It's a TRAP!!!

Back when I was in my teens and early 20s, I remember being regularly annoyed by my brother's inability to do simple tasks. Actually, that's inaccurate. It was his inability to do "woman" tasks. The best example I can give of this was the time he asked me to make him a hot dog. Seeing as how he was a dick to me like 95% of the time, obviously I told him to make his own fucking hot dog. "But I don't know how", he said. And so I gave him a simple explanation for a simple task- "Put them in some water and boil them for a few minutes". But as it is with men, he put a fantastic amount of effort into trying to convince me that he literally could not figure out how to boil water. First, he poured water into a frying pan. Then, when I showed him which pot to use, he turned the faucet as high as it would go and held it under the water and let it overflow for several minutes before I finally snapped "what the hell are you doing?". "I don't know how much water to use", he told me. "Enough to cover the hot dog", I explained. And so he turned the water to barely a drip and held the pot there for 5 solid minutes, asking every few drops "is this enough?". It went this way with every step of the excruciatingly simple task of boiling a hot dog, until my sister gave up and made it for him.

At the time I refused to cave because of course you know how to fucking boil water, you imbecile. And then I got married and realized that my brother was a) simply not a good enough an actor to pull off "too dumb to boil water" and b) carrying on a long standing tradition of men making the task of ASKING THEM TO DO A TASK so infuriating, that you really would rather just do it yourself.

Caitlyn's last day of preschool was yesterday. Rodolfo is bringing his parents from Peru to spend the summer with us while she is out of school. In preparation of that, I've been toiling away, cleaning and organizing the house to be ready for their arrival this Thursday. And so last night when April told me she wanted to bring Caitlyn to a water park with her today, I asked Rodolfo to get her bag ready for the morning, while I organized some things in the kitchen.

I'm a seasoned veteran now when it comes to dealing with feigned stupidity, so I didn't dare simply tell him where she would be going and expect him to figure out what that meant in terms of "get a bag ready". I gave him a short list of what to include- a bathing suit, a change of clothes- including socks and underwear-, a towel, flip-flops, sunscreen, her waterpark pass, and money for lunch.

First he assured me that she did not have any clean clothes. Since I organized her closet 2 days ago, I knew this was bullshit. Still, I had to explicitly tell him what she should wear TO A WATER PARK and practically give him the longitudinal coordinates in her closet to find "any one of the 10 summer dresses hanging up in there". Then, he could not find her bathing suit. This led to a heated argument in which he complained that I had left a basket of clean laundry in her room that has not been put away, and maybe if I had done that, her bathing suit would have been easy to find. He then spent 5 minutes rifling through the DIRTY laundry, all the while complaining that this bathing suit was simply impossible to find. In case you were wondering, there wasn't ONE, but TWO clean bathing suits in that one basket of laundry that he would not check under protest of my not having put it into her drawers.

He managed to find the towel himself, completely forgot the sunscreen and water park pass, and then launched into another rant when he could not track down her flip-flops. I told him to check under the couch. They were not there. I told him to check under her bed. Not there either. Apparently they had evaporated into thin air. He decided she would instead wear sneakers. To a water park.

This entire process (during which I ended up finding literally every single thing besides the towel myself) took him around 40 minutes. To put a few things in a bag. Next time I think I'll just do it myself.

Shit My Dad Says... About Welfare

We've established that I was really poor as a kid. Welfare poor. The major reason for this was my dad. My useless, transient hobo with a gambling problem dad. It took my mom quite a few years to come to the realization that being on her own with 4 kids would actually be significantly easier than staying with him and trying to take care of us.

That said, we were still really poor. Except that single mothers of 4 kids can get help from the government instead of just living in a van and eating dinner out of vending machines like we did when we lived with my dad. And so we were on welfare, and food stamps, and eventually we were able to get into subsidized housing. You know, the projects. My mom still worked- mostly for our landlord to pay off our rent in the many years while we waited to get into housing we could afford. And then cleaning bars and homes and stuffing envelopes for our (by then) ex-landlord and a handful of her colleagues for 2 cents per envelope. Guys? Doing anything for 2 cents a piece is basically slave labor. I remember my mom staying up 24, 48 hours straight- sometimes longer- and making a whopping $25 for 2 straight days of work.

