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Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 27, 2003 || 4:21 pm

Living in a house with two busy pre-teens means that on the weekends, if they’re not wanting to run off somewhere, they’re wanting someone to run off and come join us for a night and a couple handfuls of daytime hours. I try to accept visitors in moderation, because I don’t want every last bit of my family’s truly free time sucked into the sinkhole of constant company and sleepovers, but in all honesty I don’t mind. Once there are three kids between your four walls, a couple-three more thrown into the mix don’t make any significant difference. In fact, they sometimes distract the ones that actually live here long enough for me to get something done.

This past Friday I had to work, but Maxim was off, making it okay for Sam to have company over for the night. One thing I’ve prohibited my children doing over the years is the ‘last-minute dance’; you know the one — where a kid waits until the day of to say, “Hey I want to go spend the night over at so-and-so’s/have a birthday party to attend tomorrow/want to go to the movies/would like to have a friend over.” We are all just so busy that I’m like a conductor, carefully blending everyone’s schedules (hopefully in a complimentary way) in the symphony that is our lives: Bring the football practice up, insert the grocery shopping, drop in a staccato piano lesson, fluidly pick up the little one from preschool. A missed beat can sometimes throw off a whole day, and one of the ways that I avoid that on the far-too-hurried days in particular is to require notice. I don’t want to kill the notion of spontaneity, but I want to raise children that are courteous, as well.

All that having been said, one of my biggest pet peeves is when my child has issued an invitation to another five to seven days in advance and is put off and put off until the very last second. This prevents my child from asking another child and it prevents me from making plans for our time. It’s plain ole fucking RUDE.

Such was the case this past week, when my son invited Johnathan over to spend Friday night. Johnathan was asked on Tuesday, and come Friday a yes or no answer had not been issued by his stay-at-home mother. The boys have played baseball together for three years now, and Sam has been over to Johnathan’s house to play one time, to spend the night on another occasion. Johnathan is a good kid and I like him a lot. I thought I liked his mother until the events of last Friday unfolded.

I had a case to handle, so I was on the road around four pee emm when Maxim called, sounding a little belligerent and really miffed. Maxim is about as low-key, forgiving a person as you could hope for, so I knew something was genuinely afoul. It seems that when my son called after school to get the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ he’d been waiting for all week, Johnathan’s mother got on the phone. As best as I can piece it together, here’s how the conversation went:

J’s MOM: Do your parents drink beer?
SAM: Well, sometimes, but not all the time.
SAM: My stepdad knows how to make it.
J’s MOM: That’s all I needed to know.
SAM: Why, did you want to know how?
[ed. note: We've been working on Sam's propensity to give too much unwarranted information. *siiiiigh*]

And then Sam was informed that no, Johnathan would not be able to stay the night. Quite unceremoniously, I might add.

When Maxim called and told me about this, my first reaction was to giggle. I phoned Johnathan’s mother straightaway and was greeted with the answering machine. My message was, verbatim, “Hey Glynda, I think there was a little miscommunication going on when you spoke with Sam earlier, and it may have had a bearing on your decision to let Johnathan spend the night. Could you call me so we can talk?” It’s now five days later and I’ve not heard from that flaming cuntbag woman.

Look, I have no problem if this woman does not want her child exposed to alcohol, ever. I don’t know what’s in her past: Whether or not it was a ‘religious’ decision, whether or not she had an alcoholic ex who used to spend the house payment and beat her and the kids in a blind drunken rage, whether or not there is a strong propensity for alcoholism in her child’s genetic make-up and she doesn’t want him tempted to any extent to experiment with drink.

What I DO have a problem with is her cowardly tactic of birddogging my kid and leaving him to feel as if was being punished by and for his honesty. It was a low, low, childish and yellow-backed thing for her to ask my child these things rather than asking to speak to one of his parents with regard to the matter. The fact that she did otherwise is simply unconscionable. This indicates so many things on so many levels about this woman, and since I’ve had several days to stew on it, it puts a cramp in my hands from wanting to strangle her so badly.

I would douse her in a yummy Pale Ale as I did so.

