There is an epidemic in this city.......of bedbugs. In the past week, I have heard stories from 3 different people about their bedbug experiences. One is an aunt of mine, another a neighbor who just moved in next to our friends Lloyd and Melissa. Lloyd is an exterminator and he has told me some unbelievable stories about the infestations people have in their homes. You can walk into someone's home who has an infestation so bad, the bugs are sitting out in the open and falling off the furniture. And they wait til it gets that bad before they call someone like Lloyd.
The rise in bedbugs is even in the news. I saw a segment where a reporter went into someone's home and showed a mattress that the seams were encrusted with bugs. I don't know how he did it because I would have burned my clothes while they were still on my body as soon as I left.
I worry about them being in hotels and Lloyd has promised to show me what to look for when we go to Florida. I would rather sleep in my van than stay in a bedbug ridden room. And the other day, something else occurred to me. I bought a robe for my nephew on eBay. Now, it was a brand new robe, but I have no idea who's home it came from really, or where they'd gotten it from to begin with. And that just freaked me out. I but LOTS of things from eBay. I love me some eBay. I also enjoy going to thrift stores.
Lloyd told me about an office building he's been treating. They keep calling him back because they continually find bedbugs in their office, including crawling on one woman's suit. He said that someone there has to be bringing them in. This seems obvious to me - they don't just spontaneously appear out of the air. Yet they all deny having a problem at home. If I even suspected I had a single bedbug anywhere in my home, I would call Lloyd in the middle of the damn night if need be. Especially if one of my coworkers had them and was spreading the joy. How can someone knowingly live with bedbugs? And to let their population become so large that they are crawling over you like roaches? We are never going to control them if people are letting them run so rampant in their homes. It's sickening.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Open Mouth, Insert Chicken Wing
On Friday evening, we ordered dinner from a local, very popular, moderately expensive, pizza restaurant. Compared to other chains, such as Domino’s, my favorite for hoagies, and Pizza Hut, my favorite veggie pizza, they cost more even with sales or coupons. They have quick service though, and a much larger selection of menu items than typical pizza places. Our order this time consisted of a pizza as well as an order of BBQ chicken wings. The wings come with a cup of ranch dressing and a bag of celery sticks.
When our order arrived, I opened the box of chicken wings and checked for the cup of ranch dressing. I really wish I could get my husband to open the boxes before he pays the delivery driver, because I can’t even tell you how many times that damned ranch dressing has been missing from the box. Sure enough, there was no cup of dressing sitting there. I even checked the pizza box. Nada.
Before I even sat down to eat my ranchless wings, I called their phone center to complain. When something is missing from the box, they ALWAYS want to send the driver back out with it. I knew this before I even called and was not going to delay dinner another 30-40 minutes waiting for freaking ranch dressing. I actually had a cup leftover from the last time I ordered extra and actually got it for once. It wasn’t expired so I was going to use that. My motivation was simply to BITCH, because as I said this has happened frequently and I was just fed up. Like the straw that broke the elephants back.
I speak first to their order taking agent, who politely referred me to his supervisor. I was as polite as I could be, considering I kept having to refuse her offer to have the driver come back out with the dressing. No sorry, not getting off that easy this time. I paid for those extra cups I never got, even if this one was included in the price of the wings. I’m also just pissed because of how many times it’s happened. (And hell yes, we order a lot of pizza, please don’t judge.) Lately, we have ordered from this particular place less often because their prices aren’t competitive enough to allow for so many mistakes, regardless of how great the pizza is.
The first thing I asked the supervisor was whether or not the drivers even bothered to check in the boxes to make sure they are correct before they deliver them. Her response was, “To be honest with you, I don’t think that they do.” Now how professional is that? Narcing on them. I just kind of laughed and said I already knew that, considering this wasn’t the first time something was missing and I was so fed up I probably wouldn’t order from them again for awhile (and I won’t). After I repeatedly refused the new order of wings, ranting about how I can't eat wings without dressing, and how I was listening to the voice over while I was on hold, they made a big deal out of getting whatever dipping sauces you want on the side, and yet I never get mine, she finally said she was going to give me a $3 credit on my account, AND put in a complaint about the store it came from. I was satisfied with that and said so, and even complimented her and the company, because the food is always on time and always hot. I’m not a complete raving bitch, after all.