My point is that my mom busted her ass. Because she had to and because she would do anything for us. Because my dad didn't pay a single dime in child support, basically ever (the occasions he managed to collect unemployment where child support was taken out- much to his dismay- automatically, were like bonus time in our family). Because she couldn't afford child care and so she had to work odd jobs for next to nothing just so we could survive. I've always respected how hard she worked for us. As a parent myself now, it's really jarring to look back on it and see it from her perspective. As a kid, I knew we didn't have much money. I knew a lot of times I couldn't have something I wanted because we couldn't afford it. Hand-me-down clothes were the usual. Nothing about it seemed particularly hard for me as a child because it was all I ever knew. But now, as a parent? I look at how much I stress about making sure I can afford things that are luxuries- DVR and Christmas photo shoots- how I don't want Caitlyn to miss out on those things that aren't really going to hurt her in the long run- and I can't help but imagine what it must have been like for my mom to not be able to afford food and milk and diapers. Because, as the poet Eminem once said "these goddamn food stamps don't buy diapers". Preach, brother.

None of this is really the point though. We've already established that I hold my mother in the same regard as saints. Probably higher, actually. My point is that, through all of this- through quite literally nearly killing herself because she was taking care of 4 kids alone- my father always judged our lifestyle. On the occasions he came around (it was much less so when we were kids- I'm assuming because none of us had couches he could crash on yet), he always had rude comments about what my mom wasn't giving to us. Nevermind the fact that he hadn't contributed anything of value for the entirety of our childhood. He couldn't believe my mom had us living in the projects (apparently sleazy motels were much better)! He looked down at his nose at her for feeding us with food stamps (Oh, how she enjoyed those 1st of the month, 3 mile walks to and from the grocery store!). He particularly hated the fact that she was on welfare. He always thought himself far too good for welfare. Or maybe it just especially annoyed him because he was more likely to end up with an arrest warrant for not paying his child support when the money was owed to welfare. My point is that he would show up, and he would judge us. He would promise to get us out of such horrible conditions (and back into the shitty motels/homeless shelters we deserved!). He treated my mom as though all she was doing wasn't enough for his standards. Ironic.

Anyway. My dad stopped by for a visit a couple of weekends ago. I could tell he had some money in his pockets, because he wasn't using what I like to refer to as his "kill yourself" tone of voice for everything he said. I didn't even have to ask before he started telling me why. You guys? He's on welfare. And food stamps. And he is inexplicably getting rental assistance which has been approved through AUGUST. He is a 60 year old man who has never held a steady job, has pissed away every dime he's ever earned through his gambling addiction, has abused the kindness and asked favors of every single person he has ever known (his own children included), and passionately HATES "the system" for ever pursuing him for his obligations to his 4 children. And yet, he is happily abusing it now (and trust me, abusing is the right word. He openly admitted to winning $2000 on the lottery- he spent his WELFARE money on fucking lottery tickets!).

The worst part isn't even that he's abusing a service that he frequently judged my mom for needing while he contributed nothing during my childhood. The worst part is that he bitched about how inconvenient receiving welfare has been for him. You guys? Welfare asks questions. Like whether or not you are looking for a job. So RUDE! Also, he didn't even WANT welfare. He just wanted food stamps and rental assistance but they totally insisted on giving him welfare too. Ugh. And then, omg he totally had to sit in the welfare office for TWO STRAIGHT DAYS- he was even the LAST person they took on his second day of waiting- before they gave him a fucking free ride for the forseeable future. Tacky, welfare. So tacky. The customer is always right, you know. And the customer shouldn't have to wait 2 whole days that they definitely weren't going to spend at work, waiting around for your free money. And food. And housing.

Anyway. I digress. It's just that sometimes you are going through your own personal struggles. Real struggles, scary struggles, and you find you have to pull yourself up and realize that, well, you got yourself into this mess and you're just going to have to deal with it now. You'll be okay eventually. And then some jackass who is just begging to be dead to you comes to your house and bitches about how inconvenient he found his trip to the welfare office, and you have to hold yourself back from punching him in the face. On the upside, he did give me a red plastic Solo cup full of change though. Totally makes up for that whole "absentee father" thing.

The Indignities of Being a Toddler

I think one of the really interesting things about having a kid is that sometimes I find myself having mini-flashbacks to my own childhood. It's always something small that does it. Caitlyn will do something ridiculous and I'll find myself remembering when I would do that as a child. And wondering why children are so utterly fucking spastic.

There are a few things I've noticed recently that cause Caitlyn great pain. These are things that I do as an adult too, simple, everyday things. Things that I do not fear. That are not even remotely painful. And yet, somehow, my toddler finds them absolutely traumatic to the point of running away when I even suggest that they may happen.

