Feisty Repartee

BOOBS

Today's topic of conversation and horror: Fake boobs.

Outside of hollywood and medically-related reconstructive surgeries, what gives with the fake boob thing?

One of my neighbors has just totally freaked me out.

She is an attractive thin, tall, and blonde lady who is thirty-five or so. She has probably been married at least ten years and has two sons under the age of ten.

Her naturally appearing chest size appeared to have been a B-cup.

A few days ago I delivered the items she ordered from the Pampered Chef party and she came bouncing out in a halter with at least a pair of D-cups.

While I tried not to stare, I could not help but notice with her plunging v-neck that the skin appeared awfully taut over her majorly perky breasts.

As she walked away her figure was disporportionately top-heavy.

Why?

Hmmmm...

Well, it would appear as Feisty still works. The other place, not so much at the moment...

Weather-wise, the weekend was a bit moody, but now, the bottom has fallen out and all hell is erupting. There is cold rain, flashes of light, and major grumbling all around me.

I am so glad I am home today.

Sweet One snuck out to catch the bus at the absolute last second and escaped my field of vision; however, Wee One did wear a jacket, a jacket over her denim skirt.

Sweet One did well in the district tennis tournament over the weekend. Saturday night she had a friend sleep over. The older girls watched the wee child while the husband and I were invited out to dinner by a couple who wanted to introduce us to yet another couple. It was a sixsome.

The restaurant was very nice. We met them at six in the bar for a seven o'clock table reservation. It was a leisurely multi-course meal over which we lingered until well after ten.

I do not know why it strikes me as unusual because when we invite couples over for a meal, that is typical of our timeframe, I guess, I am just accustomed to dining with the children where everything becomes more of a harried affair.

On Sunday, Sweet and her friend wanted to go to the local waterpark. Wee One, of course, was quite devastated at being left out. At six, she is not allowed to go, unless either her father or I accompany her.

Suffice it to say, bathing suit issues aside, I was not inclined to take her.

Much drama and theatrics followed.

When the topic first came up, I thought I might take her to the movies, but her attitude and behavior were so bad, I nixed that idea and explained to her why.

More moping and tears ensued.

I know it is hard being six when your sister is fourteen. I know it seems as though big sister can do anything and everything she wants; however, that is just not the case.

Wee One simply chooses to believe she should be able to do whatever her older sister does.

There is really no easy way around this. To indulge and pacify her will only encourage the moaning.

When all was said and done, we did make a trip to Target. After supper Sweet One and her father watched the latest James Bond film, while Wee One and I read books in my bedroom.

Bless her. It is hard being six.

The Hard Work

I spent Saturday with my mother.

We hadn't been together for 30 minutes before she again began trying to convince me how wonderful it is to be living with an addict.

Okay, to be fair, she didn't quite say it that way. But then, she still refuses to use that last word. I intended to behave myself, I really did. Unfortunately, Friday night was a series of nightmares that all featured Mother and Step-father in drug-related hell that kept trickling into my life. So, by Saturday morning, I was a bit fragile.

There's more to this story in the extended entry.

When she began singing his praises again, I had to put a stop to it. She says that everything is wonderful, just wonderful. They go to church together twice per week now. He's doing two bible studies! It is all so wonderful!!! (Insert gagging sounds here.)

I couldn't take it. I called crap on her Pollyanna Rainbows and Sunshine routine.

I pointed out to her that her church has a drug program and asked why, if they are there twice/week, he isn't enrolled in this program. It seems like a no-brainer to me. This was when she informed me that he does 2 bible studies.

"Sure, but what about the drug-treatment program?" I asked. "Has he completed this?"

"Well, he's gone to a couple of meetings..."

"Don't you think that it would be wiser for him to drop one or both of the bible studies and do this instead? Don't you think it more important for him to have the tools for recovery so that he can stay clean? I don't understand why you aren't making him go to these meetings.

"I'm becoming convinced that you are addicted to this situation. You are addicted to only hearing what you want to hear. You don't want to make him do the hard work of recovery because it rocks your little imaginary world view.

"I realize that this is my opinion, but from the outside-looking-in, this is royally screwed. A problem doesn't just go away because you wish it were so. If that were the case..."

She interrupts, "There would be far fewer drug addicts in the world?"

"Exactly."

"I see your point," she said. "But when are you going to trust him again? When are we going to be able to have family gatherings again?"