After getting off the phone, I get my spare ranch dressing out of the fridge, and sit down to eat the wings. I ate a few, and was disappointed in how terribly dry they were. The sauce was completely absorbed in them, and they weren’t that great. Maybe I should have had her remake them and send them out again....oh well. I gave the rest of them to my husband. A few minutes later, he walks over to me in the kitchen, and hands me the celery. I’m like, “Dude, I don’t want that.” He says, “Uh, look inside the bag, dear.” So I do look and obviously you must be psychic because you know what was in that bag don’tcha? Yep, a nice shiny cup of ranch dressing.
I was going to call the supervisor back, to admit I had found the dressing, but decided against it. I just would have ended up complaining about how crappy the wings were, and that they have never shoved the dressing in with the celery before, so how was I to know, and that still didn’t make up for the 10 cups they still owed me, or the dry and chewy, yet expensive chicken wings.
The worst part of the whole episode (as if that weren't idiotic enough) is that I nearly repeated it the very next day. We had dinner at a friend’s house and it just so happened they wanted to order from that same place. I had no problem with this because as I said, they have a large menu, and it was their choice. The item I ordered also just so happened to come with that same ranch cup though, and this time, it was hidden inside the box of fries. Luckily, my husband saved me from that one. Although I still wanted to call them up and ask them which one of their monkeys is playing hide the banana with their orders.
When our order arrived, I opened the box of chicken wings and checked for the cup of ranch dressing. I really wish I could get my husband to open the boxes before he pays the delivery driver, because I can’t even tell you how many times that damned ranch dressing has been missing from the box. Sure enough, there was no cup of dressing sitting there. I even checked the pizza box. Nada.
Before I even sat down to eat my ranchless wings, I called their phone center to complain. When something is missing from the box, they ALWAYS want to send the driver back out with it. I knew this before I even called and was not going to delay dinner another 30-40 minutes waiting for freaking ranch dressing. I actually had a cup leftover from the last time I ordered extra and actually got it for once. It wasn’t expired so I was going to use that. My motivation was simply to BITCH, because as I said this has happened frequently and I was just fed up. Like the straw that broke the elephants back.
I speak first to their order taking agent, who politely referred me to his supervisor. I was as polite as I could be, considering I kept having to refuse her offer to have the driver come back out with the dressing. No sorry, not getting off that easy this time. I paid for those extra cups I never got, even if this one was included in the price of the wings. I’m also just pissed because of how many times it’s happened. (And hell yes, we order a lot of pizza, please don’t judge.) Lately, we have ordered from this particular place less often because their prices aren’t competitive enough to allow for so many mistakes, regardless of how great the pizza is.
The first thing I asked the supervisor was whether or not the drivers even bothered to check in the boxes to make sure they are correct before they deliver them. Her response was, “To be honest with you, I don’t think that they do.” Now how professional is that? Narcing on them. I just kind of laughed and said I already knew that, considering this wasn’t the first time something was missing and I was so fed up I probably wouldn’t order from them again for awhile (and I won’t). After I repeatedly refused the new order of wings, ranting about how I can't eat wings without dressing, and how I was listening to the voice over while I was on hold, they made a big deal out of getting whatever dipping sauces you want on the side, and yet I never get mine, she finally said she was going to give me a $3 credit on my account, AND put in a complaint about the store it came from. I was satisfied with that and said so, and even complimented her and the company, because the food is always on time and always hot. I’m not a complete raving bitch, after all.
After getting off the phone, I get my spare ranch dressing out of the fridge, and sit down to eat the wings. I ate a few, and was disappointed in how terribly dry they were. The sauce was completely absorbed in them, and they weren’t that great. Maybe I should have had her remake them and send them out again....oh well. I gave the rest of them to my husband. A few minutes later, he walks over to me in the kitchen, and hands me the celery. I’m like, “Dude, I don’t want that.” He says, “Uh, look inside the bag, dear.” So I do look and obviously you must be psychic because you know what was in that bag don’tcha? Yep, a nice shiny cup of ranch dressing.
I was going to call the supervisor back, to admit I had found the dressing, but decided against it. I just would have ended up complaining about how crappy the wings were, and that they have never shoved the dressing in with the celery before, so how was I to know, and that still didn’t make up for the 10 cups they still owed me, or the dry and chewy, yet expensive chicken wings.
