Not my finest hour...

I did something, you guys.  Something bad. 

Do you remember the post where I ranted about a relative who puts weird pics of himself on facebook all the time?

If that relative were in a Bond film, his character's name would be Creepy Galore, but let's call him Jason in this post, since that's a bit more respectful.  'Jason' is also nowhere close to his actual name, so his anonymity and my butt are both covered. 

Please understand me- when I say he's creepy, I mean the serious, disturbing kind of creepy, not the cute, haha-that-guy's-so-weird-but-it's-funny, kind of creepy.  Christina can vouch for me (Right, Chris?) -she's seen a few pictures.  In addition to all the I'm-too-sexy photos he posts of himself (and they really are always of himself...  Taken by him, of him- he's never standing with a group of friends.  Or a single friend), he's always going off on these really strange rants on fb that make absolutely no sense.  He also will post stuff on his wall, then comment on his own status 10-15 times, even though no one else has commented.  And if you do dare to leave a comment that even remotely disagrees with or challenges his wacky views, God help you.  He'll become offended and unload on you. 

And... well, that's probably all the more detail I should provide.  I will say he's never broken any laws that I know of, and I have no concrete proof that he is anything other than misguided and kooky, but I don't trust or like this man very much at all.  We'll just say that my dislike for this him has only grown stronger with each year I've known him, and leave it with that.

So, there's the back story, okay?  Everything you need to know about him, before I...  No, wait.  Here's one more little detail:  He's slow.  As in, mentally.  Not eating-the-paste slow, just slow enough that you would see something's a little off.  I know there are better terms than slow, but let's not turn this into a discussion of pc terminology right now.  I don't know what the proper term is for his specific disability or condition, so we're going to settle for 'slow,' okay?  He's slow enough that it causes you to wonder...  Is all the weird crap because he just doesn't know any better and is unable to determine what is socially/morally appropriate, or is it because he's truly disturbed and bordering on crazy?  Is it a combo of both?  I dunno.  But the dude is off.

So...  I was saying I did something.  Let's get to it.  About a month ago, something happened that upset Jason quite a bit.  Initially, he had an understandable reason for being upset, due to a misunderstanding; a case of mistaken identity, really.  He felt picked on, but he was mistaken about who was doing the picking and who the intended "pickee" was supposed to be.  The basic gist of the thing is this: Someone in the family was playing what they thought was a harmless, funny joke on my kid, and Jason was pulled into it.  The problem?  He didn't realize he was part of a joke.  He took the situation seriously (and I want to make clear that the joke wasn't meant to be a mean one- there were no cruel intentions, only stupid, short-sighted ones.  Unfortunately, the jokester didn't realize that involving a person with Jason's intellectual shortcomings in any joke sort of automatically makes it mean.  It was a misguided attempt to be funny, involving the wrong guy, and it turned into this big, overblown, ridiculous Thing that was, unfortunately dumped in my kid's lap). 

Since Jason did not understand that he was part of a "joke," he became upset and said some weird, jerky, hostile-ish things (in a facebook message) to my kid.  I stepped in (feeling nervous that my child was even on Jason's radar) and tried to clear up the misunderstanding and stick up for my child a little- who really was an innocent bystander in the whole thing, with no idea what Jason was even ranting about at first, and was therefore pretty freaked out by his message.  Since Jason is in his twenties and my kid is barely into his teens, I felt it was appropriate to step in on his behalf.  I told Jason the whole thing was a joke played on both him and my kid and tried to explain all the details of the whole mess as clearly as I could.  But Jason continued to rant weird and insulting nonsense.  So much so, that when I first read his responses to my explanation (alone in the dark in the middle of the night), they felt mildly threatening to me.  His word choices seemed a little too aggressive and more ominous than the situation called for. 

So I became afraid.

I do not especially like feeling afraid, in case you couldn't just deduce that on your own.  Or threatened.  Even mildly.

Feeling afraid kinda makes me mad.

And, although you probably can't imagine this, I'm not as much fun when I'm mad.

So what did I do, alone there in the dark, with my angry, fear-filled fingers flexing over my keyboard?  Did I push the fear aside to give reason and intellect a chance to guide my thoughts and words?  Did I try to determine whether or not Jason had the rational capacity to understand the "clear" explanation I tried to provide?  Did I remind myself that he's probably had a lifetime of being picked on, due to his intellectual abilities and is possibly a little defensive?  Did I pray about it and ask for guidance before I acted?

