mother in law, and there will be no stopping you. Fuck advice: off you go. Tear them apart. I mean, they're only family. Make the world better, Supergirl. Show us all, by example.
To anyone reading this: aren't you glad this fucking bitch isn't in your family? Some example, huh?
***
Not Willing To Share – This is the funniest letter I have read in quite a while. Here goes: your boyfriend thinks it's okay to share a hotel room with an old friend – a woman – while out of town, and you don't. Somewhere in there I thought I read “I trust them both,” but I was laughing so hard by that time I might be wrong.
First – this room-sharing thing is neither right nor wrong. Seriously. He shares the room, he doesn't – who cares? How can there be any question about this?
(Ah, lemme tell you.)
Second – you trust them both. This is good news.
(However...)
Third – You said “I do feel a little guilty asking the friend, who was recently laid off, to get her own room, but I am not running a charity.” What, you're paying for the room? You have a control issue here, bred of jealousy I think, but that's STILL not the point.
(The point is...)
Fourth – this issue is only an issue because you have no idea what he's thinking, nor he what you're thinking. This is likely because you and he are entirely too young and too stupid to have a fucking clue what is right or wrong in this case, four years together be damned. You still don't know him well enough to trust him. If you knew each other at all, this would never have come up.
Finally – I won't make any comment on this sentence: “He has made plans to meet up with a female college friend who lives in that area.” Wait. Yes I will: if she lives in the area, why does she need a hotel room? Ah, no matter. You trust her, right? Just let it happen. Really.
Trust me.
***
A weekend in the woods with my wife, gallons of beer and adequate fishing gear and good food in attendance, was just the right thing. Didn't want to come home. Sorry I did, actually.
But only a dreary job and a couple spins of the hour hand and the weekend is upon me, with lawns to be mowed and kids to play with and preparations for the Indy 500. Funny - I won't watch the race being help not more than 8 miles from my home at Lowes Motor Speedway, as I gave up watching the endless circles of NASCAR when I was about 15, but the Indy 500 (itself endless circles, yes, I know) pops up and I get all excited. More beer, home made salsa fresca, wings. The race isn't until the following weekend, but preparations are in order.
Until next time, Flysters!
Cheers,
STC =^oo^=
What we have here is a failure to communicate. Or maybe you're just stupid.
I've long wondered about meteorology. I strongly suspect weather forecasting is a matter of twisting up a big fat joint, smoking it, walking outside in whatever city you're in – say Tulsa - to get a look at the skies and saying “dude, that cloud totally looks like your old Camaro!”, then just making shit up and posting it as the weekly weather outlook for Rochester.
Weather is a thing I can't get used to. Southern California, where I'm from, is a place which is not in the company of real weather. Forecasting is easy: it'll be kinda cool, or kinda warm, or kinda overcast in June, or kinda windy, but, you know, mostly nice, or maybe just sort of nice, but still nice.
Here in Charlotte we reside under the end of the jet stream, which whips about like the the goddamn tail of a puppy chasing a bug. Yesterday we were told to expect a week of warm weather, partly cloudy, nice. Today we are slated for thunderstorms for ten days straight. Tomorrow? Who the hell knows? Snow, maybe?
One thing for certain here – an umbrella should always be at hand.
On to the tempestuous and perilous issues wrought by the staff at Slate under the guise of letters to Dear Prudence. I am feeling a little peckish at the moment, and have less patience than usual for this unimaginative drivel. I need my therapy though, and so I shall carry on.
Originals can be had here.
And we're away...
***
Truly Torn – Why, oh why does Slate need to complicate things so much, and so poorly as well? These little notes they invent for our amusement are hysterically trite enough without making massively stupid mountains out of silly molehills. Recap: one of your coworkers (married) is fucking another coworker (not his wife) and you're thinking about turning him in (nobody likes a tattletale). Oh, and he's slacking at work, which is very bad and sets a dark tone to the letter. Oh, and he's fucking her right there in the office in the middle of the work day, which is really just a not-too inventive device Slate inserted to pep up an otherwise bland story. Oh, and your mommy and daddy divorced under remarkably, amazingly, unbelievably, coincidentally similar circumstances, which sets the hook, sort of.