The worst part of the whole episode (as if that weren't idiotic enough) is that I nearly repeated it the very next day. We had dinner at a friend’s house and it just so happened they wanted to order from that same place. I had no problem with this because as I said, they have a large menu, and it was their choice. The item I ordered also just so happened to come with that same ranch cup though, and this time, it was hidden inside the box of fries. Luckily, my husband saved me from that one. Although I still wanted to call them up and ask them which one of their monkeys is playing hide the banana with their orders.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Yes, It's New and Improved
My husband, being the whiney, complaining beyotch that he is, told me my blog is too hard to read. I realized that yes, in fact, it is hard to see. I just though it seemed that way because I am old and have bad eyesight. I played around with a few other templates and although I didn't like any of them, at least this one is clearly readable. It's still me though, so blog content isn't guaranteed to be better, sorry.
Edit: YAY! Thanks for the feedback! I'm doubly glad I did it now. I kept trying to figure out how to make the letters bigger, and easier to read. I actually have my pc set to the second largest text size, and thought it was just me. I wish he would have said something sooner! Damn men.
->Prin, I prefer the darker background too, and if they had one that was easier to read, I'd keep it. I don't want people to stop reading though, because it's too hard to see. I promise to still be wicked, just for you!
Edit: YAY! Thanks for the feedback! I'm doubly glad I did it now. I kept trying to figure out how to make the letters bigger, and easier to read. I actually have my pc set to the second largest text size, and thought it was just me. I wish he would have said something sooner! Damn men.
->Prin, I prefer the darker background too, and if they had one that was easier to read, I'd keep it. I don't want people to stop reading though, because it's too hard to see. I promise to still be wicked, just for you!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Dr. Quack
Earlier this week, when my mother came over to bring me the van, I noticed she had a strange mole on her right upper arm, on the inside. She raised her arm over her head to adjust her hair and I was honestly so fixated on that mole, that I don’t even remember what we were talking about. After a minute or so, she realizes I am staring at her arm, and she reaches up and grabs it with her left hand. She says, (I swear I am still laughing, every time I think of this), “I know, I need to lose some weight, my arms are getting flabby!”
She thought that I, of all people, was judging her because at 58, she has the slightest bit of a bye-bye arm going on. Puh-lease. Not at all. I certainly was staring at the growth that had appeared there though, and while I don’t go around inspecting my mother every time I see her, it was very noticeable, and I think I would have, well, noticed it before. It was very irregular in shape and almost crusty looking.
I said, “No mom, I was looking at that mole.” She shows it to me a little more close up, and I’m like, “Holy shit, mom, that looks bad!”
She looks at me quietly for a moment, and then she says (I promise I am not making this up, I’m not that creative), “I’m thinking about putting some duct tape on it.”
Now let me just interject here a story that will explain the duct tape. For the longest time my dad had this HUGE mole on his neck, just above his collarbone. It was about the size of a chickpea. He never had that mole when I was a kid, but over the years, it just got bigger and bigger. He finally stuck a piece of duct tape over it, and a few weeks later, he peeled off the tape and the mole was miraculously gone. (That’s his story and he’s sticking to it.) I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a fit of annoyance he just went down in the basement and cut it right off. After all, he keeps most of his teeth in a jar down there, the majority of which he yanked out himself, they were so rotten and loose.
Ok so then, my mom tells me she’s going to put duct tape over the mole, and in her usual fashion, proceeds to tell me the same story I just told you, as if I wasn’t aware of it and like my dad hasn’t told me that same story at least 50% of the times I’ve seen him since he did it. I scrunch up my eyebrows, turn my head to look at her, and say “Um, mom – I hate to break this to you, but duct tape doesn’t cure fucking cancer.”
She ignores me, like I didn’t just say “cancer” and starts scratching here arm where the mole is. “It itches.” Well, how much more proof does she need? I tell her she needs to go to the doctor and have it looked at. She responds by saying that it might just fall off on it’s own; she’s had moles do that before. WTF? Moles can just fall off? She must have read that in Reader’s Digest back in 1985.
She thought that I, of all people, was judging her because at 58, she has the slightest bit of a bye-bye arm going on. Puh-lease. Not at all. I certainly was staring at the growth that had appeared there though, and while I don’t go around inspecting my mother every time I see her, it was very noticeable, and I think I would have, well, noticed it before. It was very irregular in shape and almost crusty looking.
