Saturday, August 30, 2008
I've posted and commented on examples of people who do willfully stupid things, but aren't cognitively impaired. "Stupid" is actually a bad word in our house, and one we don't use.
With this whole Tropic Thunder movie thing that I've gotten my heinie in a twist about with the t-shirt and tag lines that say "Never Go Full Retard", I started thinking about this particular feature in my blog.
I guess it would be hypocritical of me if I continued to use this, simply because I've made a definite stand.
Along with the words "retard" and "fucktard", Little Guy has also been called "stupid", and although I don't use the term in my blog to refer to anyone with disabilities, it could be considered a hurtful term by those who've had it flung at them, especially if they're new readers and don't know where I'm coming from.
My kid's disability isn't a movie punch line to him or to others. As a result, I know I can do better.
So, I'm retiring the "Did You Eat a Steaming Bowl of Stupid for Breakfast?" and introducing "The Ode to Douche Baggery" instead.
If you're a Douche Bag, and if you feel that I'm marginalizing your experience, please feel free to write to me and I'll reconsider. I try to be an ecumenical commenter/insulter and only pick on those my own size.
So with no further ado, let me introduce my first Douche Bag...
It's me! Yes! Yours truly!
I'm a Douche Bag.
A couple of days ago I wrote about our meese problem.
We live up in the mountains in a very very dry area. There was a huge fire that devastated our state and we were on the fringes of it and had to evacuate for a few days several years ago.
Once in a great while we have days upon days of intense rain. Which of course cause flash floods, mudslides, washouts, etc in areas that are usually dry because there is nothing in the soil holding it all together.
And as I said in my last post, it fills up the vole holes. So they run for cover to the closest structure available. Sometimes they like what they've found and decide to set up a compound instead of trying to reclaim their old dirt homesteads. They move lock, stock and barrel into places like the trunk and hood/engine space of Hubby's vintage Mercedes convertible (also known as the black-hole that sucks our retirement fund away) that he's only able to drive 3 months out of the year.
Sometimes they actually find a way into the house and try to set up shop. Immediately.
Most people aren't prepared. When we get 3-4 days of straight rain and go into the local stores, all of a sudden they have a run on mouse-traps, etc and there aren't any left. After the last time this happened a few years ago, I went online and bought a case of Victor Quick-Set traps. No snappy-things to catch your fingers.
Anyhoo, as I wrote, Little Guy has a bad habit of leaving the walk-out basement door open a crack or more in the summer. The basement is solid concrete slab, with no cracks/fissures/etc, and no food source, so we've never had a meese problem down here. Until the other day.
Big Kid was up late a few nights ago and woke us up with his screams because he "heard" something moving around in the basement while he was in the office and on his computer. So I set up some traps.
He went away for a couple of days, and I had all this other stuff going on (along with pulling my back out), so I wasn't down here monitoring anything either. He got home late Monday night and went straight to bed.
In the wee hours the next morning, I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. I decided to try to make my way down the stairs and check my email and stuff instead of rutching around in bed and bothering Hubby.
3 meeses dead in traps. After a little while, I couldn't stand the thought of them being there, and found a paper bag, emptied the corpuses in it, folded it up, and set it on the chair next to me.
Which is Big Kid's chair.
I didn't want to set it next to me on my desk, and I didn't want to set it on the floor, in case I forgot to take it upstairs to put in the garbage for the next morning's trash pick-up. I wanted it somewhat close to grab where I didn't have to bend down (my back!) or feel skeevy about it. The way the office is set up, the closest and most convenient thing is the chair.
At about 5am, Big Kid came downstairs and threw himself into the chair. I had completely forgotten about the bag of dead meeses until I heard the crackle under his butt (these ARE the pre-coffee hours).
"Did you sleep bad?" he asked, as he wiggled around and settled in.
Crackle Crackle. Gak!
"Uh yeah. My back has been bothering me and I couldn't sleep."
I thought about telling him to get up so I could remove the bag, but then I'd have to answer questions. At 5am, if he started screaming, he'd wake everybody up like he did a couple of nights ago.
"Can you make me some coffee?" Ground his butt in a little more.
"No, I'm not going to make you coffee! It's 5am! If I make it now, it will be total sludge by the time your dad gets up! Why don't you go back to bed!"
So he did. And when I finally went upstairs, I took the (butt-smashed) bag of meese bodies and threw them in the trash to go out later.