Did I at least pause for just a second? 

No.  Not quite.

I let that fear enter in and fill me completely.  I began seeing visions of creepy adults lurking outside waiting for my kid and me.  Jason's face became the face of Heath Ledger as the Joker in my mind (which is not too far out in left field, since Jason has posted sinister, Joker-ish looking photos of himself).

In my distorted little vision of the future, Jason's threats were real; he intended to harm us.  Now, keep in mind- he did not actually threaten me.  Or my kid.  In any way.  My late-night perceptions were colored by every single negative thought I've ever had about Jason.  The threat was only a perceived one- in the head of a lunatic fat chick.  Hey, that rhymes.  Luna-TIC, fat CHICK.  Catchy.   

Anyhoosie...  Fear was having so much fun skipping around in my head that he invited his friend, Impulse, to join him and together, they did a little dance upon my fingers as they hovered over my keyboard.  They tapped out quite the b**chy little response to Jason.  Yessiree, they did.

Because I was afraid, I allowed myself to say almost everything I've ever thought about Jason... to Jason.  Well, except for the weirdo pictures...  I didn't mention the pictures.  But I told him how creepy, paranoid and crazy I think he is.  Over and over, in fact.  I told him how deeply I believe he needs help and I hope he gets it (but, you know... not in the kind, "I'm concerned about you" way, but the sarcastic, high and mighty, "you're a loser" way).  I told him it would be best if he didn't speak to my kid again and I'd also be just fine if he never spoke to me again, either... 

The lovely, sentiments I expressed may have been truthful (in my own mind, anyway), and in that moment, they were deeply, sincerely felt.  But?  They were wildly, grossly, horribly incommensurate to his original comments to me.  Something akin to throwing the baby out with the bath water, then running over the baby with the car afterwards, just for good measure. 

I ripped into a person who is probably only a hop, skip and jump above being legally declared retarded.  I ripped and I ripped... And then I ripped some more.  People go to Hell for such things, do they not?

My kid read my message to Jason (after it was sent) (and he read it because the whole conversation took place on his fb wall, not because I was so proud of it I wanted to share it) and he said, "Wow, Mom...  That's...  Just...  You were sooo mean to him.  Why did you say that?  His message was weird, but yours was...  You just...  You waaaay overreacted, Mom.  You took it way too far."

Well, great.  Nothing like making your kid proud, huh?  He looked at me like I was the playground bully who pushed the nerdy fat kid off the swings and into the mud.

Then?  To make it soooo much worse?  I didn't even have the grapes to speak to Jason on the phone to attempt patching things up.  My husband did that. 

So, what do you think, guys?  Am I a horrible, Hell-bound heathen?  Am I a gutless wonder/pansy/candya** for not talking to him directly after throwing such a fit?  I mean, he is family (on the hub's side- not mine, but still...).  Should I have apologized? 

Yeah.  I should have apologized.

I don't believe I was wrong to be upset by what Jason said to my son or to me.  I don't feel guilty for having suspicions and "concerns" about Jason.  I know I'm not wrong to feel apprehensive and distrustful- maybe even a little afraid, especially as he relates to my kids.  Cuz the dude is just. not. right.  I think I have valid reasons not to like him.

So... Why do I feel so awful? 

Facebook Status

For those of you who know me on Facebook, this post is a repeat.  You may want to skip it altogether...  Unless you'd like to start a juicy discussion in the comments!  ???  I'm so blessed to have an interesting mix of political and religious viewpoints among my blogging friends, so I'd love to hear your opinions about Richard Mourdock's recent comments regarding rape and pregnancy.  Here are mine (and this is the repetitive part; a copy of my most recent fb status): 

 

I'm struggling to understand all the fuss and fury over Richard Mourdock's comments. When you really look at what he said, and not what the Liberals are twisting his words to mean, how is it all that bad? How is it "demeaning to women?" I can see why his comments would ruffle the feathers of non-Believers who do not choose to acknowledge God's purpose in ANYTHING. I can see why it would offend the pro-abortionists who do not place value on ANY unborn child's life... But how does it demean a woman to say God created her child with a purpose?