I said, “No mom, I was looking at that mole.” She shows it to me a little more close up, and I’m like, “Holy shit, mom, that looks bad!”
She looks at me quietly for a moment, and then she says (I promise I am not making this up, I’m not that creative), “I’m thinking about putting some duct tape on it.”
Now let me just interject here a story that will explain the duct tape. For the longest time my dad had this HUGE mole on his neck, just above his collarbone. It was about the size of a chickpea. He never had that mole when I was a kid, but over the years, it just got bigger and bigger. He finally stuck a piece of duct tape over it, and a few weeks later, he peeled off the tape and the mole was miraculously gone. (That’s his story and he’s sticking to it.) I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a fit of annoyance he just went down in the basement and cut it right off. After all, he keeps most of his teeth in a jar down there, the majority of which he yanked out himself, they were so rotten and loose.
Ok so then, my mom tells me she’s going to put duct tape over the mole, and in her usual fashion, proceeds to tell me the same story I just told you, as if I wasn’t aware of it and like my dad hasn’t told me that same story at least 50% of the times I’ve seen him since he did it. I scrunch up my eyebrows, turn my head to look at her, and say “Um, mom – I hate to break this to you, but duct tape doesn’t cure fucking cancer.”
She ignores me, like I didn’t just say “cancer” and starts scratching here arm where the mole is. “It itches.” Well, how much more proof does she need? I tell her she needs to go to the doctor and have it looked at. She responds by saying that it might just fall off on it’s own; she’s had moles do that before. WTF? Moles can just fall off? She must have read that in Reader’s Digest back in 1985.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Peachy Keen
We went shopping Friday night at the same grocery store we always shop at and the same place where we found these, if you will recall.
“Wow, this is the shittiest bagging job EVER.” I said.
“Yeah, it probably had to do with the fact that she was pissed at having to bag so much stuff.” my husband responded.
“Well the cashier said it was fine.”
“Well, the bagger didn’t think so.”
“Why? Did she say something?!!!”
You bet your sweet ass she did! She had the nerve to say, “This is a LOT more than 15 items!”
I wish I had HEARD her say that. I almost went back into the store, but we had miles to go until we sleep, so I just bitched about it.
I am so tired of that grocery store. They’ve been remodeling for weeks, and rearranged everything. It’s been stressful trying to shop there lately, and we only go to that Kroger because it’s so close to the Aldi we shop at and we’re already nearby. The only other Kroger is on the other side of town, and I don’t like shopping at large stores like Meijer. It irks me to think about wasting gas, but that’s just how aggravated I am with that store that I’m willing to do it. How much moldy produce and careless service is a person expected to take??
This was a bigger shopping trip than normal because not only did we get our weekly groceries but we also got a bunch of stuff for a friend’s party we were going to on Saturday night. That was where we saw these. 
I also saw some less than palatable grape tomatoes. I was highly disappointed because I was trying to make a veggie tray and had already passed up the bell peppers due to their outrageous price of 2 for $3. At Aldi’s they are 3 for $2, and usually the red and yellow are included in that price.
Last time we went to that particular grocery store (which was last month because I can tell by my “fuel rewards” on my receipt), the cashier didn’t scan 2 of my coupons, and I had to go to customer service. (She did this on purpose, because she didn't know how to do them, and thought I wouldn't notice. But oh, I did notice.)
Last time we went to that particular grocery store (which was last month because I can tell by my “fuel rewards” on my receipt), the cashier didn’t scan 2 of my coupons, and I had to go to customer service. (She did this on purpose, because she didn't know how to do them, and thought I wouldn't notice. But oh, I did notice.)
This time, as we were getting in line, the manager sent us to Lane #2, which was technically an express lane – 15 items or less. Before we committed to the line, I looked at the cashier and said, “The manager said to come to this line, is that OK?’’ She nodded her head and smiled and said, “Oh yeah, that’s fine!” So we proceeded with checking out. The bagger was very surly and wouldn’t look up from her job. I always try to help with bagging but for some reason, they only had one rack of bags on that line. I did what I could, and when we got out to the truck, and started unloading, I realized what a shitty job she had done bagging. We had to rebag most of it to separate the cold stuff and to keep heavy stuff from squashing the bread and produce.
