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The little prince.

Published
by
untitled
on March 29, 2006
in Family, Life and untitled
. 7 Comments

This past weekend, we dropped $300 on a Burley for untitledson. Momma doesn’t have so much as a banana seat, yet Little Lord Fauntleroy is big pimpin’ in his own personal rickshaw. The only thing that would make him happier is if untitledhusband wore a loin cloth and a cowbell and escorted him to and from day care every day.

What is it about this child that compels me to pour every last nickel out of my purse? He is my chunkerdoodle, my bub, my little man with cheeks of flan, and nothing makes me happier than providing for him. He has stripped me of my ability to say no. “A miniature pony? Yes. A 2,000 square foot playhouse? Why certainly. A gold-plated Tonka truck? Sounds like a worthy investment.”

Because of him, I pay $3.39 for a half-gallon of organic milk, when I could buy the poisonous variety for half that price. I go to the expensive car wash, since the menacing brushes at the drive-through car wash frighten him. When he was in diapers, I’d spend twice as much on Pampers Cruisers, for fear the el cheapos with the non-licensed characters would chap his ass, if not provoke the other toddlers to ignore him during circle time.

Everything that goes on him or into him has gone through a complex and very scientific decision matrix in my head. It would probably shock untitledhusband to know how much thought I put into which brand of white socks he wears. Things like him eating hot dogs at daycare keep me up at night, for I can only imagine how the nitrates will affect his SAT’s and ability to father children.

I’m a little fearful that in my efforts to make his life as painless as possible, I am setting him up to be a little prick (cue memory of untitledson throwing a tantrum over getting an Odwalla carrot and raisin bar at snack time instead of Teddy Grahams). I mean, I am fairly convinced that the reason I am doing as well as I am today is due to the fact that Mr. Clark called me fat in front of all my 7th grade classmates and that I was never asked to dance during all my junior high and high school years. Not once. Can you believe that shit?

This is the pain that I cling to, for it makes all life’s disappointments a little less shocking. It gives me compassion and context. And yes, it is probably what motivates me to buy the Master his Johnsons & Johnsons baby shampoo when the Target brand is much cheaper and would do just fine.

I know that at sometime in his life, untitledson will need to experience being the last one picked for kickball. He will need to feel a little self-conscious about wearing clothes purchased at Target, or egad, Wal-Mart. It’s these experiences that drive us to get a job at age 14, even if it is scrubbing toilets in a nursing home, so we can afford Guess jeans, baby blue Reeboks and Bon Jovi’s latest cassette.

These experiences propel us through all-nighters in college, and the endless drone of the work-a-day world. And if the parents have done their job, the child will find them to be truly pathetic. The child will be driven to take his life farther, past the minivans and hedges and Tuesday night sitcoms. And I can’t help but think that this Burley, especially with his father at the business end of his merciless riding crop, will most definitely give untitledson a head start.

The tenacious double d’s.

Published
by
untitled
on March 6, 2006
in Family
. 7 Comments

For a woman whose titties have not seen daylight since Wink Martindale had a full-time gig, untitledmother sure has a fancy collection of bras. She has a few practical bras — the ugly yet comfortable ones you wear every day. The rest are the kind that look best on the bedroom floor, which is a tad unnerving.

Lace, satin, push-up, microfiber. In every color from basic white to seafoam green. The carpet may not match the drapes, but on any given day, you can bet the boulder holder matches the sofa. Which is an ideal situation, since that is where she spends most of her time, eating dry roasted peanutes, digging in her ear with a bobby pin and watching re-runs of “Gunsmoke.”

This is a woman who spends more on spandex than some countries spend on foreign trade. You know how people often have a tall boy dresser in their bedroom? untitledmother has an entire tall boy dedicated solely to bras, panties and socks. What’s a woman to do with more than five bras, anyway? I mean, bras are kind of like shoes — no matter how many you have, you end up wearing only two or three of them anyway. Besides, having this much stretchy material in your life is never a good thing.

Personally, I think she has ordered every possible article of clothing available in her size, and now there is nothing left to buy except underwear. I don’t care if she’s wearing a $75 Wacoal — untitledmother’s titties still look like two Virginia hams that would be best left strung up in the smokehouse. I wonder what she does with all the old models. I’m guessing she throws them. And you know that shit don’t biodegrade. They’ll be sitting in a landfill, until an archaeologist finds them in 1,000 years and mistakes them for yarmelkes.

