Go Figure

I got a call from Kevin last night.  He wanted me to know that his friend was sleeping over and they were in his room (see here), and he mentioned that he lost his cell phone. 

Kevin’s friend had the bright idea of shaking all the discarded blankets and sheets, and. . .lo and behold. . .his phone dropped out onto the floor!  Kevin was thrilled.

“Mom!” he exclaimed.  “Can you believe what a coincidence that is?  I mean, we were just talking about my phone!”

I didn’t define the word “coincidence” for Kev.  I didn’t lecture him about the state of his stupid room.  I just said, “That’s terrific, Kev!  I’m so happy for you!”, and then called AT&T to re-institute service.

See?  I’m not always evil.  I can be nice.  Maybe Boston is good for me.

My Dad Has Special Talents

Aside from raising a wonderful and perfect daughter. . .ha,ha. . .my dad has some strange talents.  He has memorized many poems – Death Be Not Proud, assorted Shakespeare, Invictus – but sure, lots of people have done that.  When he was little he wrote “The Pig’s Newspaper” and sold it to his classmates for three cents.  It had incredible witticisms such as, “Hee Haw the Donkey has a stamp collection.  He says it’s fun to stamp people to death!

My brother and his wife caught him singing to Nate, my new nephew, born 1/31/09.  He was not singing, “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.  Oh, no.  That would be, well. . .NORMAL.  He was singing the second verse of the Star Spangled Banner.  Yes, there is a next verse.  Who woulda thunk it?

Hit it, Dad! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Oh, thus be it ever

When free men do stand

Between their loved homes

And the war’s desolation

Blessed with victory and peace

May the heaven rescued land

Praise the power that hath made

And preserve us a nation.

Then conquer we must (This is the part where you have to change key a bit.  Try a falsetto.)

When our cause it is just

And let this be our motto:

In God Do We Trust

And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

_____________________________________________

Oops.  Nate just requested his first pair of ear plugs.

The Slob Can Write

Lest any of you have forgotten the unfortunate state of Kevin’s room, let me remind you:

This is a picture taken last night.  He’s like Pig Pen.  You can clean it up, but an hour afterwards it looks exactly the same.

Kevin’s English teacher gave the class an assignment.  She gave them excerpts from Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native, and asked them to write a paragraph using the same sentence structure and word tenses, on a topic of their choice.  Kevin chose his room.

_____________________________________________

Modeling  of the  Hardy  Style

The  least  clean  slob could  sense  that  he  had  the  simple  right  to  relax in  Kevin’s   room—he  was  staying  inside  the  boundary   of  fair  luxury  after  he  opened  himself  wide to settings  similar  to  this.  Dirt and  grim  thus  removed were, at  best,  the  legacy  of  Kevin.   Only  on  cold  nights  did  layers of filth create  the  blessing  of  insulation.   Gum  wrappers  were  more  often strewn  by  methods  of  the  disorganized   than  through  methods   of  the  hygienic,   and  such  a  type  of  mess  was  usually  created  as through  bad  habits,  neglect,  and  laziness.  Afterward  Kevin’s  trash can  had  fallen  to  disuse;  as  the  clean  were  its  friends,  but  the  boy  its  enemy.  Then  it  succumbed  to  the  might  of  enormous   dust  bunnies;   and  it  was  discovered   to  be  the  present   disgusting  wasteland  of  those  unclean   messes  of  infamy  which  are  barely  acknowledged  to   be harassing  us  in  evening   nightmares   of  pain  and   misery,  but  are  rarely  remembered   following   the  nightmare  till  confronted   by  rooms  such  as  his.

___________________________________________

I’m so proud.  Sort of.

Big Fat Spoiled Brat Dieting

First, I must make a confession.  I’m really nervous, because I don’t want anyone to think I’m a big fat spoiled brat (even though maybe I am).  I have a personal trainer.  *blush* His name is Chris, and he’s really cute and funny, and I’ve seen him for years, to the point where he’s like a family member.

I know it’s a splurge, but it keeps me going to the gym.  I’m good with aerobic exercise – biking, running – but if it were up to me to be consistent with weight lifting, I’d be screwed.  As soon as I thought the lifting was a little tough, I’d stop.  If I were tired, I would just stay home.  However, if I know I have an appointment I have to be at, I generally keep it.  If I think someone is relying on me for their income, I really make it.  What can  I say?  I’m a lazy, guilt-ridden, little Robin.

