Terrible Mother

Semantics

A few months ago, in the car, where all pertinent conversation in our family takes place, Thing One and Thing Two had this exchange:

"I would like to see Eight-Finger Jon again so I can play with his dog," said Thing Two.

"You can't call him Eight-Finger Jon anymore," said Thing One.

"Why not?"

"Because now he doesn't have eight fingers. He only has FIVE."

"So I can call him Five-Finger Jon?"

"Well, he has metal fingers now."

"I thought he had a hook."

"Mom," Thing One called up to the front seat, "does Jon have fingers or a hook?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe he has both."

"Well," said Thing Two, "we could call him 10-finger Jon if he has metal fingers."

"That's stupid," said Thing One. "Having 10 fingers is normal so why would you make a whole name out of it?"

"It is not normal to have 5 metal fingers and 5 normal fingers!"

"But no one can tell from the name it isn't normal."

This conversation lasted for approximately 7 more minutes, and resulted in much arguing, and no new nickname for Jon until I said "What about Bionic Jon?"

They loved this (a name Fort Awesome thought up a long time ago), with only Thing One adding "Well, I don't know how bionic he really is, but okay."

Somehow, I think Jon would have loved listening to this conversation.

*tm

The Comment Revue, 2006

One of the best things about *terrible mother is the readership. I've got loyal, smart readers here, and any blog which can sustain a lengthy debate regarding the sentimentality of the postmortem worship of Kurt Vonnegut has some kick-ass people commenting. So, as an ode to y'all, I'm posting my favorite reader comments of 2006.

First, the faux-frustrated at Terrible Mother posts:

you mistakenly called friend two by the name of friend one. multiple times. this is nearly unforgiveable. also, i don't have to buy you a drink at awp because i've already bought the hotel room. duh, you're beholden even if you don't sleep there. whore.

sorry, did i mention i was drunk?
-Friend One, to Miscellany, 11-2006

-----

Just a few notes:

1) When you asked me to deal with your wasp problem, you offered me a stick. I suggested the wasp-killer spray, and you apparently purchased it, but only after I'd already gone to deal with chickens. Granted, I'm man enough to take on a wasp nest armed with nothing but a stick, but I'm not stupid enough to do so.

2) If you give handjobs like you hold a pool cue, then I'm glad I'm gay. Not that you're offering or anything.

-Friend R to Miscellany, 8-2006

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Good god, woman. Stop braying about things you've brought upon yourself. Finish the test, ace it like you know you will, sleep for a day, and then fuck the life out of sweetboy.

I'm sorry to be the one to have to say it

-badfreak to It's Almost Over (and brought on by my complaining of the MFA Exam)

-----

What makes you think I don't already know about amputee sex?

Also, the fanbase thing? Seriously. Get over yourself.

-badfreak to What the Hell Is Love Anyway? (and brought on by my announcement of dating an amputee and declaring I had a fanbase. Let it be known that Freak took back the latter at a later date. Oh yeah, I think it was the post immediately following the one in which he told me to get over myself. Not that I'm keeping track).

*****

Second, the non-sequitur posts:

You say OCD with bathrooom stalls like it's bad thing.

-Kari to Miscellany, 8-2006

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handjobs difficult? maybe not. to do well? hmmm...

see, the thing with receiving a handjob from someone else is that it's moronic. when the recipient at one of these lame, sophomoric attempts at intimacy, i generally look down (literally and proverbially) with pity and sadness in my eyes.

sometimes, i remark that "baby, you're dealing with the master." trust me... i can do that quicker, better, and much more efficiently on my own. you're just embarrassing yourself. like emeril's mom insisting on making turkey at thanksgiving and it comes out all dry and gross and BAM! mom just let me BAM! make the BAM! turkey next BAM! next BAM! next year.

i think emeril has tourette's.

-Friend Omega to Miscellany, 8-2006.

-----

Terrible Mother's Favorite Haiku:

There's this guy I know.
He's a real fucking asshole.
Yes, that guy is you.

-Friend Omega, in Poem of the Week.

*****

Third, kid-related comments, which I big heart:

I love it when they dress like flatchested and relatively demure college freshmen. LOVE IT. Love the forays into accessorizing, glitter, hairties and wheeled sneakers. My own feral child asked me if she could use my deodorant the other day--she wanted very much to slide it onto her pristine underarm. I had to go into my room and laugh.

-Fatally Hip Single Mother to Miscellany, 9-2006.