Hmmm. Perhaps I can convince her to recycle or re-use. Let’s see — she could could cut them in half and fashion coin purses or maybe hobo bags out of them. She could hang them from trees, creating nests for wayward condors and bald eagles (the voluminous cuppage might throw smaller birds off their migratory path). I know — she could give them to her granddaughter to use as papsan chairs or space pods for her Barbie dolls. Coming from a girl who once used a Kleenex box as a Barbie Corvette, I think I like that idea the best. Now, if we could only find a place in Barbie’s world for grandma’s half-used tube of K-Y…

Two words: fucking awesome.

Published
by
untitled
on March 3, 2006
in Family and untitledeye
. 2 Comments

This here is why I do business with a car repair shop owned and operated by two Greek brothers (who look exactly alike, and are both named Nick. True story.).

Two Words: You Lose!

Take me to the creative team behind this masterworks, which is posted in the brothers’ waiting area. Share with me the vision. Are the flames emanating from a secret bunson burner somewhere — or did they spontaneously ignite after the oxygen came in contact with the awesomeness of the GTO? Did the car break the sound barrier upon takeoff, creating a sonic boom and a road of flames in its wake? I want to know.

There’s something about this piece that warms my cockles. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d sneak into untitledbrother’s room while he was at football practice. I’d hopscotch around his Dungeons and Dragons game pieces, dirty tube socks and fossilized Totino’s Party Pizza remnants. A crusty bottle of Oxy would be tipped over on his desk, alongside a copy of “National Geographic,” opened to a photograph of an African woman with pointy boobies and neck rings. I’d walk past his album collection — which included John Lennon, Bob Seger, The Charlie Daniels Band, The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Sometimes I’d listen to his records, making sure to steer clear of “The Wall” and “The White Album” (the artwork gave me nightmares, like any good rock album should).

On the paneled walls of his room were all these pictures of muscle cars — Chargers, Super Bees, Mustangs, Furys — all suspended with yellowing Scotch tape. The photos would be accompanied by headlines like “Out to Launch” and “Pony Up.” I can’t make this shit up, people.

It wasn’t long before he graduated from the pictures to having a motor hanging from the ceiling in our garage and a carburetor on his bedside table. I was careful to get the hell out before he returned, lest he pin me to the floor and fart on my head. My reconnaissance gave me a narrow glimpse into what was cool and important in this world, be it right, wrong or indifferent.

So when I see a poster like this at my mechanic’s, I can’t help but think that when I drop my keys off, he and his brother are scurrying to the back room to eat Doritos and glue together model hot rods until their mother says it’s time for dinner. Tell me — knowing this, how could I take my business anywhere else?

Parents of the year.

Published
by
untitled
on February 17, 2006
in Family and untitled
. 5 Comments

I know it’s not normal to find your child’s tantrums entertaining. It may even be a bit cruel. But untitledhusband and I simply could not control ourselves.

The other night, an over-tired untitledson decided that he wanted to take his shirt off himself before hopping into the bathtub. I let him work on it for about 10 minutes (it was a tricky shirt) before I started helping. And oh my god, was THAT ever the wrong thing to do. I would’ve held back, but we were starting to cut into my “Project Runway” and “American Idol” time. And that simply cannot be tolerated, people.

My good intentions sent him tailspinning into a world of fury, body flails and donkey kicks unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He even busted out a move I had never seen him do before (wherein one lies on his side while propelling around in a circle, using only his feet). It seemed fairly reminiscent of Pete Townshend, and had I handed him his red plastic Wiggles guitar, I am convinced he would’ve ripped out a few chords of “Teenage Wasteland.” Oh, and did I mention that he was buck-ass naked at the time? Well, he was. And I’m here to report that his face isn’t the only thing that gets all red and shriveled when he’s mad. I’m thinking it’s a self-defense mechanism. “Retreat, boys. RETREAT!”

untitledhusband broke lose from the tethers of his freelance work long enough to come upstairs to see what all the ruckus was about. Once he appeared, we both started laughing uncontrollably at the site before us. Not wanting to throw a molatav cocktail into this barn burner, we closed ourselves into the bathroom. We commenced to laughing so forcefully, it made no sound at all, aside from a few snorts, gasps, and some involuntary glottal clicks usually only spoken by young Masai warriors.