In the afternoon, the kid just started really getting on my last nerve. His online classes had started, and he needed to do a few easy administrative things (like print out his assignments/schedule and introduce himself in the discussion/message forum to let his instructor know that he was present and accounted for). Big freaking whoop.
"I'm just not feeling motivated! I'm tired! Can you do it for me? I have to take a nap!"
Are you freaking serious? By the way, that pile of washed and folded laundry on the couch over there is yours. Could you put it in your room on your way to taking your nap?
"*&%*$$&&!! How come I have to do everything around here? And how come I don't see any clean underwear in the pile?"
Well, if they're still laying on your bedroom floor, they aren't going to get washed. You have to actually throw them down the laundry chute.
"That isn't fair! And can you take me down into town to buy cigarettes? I only have 2 left!"
Do you have money to buy them?
"Well, no. I thought YOU'D buy them for me!"
Whatever made you think that? (this is an old and tired argument in the Atilla house). If you want to earn some money to support your habit, here is a list of things you can do.
"You KNOW I hate to unload the dishwasher. You KNOW I hate to take the garbage out. This is SO UNFAIR!!! Can't you give me something reasonable to do? Like bringing the coffee cups that have been sitting for a week in my room and putting them in the sink for YOU to soak and scrub out? Or moving my leaking tube of hair gel 6 inches on the counter so somebody ELSE can clean up the big dried-out crusty puddle it left? Now THAT would be fair!"
If you get your schoolwork done for today, then I'd be willing to talk about what is fair.
"But I'm AFRAID to go down into the office! I heard something move around last week. Don't you remember?"
Don't worry. The meeses are dead (and it certainly hasn't stopped you from running down there 3 times today to check out your MySpace page).
"How do I know that? Did you kill them in the traps? When? And how come Little Guy got to have quesadillas for lunch? (Little Guy made them for himself by himself) How come nobody thought to make some for me? Nobody ever considers what I might like!"
I'd just had enough. Enough.
I told him about the dead meeses. And asked him if he remembered sitting on that crackly thing when he flopped down in his chair in the early hours of the morning.
He remembered. So I informed him what was in the bag.
Gak! He turned totally white, screamed like he was Janet Leigh in the shower scene of Psycho, and I had to grab him, because I thought he was going to faint.
It's damn hard to tell when he's manipulating and what is real with his illness. He's a smart cookie and milks it for all it's worth. I'm so tired of it all that I just don't know how to tell or have enough energy to try to even figure it out any more.
I was feeling petty and acted like a total Douche Bag.
And I feel like an even BIGGER Douche Bag because I still can't stop laughing about it.
Yep, I know it. Going straight to hell.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A couple of weeks ago, we were supposed to host a pool party for some of hubby's business/political associates. After three straight days of rain, AND a tornado up here at 9000 feet, at the very last minute, we rescheduled it to past Sunday.
Amazingly enough, the kids weren't that thrilled at having to consume another round of party food since they'd spent the previous week eating everything that was already prepared for the first party.
They've been begging me to make something "boring" like meatloaf for dinner.
Between the 7-layer bean dip and the deviled eggs, you'd think our house was located over the portal to hell. The dogs were walking into walls from the sulphur fumes. With the 21-bun salutes and clouds of air freshener to cover it up, I think we all sustained a little drain bamage.
Speaking of deviled eggs, did you ever notice that they're a hell of a lot of work with little to show in the end? Except for the obvious eau de pharte?
With all the rain, a couple of revolting developments happened. As the vole holes filled up with water outside, the mouses ran for the houses. Or should I say the meece for the heese? Our mouse traps in the garage, which have sat there empty for a couple of months suddenly started screaming "No Vacancy!"
All 8 of them. Yech.
And courtesy of Little Guy, who frequently forgets to close the basement door all the way, we were treated to the soothing sounds of Big Kid screaming his ever-loving head off at 1am. Apparently while cruising around on MySpace, he took his Ipod headphones off long enough to hear the pitter-patter of little meese feets. So I set a few traps down there. More on that another day.
On top of all that, it seems as if our Noodle dog has been up to no good.
We live on the side of a mountain, so our back-yard is terraced off into usable space. On one area, we have a basketball/tennis court. The we have a little bridge that connects the court to the pool. While we thought the Noodle was laying under the bridge to escape the sun, she was using her genius only for evil.
