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Tuesday, March 8th, 2005 11:59 pm
and really, i need to get back on ambien or something
In which I think, I live in an episode of Maury Povich. But not a good one. Like, one of the really trashy ones, where you kind of sit there and wonder when everyone is going to start attacking each other to liven it up.
More specifically, other people's drama is my life. Recently, it's come to my attention that I am, in fact, the most boring person on earth. It's an epic level of wowness, because my family? Is The Drama. Or kind of is. It's really sad. I should be The Drama, but my title was taken and stomped upon.
We get a call while on the way to work Monday morning.
The Phone Call
Me: Heys.
Sister: Get me Mom.
Me: And hi to you. *hands over phone*
Mom: Hey.
Silence.
Mom: WHAT?
Silence.
Mom: Is he still there?
Silence.
Mom: What happened? Where are you? Are you okay?
Silence.
Mom: Do you need me to go with you?
Me: Is this twenty questions?
So. My brother in law got arrested Sunday night for disorderly conduct in a club. He managed, all on his lonesome, to get beat up by two bouncers, arrested, pepper-sprayed, and then nearly tazered, then spent the night in jail. My sister, that pillar of dignity and common sense, screamed threats at the police from the sidelines until they threatened to arrest her. Then she drove her husband's stardard home to sleep off her hangover. They want to sue the city for police brutality and the club for assault.
*sighs*
I have no good stories. I have *none* that I can share at cocktail parties like this. I mean, if I went to cocktail parties.
Other Sister
I've mentioned my youngest sister is going through a modified Goth-esque phase. It's kind of interesting, in a car crash sort of way. I mean, I'm not sure of the philosophical statement she's making here, but wow, is she creative with turning things that should never be worn into fashion statements. She and Boyfriend are now employed, and they also have a terrify doll hanging by its neck on their door.
This doll has a history.
We were coming home late from work. It was, well, dark. There is one tree in the front yard. Looking out, we spied something (or someone!) leaning against it. That did not move. It glowed white in the darkness.
Let's just say that Jenn the Brave's ass didn't leave the jeep until it was confirmed it was a doll. A doll that also wasn't out to kill her.
Okay, in my defense, it's a creepy doll. It's one of those plastic standing up things that have scared me since I saw the advertisements for Child's Play on TV in my really boring youth. It looks like something that should be invaded by evil forces and snet to kill us all. And she hangs the thing by the neck on her *bedroom door*, naked. That is asking for a tv movie at least, or maybe even a feature.
Of course, keep in mind I couldn't sleep in the same room as Teddy Ruxpin either.
Okay, but anyway. Their drama is more of the daily variety. About twice a week, give or take a few hours, there is a massive, world-ending shouting match, leading to Boyfriendguy playing Insaniquarium for hours on end in teh living room and my sister cutting up things. Paper things, I mean. Slamming doors. Sometimes, he packs up and leaves, bag in hand. And then he comes back. They fall in love all over again, with the kind of noises that I own headphones to avoid. And it circles around again. Twice a week.
My son asked me the other day why I didn't date anymore, since the last time he saw Mommy in male company, he wasn't forming any permanent memories, having just gotten to the running stage of development, which says embarrassing things about my social life. While I changed the channel, Boyfriendguy wandered out, bag in hand, threatening never to return. Or something. In the kitchen, my mother talked to Sister's Husband about their recent squabble over infidelity and who picks up their daughter from daycare. I considered the fact that both my grandmothers, my aunt, and my step-grandfather were mutliply married, and in my aunt's case, we can't prove husband #3 is actually dead. I pondered the fact that I don't know anyone who has a stable marriage that doesn't scare me into chastity and then looked at Child.
"I think I'll wait on that."
But man, one more remark on how I'm going to marry Vannezsa since I can't keep a boyfriend, I may just do it. She promised me a Kitchen-Aid mixer. She also promised not to require fidelity, since this would be on paper for tax purposes only. We could afford a condo. Hmm.