I'll play along.
This idiotic bullshit must end. Not just his, moron – yours too. Here's how: notify the sexmaster and his little sex kitten that the news is out, you are sick of the public fuck-fest and you're going to turn them in. Wait three days. If they persist in banging each other in the office, follow through.
Was that so goddamn hard? You need a Paxil? Any questions? Gawd.
***
Overshadowed or Overly Sensitive – Godamighty, I hate working with people like you. Recap: post-promotion, you and your more adroit coworker performed parallel work and she presented before you. Bonus – she's a pal.
She's not a “pal”, Mary. She's a coworker. Unless you two are pulling a LW1 and banging each other in an empty office during the day, she's doing her job and that means, evidently, she's making you look like what you are: less experienced. This is the nature of a workplace. This troubles you? Go be a cashier or a florist. Offices are places where some people get shit done, some people fuck around all day (literally, see above), and some people provide fodder for more ambitious and experienced coworkers, but if they have a shred of cerebral material available in their thick skulls they learn from this.
Where do you figure you are in that food chain? If you need a hint then you're just scary dumb.
Tell her? Don't tell her? Please. You both wasted many hours – hours you were paid for – performing the same task, and even though she did it better there is a measurable waste of time in there somewhere. There must be better words than that, but I'm sure you can find a way to let her know this fact and move along.
***
Neglected (Almost) Newlywed – Welcome to Schuyler The Cat's World of the Flagrantly Obvious Answer. Ready? Recap: you want more sex, he doesn't, and you aren't even married yet. This vexes you, apparently.
Feels like you may as well be married, huh?
Well, you'd better do a little soul searching, sweetums. All that self help bullshit about careers and stress and life intruding to the point that your sex life dies before you were married is a lot of bullshit – the laws of attraction work your entire life, Plain Jane, and I'd bet something about this relationship is amiss. Are you ugly? Are you stupid? Are you boring? Are you whiny? Are you smelly? Are you just completely normal with no issues, no baggage, no bullshit?
Whatever, the spigot is on full blast in the beginning of most relationships and it tapers off as time goes by, sure, but you're not even forty yet and the tap is closed? Something is either amiss, or (as I suspect) you've finally met your REAL fiancee. Laughing at you when you try to entice him with lingerie? That's not only fucking rude, but it's indicative of something: lingerie isn't funny, you know. There are entire populations of fans of the Vicky's Catalog who fight over who gets the next look at Adriana Lima in $95 panties and a $180 bra. A woman in her late 20's who poses for her man in his early 30's in something skimpy who gets laughed at has a little problem on her hands.
What's it all mean? Is this a habit that needs to be broken? Seems the habit IS broken, sister, and as you aren't at the top of his menu any more, you might start thinking of chopped liver. I bet nothing feels better than realizing a toss with you is less important than football, sleep, surfing the internet, or changing the oil.
You'd better have this out. Talk. Argue. Threaten. Get your goddamn mouth open and let him know – you will be miserable and unhappy the rest of your goddamn life if you don't.
***
B.A. Who Wants Out – Congratulations on that whole college graduation thing – always an impressive achievement. It is evident, however, that you didn't major in communications because a fucking third grader can communicate better than you have in this case. Recap: You are graduating, lotsa relatives are coming to see it, your mom can't afford to take them in, and your gramma's a manipulative fucking hag who likes to call you a fatty. Stress is the byproduct.
Graduating college is, I think, one of the rights of passage that sends kids hurtling into adulthood, even if they are ill prepared to go there. You are an example. See, I am going to give you some very grown-up advice, and unfortunately from the tone of your letter you seem to be unprepared to carry out this simple, adult task. No matter. Here it comes, Pinkie:
1 – Guests overtaking your mother? That's her problem, not yours. You might talk to her (that's one) about it, but she's got her own brain and her own way about her, and that's the end of that. Let's move on.
2 – Mean relatives coming? That IS your problem, and there's only one way to cope: Talk to them (that's two) and let them know how you feel about their attendance and attitudes. Better: find one you like and talk to that person about it. There's got to be one, and as word gets around it might grease the skids if you end up dropping the hammer on them all. Failure to do this means a. you aren't ready for the world or b. they really aren't that bad. Your call there.