I sort of like the fact that Chris takes my stupid weight seriously.  I mean, I can bitch to Adam, or my friends, but who really gives a shit?  Chris, that’s who.  So, when I got my last crappy diabetic, high cholesterol labs, I told Chris before our workout.  I thought I was sort of cool about it, but when I talked, I felt scared, and almost tearful.  Yeesh.  Embarassing.

“OK.  We really have to work on this, Robin.  Your eating habits suck.”

It was sort of nice to hear “we”.  As in “we’re in this together”, there was a feeling of solidarity.  “I’ve got lots of ideas,” Chris went on.  “You can cook your week’s lunches on Sunday, and bring them to work in tupperware containers.  Maybe  salad with a chicken breast on top.”

I made fake gagging noises.  (A personal specialty.)  “Sounds appetizing, Chris,” I said sarcastically.  I’m really fun to help.

“You have to get used to a bit of monotony with what you eat, Robin,” Chris explained patiently.

“I don’t want to,” I said.

I never knew Chris had a little vein running down his forhead.  It popped up, as a light blue stripe against his darkening red face.  I hoped his “we” didn’t go away, or turn into a “you annoying asshole”.  He took a  deep cleansing breath.

“Do you like my friend, P’s, restaurant?” Chris asked.  P is a high school friend of Chris and  a chef at one of my favorite restaurants in town.

“Love it!” I said, and started to drool out of the corner of my mouth.

“How about if I talk to P about making up a healthy, good tasting menu for you?”

“Wow!” I said.  “That would be awesome!”

So, tonight, when I got home from work, I sat at the kitchen table with two gorgeous 25 year old guys, and talked about my sexual food likes and dislikes.  I said I think Kashi cereal tastes like a cardboard animal pooped out cardboard shit.  P took an anti raisin stance. Both Chris and P urged me to eat Benefiber three times a day so I’d be nice and regular.  (Maybe next I’ll talk with Matthew McConaughey about belching.)

P layed out a sample diet which included Cornish Game Hens for dinner, and a salad with dried cranberries, chicken breasts, and raspberry vinagrette dressing.  I felt like Oprah, only dumber and not famous.

“Do you think you could do this?” asked P?

“Er, yeah,” I said.  I could definitely eat it.  The preparation part was a bit iffy, but hell.  I disected a human body.  I could cook a game hen.  Right?  What sort of games did the hen play?  Badminton?  Did it hold a little mini racket in its beak?

“We’re losing her,” Chris announced.  P promised to think up a menu and they left.

So, that’s my new diet plan, cooked up (so to speak) by two health conscious, very regular, 25 year olds.  I’m ready.

We’ll call it the “P Diet”, OK?  For those of you interested in health and dieting, I’ll share tips.

P Tip:  Although Kashi Cereal tastes like cardboard, Kashi makes a nice oatmeal.  Eat it with fresh strawberries and a glass of skim milk for breakfast.  Also chew some Benefibers.  You’ll have the fluffiest poops in town.

Sassy Rolls Ruin My Diet

If it were up to me, I would never diet.  I would have giant Reeses for breakfast, pepperoni sandwiches for lunch, and something for dinner smothered in cheese.  But my stupid body betrays me more and more each year.  Now I have to be serious or be diabetic.

OK.  Fine.  I have no intention of losing my toes, what with my shoe collection and all.  I’m way too short for flats.  I vow to lose 15 pounds and be a new and improved Good Robin.

I started the weekend with my excellent attitude when I went out to dinner with Adam after a movie Friday night.  The restaurant is one of our favorites in town, and has the world’s best bread – sort of a warm, home made focaccia  dipped in olive oil.  We usually eat at least two baskets while waiting for our main dish.

The waittress brought the steaming basket of fresh made focaccia and plunked it down between us.

“No thank you,” I said with a virtuous sniff, (which let in the delicious, warm fumes and had me wavering for a second).  “You can take the bread away.”

Adam’s eyes filled with tears, and his lower lip quivered, but he wisely remained silent.  As the bread basket floated away from him he whimpered just once.

“There, there,” I comforted.  “At least I’ll live longer, and I’ll be with you for many years.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Adam, perusing the menu for something with lots of cheese to make up for the lost bread.  I ordered the Italian Chopped Salad with a side of righteousness.

The next night went out to dinner with a friend whose dad is in the hospital.  This was at a relatively unfamiliar restaurant I’ve only been to once before with this same friend.  It is about 45 minutes away, and I happily anticipated my new found “healthy restaurant anti-bread” eating behavior during the drive.