She was digging a hole to China.
Of course, being a dog, she probably didn't realize that wasn't the best idea in the world. Especially since her name is Noodle.
With all the rain, the earth under the bridge gave way, and we had a cave-in. It spanned 5 feet. 5 feet of tunnel.
Where in the heck did she hide all that dirt? It was completely gone!
I have images of her hiding it in her coat and shaking it out around the prison yard, ala Andy Defresne and his pants in The Shawshank Redemption. There certainly weren't any stray piles of dirt accumlating anywhere.
Anyhoo, in the middle of all this, I managed to pull my lower back out, so I had to take it easy for a couple of days. Everything is fine here, and school started a couple of days ago.
Since Big Kid has been showing no inclination to start living his life, and the waiting list for a group home is up to a year, Hubby and I have decided to "launch" him on our own. He's stable on his meds, and his docs say that he's not going to get any better if we continue to let him live here.
Sooooo, we've found an affordable apartment for him a block from the bus stop at a reasonable distance in case he needs us. He's scheduled to move in a couple of weeks, and I'll tell you more later.
A heck of a lot can happen in a week, can't it?
Catch up with you later, gators!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
They're really dry, his toes are hairy and extra long---so they look like they have an additional toe-knuckle---and he's getting old-man toenails. You know---so thick that you could use them to make car bumpers or kevlar vests out of.
Plus he doesn't cut his nails often enough. No, this isn't a picture of his feet, but it's like what I imagine they are in my head.
About 3am a few days ago, he wanted to play footsie or something. He reached out with one of those spidery feet in his sleep and STABBED me in the back of the calf, before raking those suckers down to my ankle.
I screamed. And fell out of bed trying to get away from him. Plop! Bent my right ring-finger backwards when I fell into the louvered closet door. It's not broken, but definitely on the hurtin' side.
"You ok, Honey?" he asked sleepily.
YOU STABBED ME!
"You're going to make sandwiches?" Then he started snoring again.
Of course I gave him crap about it for the next two days, and handed him the hedge clippers. If he wanted to sleep in the conjugal bed, then he had some serious pruning to do.
The other night, he was complaining about how nasty and cracked his heels were. It's a recurring problem, and pretty gross. Maybe he was angling for a foot massage with lotion, but I wasn't biting. Especially since I'm out on the injured list with my bent-back finger.
I just handed him the lotion and a pair of cotton socks.
Next day, I went to the local drugstore and talked to the pharmacist. Asked what was the best stuff they had that was over-the-counter. She pointed me to an entire aisle of foot stuff.
Of course, out of all the remedies---most that looked the same, I took the one that tickled my funny-bone.
Crackcare. snarf. Yeah, you guys already know I'm demented that way.
Bought it and brought it home.
Anyhoo, later, after we'd unloaded the bags, I was sitting at the breakfast bar and picked up the package to take a better look at it.
This is what I read was in the active ingredients:
Whaaa??? Pee? Seriously? Pee?
Ok, inquiring minds and all....
Pee helps dry cracked skin?
I remember Madonna ::koff:: going for shock value on David Letterman or some such late-night talk show a decade or more ago advising that standing in your own pee in the shower was good for your skin. If that's so, then you'd think she'd be squatting in the garden and making facial mud packs or something out of it. She's been looking mighty rugged these days.
Who's pee does it belong to? I know they probably pasteurized it or did some kind of process to make it free from impurities, but where did they get it? Is it human? Animal?
Can people make money off their pee? I mean is there a market for it? How lucrative is it? And how do the companies advertise to get people to pee for money? Can they do it at home in a cup and send it Fed Ex in gallon jugs, or do they have to go to some central facility to contribute (which could cause issues if you have to go there 5 times a day). Do they pay for mileage?
Do the pee-ers have to eat something special to add nutrients like asparagus, or avoid things like caffeine or alcohol?
Because on margarita night, I can p*ss like a racehorse. I could wear a catheter and make a quota in 4 hours or less.
I'm not going to let hubby in on the fact that he's applying somebody else's pee to his feet until we see if it helps.
For the sake of science, naturally.
And my finger. It's just begging for justice.
I know, I know. Going straight to hell.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Ok, two years ago You let your 14-year-old child who had Cerebral Palsy suffer from maggots in her bedsores, and starved her to death. Now you're suing the city of Philadelphia for a gazillion dollars in damages on behalf of your other children because they've been "traumatized" by her death?