3 – Gramma's a bitch. Yeah, I said it. There's an old saying – “you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family.” Well, I have a new saying – “assholes are assholes, just so, and need to be clearly informed of this fact sometimes.” When gramma sees you and says “well, well, if it isn't fat old fat ass. I see you're still a big fat fatty, you fat old fatso” you just might need to have a little talk with her (that's three). Indeed, you might reply by saying “I see you're still an croggled-up old loudmouth bitch, and given my girth which you seem to hate so much you might want to know that if I sit on you I'll crush your creaky, rusty old goddamn bones like twigs, but at least then you'll shut the fuck up about my weight you grimy, wrinkled old wad of overcooked haggis.” Or, you know, something along those lines.
We all tolerate a lot from our families, but that's no excuse for shitty behavior, and you – a college grad any day now – need to know this fact. You have exactly one hour to grow the fuck up. Then: Go git 'em.
***
Not much happening in my weather-challenged life, these days. Interviews for jobs still go on, but I am beginning to feel the effects of NOT graduating from college like LW4 up there. I can tout 27 years of experience, but the only thing I majored in was falling asleep during Accounting 101. I slept very studiously, though.
Vacation this weekend, for me – a little trip to the nearby mountains and a small cabin with a stream full of trout. We have poles and some tackle and not a single goddamn clue how to catch trout from a stream, but as there will be much very cold cheap beer in attendance, my wife and I shall throw our lines in the water and hope for the best. We will watch our backlog of unwatched DVDs (Corpse Bride, Hurt Locker, The Fountain, Pan's Labyrinth, Kill Bill 1 and 2, No Country for Old Men, Avatar, Burn After Reading, District 9) and eat and lay about like lazy people and forget that there's a mortgage restructure, two kids, a shitty job, a Persian cat who is evidently allergic to cats, and a lawn to mow. And a 40% possibility of thunderstorms.
Cheers!
STC =^oo^=
Weather is a thing I can't get used to. Southern California, where I'm from, is a place which is not in the company of real weather. Forecasting is easy: it'll be kinda cool, or kinda warm, or kinda overcast in June, or kinda windy, but, you know, mostly nice, or maybe just sort of nice, but still nice.
Here in Charlotte we reside under the end of the jet stream, which whips about like the the goddamn tail of a puppy chasing a bug. Yesterday we were told to expect a week of warm weather, partly cloudy, nice. Today we are slated for thunderstorms for ten days straight. Tomorrow? Who the hell knows? Snow, maybe?
One thing for certain here – an umbrella should always be at hand.
On to the tempestuous and perilous issues wrought by the staff at Slate under the guise of letters to Dear Prudence. I am feeling a little peckish at the moment, and have less patience than usual for this unimaginative drivel. I need my therapy though, and so I shall carry on.
Originals can be had here.
And we're away...
***
Truly Torn – Why, oh why does Slate need to complicate things so much, and so poorly as well? These little notes they invent for our amusement are hysterically trite enough without making massively stupid mountains out of silly molehills. Recap: one of your coworkers (married) is fucking another coworker (not his wife) and you're thinking about turning him in (nobody likes a tattletale). Oh, and he's slacking at work, which is very bad and sets a dark tone to the letter. Oh, and he's fucking her right there in the office in the middle of the work day, which is really just a not-too inventive device Slate inserted to pep up an otherwise bland story. Oh, and your mommy and daddy divorced under remarkably, amazingly, unbelievably, coincidentally similar circumstances, which sets the hook, sort of.
I'll play along.
This idiotic bullshit must end. Not just his, moron – yours too. Here's how: notify the sexmaster and his little sex kitten that the news is out, you are sick of the public fuck-fest and you're going to turn them in. Wait three days. If they persist in banging each other in the office, follow through.
Was that so goddamn hard? You need a Paxil? Any questions? Gawd.
***
Overshadowed or Overly Sensitive – Godamighty, I hate working with people like you. Recap: post-promotion, you and your more adroit coworker performed parallel work and she presented before you. Bonus – she's a pal.