Other Things
I'm getting pressure to declare paternity on Child in a more public manner than the one statement I made when I announced my pregnancy. I mean, not real pressure, not *yet*, but it's being brought up with increasing frequency. More sideline comments, of 'he'll want to know who his father is' and 'you can't keep him from knowing', which translates to 'he should have a father figure, and I can't think of anyone better than someone who wasn't interested in being a father at the time and hasn't been chewing at the bit to discover what's happened with his sperm since.' I can. I mean, I won't keep him from knowing, but his random inquiries have been pretty much of the curiosity and forget it variety. It's my stubborn side showing, I think. Or maybe my less-than-nice side. I just don't see the point. I mean, I read the literature on single parents and children, and mathematically, my chances of raising a serial killer are about equal with that of raising a president, apparently. Or a herpetologist, if the fact that the house overfloweth with snake books is any indication. Serial killer is starting to look vaguely comforting. I mean, at least then, I won't wake up one day with a snake slithering across the floor at me and Child's shining face while he explains he found it outside. I love my fellow man and all, but that snake head still scares the bejeezus out of me at random intervals when he moves it around, specifically, I think, to see me jump and scream.
I had another interesting experience, as I was walking through Old Navy a few weeks ago, trying to find clothes that fit my portly little gentleman. Yes. He is portly. The child is not suffering for food. The child is not suffering from anything *resembling* lack of food. This is a problem. I come from, on the maternal side, some seriously high-metabolism people, and on the other side, the more fleshily inclined. My sisters and I all burned off everything once the babyfat stage at four years was passed. So I really can't tell if this is a normal child thing. On the other hand, I limited his intake from snack foods to things that have some vague resemblance to healthy, so all the fat is *healthy* fat. Something like that.
Anyway. Old Navy.
Child: Jenn!
Me: Coming
Salesperson: *glances*
Child: Jenn! JENN
*beat*
Child: Jenn! Jennjennjennjennjenn! *MOMMMY*!
Me: *sighs* Coming!
Salesperson gives me the oddest look. And it occurs to me, as it often does at random intervals, that *Mom* is last resort for Child. It's what he uses when he's in distress or he wants a new snake book, to suck up. For any and all occasions, it's Jenn. And we get these looks. This is compounded by Niece, who calls me Mom to piss off Child when she's grumpy, which means at any given moment, I can be considered the mother of two children or no children at all. This becomes especially confusing when confronted with New People who don't understand that Jennworld is kind of topsy-turvy. It only gets cuter when Niece, in the shoe store, absconds with a pair of heels, puts them on, and parades aorund calling herself Jenn, and refuses to be called by her own name.
She also keeps making off with my boots, and if you've never seen a three year old wiht boots up to her pantyline tumbling arond the living room wearing nothing but a half-slip around her like a strapless dress, trust me, you have missed out on comic gold. the only thing more interesting is Child in a black half-slip and running shoes, no socks, running around outside without underwear because, in his estimation, it cools off his boyparts and is more comfortable. The best thing, of course, is when both slip into sister's room, in slip, and start playing with the mascara, lipstick, and blush.
That's when I know I'm doing just *fine*. And it must be stated, both of them are creative with the blue eyeshadow in ways that the seventies would envy.
*girns* Welcome to my insomnia.
More specifically, other people's drama is my life. Recently, it's come to my attention that I am, in fact, the most boring person on earth. It's an epic level of wowness, because my family? Is The Drama. Or kind of is. It's really sad. I should be The Drama, but my title was taken and stomped upon.
We get a call while on the way to work Monday morning.
The Phone Call
Me: Heys.
Sister: Get me Mom.
Me: And hi to you. *hands over phone*
Mom: Hey.
Silence.
Mom: WHAT?
Silence.
Mom: Is he still there?
Silence.
Mom: What happened? Where are you? Are you okay?
Silence.