At first I couldn't understand it, but when I really thought about it, I can remember these exact things being horrible as a kid. Daily things I had to survive, despite the pain and indignity of the tasks. And when I think of them now, I can't help but realize that maybe my childhood wasn't quite as hard as I imagined it to be.

Are you ready for this? The list of the things Caitlyn finds to be physically and emotionally torturous? Let's get into it then:

Pooping: Do you remember when pooping was difficult? When it hurt to push out your poops? I guess as an adult my butthole is regulation sized now, so I can't understand it anymore. But for Caitlyn? She hates to poop. She whines and complains that her butt hurts. I regularly find her hiding in a corner, crapping her pants, because pooping on the toilet is simply an indignity she refuses to suffer.

Shampoo Eyes: You guys? Why the fuck won't she just close her eyes when I rinse shampoo out of her hair? I've tried to explain it to her so many times- your eyes WON'T FUCKING HURT IF YOU JUST CLOSE THEM, but she seems rather convinced that if she does close her eyes, I'm just going to splash her face with acid or something. I mean, that's basically the equivalent of rinsing shampoo out of her hair anyway, right?

Getting Stuck in Shirts: Every time I put a shirt on Caitlyn, she freaks out for 10 seconds while I try to thread her giant lightbulb head through the neck hole. I can't help but remember the panic I would go into as a kid when my head would get stuck in a shirt. I was always pretty sure I was about to suffocate at any moment, even though I was never stuck for more than 5 seconds. Also, it occurs to me that this many not be a thing that normal people deal with. The giant head thing runs in my family.

Hair Brushing: There is no indignity Caitlyn is less inclined to suffer through than having her hair brushed. There is running away, and crying, and repeated declarations that she doesn't want to brush her hair. And that's just when she SEES the brush. Once I actually sit her down and try to do it? Sobbing, squirming, and begging me to stop. So fucking dramatic about the hair brushing. Just as I was as a kid.

In summation, kids are fucking weirdos, and extremely dramatic. God, that is a shitty closing sentence.

The Grandma Chronicles- Part 2

A while back, I promised you funny stories about my mom. Since I can't seem to write in the present tense in a way that doesn't make people want to jump off buildings, I think now is the time for another mom story. I also feel I should remind you that mom stories are the most politically incorrect stories ever. You may not want to read this if you are easily offended. Seriously:

I must have been about 14 years old. It was Christmas time. At 14, I was clearly old enough to know that Santa did not exist, or more accurately, that my mom is Santa (please note that I said IS and not WAS. I don't know that I will ever think of myself as Santa, even for Caitlyn. My mom is the best Santa ever, and she proves that point every Christmas).

Anyway. The point is that I was old enough to go Christmas shopping with my mom for Sammi, who obviously still did believe in Santa. She was 7 or 8, I think, and very into Barbie dolls.

Because we were Christmas shopping, the store was very busy and the aisles were crowded with people searching for gifts (apparently procrastination is genetic, because every single member of my family waits until the last minute to buy gifts. My sister didn't even hesitate to call me the night before Caitlyn's birthday party to ask what she should get her. She knows I wouldn't be offended that she waited until the last minute. Because she knows I do exactly the same thing). What happened next did not happen privately and I remember getting many disapproving looks from horrified strangers.

I can't remember if there was one Barbie in particular Sammi wanted. I simply remember roaming the Barbie aisles with my mom, looking for something. This was quite a few years ago, before stores needed entire toy aisles dedicated to Leap Frog ipads and "things that never shut the fuck up, OMG PLEASE LET IT AT LEAST PLAY THE WHOLE GODDAMN SONG AND STOP PRESSING THE BUTTON 5 SECONDS IN SO I HAVE TO KEEP HEARING THE FIRST 5 SECONDS OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN", so there was more than one aisle of Barbie toys.

I left the aisle I was in to find my mom and see if she'd found what we were looking for. As I turned the corner, I saw her halfway down the next aisle, doubled-over and giggling like a maniac. When I asked her what was so funny, she only laughed harder. She laughed so hard that she could not speak, she could barely breathe.

I walked over, confused, to see what had struck her so hilariously funny. And then I saw it.

"Look, Jac", she gasped through her hysteria... "this Barbie....hahahahaha". "Oh my god. This Barbie is in a.... haaaaaaaahahahaha".... "WHEELCHAIR". Tears now rolling down her cheeks from laughing so hard, she loudly christened the doll "CRIPPLE BARBIE".