“Wow, this is the shittiest bagging job EVER.” I said.
“Yeah, it probably had to do with the fact that she was pissed at having to bag so much stuff.” my husband responded.
“Well the cashier said it was fine.”
“Well, the bagger didn’t think so.”
“Why? Did she say something?!!!”
You bet your sweet ass she did! She had the nerve to say, “This is a LOT more than 15 items!”
I wish I had HEARD her say that. I almost went back into the store, but we had miles to go until we sleep, so I just bitched about it.
I am so tired of that grocery store. They’ve been remodeling for weeks, and rearranged everything. It’s been stressful trying to shop there lately, and we only go to that Kroger because it’s so close to the Aldi we shop at and we’re already nearby. The only other Kroger is on the other side of town, and I don’t like shopping at large stores like Meijer. It irks me to think about wasting gas, but that’s just how aggravated I am with that store that I’m willing to do it. How much moldy produce and careless service is a person expected to take??
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Heavy Metal
I read this article this morning about the theft of 400 manhole covers. I don't live in Michigan, but there was recently a news story in my area about manhole covers and sewer grates being stolen also. Not quite that many had been taken, but in the story, the city was able to recover a few of the stolen grates from local scrap yards.
I understand that during this economic downturn, people have to do what they have to do sometimes. Metal scrapping is HUGE in this area, as I am sure it is all over the country. You can't leave a wire coat hanger outside without it getting carted off by someone else. There have been lots of copper thefts from churches (many of them seem to have copper drain pipes) as well as people who have had their catalytic converters stolen right out from underneath their cars. I also saw this article a few weeks ago, about a man who tried to scrap shopping carts.
What I want to know is, if someone shows up to sell you some scrap metal, and it's obviously a fucking manhole cover, don't you know you shouldn't buy it from them?? Or buy it, but get their driver's license info, and call the police after they leave. Buy soda cans, buy broken down air conditioners, whatever. The guy who stole the shopping carts got caught, although I wasn't able to determine how he got caught. Maybe the scrap dealer turned him in, which would be great. But how do you NOT realize that a sewer grate or a manhole cover is stolen? Doesn't that mean you are guilty of receiving stolen property? If scrap yards didn't buy them, maybe they wouldn't get stolen. Not a huge leap in common sense here, people.
I understand that during this economic downturn, people have to do what they have to do sometimes. Metal scrapping is HUGE in this area, as I am sure it is all over the country. You can't leave a wire coat hanger outside without it getting carted off by someone else. There have been lots of copper thefts from churches (many of them seem to have copper drain pipes) as well as people who have had their catalytic converters stolen right out from underneath their cars. I also saw this article a few weeks ago, about a man who tried to scrap shopping carts.
What I want to know is, if someone shows up to sell you some scrap metal, and it's obviously a fucking manhole cover, don't you know you shouldn't buy it from them?? Or buy it, but get their driver's license info, and call the police after they leave. Buy soda cans, buy broken down air conditioners, whatever. The guy who stole the shopping carts got caught, although I wasn't able to determine how he got caught. Maybe the scrap dealer turned him in, which would be great. But how do you NOT realize that a sewer grate or a manhole cover is stolen? Doesn't that mean you are guilty of receiving stolen property? If scrap yards didn't buy them, maybe they wouldn't get stolen. Not a huge leap in common sense here, people.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
My Mother
After posting about my mother's hairbrainedness, I thought I might expound on her a little bit. Maybe it will give you some insight into the person I am today, if you care about that anyway.
My mother was born in Kentucky, one of 12 total children. Her father was a scary, abusive drunk, who died just before I was born. He would leave them to starve, and come back when he felt like it, to beat them or molest the younger girls (not my mother). Hearing stories about him are part of the reason my relationship with my mother has always been volatile. I can sympathize with her, having also had a scary, abusive drunk for a father, but mainly, I blame her, because she should have known better, yes?
Way back in the days when I was a baby, my dad cheated on my mom constantly. I don't remember it because by the time I really have clear memories of what was going on around me, we had moved to the house my parents still live in today. I suppose my dad kept his antics restricted to weekends and I wasn't aware of them. If they were still going on by then. Part of the reason I live in Ohio and not Texas is because my dad was so blatantly obvious about screwing around (I fully believe I have some half Mexican siblings down there somewhere that I will never get to meet) that my mom actually left him for it, and moved back to Ohio. Maybe he learned to keep his shit on the down lo after that.