Mom: Do you need me to go with you?
Me: Is this twenty questions?
So. My brother in law got arrested Sunday night for disorderly conduct in a club. He managed, all on his lonesome, to get beat up by two bouncers, arrested, pepper-sprayed, and then nearly tazered, then spent the night in jail. My sister, that pillar of dignity and common sense, screamed threats at the police from the sidelines until they threatened to arrest her. Then she drove her husband's stardard home to sleep off her hangover. They want to sue the city for police brutality and the club for assault.
*sighs*
I have no good stories. I have *none* that I can share at cocktail parties like this. I mean, if I went to cocktail parties.
Other Sister
I've mentioned my youngest sister is going through a modified Goth-esque phase. It's kind of interesting, in a car crash sort of way. I mean, I'm not sure of the philosophical statement she's making here, but wow, is she creative with turning things that should never be worn into fashion statements. She and Boyfriend are now employed, and they also have a terrify doll hanging by its neck on their door.
This doll has a history.
We were coming home late from work. It was, well, dark. There is one tree in the front yard. Looking out, we spied something (or someone!) leaning against it. That did not move. It glowed white in the darkness.
Let's just say that Jenn the Brave's ass didn't leave the jeep until it was confirmed it was a doll. A doll that also wasn't out to kill her.
Okay, in my defense, it's a creepy doll. It's one of those plastic standing up things that have scared me since I saw the advertisements for Child's Play on TV in my really boring youth. It looks like something that should be invaded by evil forces and snet to kill us all. And she hangs the thing by the neck on her *bedroom door*, naked. That is asking for a tv movie at least, or maybe even a feature.
Of course, keep in mind I couldn't sleep in the same room as Teddy Ruxpin either.
Okay, but anyway. Their drama is more of the daily variety. About twice a week, give or take a few hours, there is a massive, world-ending shouting match, leading to Boyfriendguy playing Insaniquarium for hours on end in teh living room and my sister cutting up things. Paper things, I mean. Slamming doors. Sometimes, he packs up and leaves, bag in hand. And then he comes back. They fall in love all over again, with the kind of noises that I own headphones to avoid. And it circles around again. Twice a week.
My son asked me the other day why I didn't date anymore, since the last time he saw Mommy in male company, he wasn't forming any permanent memories, having just gotten to the running stage of development, which says embarrassing things about my social life. While I changed the channel, Boyfriendguy wandered out, bag in hand, threatening never to return. Or something. In the kitchen, my mother talked to Sister's Husband about their recent squabble over infidelity and who picks up their daughter from daycare. I considered the fact that both my grandmothers, my aunt, and my step-grandfather were mutliply married, and in my aunt's case, we can't prove husband #3 is actually dead. I pondered the fact that I don't know anyone who has a stable marriage that doesn't scare me into chastity and then looked at Child.
"I think I'll wait on that."
But man, one more remark on how I'm going to marry Vannezsa since I can't keep a boyfriend, I may just do it. She promised me a Kitchen-Aid mixer. She also promised not to require fidelity, since this would be on paper for tax purposes only. We could afford a condo. Hmm.
Other Things
I'm getting pressure to declare paternity on Child in a more public manner than the one statement I made when I announced my pregnancy. I mean, not real pressure, not *yet*, but it's being brought up with increasing frequency. More sideline comments, of 'he'll want to know who his father is' and 'you can't keep him from knowing', which translates to 'he should have a father figure, and I can't think of anyone better than someone who wasn't interested in being a father at the time and hasn't been chewing at the bit to discover what's happened with his sperm since.' I can. I mean, I won't keep him from knowing, but his random inquiries have been pretty much of the curiosity and forget it variety. It's my stubborn side showing, I think. Or maybe my less-than-nice side. I just don't see the point. I mean, I read the literature on single parents and children, and mathematically, my chances of raising a serial killer are about equal with that of raising a president, apparently. Or a herpetologist, if the fact that the house overfloweth with snake books is any indication. Serial killer is starting to look vaguely comforting. I mean, at least then, I won't wake up one day with a snake slithering across the floor at me and Child's shining face while he explains he found it outside. I love my fellow man and all, but that snake head still scares the bejeezus out of me at random intervals when he moves it around, specifically, I think, to see me jump and scream.