"Mom, why should I trust him? I've seen him break promise after promise he made to you. I've seen him manipulate you. And, lest you conveniently forget, he brought drugs to my house. Why should I trust him? I have no inducement to trust him, nothing to point to to give him the benefit of the doubt. Instead of making him do the hard work and self-reflection required to stay clean, you make excuses and deny that there is even a problem. You point to one negative drug test as a victory - one test in 5 years - and think the war is over. This isn't in his best interests, nor is it in yours. However, I can't do anything to save you. I can, however, make sure that this circumstance which you have chosen does not impact my family's life."

"But when will the grand daughter be able to come and stay with me?"

"If he is going to be there, I'm not sure. I won't put her in harm's way. But, you can be sure it won't happen until you both face the truth and start doing the hard work. Until then, I'm going to have to be present."

"I see what you mean..."

Maybe I was too hard on her. I don't know. I feel like I'm constantly beating up on her these days. I love her, but she's being so incredibly stupid. I still don't think she really sees my point of view. She wants me to meet her this weekend for the step-sister's (age 11) horseshow, or some such thing.

What she doesn't say, of course, is that Step-father will be there too. Which, as you know, poses a certain dilemma.

I feel like the bad guy, again.

Piss and moan

That would be me.

It has been a trying week at work for a number of reasons.

In my haste to vacate the premises this afternoon, knowing I would not have to return until Tuesday, I freaking walked off without my purse.

Yep.

I am such a dumbass.

I do not do well when people are talking to me and I am trying to extricate myself from the conversation, not to mention, leave the office behind as I rush out to collect children from here, there, and yon.

In my left arm was two case files. My left hand held my cell phone. My right hand held my keys and a bottle of cold water.

My bag should have been on my arm, but for the fact, I left it in the desk drawer for some damned reason.

I think I am tired.

With two young boys coming this evening to stay until Sunday, I am a little strung out.

Add to the mix Sweet sprung a tennis practice on me at the last minute and Wee One has a Kindergarten music program, and, well, I had a trantrum.

I called Dash and told him I was tired of schlepping people from point A to point B and there was no way in hell I was taking the wee child back to school. If he thought she needed to participate, then he could take her.

He did.

She is happy.

No harm, no foul, despite it not being my shiniest moment as a mother.

At the moment, I am contemplating a move. Dash commutes North fifty or more miles. I commute South forty-seven or so miles.

It is possible to work four ten hour days (two of which are eligible for telecommuting) a week. Bottom line I would have a long-assed commute two days a week, but be home the rest of the time.

Dash would have to step up those two days.

Sweet One would have to transfer to another school to begin her Freshman year in high school and Wee One would have to go to another elementary school.

No one, but me, likes the idea and Dash has put me on notice things are about to get really hairy for him at his office.

If no one is willing to give an inch on this deal, I guess I become the banshee and toll the death on all extra-curricular activities.

I am only one human.

Another Promise, Another Lie

What to do?

I have written in other places about this dilemma, but I am no closer to finding a solution. In this space I can be a bit more forthcoming, however, and intend to do so to clear my own thoughts on the matter.

My mother is currently married to her fourth husband, much to my sincere horror. Frankly, should she choose to marry 8 or 9 times, I wouldn't care. I just want her to find a man that is deserving of her.

I have always held my mother up as a dynamo and an example of a strong woman. She married my father just after high school and became a housewife and mother. When that marriage fell apart, she became a working single mother, something that is very difficult even now. She went back to school and worked a job. As we grew up, she continued to provide these strong examples of capable womanhood. No shrinking violet was my mother, that's for certain.

And yet, I'm afraid that my good impression of her is suffering horribly these days. In fact, I'm not sure anymore that she's a very good role model at all.

The gory details can be found by clicking on the linky-doo.

Here's the thing. My mother knows me. She knows full well that I'm a Just Say No kid. So she kept from me her current husband's interest in illegal narcotics. When he was her fiance, she knew about his activities but he assured her was done with them.

Their wedding night, however, proved otherwise. Rather than being with my mother to celebrate their nuptials in any of a million drug-free ways, he chose instead to get coked-up and play poker with the boys. My mother spent her wedding night sleeping in a car.

One would have thought that a strong woman would have kicked his ass to the curb right then and there. But she didn't. It was about this time, after the wedding, that I found out about his drug using. I was not pleased. Not pleased in the least. For one thing, my teenage sister was going to be living under his roof with them. And this worried me.

But, my step-father assured my mother that he was going to quit. My mother took him at his word. Again. Keeping count? This is at least the second time he has claimed to quit.