Shortly after sitting at our table, the bread basket arrived.  The proud waittress introduced us to a crispy piece of flat bread, two warm brioche, and two multigrain rolls. I opened my mouth to have the waittress take the bread away, but stopped in my tracks.  I could drag Adam into my own personal bread hell, but did I have to torture my poor innocent friend?  Did she have to worry about her dad and be deprived of carbohydrates?

I shut my mouth and looked at the basket.  No problem.  I would simply exert self control.

“Psssst,” said a brioche.  “Pick me.  I’m a little sweet.”

The crispy flatbread bristled with indignation, causing a few sesame seeds to drop off.  “Don’t try to infuence her, you slut.  I clearly have more texture.  She should eat me.”

“I’m a lot more healthy,” said a multigrain.

The brioche and the flatbread snorted.  “Right,” said a brioche.  “Tell that one to yourself as a bedtime story.  You have more calories than I do, Jerkoff.”

“Robin, you’d better hurry and pick me before K or Adam do,” said the flatbread.  “There’s two brioche and multigrain rolls, but only one of me.  Think how nice I will taste dipped in the seasoned olive oil. . .”

I reached for the flatbread.  Adam looked at me questioningly.  I shrugged.  Hey!  It was only a piece of flatbread!  Wrong.  Flatbread is the gateway drug of breads.  I woofed down a brioche, a multigrain, and waved the waittress over for a second basket.

Today I stroke my  pinkie toes affectionately and try again.  Sigh.

Charlie Brown and the Football

Here’s a little snippet of Bizarroland for your disgust/amusement/incredulity.  One of the places I work at treats teenage sex offenders with psychiatric problems.  The doctor who used to handle this particular unit quit, because he didn’t want to write the reports required.  (Meanwhile, I’ve been happily writing the damn things for 12 years.  I don’t know – I just thought it was my JOB.)

Today, I met J who has been having problems with sexual acting out and aggression, since Dr. R changed his antipsychotic, Abilify, to Seroquel last week.  I looked at the chart first.  One teeny weeny wittle problem was that the amount of Seroquel the boy had been placed on, might not be enough for a robust 5 year old.  This kid was 18.  I ground my teeth together.  Grrrrr….

Sure enough, J came into my room disheveled and wild eyed.  J looked mad as a hatter.  If you’ve seen enough psychotic people, it’s not that hard to catch.  It’s in the eyes.  A certain blank but excited look.  Plus, they rarely bathe properly.  If you meet a sweet smelling, nicely shaved person, the odds are against schizophrenia.

As I introduced myself to J, I noticed some rapid hand action going on at his crotch.  J had an erection (pointing down his right pant leg) and was happily rubbing away.

Me:  J, what are you doing down there?  (Rhetorical question.)

J:  (Looked confused, and stopped.)  I’m not sure.

Me:  I’m pretty sure you’re masturbating, J, and you’re not supposed to do that in front of me.  That’s what you’re here for, Buddy.  (Look, you don’t get mad at a cancer patient for their cancer spreading.  J’s got some serious problemmos.)

J’s hand krept back to his crotch.

Me: Stop that, J!

The hand moved away and then back again.

Me:  J!  Cut it out!  Keep your hand down, Dude!

J’s hand crept to crotch.  He stared blankly at me the whole time.

Me:  Down, J!  Down, Boy!  (OK.  That was probably uncalled for.)

J:  (A bit of lucidity crept into his eyes.)  Could you sit over there?  (He pointed at a chair next to him.)  I’d like to get to know you better.

Me:  J, considering you keep masturbating in front of me, I feel a lot safer behind my desk.  You’re making me really uncomfortable.

J:  Could you close your eyes?

Me:  No way!

J:  Why not?

Me:  Well, I assume you’re going to expose yourself, given your recent activity in here.  I’ll pass on that.

J:  (Looking very hurt.)  I would never do that!  I just wanted to show you some baseball cards I just got!

Now, here’s where I lost my marbles.  I felt horrible for this psychotic boy who was doomed to a life of who knows what – jail, institutionalization?  He did seem to be trying to connect in a weird, psychotic, sex offender sort of way.  What was the chance he really had baseball cards to show me?  Probably 0.1%.  Oh, hell.

Me:  J, I’ll close my eyes for 10 seconds.  You’d better behave yourself.

J:  How about 5 minutes?

Ugh!  Me:  10 seconds.  Take it or leave it.

J:  OK.  But don’t peek.

Right.  I watched through my eyelashes.  He checked his pockets.  Then his hand went to his front jeans buttons.

Me:  OK, J.  That’s it!  No more games, and keep your hands out where I can see them.  We’re going to talk about your medicine, and whether you’re hearing voices, and a bunch of other things.

