“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.
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.
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.