-----

My kiddo is already worried about shaving, as in his balls. I kid you not!!! He has told me twice he does not want to grow hair on his balls, and I told him, "It's OK, honey. It won't happen for a while." (See I read him this book called "What's Happening to Me: A Guide To Puberty," which is a marvelous book, and we had fun reading it together, and it sparked a great discussion, and so I recommend it to other parents for sure) but ever since then my kiddo doesn't want to grow hair on his balls.

God, I know, it makes me laugh.

Anyway, so then he came up with the idea he'd shave his balls. Except ten minutes later he said, "But that might hurt."

So I told him, "Listen, honey, by the time you get hair on your balls you won't mind it. Trust me. You'll have other things on your mind by then."

-Alana, to Miscellany, 9-2006.

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I think that a book about a single mother taking a road trip with her three young children sounds like something I would never read, even should I live to be a hundred.

-Friend Omega, to Have Kids, Will Travel.

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This is the sort of thing they'll use against you when they're trying to justify sticking you in a home somewhere:

"Well, there was the story of my birth put out on the internet, so, yeah, let's go with the cheapest place we can find."

-badfreak to Happy Birthday Thing Two.

*****

Fourth, what I call Little Bumper Cars of Witty Repartee*:

I did NOT mean to suggest that you used your vagina to cook a turkey. I mean...it wouldn't really be warm enough to be safe from bacteria, would it? Not that you're full of bacteria or anything. Remember "The Accidental Tourist" 225 degree oven? I'm sayin. My body temp tends to run a little low. I could maybe pull off warm tapas olives and chickpeas.

And - a turkey's pretty big. Well, HUGE really, so there's that to consider. I'm not saying it couldn't be done. Someone's probably doing it right now. And maybe someday you'll figure out how to do it and show the rest of us.

Right?

-Pink-Haired Housewife, to ThanksEarly.

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I like Miracle Whip, the as-yet-unmentioned eye-patch sporting best friend who likes to put Miracle Whip on his fries.

-badfreak to Friend One Rules.

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"friends with money" is the second best film i've seen this year, after "thank you for smoking."

i didn't find it depressing. i found it very touching and beautiful. i like characters who are as empty inside as i am.

-Friend Omega, to A Gin and Garden.

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And you must read the entire the entry (and comments, natch) entitled Austin and Everything After, part II, which was only interesting because of the barbs Friend Omega and badfreak slung around.

-----

and, finally, perhaps my favorite comment of 2006:

david bradley thinks that he is the r. lee ermey of creative writing.

–Friend Omega to Former Incarnations.

*tm

*yep Fort Awesome, I totally stole that from you.

Conversations I've Recently Had, All of Which Ended with Me Saying "Motherfuck"

Tim-Tim and me after a Saturday night of cooking, child-wrangling and bribery (as it pertained to getting the Things to eat eggplant) together:

Me: That was a lot of work. Thanks for helping me with the dishes.

Tim-Tim: You're welcome. But yeah, the Things were a little wound up tonight.

Me: One thing's for sure. I'm never introducing them to any man I'm dating until I have a ring on my finger.

Tim-Tim: Well, you should probably super-glue it on first.

******

IM'ing with Fort Awesome:

Me: Way Too Bashful to be a Republican told me to tell you hi. He's a sweet guy.

Fort Awesome: Who voted for Bush twice.

Me: Nobody's perfect, Fort Awesome.

Fort Awesome: Right. Did you know Hitler was great with animals and small children?

Me: I hate when you say that. Anyway, I have poet gossip.

Fort Awesome: You do?

Me: Yeah. I heard that This Famous Poet likes to get it on in a specific bathroom in a specific fast food restaurant in a specific city. Isn't that gross?

Fort Awesome: Nobody's perfect, TM.

*****

Friend Omega: I have my first Obama campaign meeting tonight.

Me: Cool. I'd love to work with him.

Friend Omega: Hey, if I get hired to Obama's White House, will you be the Donna to my Josh?

Me: I would be the Donna to your Josh.

Friend Omega: But not annoying like Donna.

Me: What? But I want to be annoying like Donna. Will you do that thing that Josh does, where he pretends to get flustered?

Friend Omega: I don't pretend. I actually get flustered.

Me: Can you make it cute?

Friend Omega: No. And anyway, my boss won't make the stupid bank deposit. Call him and say something, would you?

Me: Would Donna?