One can almost predict what might happen next. My sister has some friends over and one of them finds some drug paraphernalia. My sister dutifully brought these items to my mother's attention. She also told me. I became unglued. This evidence seemed to suggest to me that he had not, in fact, quit his using. My mother seemed to take it in stride, perhaps because the step-father claimed that this was detritus from previous using, not current or new using.

Whatever.

So, we invite my mother and step-father up to our house for a little barbecue. In the afternoon, my mother and I pop out briefly to pick up some last minute groceries. When we return, the evening resumes and then finally ends with their departure. It is only after they leave that my husband informs me that step-father sparked up a doobie while we were gone.

My outrage was legion. To this day, I am astounded that I didn't have a heart attack on the spot. I'm still pissed off about this. Why in the world would anyone do drugs at their wife's child's house? I did not invite this. He didn't ask "would you mind if...". Nada.

So, naturally I let my mother know that this is unacceptable behavior in our home, where we will one day raise our children. I informed her, in fact, that her husband is persona non grata in our home, that she's not welcome either if he is in tow. I informed her further that I was a hairsbreadth away from calling DCFS on her ass as there is a minor child living in her home where, apparently, there is also drug use. Not. Even. Kidding.

She had words with him. I received a hastily scrawled note on white paper from him, an apology if you are incredibly generous with your characterizations, that pretty much wasn't an apology so much as it was a "I guess you aren't one of the cool kids, my bad." Which only served to piss me off further, as you might imagine.

So, for those keeping track at home, we are on our third broken promise and have a new promise to keep clean. But this one inevitably falls apart as well. And then he gets caught drinking and driving. And then he promises to quit the drinking and the drugs and these promises are also broken.

Finally, finally, my mother moves out and gets her own place. She begins talking about divorce. She is going to file after Thanksgiving. Then after Christmas. Then after he gets his bonus. She may have her own residence, but she is still spending her nights in his bed. Oh, and he hasn't quit using either. The divorce keeps getting postponed and he keeps issuing new promises. Nothing has changed except she's paying for utilities on two places.

He has broken his promise eight or nine times. And now, instead of leaving him, she has moved back into his home, the better for which to take the abuse, I guess. Over the last four years I have listened to her cry, listened to her rant, listened to her excuses. Not once has she followed through on any of her threats to him. She hasn't made him enter a program or submit to drug tests or anything. She now claims that he has quit because he goes with her to church every Sunday.

Her logic defies common sense! By her reasoning, good people go to church and good people do not do drugs, ergo: he does not do drugs. Nevermind the fact that she isn't actually testing this hypothesis. Idiot.

The SOB has manipulated her time and time again. He has lied repeatedly. And she justs laps it up like cream from a cold porcelain bowl. I am powerless. I get front row seats to the decline of my mother's welfare. I have no doubt that as he gets his teeth further and further into her it will be increasingly impossible to extract them. He will put her retirement through his nose at best, and end up getting her killed at worst.

My mother knows how I feel. It took her 2 months to admit to me that she was living with him again. And now she is actively lying to me. She told me she couldn't come see us for Easter because she had commitments at church. A week later she told me she went to Kansas for Easter. What she didn't say was that she went with him. And, she seems to have forgotten all about those pesky church commitments.

I am not about to back down on my embargo. I am not going to put our home and our child in jeopardy in order to make things easier for her. He has had multiple chances to clean up his act. I no more believe the promises this time than I do the notion that I will sprout a purple tail and wings. He is a druggie. A lying, manipulative druggie.

And, he is turning my once role model mother into an addict in her own right. Only, she's addicted to hearing only what she wants to hear.

Fighting the fight

Tangling with children is not only not for the faint of heart, but not for the weak of body.

I think I was so furious, upset, and tense yesterday that I strained every muscle in my being. Now, I am achy and tired all over.

With all the drama with Sweet/Surly One, by the time Wee One arrived home from school, I was ready to fly the white banner, but I didn't.

She was completely unaware of the chaos and tension, so when I asked her to pick up her room, then take a bath last night, she was a bit defiant as she curled up in her father's leather chair.

Anyone who really knows me is aware I am at my most dangerous when I am quiet.

Dropping my voice to a very low and husky tone I placed a hand on each of the arms of the chair and leaned over the six-year-old: "You have been told what I expect of you. If you do not move, you will not live to see another day."

A retort was on her little lips, but a second glance at my face stifled it.

She furrowed her brow, but a meek: "Yes, Ma'am," was all that was forthcoming.

After I straightened I saw my mother out of the corner of my eye.

Mom: "Thank GOD! If you were going to tangle with that one, I was going to have to leave right now. I can't take anymore."

Yeah, I know that feeling.