She's not a “pal”, Mary. She's a coworker. Unless you two are pulling a LW1 and banging each other in an empty office during the day, she's doing her job and that means, evidently, she's making you look like what you are: less experienced. This is the nature of a workplace. This troubles you? Go be a cashier or a florist. Offices are places where some people get shit done, some people fuck around all day (literally, see above), and some people provide fodder for more ambitious and experienced coworkers, but if they have a shred of cerebral material available in their thick skulls they learn from this.
Where do you figure you are in that food chain? If you need a hint then you're just scary dumb.
Tell her? Don't tell her? Please. You both wasted many hours – hours you were paid for – performing the same task, and even though she did it better there is a measurable waste of time in there somewhere. There must be better words than that, but I'm sure you can find a way to let her know this fact and move along.
***
Neglected (Almost) Newlywed – Welcome to Schuyler The Cat's World of the Flagrantly Obvious Answer. Ready? Recap: you want more sex, he doesn't, and you aren't even married yet. This vexes you, apparently.
Feels like you may as well be married, huh?
Well, you'd better do a little soul searching, sweetums. All that self help bullshit about careers and stress and life intruding to the point that your sex life dies before you were married is a lot of bullshit – the laws of attraction work your entire life, Plain Jane, and I'd bet something about this relationship is amiss. Are you ugly? Are you stupid? Are you boring? Are you whiny? Are you smelly? Are you just completely normal with no issues, no baggage, no bullshit?
Whatever, the spigot is on full blast in the beginning of most relationships and it tapers off as time goes by, sure, but you're not even forty yet and the tap is closed? Something is either amiss, or (as I suspect) you've finally met your REAL fiancee. Laughing at you when you try to entice him with lingerie? That's not only fucking rude, but it's indicative of something: lingerie isn't funny, you know. There are entire populations of fans of the Vicky's Catalog who fight over who gets the next look at Adriana Lima in $95 panties and a $180 bra. A woman in her late 20's who poses for her man in his early 30's in something skimpy who gets laughed at has a little problem on her hands.
What's it all mean? Is this a habit that needs to be broken? Seems the habit IS broken, sister, and as you aren't at the top of his menu any more, you might start thinking of chopped liver. I bet nothing feels better than realizing a toss with you is less important than football, sleep, surfing the internet, or changing the oil.
You'd better have this out. Talk. Argue. Threaten. Get your goddamn mouth open and let him know – you will be miserable and unhappy the rest of your goddamn life if you don't.
***
B.A. Who Wants Out – Congratulations on that whole college graduation thing – always an impressive achievement. It is evident, however, that you didn't major in communications because a fucking third grader can communicate better than you have in this case. Recap: You are graduating, lotsa relatives are coming to see it, your mom can't afford to take them in, and your gramma's a manipulative fucking hag who likes to call you a fatty. Stress is the byproduct.
Graduating college is, I think, one of the rights of passage that sends kids hurtling into adulthood, even if they are ill prepared to go there. You are an example. See, I am going to give you some very grown-up advice, and unfortunately from the tone of your letter you seem to be unprepared to carry out this simple, adult task. No matter. Here it comes, Pinkie:
1 – Guests overtaking your mother? That's her problem, not yours. You might talk to her (that's one) about it, but she's got her own brain and her own way about her, and that's the end of that. Let's move on.
2 – Mean relatives coming? That IS your problem, and there's only one way to cope: Talk to them (that's two) and let them know how you feel about their attendance and attitudes. Better: find one you like and talk to that person about it. There's got to be one, and as word gets around it might grease the skids if you end up dropping the hammer on them all. Failure to do this means a. you aren't ready for the world or b. they really aren't that bad. Your call there.
3 – Gramma's a bitch. Yeah, I said it. There's an old saying – “you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family.” Well, I have a new saying – “assholes are assholes, just so, and need to be clearly informed of this fact sometimes.” When gramma sees you and says “well, well, if it isn't fat old fat ass. I see you're still a big fat fatty, you fat old fatso” you just might need to have a little talk with her (that's three). Indeed, you might reply by saying “I see you're still an croggled-up old loudmouth bitch, and given my girth which you seem to hate so much you might want to know that if I sit on you I'll crush your creaky, rusty old goddamn bones like twigs, but at least then you'll shut the fuck up about my weight you grimy, wrinkled old wad of overcooked haggis.” Or, you know, something along those lines.