The basis? Because the city should have *known* you were unfit parents.
And your oldest, who is 19, has a separate suit that seeks another gazillion because her death caused him "substantial mental pain".
2 years ago, this parasite would have been 17. Like he couldn't have seen she was suffering and starving and said something to somebody--neighbor, teacher, stranger on the street. Where was HIS compassion in the midst of HER pain?
Not excusing this guy for being a criminal, but hey, when the heck does the stupid end?
Guy is arrested for holding a woman down and masturbating on her. Yeck.
She comes to HIS house. He calls the police to have her removed.
And is arrested for violating the "no contact order". The judge tells him "it was his responsibility to not have contact with the alleged victim."
In a Michigan nursing home, a patient died and three employees were instructed to prepare her body for pick-up by the funeral home. Before doing this, they "posed" her corpse and took pictures with their cell phones. Other employees witnessed this outrage, and informed management.
After a hearing by the company, the three employees were fired and reported, but the County Health Department couldn't find enough evidence to prove that they violated any public health code.
Criminal charges were filed, but ultimately the Michigan Appellate court found that because the woman was dead, she could no longer be considered a patient, so the statute of "physically mistreating a patient" no longer applied.
So these three dirtbags walked out with their nursing credentials intact.
Oh, and the nursing home---which followed all the correct procedures as soon as it was made aware of this employee misconduct---was cited for violating a patient's dignity.
Finally---and this obit was taken down today along with the guest book---but thank goodness for Google cache....
The old saying "never speak ill of the dead" is finally dead.
Read here. Gak. (well pooh, the link doesn't work anymore---read below)
That leaves me with a couple of options.
Either I should write my own obit and instruct my attorney to send it out at my demise, or I better start sucking up to my kids.
Then again, this woman might have truly been evil. eek.
Sad and scary that this is her legacy:
Her family will remember Dolores and amongst ourselves we will remember her in our own way, which were mostly sad and troubling times throughout the years. We may have some fond memories of her and perhaps we will think of those times too. But I truly believe at the end of the day ALL of us will really only miss what we never had, a good and kind mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. I hope she is finally at peace with herself. As for the rest of us left behind, I hope this is the beginning of a time of healing and learning to be a family again.
There will be no service, no prayers and no closure for the family she spent a lifetime tearing apart. We cannot come together in the end to see to it that her grandchildren and great-grandchildren can say their goodbyes. So I say here for all of us, GOOD BYE, MOM."
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Incredible. We wrapped up and sat on the deck drinking decaf, and between the three of us, saw over 60 shooting stars within an hour.
We're in a perfect spot---up around 9000 feet, no city lights to dim the view.
What's really bizarre is that after we got back up later and I was sitting on the deck drinking high-octane coffee at about 9:30am----I could still see them in the blue sky! Never would I have expected that in a million years! Hubby was late to work because he came out and got caught up in it too.
There's a week or so left of shooting stars. If you get a chance, get up a couple of hours before dawn and catch them if you can!
Monday, August 11, 2008
I'm not going into a diatribe---I wrote about how I feel earlier this year in my post Language is Powerful. Dave Hingsburger wrote about Mr. Stiller this week and I couldn't say it better.
And for anyone who blithely thinks it's "just a word", I challenge you to substitute the "N" word every time you use the "R" word. You wouldn't? Why ever not?
Many thanks to Jacqui at Terrible Palsy for the head's up, and for posting this:
Friday, August 08, 2008
Suffice it to say, Big Kid has learned:
That Cougar Woman will take him out to his favorite and expensive sushi restaurant frequently, and buy him cigarettes when we won't. I guess that falls in the realm of what sugah mommas do.
He's also learned that if he pisses us off and we tell her to either a) make him call his grandfather for a place to stay or b) drop him off at the homeless shelter, but NOT to bring him back to our home....
That she isn't willing to put him up at her place other than once in a blue moon on her cat-hair-covered couch. The end. He either has to work it out with us or she'll drop him off at the shelter.
Anyway, the plan today was that they were going to see a matinee and catch a meal here in our mountain town so that she wouldn't have to race to get him home before her eyeballs failed her (and believe me, I sympathize---I've been having some problems my own night vision in the last year).
