Boy Gone Wild (part XXVI in the series)

I was standing in the kitchen at 1 a.m. Friday morning, with five police officers, my son in handcuffs and my ex-, when my cell phone rang.

My sister, inebriated: GUESS WHAT?! I’m going to switch schools and move to yourtown, Alabama and I’m going to get an apartment and my tuition will be $5,000 less!

Me: That’s great. Can I call you back tomorrow?

Her: You’re not even excited? I can get my masters in another two years and…

Sigh. I know I said I gave up drama for New Year’s, but my family didn’t get the memo. NO DRAMA, I said! My son: defiant, stubborn, and disrespectful. In handcuffs. In the back of a squad car.

His dad is visiting for the weekend, so of course everything was soon out of control between the two of them, with my son threatening to run away and/or kill himself. Fortunately, I live in a relatively small town, so when we called the police, three squad cars showed up. The officers searched his room (cigarettes and fourteen lighters were stashed behind some xbox games), and talked to/intimidated him. They couldn't actually take him anywhere, since he hadn't committed a crime, so they told him to just step down, go to his room, and lose the attitude. Dumbass climbed out of his bedroom window as the officers were leaving, so they put him in handcuffs in the back of the squad car while they talked to us.

After a couple hours of sleep, we took him to the Juvenile Probation Office and met with a woman who gave him a drug test (negative) and told him about the whole juvenile court process. She talked, listened, and explained exactly what would happen if any more complaints were made against him and for once in his life, I think he listened.

He agreed to start seeing a therapist to help with his anger, and we talked for several hours about everything ("Mom, I can't believe you tackled me!"). While I don't want to be that naive mother, I'm guardedly optimistic, believing this is the best thing that could have happened. Perhaps that giant chip on his shoulder is starting to shrink.

Bonus: part of my son's punishment was to rake my yard (my neighbor's yard? I'm still not sure about the property line) and it looks wonderful!


It's Thursday - must be time to beat the crap out of my PMS'ing son again.

Things I hate:

1. getting a phone call from the high school principal infoming me that my son has been suspended for two days.
2. crying at work
3. all day long
4. midgets

That child that claims to be mine got up yesterday morning telling me that some of the cats needed to go - they woke him up five times the night before and if I didn't get rid of them, he would. My house, my mortgage payment, my rules. Simple, right? More yelling, grabbing of shirts, and throwing of poptarts ensued.

One of the most difficult things for me to cope with is this overwhelming feeling of helplessness. I'm frustrated from not being able to make him respect others or share my goals. I'm ticked off at my ex- for not being more supportive (and telling me not to antagonize him. GRRRR!). Mostly, I'm wondering how the hell I'm going to manage for two more years of high school. And? The cats are keeping ME awake at night, too!

(No, I don't actually hate midgets...get off your short horse and shut the hell up).


Shades of blonde

I stopped by the dry cleaners, on a whim, to see if my missing pink sweater that I wore to my dad's wedding reception might be there. "Yep", the cashier told me, "you owe $28.79". Sure, I bought it at Banana Republic, it has a great neckline, and is super soft, but almost $30? To clean? Beer and mozarella cheese stick stains are that difficult to remove?

Returning with my pink sweater and two dresses (ahhhhh), she told me they'd been there since October 2004, and were on their way to Goodwill this weekend, if I hadn't shown up.


I saw my house on the internet, on a local realtor's listing website, went to look at it during my lunch hour, and put in an offer the next day. I immediately fell in love with the yard, which is a beautiful corner lot with puh-lenty of trees and blooming azaleas. The only problem? I'm not exactly sure where my property line is. I'd like to rake it and take some cuttings, but I'm kind of embarrassed to go next door and ask after a year and a half.

L'Oreal. Because I'm worth it.

You be the judge - doesn't that little green pylon look like a property marker?

Somebody better get her ass out there and rake, dammit!


Place your bets

I've had the same HP Photosmart printer for the past seven years, when Windows XP was just a twinkle in Bill Gates eye. Every time I've tried to install it lately, drivers clash, bells ring, the computer crashes, and I perform a system recovery. After ninety minutes of "the printer is not connected" messages while my son was trying to work on a school project, I drop-kicked the damn thing (the printer, not the boy, because that would just be awkward) down the driveway.

It turns out I can get a FREE printer from Dell (with the purchase of a new desktop and 19" flatscreen monitor). I customized the system and put it in my cart, where it has been sitting for approximately thirty hours. I'm testing my self restraint - being impulsive isn't all it's cracked up to be.

The crackheads, gamblers and whores I work with have a pool, betting on how long it'll be before I fold and order the computer/free printer. Bastards.


This is really an odd way to leave a text message, but okay...

The plan: my sister is moving to Alabama in May to live with her mother for the summer and take a few college classes while she's here. She wanted me to fly to Michigan, then ride down here with her so she'll have someone to share the 20+ hour drive south. The road trip tatoos are being negotiated.

The snag: my sister is a flake. A beautiful blonde airhead. I've booked my ONE WAY ticket to Michigan, but can't reach her to double-check the date of my arrival. She hasn't answered her phone, which has no voicemail, and I'm guessing there was another incident involving her cell phone and an open bottle of beer from the bar hidden in her purse.

I am going to kick. her. ass. if I'm taking a week off to fly one way and she's changed the plan.


19th nervous breakdown (con't...)

Words of advice: never, ever say, “why didn’t you cut the grass today, like you said you would” to your teenage son because apparently you’re riding his ass and he’d rather run away and fend for himself in the jungle than take that kind of abuse.

Yes, he's home. My son didn't answer his phone when I tried calling the other night, so I got a hold of his dad, then the police. Our town has a midnight curfew on weeknights, so the officer drove around the block a few times, telling me that he would just talk to him when he nabbed the slippery rascal, rather than taking him to juvenile detention, if I wanted.

This area of the neighborhood is wooded in spots, so Mr. Teenage Mutant runaway must’ve been hiding under the canopy when he called and said, “Mom, call off the cops” (I swear, he once said, “they’ll never take me alive” when his dad and I threatened to call the police a couple of years ago…too many gangsta B-movies in that kid’s repertoire).

His dad left from Savannah (a six hour drive), and managed to talk to him on the phone for several hours. The prodigal son strolled in the door at 3:30 a.m., grabbed a glass of water, then headed to bed. The next day? His pleasant Dr. Jekyll personality was back and the yard was mowed when I got home. Uh-huh.

Just because I can (and revenge is best served cold):
When he was little, my son referred to his penis as his "potty station".


Runaway drama queen

I realized he was gone when, at 11:00 p.m., I drove around the block to look for him, and happened upon the dog, leash trailing behind her, walking down the street, boyless.

So many suggestions running through my head, it's a wonder I can still hear my own voices:

Let the police take him
You're in a hostage situation - don't negotiate with terrorists
He should live with his dad
Stop using sarcasm - it sets him off
Have you drug-tested him?
Take him to a counsellor and put him on meds
Be tougher on him
Treat him like an adult
Hold his hand and make him take his mom to school
Let him fail - he'll never learn, otherwise.
Can I get you another drink?

I wonder if this is what they ('they' minus Tom Cruise) mean by POST PARTUM DEPRESSION...sixteen years after the fact. If I could find a home for my six cats, I believe I would pack up my car, head west and never look back. Take that, ya' little runaway.


A shallow, unmarked grave

Looks like the cat mafia has a new calling card.
A second dead chipmunk was placed outside my door tonight.

[This is actually my gentlest kitten, Crackhead Kennedy, yawning.

No drunken, aspiring photographers - me - were harmed during the taking of this photo]