We all tolerate a lot from our families, but that's no excuse for shitty behavior, and you – a college grad any day now – need to know this fact. You have exactly one hour to grow the fuck up. Then: Go git 'em.
***
Not much happening in my weather-challenged life, these days. Interviews for jobs still go on, but I am beginning to feel the effects of NOT graduating from college like LW4 up there. I can tout 27 years of experience, but the only thing I majored in was falling asleep during Accounting 101. I slept very studiously, though.
Vacation this weekend, for me – a little trip to the nearby mountains and a small cabin with a stream full of trout. We have poles and some tackle and not a single goddamn clue how to catch trout from a stream, but as there will be much very cold cheap beer in attendance, my wife and I shall throw our lines in the water and hope for the best. We will watch our backlog of unwatched DVDs (Corpse Bride, Hurt Locker, The Fountain, Pan's Labyrinth, Kill Bill 1 and 2, No Country for Old Men, Avatar, Burn After Reading, District 9) and eat and lay about like lazy people and forget that there's a mortgage restructure, two kids, a shitty job, a Persian cat who is evidently allergic to cats, and a lawn to mow. And a 40% possibility of thunderstorms.
Cheers!
STC =^oo^=
into each life a little mother must fall...
“Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way...”
- Pink Floyd, Time, 1973.
Yeah, ticktock and around the hands go. I am a little melancholy, and a little tired, but although I seem to look for something to whine about I can't really do it. I think that means I'm happy and taking that fact for granted. Harrumph. Mid life crisis? Gas?
Among the good things now are finals: my wife, bless her perfectionist heart, is finishing up the second to last day of finals, and I suspect this will be a not too bad day. Then comes Monday. Then it's summer and we do it for one more year. Here come the barbecues, though, and sitting on the patio sipping hefeweizen (or bock or IPA or porter or Belgian or stout or pale ale or a good lager or...) and hoping there's enough clouds to keep the sun at bay long enough to prevent me being grizzled into a raspy little raisin.
BTW - when she sees what I got her for mother's day she's gonna freak. I cannot imagine a gift less romantic or motherly, but she wants one really bad. I'll let you know how it goes.
After she's done with school, by the way, she'll get a great job and support me and I'll sit around the house eating bonbons and watching soaps. That never happens though. I've been a stay at home dad. Not quite like it was in “Mr. Mom” but it wasn't a picnic.
Need to be careful here. Looking for excitement can typically land the seeker in the middle of exactly that, and sometimes that is not really what one needs.
I probably just need to play with my kids more.
Letter writers – original can be had HERE. Dive on in.
***
Not Star Struck – Um, hello. Nice to meet you. You have some kind of, uh, problem? Let's see – recap: You, recently an adult, just found out mom was a porn star when she was younger. This troubles you.
So...okay then! There it is!
Huh? Was there a problem? Not to say this isn't an issue, or you aren't a little weirded out – hell, I'd freak my shit everywhere – but what more do you need? If it's weird, then let it be weird and get over it or don't. Move on. Sally forth. Eyes front. Just...go live you life. Uh...wait.
Hmm.
No, don't wait. Get the fuck over it. Any real questions? I mean, did you lock your keys in your car or break a shoelace? Something important?
P.S. - I have been remiss here. There are those who know me wh wonder if I have taken ill, or maybe if I'm stoned, and I myself wonder why I left this out: blackmail the fucking shit out of her, make some dough, move to Paris! Just sayin'.
* * *
Guilt Ridden – are you the same letter writer as number 1 above? Recap: you are in school, ready to graduate, career in view, and just discovered mom has breast cancer. You want to know if you should move away and have a life or stay close to mom. Also, for whatever reason you found the need to ask this question via Dear Prudence.
Ah, we are in a world of choices, aren't we? Wasn't that long ago I was regretting my decision to move from Southern California, a shithole of overpriced little stucco homes, bad traffic, polluted beaches, and the horrid attitudes of SoCal locals; to Charlotte, North Carolina. Three years and my dad was diagnosed with a big fat tumor “the size of a lemon” in his lung. I needed to stay here to feed my family, but I needed to be with my dad. Life happened. He died, and I got the phone call here, in my home in Charlotte. I regret not being there every day of my life since.