Friend Omega: No. She'd have some very annoying parallel to draw about it. Like "I didn't give you the change for your sandwich because you'd spend it wrong, like you say people would do with their taxes." Stupid girl.

Me: But then why would you want me to be her? This is a very confusing scenario.

Friend Omega: I want you to fulfill her role, not to actually take on her characteristics.

Me: I see. So we would just banter for years and carry on a mostly sexless relationship for others to appreciate?

(pause)

Friend Omega: Maybe this would work better if you were the Sam to my Toby.

*tm

Thing Two's Career Options

One of my favorite chats with Friend Omega (and a little less maudlin and overwrought than yesterday's birthday post):

Terrible Mother: today, Thing Two said "I want to be Darth Vader for Halloween. And Willy Wonka when I grow up."

Friend Omega: You're looking at my resume RIGHT NOW, aren't you?

Terrible Mother: yes

Friend Omega: Did you explain to him that being Willy Wonka is going to require postgraduate work, and that he will need to start thinking about his professional references immediately?

Terrible Mother: yes

Friend Omega: And I'm guessing - just a guess, mind you - that it doesn't even come with dental. Which is a sham.

Terrible Mother: Dental? They don't even have Vision!

Friend Omega: Of course they do. Otherwise how would they know the difference between nougat and caramel?

Terrible Mother: the consistency, duh!

Friend Omega: The consistency? What, do you think they finger each batch as it comes to their workstation? Anyway, who is "they"? THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE WILLY WONKA!

Terrible Mother: the OOMPA LOOMPAS! Christ! Do I have to explain everything to you?

Friend Omega: Who the fuck was referring to the Oompa Loompas? You said that your son wanted to be Willy Fucking Wonka.

Terrible Mother: The Oompa Loompas finger the nougat!

Friend Omega: If I had known that he'd settle for being an Oompa Loompa, I'd have been more forgiving. How are his chanting skills? Is he good at chanting after dismembering a child in the most vile ways imaginable?

Terrible Mother: But he doesn't want to be an Oompa Loompa. He wants to be Willy Wonka.

Friend Omega: I WAS TALKING ABOUT WILLY WONKA BUT THEN YOU TURNED IT INTO A DISCUSSION OF THE BENEFITS PACKAGE AFFORDED TO OOMPA LOOMPAS!

(pause)

Though I have to admit that Darth Vader does seem like a good career path towards being Willy Wonka.

Terrible Mother: OOMPA LOOMPAS DON'T NEED BENEFITS! THEY LIVE IN A FACTORY! THEY ARE PAID WITH COCOA BEANS! THEY ARE WHAT GOD INTENDED WITH NAFTA!

Friend Omega: First of all, that was not funny. Second of all, you are the one who brought up Oompa Loompas' benefits. You are having this conversation with yourself!

Terrible Mother: that's it, Omega!

Friend Omega: Oh, for God's sakes... all I said was that Willy Wonka doesn't get dental, which sucks because he does, after all, make candy.

Then you went off on your tangent about Oompa Loompas not having eyes and fingering the nougat with their little Oompa Loompa digits.

Terrible Mother: but Willy Wonka's dad is a dentist! HE DOESN'T NEED DENTAL!

Friend Omega: Perhaps the current Willy Wonka, but if Thing Two were to become Willy Wonka, are you insinuating that John would then give up his Fabulous International Law practice and enter dentistry?

(long pause)

Terrible Mother: I hate this game.

*tm

Divine Intervention

Friend R: I just glanced at your last sentence, just as the window disappeared behind a dialogue box that popped up on my screen. And all I got from my glimpse was "nicer because pregnant" and I had a very brief moment of panic for you. Immaculate conception is nice and all, but even if God impregnates you with magic sperm, you're still pregnant.

Terrible Mother: I am on Depo-Provera. Something even God cannot overcome.

Friend R: Okay. I'm archiving this chat. God is so gonna knock you up now.

Terrible Mother: But I'm on Depo. Still on Depo. This is because, the night Jon and I broke up, I was sitting on my couch, crying, snot running down my face, hiccuping like a moron, when I remembered I was due the following week for the shot. "But I dunno, guys," I said to Friend One and Friend Two. "Should I still even get it?" "YES!" they said in unision. Proving, once and for all, that they must think I'm easy.