Once untitledson realized that no one was witnessing his antics, he began battering the door with his little butterball foot. I would’ve let him in, but I was afraid I’d find him chucking crucifixes around like ninja throwing stars or something.

Eventually, I did open the door. But I’ll have you know that he screamed through his bubble bath. He screamed through putting on his jammies. He even screamed through “Olivia,” which he did not deserve to hear. But this seemed like an Olivia moment to me - untitledson throwing a hissy over an article of clothing. I can only imagine how he is going to react when I want to dress him in onesies when he is 16.

Diagnosis murder.

Published
by
untitled
on January 16, 2006
in Family
. 23 Comments

untitledhusband’s youngest brother is a sociopath. At least, that’s what we have surmised, based on our random observations over the past 21 or so years. Since we’re the only ones in the family to recognize the signs, it is starting to create some conflict for us. Should we bring this up at the next family gathering? Should we leave a copy of “So Your Son is a Sociopath” in untitledmother-in-law’s mailbox?

Perhaps I need to give you a little background. Break out your mail-order PhD’s and start the clock, people. The session has begun.

When untitledbrother-in-law was four, he started the family home on fire not once, but twice. Don’t even ask how a four-year old got a hold of matches, cause I don’t know. At the age of 12, he damn near beat our cat to death with his bare hands. We came home to find the poor cat panting, and his eyes were dilated – both signs of extreme physical trauma. On another occasion, he was caught beating a tied-up dog with a broom. No injuries there, thank god – just a rightfully pissed-off dog. And at age 16, while caring for the neighbor’s dog, the animal mysteriously died. OK, now if this were your kid, wouldn’t you find it odd that most animals in your child’s presence are either injured or dead? Would you not be sleeping with a crucifix and a tazer gun, you know, just in case?

After achieving his goal of not only maiming, but killing, another living being, he made the jump from animals to humans. At the age of 20, when he was babysitting his one year-old cousin, the walker she was in spontaneously broke into a zillion little pieces. He told everyone that he was playing a game with her, and that the walker bumped into the wall and shattered. The child was not visibly injured. We were like, “OH. MY. GOD.” Everyone else was like, “Oh those cheap walkers. We’ll have to get her a new one.”

This history, coupled with the fact that he has no emotion – no ups, no downs – has led us to our diagnosis. Surprisingly, no one else in the family sees what we see. I once read that one in 10 people is a sociopath.

As for right now, untitledbrother-in-law is a 21-year old college drop-out. The only bloodshed that we are currently aware of results from his habit of routinely bleeding his parents dry. Perhaps if he would’ve stayed in school, he would’ve learned that if you’re going to make a career out of extorting money from people, you should choose those whose household income is more than $45k a year.

From our vantage point, we see him blowing his money on beer and tattoos (one, ironically, is of barbed wire) and titty bars and $5 mochas and then asking his parents for groceries and gas and rent. This cycle of bouncing checks, asking for money and bouncing more checks just goes on and on.

What slays us are the never-ending excuses dished out by untitledmother-in-law. “He was adopted and who knows what he endured as a baby.” “Deep down, he is a GOOD KID.” Good kid? No no no. Good kids are building irrigation systems in Africa and volunteering at nursing homes and selling lemonade for cancer research. This kid – he is not so good.

untitledhusband and I, we try to stay out of it, cause really, it’s none of our business. And even if we wanted to make it our business, what could we do? We could broach the subject with untitled-mother-in-law and untitledstepfather-in-law, but they wouldn’t believe us. They’d end up hating us, and untitledbrother-in-law would become a martyr.

We go back and forth as to whether we are overreacting or not. Do we have a predator in our midst, or is this simply a young man who will spend the rest of his days working at Seven Eleven and kicking puppies? I wonder if this is the inner turmoil that Jeffrey Dahmer’s family felt as they weighed their suspicions against that little voice that kept saying, “Nah, he’s fine. He’s just a little…different. That’s it. DIFFERENT. He’s our son, he’s our brother. He’s FINE.”

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