Moments later, she informed me that we would need to go home. She had now peed her pants from laughing so hard at the misfortune of Cripple Barbie.

We may or may not be going straight to hell. If God's a big Special Olympics fan, we are pretty much fucked.

The Grandma Chronicles- Part 1

I am crass.

If you've read even a single blog post of mine with the exception of maybe that last one, this is not news to you.

In any case, I was thinking about it the other day. How my lack of a filter can sometimes be funny, sometimes offensive and sometimes REALLY offensive. And then I had another thought. I'm not really that crass.

Wait. I'm going somewhere with this! You see, in the whole "nature-nurture" debate, I really do stand on the side of environment playing a big role in who we become. I've always thought I was a lot like my mother, and I guess genetics play a part in that too, but I think actually growing up around my mother would have done a lot of good for a lot of people's sense of humor.

What I'm saying here, is that if you think I'm crass, you should talk to my mother.

I have so many stories. A big part of writing this blog for me, is that as an adult, Caitlyn might have a real sense of who I am as a person. I know my own mother very well, but I often wonder about the person she was before having kids. The person who made her become the mother she is.

Her stories of her own mother are always ridiculous to the point of caricature. But ridiculously awesome. I never knew my grandmother. She died when I was only a few weeks old. But I know the stories. They don't paint a picture of a pretty childhood, that's for sure, but my mom tells them with such timing and precision that you can't help but laugh so hard you cry. And maybe pee a little.

Maybe one day I'll tell some grandma stories. But today I'd like to tell you more about my own mom. Her stories. The hilarious ones I'll never forget. The ones that might make you wonder for just a moment if she isn't a horrible person. Don't worry. I'll be there to reel you back in and remind you that she is the awesomest person ever. So here goes:

I was young. Maybe 3. I couldn't have been older than that. We've discussed my shitty dad to death, so you won't be surprised to hear that my parent's marriage was not a happy one. But my mother, she took everything in stride. She made things fun. She was not one to just sit around and cry about how shitty things were.

So my dad had this habit. He would criticize my mom's weight. Yeah. He has no social graces at all, in case that was unclear before now. The irony, of course, is the fact that at the time he outweighed her by nearly 100 lbs. He would say she was too fat and tell her she should be more like his skinny sisters (seriously? Creepiest thing you could ever say).

And so it would come to be that my mom had a nickname for my dad, one she still uses to this day. She calls him Tubby. Which isn't so bad. But there was also a song. As I said, I was maybe 3 years old and a talkative 3 year old at that. So my mother decided that her revenge for all the comments about her (perfectly NORMAL) weight would be to teach me a song to sing to my dad.

"Daddy needs a diet, cause Daddy has a weight problem." That was the song. Just one line. But one perfect line, especially coming from a precocious 3 year old who was mocking you. I remember years of my mother instigating me to sing it to my dad. It was magic. It is the perfect example of how my mom deals with stuff. And it pissed him off so much, which made it all the better.

Maybe I'll make this a thing. Stories about my mom. There are so many great ones to tell. Stay tuned.

When Did Captain Hook Become Such a Little Bitch Boy?

In the beginning, I resisted it.

Children's programming.

It's kind of awful. And besides that... okay I don't want to use the word "sellout", but I was sure I wouldn't become one of those parents whose kid was brainwashed into needing everything they own to have Winnie the Goddamn Pooh on it.

Before I found my better-than-Jesus babysitter, you may remember that my sister, A., was Caitlyn's babysitter. A.'s baby shower was baby Looney Tunes. My other sister's was Minnie Mouse. In the way of not bowing to licensed merchandise, I was certainly the odd one out in my family.

My point is that, despite my distaste for the idea that a less than one year old might have a favorite TV show or cartoon character, Caitlyn was exposed to a lot of TV at my sister's house. Unlike A.'s son, she was not mesmerized by the TV at 4 months old or anything, but she certainly had a few shows that would capture her attention for at least a few minutes per episode.

Caitlyn did not watch TV at home until she was well over a year old. I just didn't see the point. She was so focused on things like learning to walk and talk, that she didn't need anything else to occupy her time. But as she's grown into a toddler (and gotten a new babysitter who doesn't plop her in front of the TV all the goddamn time), I've relaxed my stance on TV a bit.