Friend R: Well, best to be prepared and all that. Besides, from what I hear, God's a deadbeat dad. Knocks chicks up, then pretty much kicks 'em out to fend for themselves. no child support, no visitation, no christmas card. As a father, God kinda sucks. I'd stay on the depo, just to be sure God doesn't decide to really fuck your life.

Terrible Mother: Hold up. Can you imagine me with a Child of God? A God Offspring? That would not be okay.

Friend R: Sure it would. I could be the fun uncle. The world would be so much better if I were the Messiah's uncle. None of this crucifixion bullshit. "You're the Son of God -- rain some hellfire on those bastards. Christ, stop being such a wuss."

Terrible Mother: What exactly does hellfire even look like? Napalm? Flaming hair jelly?

Friend R: Only flamy.

Terrible Mother: Well, I think it's flaming hair jelly. Flaming pomade, if you will.

*tm

Titleist

Grim: I hate your blog.

Terrible Mother: What? Why?

Grim: Because everyone has cool names except for me.

Terrible Mother: Is this like the cool people pens?

Grim: No! It's about the names!

Terrible Mother: What are you talking about?

Grim: Like "Friend One" and "Friend Two" and "Friend R."

Terrible Mother: I use the name you gave yourself.

Grim: Well, why didn't you ask me? What if I wanted a different name?

Terrible Mother: Your real name is freaky enough. And speaking of freaks, I call B "Freak" and he doesn't seem to mind.

Grim: Not the point. I want a new name.

Terrible Mother: Fine. Fine. What name do you want?

(long pause)

Grim: I want to be Friend Omega.

*tm

(so shall it be written, so shall it be done. Someone reminded me of this quote recently. I forgot how much I loved it.)

Raccoons, and Fire, and Bears, Oh My!

(A conversation with This One Guy)

This One Guy says:  Smokey the bear laughs at fire

Terrible Mother says:  he does?  I think you are lying.

This One Guy says:  He's Like, "fire?"  I'll show you fire.

Terrible Mother says:  are you saying that he could start a fire?

This One Guy says:  Well.. duh

Terrible Mother says:  he lacks opposable thumbs

This One Guy says:  Then explain the shovel

(long pause)

Terrible Mother says:  fuck

This One Guy says:  Look, just because he's only got 4 fingers...

Terrible Mother says:  maybe it's a special shovel.

This One Guy says:  Yeah, for a special bear...that FREAKING TALKS!

Terrible Mother says:  I mean, it's hard to light matches.  And he could never get past a lighter.

This One Guy says:  you just light the squirrels up and send them into the woods

Terrible Mother says:  squirrels?  What about the raccoons?  Now, see, if you told me about a Smokey

the Raccoon starting fires, then I'd believe you.  Because not only are raccoons smart, they are devious, back-stabbing mofos.

This One Guy says:  And stupid.

Terrible Mother says:  They are not stupid!  How can you say they are stupid?

This One Guy says:  I've faced up to a few, and they always try to be big...and lose

Terrible Mother says:  okay, but are you saying they are stupider than a bear? 

This One Guy says:  bears are pretty smart

Terrible Mother says:  you know what you are? 

This One Guy says:  A bear lover?

Terrible Mother says:  You are a raccoonist.  You secretly harbor prejudice against raccoons.

This One Guy says:  yes.. I do hate them.. I think we should segregate them from society.  Okay, here.  Secret?

Terrible Mother says:  secret.

This One Guy says:  Crap!  The kids are fighting . I'll be right back. 

Terrible Mother says:  You know this means I win now.  You officially lost.  It's the kid rule.

This One Guy says:  not really.

*tm

Just Say No

(A conversation with Thing Three's anesthesiologist, on the occasion of her tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy):

Terrible Mother:  Thing Three, lie down.  No lay down.  Lie down?

Doctor No Pain:  You need to give her a minute to do it.

Terrible Mother: No no.  I just can't remember which version of the verb is correct.

Doctor No Pain:  Oh I hate that one.  I never get it correct

Terrible Mother:  Me either.  I think that's why they're considering turning my MFA program into a three-year deal.

Doctor No Pain:  Oh.  You're a graduate student?

Terrible Mother:  Yep. 

Doctor No Pain:  That's great. (to Thing Three):  Here's a little Happy Air to help you out.

Terrible Mother:  "Happy Air"?

Doctor No Pain:  (laughing) Laughing gas.

Terrible Mother: Oh. (looks down at Thing Three).  How are you doing, sweet pea?