J:  (Sighing.) OK.

So we talked.  I wrote an order to raise J’s medicine to a level that would actually treat his psychosis.  I called his therapist to tell them he was out of touch with reality at the moment, might not be able to participate coherently in groups, and they should keep him away from the other guys and any female staff.

Then I called my mom to verify the time I’d be arriving in Boston when I visited next weekend.  “I just spent a half hour with a psychotic kid who masturbated in front of me the whole time,” I told her.

“That’s nice, Dear,” she said.

Moms always know how to make you feel better.

Publishing Renaissance

I’m over at Publishing Renaissance working hard to bring down the general level of excellence.  I’m having a fantasy book party, and I almost meet David Sedaris, but he is too cool for my fantasy.  Figures.

Would I Love You Enough to Wipe Your Butt?

Adam just forwarded me an incredibly touching story from the New York Times about a man whose wife is partially paralyzed after a car accident in Allentown, PA, and how it has changed their lives.  His mom forwarded it to him, first.  She was either trying to make a statement about eternal love, or pointing out that Pennsylvania is dangerous and stupid, and we should all live in NYC.  I suspect the latter.

Anyway, the article’s author talks about how in love he has always been with his wife, and how they have worked hard to make adaptations so that she can still do fun things.  The woman is, of course, an amazing person who has done a wheelchair marathon.  They both sit on the porch of their beach home in Rhode Island, congratulating themselves on how wonderful their life is.

I fear that I would not be that adaptable, should Adam be semi paralyzed in an accident.  I’m pretty sure that it would bring out my evil and selfish qualities – not make me into a selfless, loving saint.

_______________________________________________

Scene 1:  Robin and the doctor stand outside Adam’s hospital room.

Doctor:  Robin, I have bad news for you.  Adam will never walk again.

Robin:  Will he at least be able to wipe his own ass?

Doctor:  Well, yes, but he won’t be able to feel the poop coming out, so he’ll have to wear an adult diaper.

Robin:  So, who’s going to change this diaper?  Did someone die and make me a professional diaper changer in their will?

Doctor (puzzled):  That makes no sense.

Robin:  I know, but I like saying it.  How about an answer on the diaper changing question, Doc?

Doctor:  He can’t move his lower body, Ma’am.  You’ll have to change his diaper.

Robin:  No way.  No.  He’s a grown man with big man poops.  I’m not doing it.

Doctor:  Then he’ll get huge bed sores and probably die of infection.

Robin:  We all have to go some way, Buddy.

___________________________________________

Scene 2:  Adam and Robin at the beach.

Adam:  Honey, remember that New York Times article about the paralyzed woman that my mom sent me years ago?  Remember how her loving husband built her a cool beach contraption, so she could still have fun on the beach?

Robin:  I’m not very mechanical.

Adam:  I know, Honey.  But did you have to make my legs into the bottom of an improvised picnic table?

Robin:  It works really well, Adam!  It keeps sand out of the food!  Don’t be so selfish!  It’s not like you’re using them.

Adam:  Well, could you at least shield me from the sun with an umbrella?

Robin:  Sure, sure.  “Robin, do this.  Robin do that.”  Now you want me to carry a heavy umbrella over here?  Jeez!  I could hurt my back!

Adam:  Er, OK.  Then could you put some sunscreen on me?

Robin:  Nothing’s wrong with your arms, Dude.  Did someone die and make me a professional sunscreen putter onner in their will?

___________________________________________

Scene 3:  Adam and Robin go to the movies.

Adam:  Gee, I can’t wait to see this movie!  The trailer looked awesome!

Movie manager walks up to our heroes.  Movie manager:  We only have one space for one wheelchair, you guys, and there’s already someone there.  You’ll have to come back another day.

Adam:  Drat!

Robin:  I have a great idea, Honey!  I’ll go in and see the movie, and you can wheel yourself into Beverly Hills Chihuahua.

Adam:  Are you sure?

Robin:  Well, we’re already here.  I might as well see the movie.  Cheer up.  I’ll get you some popcorn.  Just don’t poop your diaper.  You just got over that last giant bed sore.

_____________________________________________

I’m pretty sure the New York Times won’t print our story.

5-5-5

My bloggy buddy, Erin, at The ConFamLey tagged me for a simple game.   You take the 5th picture out of your 5th folder and talk about it.  Then, you tag 5 people.  I’m a little late doing it, only because I’m really dumb.  First, I had to figure out that I had no folders.  Then I forgot what I was doing.  Then, my head bobbed gently up and down as I drooled on myself.