I had another interesting experience, as I was walking through Old Navy a few weeks ago, trying to find clothes that fit my portly little gentleman. Yes. He is portly. The child is not suffering for food. The child is not suffering from anything *resembling* lack of food. This is a problem. I come from, on the maternal side, some seriously high-metabolism people, and on the other side, the more fleshily inclined. My sisters and I all burned off everything once the babyfat stage at four years was passed. So I really can't tell if this is a normal child thing. On the other hand, I limited his intake from snack foods to things that have some vague resemblance to healthy, so all the fat is *healthy* fat. Something like that.
Anyway. Old Navy.
Child: Jenn!
Me: Coming
Salesperson: *glances*
Child: Jenn! JENN
*beat*
Child: Jenn! Jennjennjennjennjenn! *MOMMMY*!
Me: *sighs* Coming!
Salesperson gives me the oddest look. And it occurs to me, as it often does at random intervals, that *Mom* is last resort for Child. It's what he uses when he's in distress or he wants a new snake book, to suck up. For any and all occasions, it's Jenn. And we get these looks. This is compounded by Niece, who calls me Mom to piss off Child when she's grumpy, which means at any given moment, I can be considered the mother of two children or no children at all. This becomes especially confusing when confronted with New People who don't understand that Jennworld is kind of topsy-turvy. It only gets cuter when Niece, in the shoe store, absconds with a pair of heels, puts them on, and parades aorund calling herself Jenn, and refuses to be called by her own name.
She also keeps making off with my boots, and if you've never seen a three year old wiht boots up to her pantyline tumbling arond the living room wearing nothing but a half-slip around her like a strapless dress, trust me, you have missed out on comic gold. the only thing more interesting is Child in a black half-slip and running shoes, no socks, running around outside without underwear because, in his estimation, it cools off his boyparts and is more comfortable. The best thing, of course, is when both slip into sister's room, in slip, and start playing with the mascara, lipstick, and blush.
That's when I know I'm doing just *fine*. And it must be stated, both of them are creative with the blue eyeshadow in ways that the seventies would envy.
*girns* Welcome to my insomnia.
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From:*grins* I do wonder when Child, or if, he'll get active about wondering. I don't know if it's weird or not that this hasn't come up before with him in a serious way. He just never seems that interested in an answer.
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From:I get those vague kind of "Will I go bald at thirty?", "Do I have colon-cancer inclined genes" type wonderings now and then, but they're really very fleeting.
My mother threw a fit the other day: "If I was your biological mother, I'd understand you. It's not my fault I'm dumb!" to which I said, "Rubbish!"
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From:I'm waiting for the day Child tries "my dad would let me!"
cause man. that will be *fun*. I have answers ready for that one.
*bounces* I get excited about the strangest things sometimes.
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From:My mother threw a fit the other day: "If I was your biological mother, I'd understand you. It's not my fault I'm dumb!" to which I said, "Rubbish!"
My mom (who is also my biomom) and I look a lot. We have the same face, same smile, same head tilt, same speech patterns. We sit the same way, are insanely stubborn over the same things and get filled with righteous fury in the same way.
However, I am a little changeling child when it comes to most of my personality. Where my scientist mother got her freaky deaky child no one will ever know.
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From:And your icon is *lovely*, btw. *kind of staring*
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From:We had one of those talking Baby Teddies from when I was younger, and we kept it in our closet. A few years back the wires shorted out, resulting in it's already-creepy chipmunk voice taking on an odd variation wherein it would start out normal, and then go into a deep, demonic-sounding slow voice, then stop altogether. The heat in the closet also made it turn itself on at random intervals. I'd be asleep or doing homework in bed and suddenly start hearing:
*high pitch* "I'm baby Teddy." *slow turn to deep posessed-sounding voice* "It's...naaap...tiiime...noooooow."