Okay. So now that we have established how superior I am, and that it isn't my fault that my kid likes to watch TV, let me tell you the story of how I discovered the huge difference in cartoons now, compared to when I was a child:

I had on the Disney channel the other day. I wasn't particularly paying attention to it and neither was Caitlyn. She was off shitting on my floor or something. At some point though, something on the TV caught my attention (I believe it was the word "doubloons")and I started to watch.

The show was called Neverland Pirates or some bullshit like that. It was a modern twist on Peter Pan. Except that the "modern twist" is that Captain Hook is a total bitch boy whose only recourse when things don't go his way is to throw a hissy fit and stomp around like an impotent douche. In fact, during this particular episode (about "winter treasure day"-where they decorate a tree and give each other gifts- nice job appeasing those Jews, Disney), Peter Pan and Captain Hook amicably agree to split their found treasure and have a lovely holiday dinner together. Really? Come on. That is one pathetic villain. Can you even imagine Inspector Gadget inviting Dr. Claw to a family dinner after he tried to rape and pillage Penny yet again? No. You can not. BECAUSE HE'S THE FUCKING VILLAIN AND IF YOU INVITE HIM TO YOUR HOUSE FOR DINNER HE WILL PROBABLY JUST BURN IT DOWN BECAUSE THAT'S THE KIND OF SHIT VILLAINS DO.

It got me thinking though, about the shows Caitlyn watches. She's young, so I don't expect to see any truly villainous villains in a show meant for toddlers, but still, I think current children's programming is going to turn our kids into pussies.

Remember the Looney Tunes we would watch? Have you ever seen that shit as an adult? Even if you are able to ignore all the blatant violence, those cartoons were not pussy-makers. Elmer Fudd was stupid and mean-spirited. He had no redeeming qualities. If Bugs invited him over to dinner, you knew he was trying to trick him or something. Daffy Duck was arrogant. Bugs' girlfriend was kind of a whore. Foghorn Leghorn did not like black people. Did. Not. Like. Black. People. Have you ever taken a moment, as an adult, to think about the phrase "cotton pickin'" and to realize how often we heard it as kids on Looney Tunes? Did I just blow your mind? Yeah. Thought so.

Today's kids shows lack conflict. I think kids need to know that life doesn't always just sort itself out in 30 minutes or less, that sometimes the villain is still around even after the immediate problem is solved. In real life, Pablo, Tyrone and Uniqua might wear different colors, if you know what I'm saying. Twist might not be accepted as just another part of the gang, despite his obvious mental retardation. Toodles isn't always within earshot to bring you what you need.

I'm not saying I want my kid to be exposed to the sexuality and racism that our cartoons were kind of known for. I'm just saying, for fucks sake, can't Captain Hook be a real fucking villain?

(Deadbeat) Daddy Dearest

We've been over it a few times now: My dad is the fucking definition of a deadbeat dad. Wait. Let me offer a correction: He was a deadbeat dad. I'm an adult now. His current role is as passive-aggressive, homeless man-child and constant burden. Because I don't fucking need him anymore. Wait. Let me offer another correction: I NEVER needed him. My mom was enough of a parent to make him completely obsolete.

The problem is that, for my mother, taking on both roles took its toll and she certainly paid the price for it. Specifically, she had her first of several heart attacks at the ripe old age of 38. Fucking 38, man. That is goddamn ridiculous. But it's a price she happily paid. A price I know she would pay again, not only for her children but for her grandchildren as well. Because as I've learned during the last couple of years, as a parent, you do ANYTHING for your children.

Childless people think we are smug. They get annoyed when we tell them they don't really understand because they aren't parents themselves. And I get how that is annoying. But as a child, teenager, adult and married adult, my first instinct had always been self-preservation. It's not that I've ever been selfish, in fact, I've always thought of myself as a very unselfish person. It's the difference between wanting the people you love to have everything, loving them and enjoying their company and literally being willing to throw yourself in front of a bus for someone.

Childless people? Take a moment. Really imagine the scenario. Would you be able to do it? Even for the person you love most in the world? I wouldn't do that shit for my husband or my sisters or anyone else. But I would really and truly die for Caitlyn, without hesitation. I would give myself a heart attack working 4 jobs for 10 years straight if it was all we could do to scrape by.

I don't think I'm different than any other parent in this way. Everyone would die for their kids, but for me it goes a bit deeper than that. Because one of my kids did die. So maybe everyone doesn't actually imagine it. They don't actually think about what they would do to have their child back. They don't visualize the sacrifices they would be willing to make. But I do. Sadly, I always fucking do.