Meanwhile, I do not regret staying here with my wife and children, sticking it out, making our life here work.
Was I torn? Ayup. Miss him every day. But he and I talked every day, too, when he could anyway. Stayed with him for a week when it got bad in April, 2006, but he improved. The next time I saw him was August, at the mortuary, helping my mother carry his urn to the car. Heavier than I thought it would be.
You got a tough call here, sport. You have no wife and kids, so there's that, but you and your mom had better have the same talk my father and I had. We knew what I had to do at the time, and that's exactly what I ended up doing. It wasn't perfect, but it was the only way to go.
Talk to her. You'll know what to do.
* * *
Tired – Kids these days! Damn, they are a pain in the ass, aren't they? Recap: your child is a big fat lazybones and you are tired of supporting her, but your sister isn't, and you are at odds about it. Bonus: your child is your mother.
Letter 1 was an example of childish indecision and cowardice, and letter 2 represents a rather more finite choice in tough times. This represents an invitation into dysfunction, and you are a key player.
Time to play.
Mommy dearest is a lazybones, all right, although there is likely some serious psychofuckedness (ooh, new favorite word) happening here. Mommy needs help, but you evidently aren't built for that. Don't sweat it – that wasn't a dis, so long as you truly feel you've done all you can, and that continuing to “help” will cause nothing to change.
I need to remember that you aren't upset about not helping mommy; you're upset that sis is going to disown you for it, and I suppose that's understandable.
Here's you choices, as I see them:
One, you can stay the course and pull that tough love thing on mommy, telling her, essentially, that she can go fuck up her own life herself because you aren't willing to abet that activity, and lose your sister (probably for a while, anyway) or...
Two: abet the activity, sparing the sister relationship up front, but defying your own views which, I remind you and by the way, aren't wrong or bad, or...
Three: try to play the middle of these roads, which is an action destined to meet with unbefuckinglievably abysmal failure of truly epic style and proportion.
So really, you get 1 or 2, I say.
I am going to flip a coin. Heads = one, tails = two. Just a sec.
Heads. Viola!
Note: feel free to flip your own fucking coin. It's your life, chum. Gotta choose, like it or not.
* * *
Disappointed Mother – you should not be disappointed, mother. You should be punched in your fat fucking face. Just sayin'. Recap: you have maligned, pushed, controlled, manipulated, berated, humiliated, and hounded your kids to be completely nonjudgmental, something you believe is great, and they aren't. Now you are baffled how to pick up the maligning, pushing, controlling, manipulating, berating, humiliating, and hounding so as to feel in your own nonjudgmental way that your kids are good enough for you, even though you want them to not feel others aren't good enough for them. TL;DR – you're a fucking idiot, and want to come up with a lesson to teach your kids to be fucking idiots who are just like you.
You know, you can lead a horse to water but you still gotta shoot the sick ones in the fucking head. I say this for you, not your girls.
First – ever hear the phrase “kids will be kids?” I bet you think that doesn't apply to you, huh? Well, surprise, dipshit: it applies to everyone. Your daughters are not locked in the closet, or chained up in the basement, or squirreled away in the highest fucking room of the tallest fucking tower. They are out among other children, many of whom (unlike your daughters) have normal, potentially even smart, parents. Guess what happens when you insert kids into the intra-personal spaces of other kids? They experience real life, not mommy's Disney version of what is right, wrong, good, bad, and otherwise stupidly unrealistic.
Do I really need to tell you this? Do you not realize you are treating them exactly the way you do not want them to treat others? Are you one of those asinine “do as I say, not as I do” retards who never understood that when your fucking asshole parents said that to you it made no goddamn difference, except now you are the fucking asshole parent?
Want to know the lesson plan I have for you? No, you don't. Here it is anyway. I have readers. They like this shit.
First – can you offer them up for adoption? You haven't got the sense God gave an old lunch pail full of maggots, and you are going to fuck up these kids something terrible.