:shivers:
Linzee
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From:okay, I would have had a heart attack.
*pets you with shaking hand*
I am going to dream about this now. Evil Teddy, murmuring "It's...naaap...tiiime...noooooow--FOREVER!"
*rocks self in corner*
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From:"What's...your...favorite...color? Mine's...blood red!"
:shiver: Now that was a toy we got rid of fast. I...think.
I'll be checking under my bed tonight, just in case.
Linzee
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From:I don't know why I don't have nightmares about Speak'n'Spell. My siblings and I used it to insult each other. "Y R U A P U ?" But no, I wanted my stuffed bears to live, and wanted the monsters from Dr. Who in the closet to go away.
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From:*blinks*
THAT IS SO COOL!
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From:Whoa.
*forwards*
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From:Thanks sweetie, this made me laugh out loud. Makes perfect sense too, you have a very smart and sensible little one. :)
I had one of those Chatty Cathy dolls when I was little. My mom told me that it scared her to death one day when she was making my bed while I was at school and all of a sudden Chatty started rambling away with all of her catch phrases all by herself. Mom sure hadn't turned her on. I'd never liked her, I thought she was kind of scary. I was very happy that Mom moved her on out the door after that.
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From:*grins*
I had one of those Chatty Cathy dolls when I was little. My mom told me that it scared her to death one day when she was making my bed while I was at school and all of a sudden Chatty started rambling away with all of her catch phrases all by herself. Mom sure hadn't turned her on. I'd never liked her, I thought she was kind of scary. I was very happy that Mom moved her on out the door after that.
Whoa. Now that is trauma. *shudder*
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From:I agree with the others. Ver cool icon.
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no sequins?
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Re: no sequins?
From:Um, eight as of January 27th. Precious little monster. *smiles fondly at thoughts of offspring*
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From:I would tell my parents with great displeasure of her dark deed, and they would punish her by laughing uproariously.
Really I would have rathered she be beaten or forced to walk on hot coals or something at the time.
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From:tell me you stepped on her toes, at least.
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From:Looking back over my own life, I wish I hadn't have married Mike's dad. I'm not happy about his influence. Our opinions differ on EVERYTHING.
Also, there's nothing wrong with a boring life...especially when raising a child. Believe me you don't want interesting. Sort of like that old Chinese curse of "may you live in interesting times".
After my divorce, with all the drama playing out around me, and because Mike asked me a similar question (but more because he was afraid what would happen if I married someone who didn't like him), I decided just to raise the boy and not worry about dating. It can be a lonely experience, but I also didn't have to worry about my son getting attached to men in my life (who I might or might not have been attached to myself).
Don't bow down to other people's expectations. Just do what you truly believe is best for you and the boy.
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From:*hugs* thanks, sweetie.
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From:And frankly, ti's a hell of a lot more relaxing to not worry about any of this.
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From:But, yeah. In this day and age, I'm sure a large number of his classmates are being raised by single mothers, so perhaps your family is overestimating his reaction. And certainly he's already got some adult male role models around, so he's not exactly missing out on a significant developmental influence.
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From:Just sayin'.
*hugs*
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From:*grins and hugs* You are such a sweetie.
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From:I'm guessing your relatives wouldn't buy it if you told them you've forgotten who the sperm donor is? {g}
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From:Hee. I have so thought of that. I mean, my clients get away with it--or say he went back to Mexico/city of choice/wherever. I would like to see the looks on their faces if I try it.
*ponders*
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From:*Dives back into reading and writing happy/engrossing Clexy fic*
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From:I just can't imagine how I'd fit him into my schedule, really. Or God, my family. *shivers*
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