Here is my 5th picture:

This is Adam, the hubbymeister with my little niece, Ruby.  Isn’t she the squishiest little thing, ever?  That shit on Adam’s chin is a goatee going grey.  I liked the whole beard, personally.  Not many men can wear a goatee and look cool.  Mephistopheles was one.

When the boys were babies, Adam loved to lie on the couch on his back with a baby napping on his belly.  The only problem was the pee pee.  I’d try to point their little wee wees downward when I changed them, but they always popped up.  Then they would pee upward while lying on Adam’s belly, missing the absorbent pad embedded in the diaper, and soaking Adam’s shirt.

I’d be reading on a chair next to the sofa and hear,”Uh.  Robin.  He did it again.”

“Yes.  He always does it.” I waited for the annoying next question.

“Could you maybe change him?”

“No.  Do it yourself.  Did someone die and make me a professional baby changer in their will?”  (Yes, I know that makes no sense, but I always say it.)

“But I’m so comfortable!  Come on!  You’re on maternity leave!” Adam would whine.

“You mean, after I take Kevin and change him, you’re going to stay there seeping in a puddle of piss?”

Adam shrugged.  “Yeah.”

Girls, repeat after me, “Boys are gross!”

Here are my 5-5-5 tags:

FringeGirl – The Domestic Fringe

Kel – Ingenious Title to Appear Here Later

Melanie – What Am I Doing In Mexico?

Mrsbear – Outnumbered Two to One

Kia – Good Enough Mother

Big Mother is Watching You

I admit that I’m a bit rotten.  OK.  Really rotten.  We’re painting the basement and putting a TV down there so the boys will have somewhere to go to have orgies and smoke pot.  For a brief moment I considered putting a hidden camera down there.  I mean, how funny would that be?  I would have material for life!

After exploring my options, I decided that it would be too expensive a violation of their privacy.  I never get to have any fun!

Recently, I received the following advertisement in my e mail:

______________________________________________

When we were kids, the only technology we relied on to play with friends included cans and sticks. Reports for school always involved a trip to the library, and going to the movie theater on a Sunday was the height of entertainment.

Our kids, of course, interact with technology on a different level, using computers and the Internet for everything from talking with new friends living halfway across the world, to playing their favorite online games and researching subjects for homework.

As parents, we often find it difficult to allow our kids complete freedom on the Internet. We understand it holds very real dangers, but we recognize that we can’t protect them 100%.

To help families facing this dilemma, Norton, a trusted provider of Internet safety products, has developed Norton Online Family. Unlike most products that simply block or monitor kids’ Internet activities, Norton Online Family is an online service that connects parents to kids’ online lives.

Key Norton Online Family features include:

Simple, One-Time Set Up: Create an account online and customize each family member’s profile based on age and maturity level.
Easy to Use and Access: Check a child’s activity or modify a child’s profile, preferences, or time allotment anytime and anywhere using any Internet-connected device.
Clear Reporting:  All activities are reported in chronological order and only show the Web sites a child intended to visit – eliminating all the extra URLs, like ads, from Web sites.
Helpful Search Insight: Easily view what words and phrases a child uses to search and where those searches lead online.
Convenient Web Site Control: Control the Web content that flows into the home by prohibiting more than 40 topic categories.
Secured Personal Information: Track, report and prevent personal information that a child may purposely or accidentally try to send via e-mail, IM or social networking site.
Access to Social Network Information: Monitor activity on social networks like Facebook and MySpace with the ability to see how kids represent themselves, when they login and how often.
Real-time Messaging: Built-in messaging allows parents to have real-time discussions with children about activities and better understand their intentions when visiting a Web site.
True Transparency: Children are able to view the “house rules” they established with parents at any time and are notified when Norton Online Family is active, so there is no “stealth” mode.
Custom Alerts: Parents can customize e-mail alerts to address urgent events so they know immediately when a child has reached a time limit or visited a blocked site, etc.
Useful Time Management: An easy-to-use time management feature that – if parents find it necessary – gives each child a “curfew” that will limit computer usage.
_____________________________________________

What do you guys think about this?  I truly don’t know.  Part of me thinks it’s a nice way to have control over the internet, but part of me sees it as horribly intrusive.  It’s a version of reading your kid’s diary.  Which I would do in a second – don’t get me wrong – but I’d only laugh about the entrees with my best friends.

What if Kevin is secretly the porno viewing king of Eastern Pennsylvania?  Do I manipulate the settings so he only sees women with B cups, and absolutely no goat sex?  The implications completely freak me out.

Our society is getting absolutely creepy.  Do parents become the head creeps?