Had Johnathan’s mother simply phoned me or asked to speak to Maxim, we’d have been very forthcoming with her. We don’t owe her that, but both have a great deal of respect for involved parents, as we are a rare beast nowadays. She would have learned that we have never, ever consumed alcohol (hell, I’ve never even so much as smoked a cigarette in the presence of one of my children’s playmates) in front of one of the Superior children’s friends and we rarely do so in front of our own. There is the occasional glass of wine or stout with a meal, and my children have never seen more than one of either beverage go down the hatch in a sitting. They’ve never been in the presence of a polluted adult and I plan to keep it that way, because we are trying to instill in our babies a respect of elders and all that jazz. I also want them to view adults as by and large a safe species –worthy of feelings of trust and security, as it were– and seeing a grown-up absent of faculties is a scary thing for a child.

I think that she was probably afraid that we might tell her to fuck the fuck off and call her a nosy, wheedling douchebag. I most certainly wouldn’t have, because she ultimately had her child’s best interest at heart and I respect that shit like mad. When her child’s best interest ran roughshod all over my own child’s, however, that all changed. She can bet her sweet fucking ass that I’ll have PLENTY to say now. Had she just been the adult in the first place, or again when she was presented (graciously, I might add) with the opportunity to phone, the verbal assault she’s in for could have been prevented.

For the record, my own mother is no fucking help at all. She called me while I was working yet another case the next day, after having spoken with Maxim, and said, “You know, if you people weren’t such drunkards maybe my grandbabies could have some friends.”

That woman is a vile, vile smartass and I love her like no other. But she’s getting ‘The Home’ one day if she doesn’t watch it.

11 worked it out »

  1. Johnny T 8.27.2003

    Give her ”The Home’ Jett.

    Plus, I would like to know if and when you call that one lady a douchebag. I haven’t heard anyone called that since Jr. High, when everyone who got in my way was a douchebag.

  2. correction:

    we are trying to instill in our babies a respect of elders and all jazz.

  3. Jett 8.28.2003

    Yes, and maybe even more exotic things like flamenco.

  4. Jett 8.28.2003

    …and Johnnaaay, I am SO telling the Gwendolyn you said that. She’ll cut you out of the will, I’m sure.

    Have no fear: You shall allus be a Muffinass, regardless of your lack of family stocks, bonds and Nuna’s crockery.

  5. waistdog 8.28.2003

    I, myself, being a non-parental sort, would call the Weedling douchebag’s boy, and ask if his mother ever had sex?

    If he said yes…..I’d have to tell him That I don’t want my son hanging around sluts.

    Plus, what’s she afraid of?

    You’re going to force him to drink beer?

    Most parents tell their kids not to drink, smoke, or do drugs;

    And the first chance they get, the kids will try it, just to see why the parents didn’t want them to.

    Or at least I did.

    But I’m too well adjusted to have you be paying any attention to what I say.

  6. sugarmama 8.28.2003

    That is very funny. I know it sucks and it makes you mad, but I’d be inclined to send over a case of Budweiser (by courier) to her front door and sign my name to it.

    NOT exposing your kids to certain “evils” (drinking beer is not evil, in my opinion, but abusing alcohol is) is just as bad as overexposure. I have known parents who pampered and coddled their kids, then sent them off to college where they discovered the real world and went totally WILD because they had never been taught how to handle certain situations before.

  7. Leslie 8.28.2003

    OMG! I would probably be knocking on that ladies fucking door or atleast calling her every 2 minutes until she answered the phone! Oh such patience you have. I don’t know if I would have the same.

  8. G. Oldielocks 8.28.2003

    Very frustrating, huh? But I’d rethink wasting the pale ale to douse her in….perhaps, kerosene?

  9. Gary 8.28.2003

    If you are going to douse her with some Pale Ale be sure to run it through your kidenys first.

  10. Hans Dibbler 8.31.2003

    Here is a tip for coaching Sam on not saying too much:

    Drink beer? no ma’am. Pa says it’s so easy to ruin a batch of meth, that he’d never touch the stuff.


    Drink beer? no ma’am, Ma once had a couple of beers and forgot to collect her gentleman callers money; ever since she hasn’t touched the stuff.

    and finally:

    No Ma’am, Ma says that she drank too much beer when she had Leroy, and ’cause of it he ain’t right. That’s why we have to keep him in the basement.

  11. Jett 8.31.2003

    Hans, you’re most assuredly off to a good start around here.


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