Thing Three:  I floating.

Doctor No Pain:  You're floating sweetheart?  Are you ready?  Are you ready to blast off?

Terrible Mother: "Blast off"?

Doctor No Pain (nodding):  Now she's gonna get the general.  (to Thing Three)  Here it comes sweetheart.  Smell that rocket fuel? 

Terrible Mother: (gives Doctor a vague look like "what the holy hell are you talking about?")  Is this okay?

Doctor No Pain (ignoring Terrible Mother):  Okay, now breathe it in!  Breathe in the rocket fuel! 

Thing Three breathes it in deeply.

Terrible Mother:  I'm pretty sure there are pamphlets on this sort of thing.

Doctor No Pain:  Come on, honey.  Big deep breaths!  Suck in the rocket fuel!

Thing Three begins to drift off.

Doctor No Pain:  That's it, sweetheart.  That's good rocket fuel, isn't it?

Terrible Mother:  You are so paying for her 12-step program when she's 19. 

*tm

Thing Three had a tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy yesterday and did AMAZING.  She didn't cry once, before or after, and was even in such a decent mood post-op, and so curious about her surroundings that the nurse let her help remove her own IV!  Last night she begged for, and ate, an entire taco, and is at this moment playing outside with the neighbor's cat.  Insanity.  It's probably from the drugs.

A Phone Call With Friend One On April Fool's Day

Terrible Mother:  The Things and I are playing a great April Fool's joke on The Sweet Boy.

Friend One:  When is April Fool's Day anyway?

Terrible Mother:  Uhh...April 1st.

Friend One:  Oh yeah?  When's that? 

Terrible Mother:  That would be today.

Friend One:  This exam business is killing me.

Terrible Mother:  Sure the exam takes all the blame like an illegitimate step-child, while the rum gets out the back door?  I see how it is.

*terriblemother

Rough Draft of Thesis due in t-minus...holy shit...42 hours.

Exam starts in t-minus 4 days.

Cooking for a Man

Terrible Mother:  So, I need your advice on what to cook for The Sweet Boy for dinner. 

Friend One:  What are you considering?

Terrible Mother:  Scallops.

Friend One: Scallops? 

Terrible Mother:  Yes, scallops.  You know.  They are small and tasty shell fish that you can buy in mass quantities at the local fish store.  Or fishmonger.  Jamie Oliver calls it "fishmonger."

Friend One:  Did Jamie Oliver tell you to cook your boyfriend scallops?

Terrible Mother:  Well, he implied it would work.

Friend One:  Because Jamie Oliver is a chef, Terrible Mother. 

Terrible Mother:  Wait, are you saying I shouldn't cook The Sweet Boy scallops?

Friend One:  Well, how committed are you to the scallops?

Terrible Mother:  Not very.

Friend One:  I think it's a bad choice.

Terrible Mother:  Bad choice as in "white wine with pesto" or bad choice as in "goat cheese and Saltines"? 

Friend One:  No no.  Bad choice as in "drinking three Jack and Cokes and having sex without a condom."  Not that I know.

Terrible Mother:  What?  How can scallops be that bad of a choice?

Friend One:  Listen TM.  Scallops are finicky.  The finickiest of the shellfish.  They absorb anything you put in the pan with them, and even things in the same room.  They are raw at 1 minute and tough as hell at 2 minutes.

Terrible Mother:  But I'm a good cook!  I can roast root vegetables!  I make a mean mac and cheese!  I know how to be a good bougie girl!

Friend One:  Yes, but scallops?  For a boy, TM?  Look, you do what you want, but this is potentially what could happen:  You cook the scallops.  They are tough and chewy.  He looks across the table at you, the table you've set with the china and the candlesticks and he will think "this girl can't cook at all!  What am I doing here?" 

Terrible Mother:  That is so sexist!  He won't think that!

Friend One:  Well, if you undercook them he won't.  Then he'll be puking up his guts and cursing the day he met you. 

Terrible Mother:  I can cook really well!

Friend One:  Of course you can.  I'm just asking you to think clearly here.  Think about where this relationship is right now.  Is it ready for scallops, TM? Because, frankly, I don't think it is.

Terrible Mother:  Maybe you're right.

Friend One:  Of course I'm right.  I'm never cooking scallops for any man until we've done the 'til death do us part. 

Terrible Mother:  Then what will I cook?

Friend One (pause):  How about an easy pork tenderloin?

*terriblemother