It wasn't until we moved to the house, that I remember much more clearly how unmotherly my mother was. There was a point in my childhood where I actually liked my father more, despite his alcoholic behavior, because my mother wasn't much like MY mother. She acted more like HIS mother. After dinner, we would all have to go off and play or do homework or dishes or whatever, while she was firmly planted up his ass. On weekends, we would all be made to take "naps" upstairs so they could get it on. I mean come on, I was 6 by then and that made my older sister and brother a good 12 and 11 years old. Too old to be taking a nap, and we knew full well what they were doing. I am STILL to this day disgusted by it. Just go in your room and lock the door. Why force everyone else to pretend to sleep? Whenever I was sick, my mom would hand me a bucket to puke in and then trot back downstairs to my dad. If he was watching television, she had to be right next to him, with his feet in her lap.
He was physically and verbally abusive, and my mother allowed it. One incident I will never forget, was when we were making ice cream. My mom sent my older brother, Laine, to get the rock salt. The next thing I knew, my dad had my brother in the kitchen corner, yelling at him and whipping him. He scared him so bad he pissed his pants. For years, I thought it was because he had gotten the wrong salt. When I mentioned it to my mother one time, she got all nasty and defensive, and said, "He got in trouble because he got "smart" (with her), not because he got the wrong salt." He talked back so he deserved to piss in his pants, I guess.
At various points in my childhood, my mom would get fed up with my dad's violence and anger and frittering away of money in bars, and would leave with the four of us in tow. Mostly we went to my grandma's house, once or twice we went elsewhere. We would be gone a few days or even weeks, depending on how pissed my mom was. But we'd always go right back, and get treated like shit because somehow, he always blamed us for my mom getting fed up.
Eventually, I just started running away from home myself. I would get tired of him hiding the phone, or ripping it out of the wall. Having him cuss out my boyfriends on the phone, or being just too damned embarrassed to bring friends to the house. Having him throw a fit and dump everything from the fridge out onto the floor. And so on. I don't have enough words to tell all of it. Even then, my mother still wouldn't leave him for good.
One year, I was living with my grandma at Christmas time, and my mom gave me a dollar-store calendar and purple ear muffs for Christmas. She said that my dad had given her a lot of money to spend on Christmas but she was saving it for a divorce lawyer. Well, she never got a lawyer, and I never got anything else for Christmas. I was living off fucking Ramen noodles and thrift store snack cakes my aunt brought home from the day old bread store she worked at.
They have been married for 41 years. My dad quit drinking for awhile a few years back when it had almost killed him, but he's back at it now. He has at least learned to treat his kids better, and my mother has learned to stop catering to him. Instead, she caters to my 32 year old brother, Donovan, who has never moved out of home for even a single day. She feels guilty because he is an idiot, and didn't make it past the 8th grade. She has supported him to the point of almost losing her house, and alienating her other children. My older brother hasn't seen or spoken to my younger brother (or my dad) for 12 years because my mom always chooses him over the rest of us. Donovan treats my mom like shit. I have come to realize, she must enjoy it.
Most of my familial and relationship issues, neuroses and failures as a mother, all stem from her, not from my dad. I learned a long time ago to just forget about him. His father was worse, and even though that's not an excuse, I can see how he turned out the way he did. Although I can't really forgive it, I can look past it and not let it affect me anymore. Why? I can't answer that. He's an alcoholic. That makes a difference somehow.
I try to be nice to my mother, because she has worked her ass off for years. Despite never really being much of a mother, at least we had a home, food to eat, and a few rags to wear, and that was all thanks to her. I do appreciate those things as an adult that I couldn't as a child. I am sure she felt she had reasons why staying with a drunk was better than being a single mother, for our sake. But I still don't see it that way.
My mother was born in Kentucky, one of 12 total children. Her father was a scary, abusive drunk, who died just before I was born. He would leave them to starve, and come back when he felt like it, to beat them or molest the younger girls (not my mother). Hearing stories about him are part of the reason my relationship with my mother has always been volatile. I can sympathize with her, having also had a scary, abusive drunk for a father, but mainly, I blame her, because she should have known better, yes?