My point is kind of getting lost here. This morning I received an email from a coworker. In my company email account. From hers. And it honestly took everything I had not to completely lose my shit on her. It was about child support. Specifically, the email was several paragraphs of her thoughts on the child support system, followed by a link to a petition to change child support laws.

Okay. I am the child of a deadbeat dad. I get it, I'm biased, but this shit was ridiculous. Let me give you the highlights:

"I hope this email finds you well!"

This just seems like an odd intro to an email about corruption and evil mothers. Is it just me?

"I know several Fathers who are good dads that continue to be slaughtered by the courts & conniving mothers, who are well aware of their leverage with our court systems."

This is the sentence that nearly gave me a stroke. "Conniving mothers" in particular. I'm not about to say that all mothers are great and that none of them take advantage. I'm sure it happens. But frankly, demonizing moms is NOT going to win any points with me. Also? "I know several fathers" makes me think she fucks a lot of guys with kids. Also? WHY THE FUCK DOES SHE CAPITALIZE FATHERS? Mothers are conniving and somehow fathers are being deified? DON'T EVEN.

"We want to make a difference to stop the corruption that this madness has turned into."

I'd love to know what is corrupt about expecting a man to pay child support.

"We need to keep the court systems fair and just. Bad Fathers need to be punished! Good Fathers need to be rewarded!"

I'd like to know who is judging the "bad" and "good" fathers. A man can refuse to support his children, but as long as he shows up on weekends with enough cash to take the kids to McDonalds, then he is a great dad? School clothes, food, a roof over your head? Who needs them! Daddy of the year needs to save his cash for the chick he's banging.

I hope you make a difference today!~

You know what would have made a difference in my childhood? Not having to visit my mother in the hospital at 14 years old because she could afford to pay our rent without doing our landlord's landscaping for approximately $3 per hour.

"Good Dads shouldn't be forced to pay unfair percentages in child support and have minimal visitation of their children".

Okay. If this had simply said "dads shouldn't be forced to pay child support while only having minimal visitation of their children", I would have agreed. But "unfair percentages"? The percentage quoted in this email, for the record, is 17%. Which is admittedly rough on any one's paycheck. But you know what else is rough on a paycheck? SUPPORTING AND CARING FOR A CHILD. You know what is relatively inexpensive? CONDOMS. I'm just saying.

My point is simply that my mother spent 100% of her income on providing for her children. For at least 15 years. In fact, a lot of the work she did for our landlord was simply deducted off of our rent, so I'd say it was actually more than 100%. What is 17% compared to every dime (no, really. Literally every dime) you make? And in case you think I'm exaggerating, the story me and my siblings always tell is about the pair of sneakers my mom had for 8 years. And I don't mean one of many pairs. I mean she owned one pair of shoes and wore them every day for 8 years without ever buying a new pair. Because she couldn't afford it, even if they did have huge holes in the bottoms.

The thing that bugs me more than anything is the implication that these moms are pissing away their child support money on themselves. This was something I had to clarify for my own deadbeat dad. You see, in my family we are huge Yankees fans. Huge. And back in the 90s, you could get UPCs off of bottled water and get tickets buy one get one free. And it was only about $25 per ticket at the time. My sister and I would save up our babysitting money and buy tickets to games to go to with our mother. Then we would stand behind the stadium (back then, you actually COULD) and wait for the players to come and sign autographs. In fact, we ended up with quite a few autographs (good ones too).

One day a few years ago my dad mentioned this to me. He commented how my mom always claimed to be so broke yet she could buy Yankees tickets and autographed memorabilia. I had to explain to him that she never actually bought any of the tickets, and that, if he really looked, he would have noticed that our autographs were ALWAYS on sheets of white paper. My mom would then cut a picture of that player out of a newspaper or magazine and put it next to their autograph. Glad we cleared that up, dumbass? Yeah. Me too.

I'm not trying to say that all dads who are put on child support are assholes. But they do all deserve to support their kids to every extent they possibly can. And maybe this is another biased thing to say, but I personally think you shouldn't need a court order to tell you to give money to the person caring for your child. I went through a "maybe I should leave my husband" phase a few months ago so child support is something I seriously thought about. What I realized is that I wouldn't need a court order. Being irresponsible is not one of Rodolfo's flaws.

Dad's an asshole- Part 1

I haven't posted most of my vacation nonsense yet, but this post needs to happen first. This post is the bane of my damn existence. This post is why I'm too aggravated all the time to write light, fun vacation posts. This post is about my father.