Turns out that they went to the sushi restaurant and to the mall to window shop down in the city. But she got him home before it got too dark for her to drive.
Big Kid: "We went to a little oriental shop and looked at samurai swords. Boy, do I want one of those!"
Me: (struggling to say something and groaning inside---just what we need! ANOTHER sword--my Ex-FIL gave him a family one on graduation--that we'll have to hide so he won't freak out and cut our heads off some night while we're sleeping) Uh, I don't think you're supposed to say that any more. It's not politically correct.
Big Kid: "What, I'm not supposed to say 'Oriental'?"
Big Kid: "Well what am I supposed to call it?"
Me: Heck, I don't know! Maybe Asian? Maybe you could just call the shop by its name?
Big Kid: But that IS the name! It's called "A Little Oriental Shop!"
Doh! I give up. I'm so confused! LOL
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Why does all the weirdo stuff happen when I'm away???
I can't stop laughing at farmer Rhett Davis's sense of humor. When home-buyers first built McMansions along the edge of the working farm that his family has owned since he was 7, they loved the idyllic view of his horses, cows and fields.
But then the complaints started rolling in. They didn't like the flies or the mosquitos. They didn't like the dust that was generated during harvest season when his crop of hay was bailed. They didn't invest all that money to have to be subjected to THAT.
Davis tried to do his share. He offered to erect a fence between the homes and his property if the homeowners would split the cost of materials.
They refused. It would "spoil" their view. Of his horses, cows and fields.
So Davis took a backhoe, dug three holes and erected his own fence. Made of old demolition derby cars, buried nose down.
"This is my redneck Stonehenge."
He doesn't plan to keep the cars there, but wanted to prove a point. It's his property and he's going to do what he wants with it.
Think the neighbors will "get" it?
I found this over on The Consumerist and it really tickled my funny bone. A disgruntled customer left a large number of foul messages on his cable company's answering machine until they came over and fixed the &^%^&** thing. I guess they compiled them and put them to music.
It reminds me of when my husband found out our sole cable company was not going to carry the pre-season Denver Bronco games and we switched to Direct TV within a couple of days.
NOT safe for work or around small children. Or your mother. Or your minister. Maybe your plumber.
The FUGLY!!! AAAAIIIGGHHHHHH!!!
Apparently a new fad in beautyland----Fish Pedicures.
You put your feet in a tank and let dozens of fish EAT the dead skin and calluses off your feet while you relax.
What demented soulless piece of crap came up with THAT form of torture?
Yes, I know that the fish don't look like this picture. They're tiny little things. But if I was sitting with MY feet in the tank, this is what I'd be imagining.
I would cut off my feet and hobble around on spurting stumps before I would willingly put my tootsies in with things that were going to EAT me.
Because that's what they're doing, you know. Eating you.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Sunday afternoon, Big Kid went out with Cougar woman. We got a message later that night that he was going to stay over at her place because she had trouble with night vision and driving (like she wasn't previously aware of this?). Of course, our biggest concern was NOT what you might think---hahaha---it was the fact that he hadn't brought any of his night medication with him. Which includes the anti-psychotics.
Typically, if he misses a night, there is a rebound effect even if he takes them first thing in the morning. And Little Guy and I got four hours of fugly later that afternoon---delusional thinking and property damage (amazingly enough, he never gets out of control enough to break anything that belongs to HIM). Big Kid was half an inch from getting his ass thrown in the slammer.
So, with the support of his doctor and disability advocate, we've spent this week exploring some adult group homes in the nearby city to see if this might be an option for Big Kid. As I've said previously, he is very resistant to being a participant in his own life. If we allow him to stay here permanently, we're not giving him wings. And it's not like we aren't going to be loving and supportive and a part of his life if he lives somewhere else.
I just don't think that I can facilitate the whole school/life/treatment thing much longer. It would be one thing if he learned from his mistakes, but he doesn't, and just continues and continues and continues. So I have to be a buffer between him and Hubby. And I have to be a buffer between him and Little Guy. He resents being dependent on us, but isn't going to take steps to be independent on his own. So we've been busy trying to come up with a plan.
P.S. Did learn something interesting. Cougar woman lives with her MIL (she's widowed). So Big Kid's overnighter was spent on the couch. And since they're crazy cat ladies, he came home covered in fur. I suppose that's better than coming home with Geritol-Breath.