Second – commit yourself to at least two years of mental evaluation and counseling to get to the root of your issues before you see them again.
Third – if all else fails, change your name and get a job as a server in a diner somewhere in New Jersey. You can handle that, I suspect.
In short, let these girls grow up, you vapid, vicarious wad of reeking crotch cheese. They deserve better.
Oh, and the lesson? They probably already learned it: you're a fucking idiot.
***
Amid my earlier bellyaching about my life, it should be noted that all my interviewing has landed me precisely nothing – no call backs, no feedback, no job. Not such a bad thing, as I have a job. A bad thing 'cause I hate my job. Practice makes perfect, though, and there are more interviews to come. I'll get out of here eventually.
Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=
- Pink Floyd, Time, 1973.
Yeah, ticktock and around the hands go. I am a little melancholy, and a little tired, but although I seem to look for something to whine about I can't really do it. I think that means I'm happy and taking that fact for granted. Harrumph. Mid life crisis? Gas?
Among the good things now are finals: my wife, bless her perfectionist heart, is finishing up the second to last day of finals, and I suspect this will be a not too bad day. Then comes Monday. Then it's summer and we do it for one more year. Here come the barbecues, though, and sitting on the patio sipping hefeweizen (or bock or IPA or porter or Belgian or stout or pale ale or a good lager or...) and hoping there's enough clouds to keep the sun at bay long enough to prevent me being grizzled into a raspy little raisin.
BTW - when she sees what I got her for mother's day she's gonna freak. I cannot imagine a gift less romantic or motherly, but she wants one really bad. I'll let you know how it goes.
After she's done with school, by the way, she'll get a great job and support me and I'll sit around the house eating bonbons and watching soaps. That never happens though. I've been a stay at home dad. Not quite like it was in “Mr. Mom” but it wasn't a picnic.
Need to be careful here. Looking for excitement can typically land the seeker in the middle of exactly that, and sometimes that is not really what one needs.
I probably just need to play with my kids more.
Letter writers – original can be had HERE. Dive on in.
***
Not Star Struck – Um, hello. Nice to meet you. You have some kind of, uh, problem? Let's see – recap: You, recently an adult, just found out mom was a porn star when she was younger. This troubles you.
So...okay then! There it is!
Huh? Was there a problem? Not to say this isn't an issue, or you aren't a little weirded out – hell, I'd freak my shit everywhere – but what more do you need? If it's weird, then let it be weird and get over it or don't. Move on. Sally forth. Eyes front. Just...go live you life. Uh...wait.
Hmm.
No, don't wait. Get the fuck over it. Any real questions? I mean, did you lock your keys in your car or break a shoelace? Something important?
P.S. - I have been remiss here. There are those who know me wh wonder if I have taken ill, or maybe if I'm stoned, and I myself wonder why I left this out: blackmail the fucking shit out of her, make some dough, move to Paris! Just sayin'.
* * *
Guilt Ridden – are you the same letter writer as number 1 above? Recap: you are in school, ready to graduate, career in view, and just discovered mom has breast cancer. You want to know if you should move away and have a life or stay close to mom. Also, for whatever reason you found the need to ask this question via Dear Prudence.
Ah, we are in a world of choices, aren't we? Wasn't that long ago I was regretting my decision to move from Southern California, a shithole of overpriced little stucco homes, bad traffic, polluted beaches, and the horrid attitudes of SoCal locals; to Charlotte, North Carolina. Three years and my dad was diagnosed with a big fat tumor “the size of a lemon” in his lung. I needed to stay here to feed my family, but I needed to be with my dad. Life happened. He died, and I got the phone call here, in my home in Charlotte. I regret not being there every day of my life since.
Meanwhile, I do not regret staying here with my wife and children, sticking it out, making our life here work.
Was I torn? Ayup. Miss him every day. But he and I talked every day, too, when he could anyway. Stayed with him for a week when it got bad in April, 2006, but he improved. The next time I saw him was August, at the mortuary, helping my mother carry his urn to the car. Heavier than I thought it would be.
You got a tough call here, sport. You have no wife and kids, so there's that, but you and your mom had better have the same talk my father and I had. We knew what I had to do at the time, and that's exactly what I ended up doing. It wasn't perfect, but it was the only way to go.