Back story is going to be necessary here. I'll do you all the favor and not go into every ridiculous detail about why my Dad screwed up my childhood. I'll give you the highlights (lowlights?) though.

Before we get into all that though, I'd like to take a moment here to defend my mother. Because she did marry this loser. And have four of his children. My Mom had an unimaginably horrible childhood. Her mother was an uncaring, raging alcoholic and her dad had a severe stroke when she was just 8 or 9 years old and she spent a lot of her childhood caring for him. She had a brother who overdosed on heroin when she was 10 or 11 (she actually found him in the bathroom the first time he OD'd- the second time he died) and another brother who was addicted to cocaine and physically and verbally abused her on a daily basis. He would constantly tell her how horrible she was, ugly and unlikeable and her mother would send her away from the dinner table when he would say how he couldn't look at her while he was eating. She was also sexually abused from a very young age (5 or 6) by one of her older cousins. Her mother found out about it and simply told her to "try to stay away from him".

To say my mother had a bad childhood would be an incredible understatement. My childhood was nothing like her childhood because, unlike a lot of people who endure this kind of abuse, she was able to say "this is exactly what I don't want for my own children". She married very young, at just 21, because she so desperately wanted a family of her own. She wanted nothing more then to find the love she never had as a child, to be the absolute best mother she could be. But because of all the abuse she took, she also had no self esteem and she was painfully shy. So despite his many flaws, she married my father rather quickly. She was anxious for her life to begin.

Now, back to my father. Let's start with the worst problem; the one problem that has caused all the others. My father has a gambling problem. As a young couple expecting a baby less than a year after they got married, my parents didn't have a lot of money. Gambling was always my father's solution. Besides being unable or unwilling to keep a steady job (to this day, he practically brags about the fact that he's had "at least 10 jobs a year for the last 30 years), when he DID work, instead of doing silly things like PAYING RENT, for example, he would buy lottery tickets. His explanation was that he couldn't make enough money at his job (just a theory, but MAYBE IF YOU STAYED AT ANY JOB FOR MORE THAN A MONTH, EVER, YOU WOULD GET A PAY INCREASE. Just a theory though.) and if he won a few hundred or a few thousand dollars (yeah, it wasn't even like pipe-dream mega-millions type hoping. He was talking about the Pick 3 for chrissake), he would have enough to pay the rent AND the electric bill. And maybe even buy groceries and diapers!

My mom always tells the story of the time she sent dad out with the very last few dollars they had to their name to buy milk and diapers for my older brother, and he came back empty-handed, having decided gambling the money away was a better option because then MAYBE they could have milk and diapers for more than just a day or two. My mother cried a lot when he did stuff like that. She always felt somehow at fault that she couldn't give her children at the very least what we needed.

My father has been repeating this same delusional pattern for 35 years now. The highlights of his inepitude include: the time we lived in a van for several weeks because we had been kicked out of yet another apartment for not paying the rent (in fact, I'm fairly certain we would have spent way more time on the street if it wasn't for the mandatory grace period a landlord has to give a tenant before evicting them). Places I've also lived: every sleezy motel in a 100 mile radius. I wish I was exaggerating this one. Any of you watch Jersey Shore? That little tourist trap, Seaside Heights, is really deserted in the winter. And the motels charge next to nothing for rent in the off season. I can't even tell you how many nights we spent in a sleezy Seaside motel. In fact, we had to ask one of my dad's relatives in a neighboring town with a SCHOOL SYSTEM, to let us use their address so we could actually go to school.

And speaking of schools, boy have I been in a lot of them. Between Kindergarten and 3rd grade, we went to 6 or 7 different schools because we were constantly moving. In case you were wondering, that makes it REALLY hard to make friends when you are just a little kid. It took me years to actually warm up and make friends once my mom took us and left my dad just before I started the 4th grade. I was in that town's school system until I graduated high school, just for the record.

Other places I remember sleeping? In a church's community room, on top of their tables, in homeless shelters and at the homes of countless relatives who let us stay a night or two at a time. As an adult, I don't have anything from that part of my childhood. No special toys or a specific place that takes me back to that time of my life. It was all lost in the chaos. All of the physical reminders were lost in unpaid storage units. The fact that my mother even has pictures is a miracle to me, and a true testament to her strength that she was able to even think about holding onto such things with everything she was dealing with. The interesting part is how it never really bothered me (or my siblings, for that matter) as a kid. I didn't know any other way, so it never really occured to me that it wasn't normal. The hard part came as an adult, and more intensely so when I became a mother myself.