I DO believe my birth was part of God's plan, and I'm not sorry for that. Am I happy my birth mother was raped so that I could be here? Of course not. Is God? Absolutely NOT! But... I DO believe I was "intended" by God to be here, and 'deserve' to be here just as surely as any 'planned' or 'wanted' child, conceived in a loving relationship. Thank God my birth mother thought so, too. She did not

(and emotionally could not) choose to parent me, and no one would fault her for that. But, instead of punishing me for the crime committed against her, she lovingly chose adoption. Should I have been aborted because some disgusting excuse of a human being committed a crime against her?

The sad thing is knowing that some of you are answering 'Yes.'

Despite the circumstances of my conception, I know God has a plan and purpose for my life (and I see that purpose every time I look into the beautiful faces of my own children). Isn't that all Mourdock is saying? God has a plan in all things, for all people? And that sentiment is somehow demeaning to women? He never said rape is God's plan for women. In fact, he said the opposite.
 

I believe in a God who exchanges beauty for ashes, and turns tragedies into blessings. If you don't, fine. But to viciously attack this man's assertion is to conversely suggest that God does NOT intend for babies conceived in rape to exist; that they are even more disposable, and THAT is demeaning to ME.

Thoughts, anyone?

ImporTant!

For starters...  I've messed with my blog background again, as you can plainly see.  I know some of you hate that ("Why can't she just pick one and be done with it already?").  I'm sorry.  I didn't like how dark and ominous it looked.  It was depressing me.  I like it lighter...  For now.  Next week?  We'll see.  ADD girls get to change their blogs as often as they like.  Someday I will write all these rules down for you.

Speaking of rules...  We're making a new one.  I have a problem that we need to address and correct today.  I've kept quiet about this as long as I can.  Something horrible is happening.

It's Impordant. No, I didn't misspell the word. That's my problem. Impordant. People are saying it like that. Like there's a D in it. There's no D, guys.  The word is 'imporTant,' with a T.   There's no flipping D.

I've tried to be a good sport about it. I've listened to it for a long time without saying a word.  But I've reached my limit.

At first, I thought it had to do with the region in which I live.  I'm right here where Hicks and Rednecks begin to co-mingle and breed with Southerners (God help me), which creates an interesting potpourri of mispronunciations and a veritable Vortex of Grammatical Doom.  I've told you many times, here in Cowcrap County, English is almost a second language.  It's usually fun. You don't gotta talk good 'round here and ain't nobody gon' give a crap. See? Try it. You can call yourself bilingual!

Yeah, it's fun...  For a while.  Until someone ruins it with impordant...  Although, they- these evildoers- usually say it like this: "ImPORdunt." 

Today, this word is being added to my list of Things That Are Driving Me Crazy.  The list includes, but is not limited to:

• The way Canadians say about and house (No offense to my Canadian friends.  I love you.  You just talk weird.)
• The diatribes of certain Liberal Dems
• The phrase "I could care less," when you actually mean you couldn't care less
• The Hub
• The words irregardless, nucular, birfday, and now, impordant 

Actually, it will probably rise to the top of that list because it's quite possibly going to usher in the cardiac event which ultimately leads to my demise, so I can honestly say it's killing me.

YES, it is that big of a deal.  It's killing me, people.  Well, that and the candy I had for breakfast.  But, you get my point.

Along with the thought of (He Who Shall Not Be Named) spending another four years in the White House, this is the only other thing making me wonder if I'd like to try being euthanized.  Well, that's not true.  There are other things.  My tendency toward gross exaggeration, for example.  Nevertheless, I may ask a loyal volunteer to go all Colonel Mustard on me with a lead pipe in the conservatory.  Or my kitchen... The shed out back... Whatever. Just put me out of my misery.

To recap:  There is no D in imporTant.  And we're all agreeing to make any necessary adjustments to our diction.  Today.  It's our new rule- we say Important with a big, ol' T.  We did agree on that...  Right, guys?  I could have sworn we did. 

Henceforth, I shall accept the following pronunciations:

• Important (obvs)
• Import'nt (I think my own redneck-infused pronunciation sounds like this, so it gets an auto-pass.)
• Importunt
• Importent (...although, if you are misspelling important as importent, someone should beat you with a bag of oranges.)
• Even Importint

I cannot accept Importont.  That's just nuts.

At least with these, the consonants are being spoken correctly, and vowels are left to be enunciated as region and culture dictate.  But we must maintain the consonants, people.  If we monkey around with consonants, anarchy ensues...  All hell breaks loose...  The fabric of our civilization unravels, and we all die.  Do you want that? 

Do you?