Way back in the days when I was a baby, my dad cheated on my mom constantly. I don't remember it because by the time I really have clear memories of what was going on around me, we had moved to the house my parents still live in today. I suppose my dad kept his antics restricted to weekends and I wasn't aware of them. If they were still going on by then. Part of the reason I live in Ohio and not Texas is because my dad was so blatantly obvious about screwing around (I fully believe I have some half Mexican siblings down there somewhere that I will never get to meet) that my mom actually left him for it, and moved back to Ohio. Maybe he learned to keep his shit on the down lo after that.
It wasn't until we moved to the house, that I remember much more clearly how unmotherly my mother was. There was a point in my childhood where I actually liked my father more, despite his alcoholic behavior, because my mother wasn't much like MY mother. She acted more like HIS mother. After dinner, we would all have to go off and play or do homework or dishes or whatever, while she was firmly planted up his ass. On weekends, we would all be made to take "naps" upstairs so they could get it on. I mean come on, I was 6 by then and that made my older sister and brother a good 12 and 11 years old. Too old to be taking a nap, and we knew full well what they were doing. I am STILL to this day disgusted by it. Just go in your room and lock the door. Why force everyone else to pretend to sleep? Whenever I was sick, my mom would hand me a bucket to puke in and then trot back downstairs to my dad. If he was watching television, she had to be right next to him, with his feet in her lap.
He was physically and verbally abusive, and my mother allowed it. One incident I will never forget, was when we were making ice cream. My mom sent my older brother, Laine, to get the rock salt. The next thing I knew, my dad had my brother in the kitchen corner, yelling at him and whipping him. He scared him so bad he pissed his pants. For years, I thought it was because he had gotten the wrong salt. When I mentioned it to my mother one time, she got all nasty and defensive, and said, "He got in trouble because he got "smart" (with her), not because he got the wrong salt." He talked back so he deserved to piss in his pants, I guess.
At various points in my childhood, my mom would get fed up with my dad's violence and anger and frittering away of money in bars, and would leave with the four of us in tow. Mostly we went to my grandma's house, once or twice we went elsewhere. We would be gone a few days or even weeks, depending on how pissed my mom was. But we'd always go right back, and get treated like shit because somehow, he always blamed us for my mom getting fed up.
Eventually, I just started running away from home myself. I would get tired of him hiding the phone, or ripping it out of the wall. Having him cuss out my boyfriends on the phone, or being just too damned embarrassed to bring friends to the house. Having him throw a fit and dump everything from the fridge out onto the floor. And so on. I don't have enough words to tell all of it. Even then, my mother still wouldn't leave him for good.
One year, I was living with my grandma at Christmas time, and my mom gave me a dollar-store calendar and purple ear muffs for Christmas. She said that my dad had given her a lot of money to spend on Christmas but she was saving it for a divorce lawyer. Well, she never got a lawyer, and I never got anything else for Christmas. I was living off fucking Ramen noodles and thrift store snack cakes my aunt brought home from the day old bread store she worked at.
They have been married for 41 years. My dad quit drinking for awhile a few years back when it had almost killed him, but he's back at it now. He has at least learned to treat his kids better, and my mother has learned to stop catering to him. Instead, she caters to my 32 year old brother, Donovan, who has never moved out of home for even a single day. She feels guilty because he is an idiot, and didn't make it past the 8th grade. She has supported him to the point of almost losing her house, and alienating her other children. My older brother hasn't seen or spoken to my younger brother (or my dad) for 12 years because my mom always chooses him over the rest of us. Donovan treats my mom like shit. I have come to realize, she must enjoy it.
Most of my familial and relationship issues, neuroses and failures as a mother, all stem from her, not from my dad. I learned a long time ago to just forget about him. His father was worse, and even though that's not an excuse, I can see how he turned out the way he did. Although I can't really forgive it, I can look past it and not let it affect me anymore. Why? I can't answer that. He's an alcoholic. That makes a difference somehow.
I try to be nice to my mother, because she has worked her ass off for years. Despite never really being much of a mother, at least we had a home, food to eat, and a few rags to wear, and that was all thanks to her. I do appreciate those things as an adult that I couldn't as a child. I am sure she felt she had reasons why staying with a drunk was better than being a single mother, for our sake. But I still don't see it that way.
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