Talk to her. You'll know what to do.
* * *
Tired – Kids these days! Damn, they are a pain in the ass, aren't they? Recap: your child is a big fat lazybones and you are tired of supporting her, but your sister isn't, and you are at odds about it. Bonus: your child is your mother.
Letter 1 was an example of childish indecision and cowardice, and letter 2 represents a rather more finite choice in tough times. This represents an invitation into dysfunction, and you are a key player.
Time to play.
Mommy dearest is a lazybones, all right, although there is likely some serious psychofuckedness (ooh, new favorite word) happening here. Mommy needs help, but you evidently aren't built for that. Don't sweat it – that wasn't a dis, so long as you truly feel you've done all you can, and that continuing to “help” will cause nothing to change.
I need to remember that you aren't upset about not helping mommy; you're upset that sis is going to disown you for it, and I suppose that's understandable.
Here's you choices, as I see them:
One, you can stay the course and pull that tough love thing on mommy, telling her, essentially, that she can go fuck up her own life herself because you aren't willing to abet that activity, and lose your sister (probably for a while, anyway) or...
Two: abet the activity, sparing the sister relationship up front, but defying your own views which, I remind you and by the way, aren't wrong or bad, or...
Three: try to play the middle of these roads, which is an action destined to meet with unbefuckinglievably abysmal failure of truly epic style and proportion.
So really, you get 1 or 2, I say.
I am going to flip a coin. Heads = one, tails = two. Just a sec.
Heads. Viola!
Note: feel free to flip your own fucking coin. It's your life, chum. Gotta choose, like it or not.
* * *
Disappointed Mother – you should not be disappointed, mother. You should be punched in your fat fucking face. Just sayin'. Recap: you have maligned, pushed, controlled, manipulated, berated, humiliated, and hounded your kids to be completely nonjudgmental, something you believe is great, and they aren't. Now you are baffled how to pick up the maligning, pushing, controlling, manipulating, berating, humiliating, and hounding so as to feel in your own nonjudgmental way that your kids are good enough for you, even though you want them to not feel others aren't good enough for them. TL;DR – you're a fucking idiot, and want to come up with a lesson to teach your kids to be fucking idiots who are just like you.
You know, you can lead a horse to water but you still gotta shoot the sick ones in the fucking head. I say this for you, not your girls.
First – ever hear the phrase “kids will be kids?” I bet you think that doesn't apply to you, huh? Well, surprise, dipshit: it applies to everyone. Your daughters are not locked in the closet, or chained up in the basement, or squirreled away in the highest fucking room of the tallest fucking tower. They are out among other children, many of whom (unlike your daughters) have normal, potentially even smart, parents. Guess what happens when you insert kids into the intra-personal spaces of other kids? They experience real life, not mommy's Disney version of what is right, wrong, good, bad, and otherwise stupidly unrealistic.
Do I really need to tell you this? Do you not realize you are treating them exactly the way you do not want them to treat others? Are you one of those asinine “do as I say, not as I do” retards who never understood that when your fucking asshole parents said that to you it made no goddamn difference, except now you are the fucking asshole parent?
Want to know the lesson plan I have for you? No, you don't. Here it is anyway. I have readers. They like this shit.
First – can you offer them up for adoption? You haven't got the sense God gave an old lunch pail full of maggots, and you are going to fuck up these kids something terrible.
Second – commit yourself to at least two years of mental evaluation and counseling to get to the root of your issues before you see them again.
Third – if all else fails, change your name and get a job as a server in a diner somewhere in New Jersey. You can handle that, I suspect.
In short, let these girls grow up, you vapid, vicarious wad of reeking crotch cheese. They deserve better.
Oh, and the lesson? They probably already learned it: you're a fucking idiot.
***
Amid my earlier bellyaching about my life, it should be noted that all my interviewing has landed me precisely nothing – no call backs, no feedback, no job. Not such a bad thing, as I have a job. A bad thing 'cause I hate my job. Practice makes perfect, though, and there are more interviews to come. I'll get out of here eventually.
Cheers, Flysters!
STC =^oo^=
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