We are agreed, then.  We are done with imporDant.  We are saying important, with a T, from now until Jesus returns.

So it is written, so it shall be done.  Amen.  And thank you.

There once was a man...

...who said, "No more animals.  Period."  He said this quite a few times.  For a number of years.  Every time the dog puked or peed in the house?  "No more animals.  Period."  When it was time to pay for a trip to the vet?  "No more animals.  Period."  When the dog was given too much popcorn and had horribly toxic, nose-burning gas?  "Absolutely no. More. Animals... Period!"

The man used his 'Tyrannical Ruler' voice each time he said, "No more animals.  Period."  His tone was very deep and grumpy and deadly serious.  And his expression?  Well, his expression said, "Thou shalt not argue with me on this."

His whole family knew what this meant.  The man's mind would not, could not be changed.  The official edict had been sealed with the ring of the king and handed down to the peasants, if you will.  There would be no new pets brought into their household during the man's lifetime.  Not one.  Not ever. 

Not a puppy.  Not a kitty.  Not a hamster.  Not even a fishy.  Ever, ever again.

This decree made the man's family oh, so, very sad.  The idea of never, ever seeing a little boy running around with a puppy nipping at his heels, or snuggling up with a sweet little ball of fur was almost more than the man's family could comprehend. 

"It just can't be," they all said. 

"Oh, YES it most certainly CAN," said the man.

...

...

...

And then...

...

They got a dog. 

The end.

...

...

Kidding.  That's not really the end.  I'm sure you're dying for details on the puppy and how I managed to change the old man's mind. 

Because that's what you spend your day doing, right?  Dying for details about my life? 

Or maybe you're optimistically wondering if our financial situation has improved, since we're taking on the responsibility of a new pet...  ???  That would be a smart and fair question. 

Because it would be ridiculously irresponsible to add another mouth to feed if we're still struggling financially, wouldn't it? 

Yes, yes it would.  And we are.  Still struggling, I mean.  We're idiots.  We didn't pay for this dog, but we will end up paying for her in the long run, of course, and we certainly didn't need to take on an additional financial responsibility right now. 

... But look:

Wook at dat widdle face.

Here's what happened: Mike's girlfriend had a litter of puppies 5 weeks ago. 

...No, that can't be right.  It was her dog, actually.  Mike's girlfriend's dog had a litter of puppies 5 weeks ago.  The gf's dog is an English Bulldog who was seduced by a neighborhood Boxer; a real Rico Suave type, I imagine.  Their night of passion- one fleeting indiscretion- resulted in an unplanned pregnancy. 

Mike got a puppy for free out of the deal and brought said puppy over to show the kids.  This is little baby Marley:

 

And that, ^, is all it took. 

 

You can't look at that face and not want a puppy.  One look at that face and the kids went all gloopy-schmoopy over her.  Marley looks so terribly exhausted and suicidal all the time that you are compelled to scoop her up and try to make her happy.   She plays with your maternal instincts, I guess, even if you are an old man/tyrannical ruler.

 

But...  Sadly, Marley was already taken.  We'd just have to make ourselves happy with liberal visitation rights, which we were willing to do.  And then it was mentioned, so very, very innocently, that Marley had one sister who was still available...  Would we like to see her?

 

"Sure," we all said, "Just for fun (snort).  Bring her over to play and then take her back home." 

 

Michael (my good, sweet son) offered to buy the puppy himself, as a gift for his siblings.  "What could dad say about it if it's not costing him anything?"  He asked.  MWAAAHAHAHAAA!  What a knee-slapper!  I don't know what I think is funnier- the idea that the dog isn't costing us anything, or the thought that Dad couldn't argue about it. Sometimes kids don't know their parents at all, it seems.  Dad could say plenty.  And he did.  But in the end, we had this on our side: 

 

Her name is Daisy.  Try to resist her charms.  I dare you.

 

The naming process we had to go through is almost another story in itself.  What an ordeal that was.  The kids and I (the old man wanted no part of it) narrowed the choices down from about 7 or 8 to the final 2.  Daisy was among the top 4, but did not make the final two.  Those two were "Primrose" (as in Everdeen...  It's a Hunger Games thing), and "Violet."  There were two votes for Prim and two for Violet.  I was to cast the tie-breaking vote.  I would be disappointing two kids no matter what I chose, so I... 

 

asked the old man to decide. 

 

He said, "I don't like either one of those names."

 

Daisy it is.