It's easy to say it didn't affect me as a kid. Besides the awkwardness and the trouble fitting in when we did finally settle in one place, I can't say I ever felt particularly affected. My mother has always been so warm and loving and instead of feeling like people should have pitied me, I pity those who didn't have mothers like mine. So the hardest part, really, is to become a mother myself and understand all the things I want for my daughter and to try to think of how my own mother must have felt on the nights she could barely feed us, let alone buy us toys.

I remember little things that meant nothing at the time, and realize she must have been in agony over it. When my youngest sister was born, I was 7. My other siblings were 9 and 6. There was frequently not enough milk to go around, so we had to ask before we had any. It seemed reasonable enough at the time. Milk was for the baby, we could eat other things. But to understand my mother's point of view, to realize that she had to tell her 7 year old that she couldn't have any milk because there just wasn't enough, to think of that wrenches my heart. It makes me realize how lucky I am to be with a man I can count on. Responsible and strong-willed and willing to push me when I won't push myself. It also makes me realize that if I hadn't had such a wonderful mother, with the way my childhood went, I definitely could have ended up on an episode of Maury as a troubled, pregnant teen.

In spite of everything my dad screwed up, my mom was always there to pick up the pieces. She nearly killed herself with the effort it took. She was working 3 or 4 jobs when I was a teenager, and at just 38, she had her first of several heart attacks. It infuriates me to see her sick. She is better now, but still struggles with heart issues every few years. Maybe that part was inevitable, that eventually she would have had a heart attack one day. But at 38? I can't help but feel like my father made her sick.

My point is that my mother is basically a saint, and even more so for never killing my dad in his sleep. And my dad, despite seemingly never getting over the fact that my mom left him, has not changed one bit. He still lives his life by the lottery. He'll occasionally decide to "quit" and he will make it a few weeks before he plays again, but then life will get too hard, he won't have enough money for this thing or that and he will give in and go back to the mistress that ruined his marriage and took away his children's innocence. He always goes back.

This post has gotten quite long, and it makes me think I'll make my actual point in a Part 2 type post. Part 1: My dad fucked up my childhood. Part 2: my dad fucks up my adulthood. Stay tuned.

Poor

When I was a kid we were poor. And I'm not talking "we buy all our clothes from K-Mart" poor. I'm talking "all my clothes are hand-me-downs from my 14 year old, pants-shitting, BOY cousin" poor. You know what I'm talking about, welfare poor. My point isn't to complain. Quite the opposite, in fact. Being poor teaches you things you wouldn't otherwise learn. Having been poor as a kid has served me well as an adult.

Improvisation is an important skill you learn when you are poor. Ran out of toilet paper? Use a towel! No money to go to the laundromat? Just wash out your cousin's hand-me-down's in the bathtub! Car doesn't have heat or reverse? Bring a blanket and your pushing shoes for "Flintstonin' it", as my mother would always say when we would put our feet out our doors and push the car out of a parking space.

My mad improv skills helped me out tonight when I got to my car after work and realized it was covered in a half-inch thick layer of ice. The problem, you see, is that I don't have an ice scraper. A brush, yes. Scraper, no. After 5 minutes of sitting in my freezing cold car with the defrosters on full blast, I realized it would be another hour before the ice sheet was melted without the aid of some sort of scraping apparatus. I began to scour my car for an improv ice-scraping treasure.

There wasn't much to choose from. The Wal-Mart bag full of painting supplies wasn't going to be much help... I briefly considered breaking open the painter's kit I bought and trying to use the edge of the paint pan to scrape ice off my windshield, but it seemed like an embarrassing and unwieldy solution. Nothing good was going to come of the drop cloth or paint brushes either.

Next I checked my center console and STRUCK GOLD. You know the plastic piece with the suction cup on it that holds your GPS to the windshield? Those edges looked pretty good for scrapin'! I know, I know. It seems like an unlikely solution in a "your mama's so poor" story, to use such new-fangled, fancy person technology. But that's the great thing about "used to be poor". You retain the skills, but you end up with significantly more blunt objects lying around, waiting to be misused.

I sometimes wonder how "rich" kids ever figure anything out for themselves in adulthood. And by "rich" I mean that their parents maybe had a car with reverse. Or a car at all, which was not the case for the majority of my childhood.