No Sympathy for the Sick Bastards

It just happened that yesterday when I was reading my father's journal full of bitching about his situation I was also watching "Our America with Lisa Ling" about registered sex offenders.

What the fuck.

Where do they get off with this "Woe is me?!?!" attitude??

I understand the 18 year old who sleeps with his 16 year old girlfriend and gets labeled. But if you are a grown man and you molest a child, or you commit a rape or some other atrocity, what kind of justification do you have so that you can ask for sympathy and expect to get it?!?!

Child molesters and rapists deserve nothing less than castration.

So, for all of you sex offenders out there, I'll offer an apology for my dad, the pedophile:
I'm so fucking sorry that you had trouble at work, Dad. And that you couldn't play with your friends for a few months. And I'm sorry that I haven't apologized sooner, I've been busy picking up the pieces you left of Mom's life, and trying with all of my being to hold on to the relationship with Amara that you destroyed. I've been doing my damnest not to repeat the cycle. And rebuilding my self-esteem that you tore down at every opportunity.
So if this apology was too long in coming, kiss my fucking ass you sick self-righteous bastard.

P.S. - I'm still searching for my usual self. Patience please.

Let Dead Dads Lie

I've never written a more painful post.

I've also never been so angry and hurt and conflicted.

I'm not sure that I've mentioned this before, but my father, who died when I was 15 was a pedophile and I was his victim.

It's not something I talk about often and it doesn't define who I am. But it's one of those things that occassionally rears its ugly head and comes back to bite me in the ass.

Like tonight.

Mom was cleaning out her desk a few weeks ago and found a journal that Dad was forced to keep for his probation after I outed him.

Mom wanted to know if I wanted to read them and I didn't that particular day, but she left them on her desk and everytime I walked through her room they were there staring at me.

So tonight I didn't have the kids and Mom was gone, so I went and got them.

I should have left it alone.

The vast majority of the entries, that spanned two months, were complaints: about writing, exhaustion, lonliness, work, money and chores. He wrote about how his situation was hard for him - he wasn't allowed contact with children of any kind. How he missed the family enviroment, my mother and my sister.

In two months worth of entries my name appeared 3 times. He hadn't seen or spoken to me in 7 months, and never would again, he died within a month of the last entry.

I am hurt, and angry and confused.

I never idealized him, and saw him as a sick bastard that sometimes could be very kind and loving. But I guess I thought he was remorseful in the end. And that in his deluded, sick way, he loved me.

But his journal tells me a different story.

He never said that he was sorry, or that he regretted what he did to me. They gave me more of the impression that he was sorry he got caught, not really that he did it.

He also never says he missed me. He mentions Amara and missing her and being sorry that he hurt her (he never laid a hand on her), but never me.

What kind of father doesn't miss his child when separated from them for 7 months?

(and let's not get into the obvious - "the same kind that could molest said child".)

And I was sick during this period - passing out for no apparant reason at least once a week.

He talks about Fantasy Football 50 times more that he talks about me!!

I'm angry. And outraged. And really I don't have many coherent thoughts. I just needed to vent.

I promise I'll be back to my old snarky self soon.

I am an Admitted Blog-Stalker

And not in the good way, like how all of you faithfully stalk me.

In the bad way, like those people who read your blog fanatically and never comment, or when they do it's anonymous (though, for the record I've never left an anonymous comment, I still have a little pride).

I stalk my sister Amara's blogs.

She has something like 4. Which I do too, so really I'm not judging.

See the deal is that I really do miss her. Even though I'd like to kick her in the shins and then punch her in the trachea, I miss her. But more importantly, I really miss her kids, my niece and my nephew. And so I blog-stalk her to find out about them.

I know that I shouldn't because most of the time it just upsets me, but I do it anyway.

What do you want??

I come by my martyrhood honestly.

So yesterday I went to check in on my niece, Clementine and see how she's doing.

And I found a post titled: "Do Unto to Others".

Really??

Do unto others. As in the Bible verse, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

You're shitting me.

This coming from the woman who barely speaks to her mother for no good reason, and never speaks to her sister, also for no good reason.

There's even a little thing in the post about how she's trying to model behavior for her children.

The delusions of others astound me. Really they do.

Maybe I should have been laughing, because really, the hypocritical are amusing. Plus there's the whole "someday it will all come back to bite her in the ass" thing. But mostly I was just hurt.

So, I started thinking (which is never a good sign) and I think that maybe I've been looking at Amara wrong. Instead of being angry with her for being a raging bitch, maybe I should look at the other angle.


And I've changed my mind. I want to be Amara.

Or at least I want some of her superpowers.

You know, like the one that lets you believe that you look HOT in daisy dukes when you weigh 200 lbs, or that you are a model of caring and consideration right after you've made your mother cry??

Or the one where one day you can decide you don't care about someone/something and then magically, you don't??

Yup. I want these.

My world would be fantabulous.

I would be the hottest thing ever. My husband would have a six-pack and my children would be angels. And then I could not give a rats ass about anyone who hurt me pissed me off.

AND a PT Cruiser would be the coolest car anyone could ever drive.

The Outing of Jennifer Juniper

I promised this story to Aunt Crazy when she complained about not being able to email replies to my comments.

I could also have titled this:

"Shit You May Have To Go Through If You Want To Be My Friend"

Here you go Aunt Crazy. Just for you because I love you that much.

And also because it's amusing as hell. If you're not me at the time.

I took Oliver to the doctor a few weeks ago for some chest pains he was having (he's fine - it was a bruise, nothing cardiac) and while we were in the waiting room I decided to catch up on my family blog reading, since they had actually posted which they never do.

There were some pictures of a recent home improvement project over at #2's house and I went to comment about how cute it was, typed in my hotmail address and password and..

*GASP*

Jennifer Juniper popped up as the Google ID.

delete delete delete!!!!

You cannot open a popup window because you already have one open

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck.

What to do?

What to do??

What the fuck am I going to fucking do??

Diva Chels is at work. No computer.

Cara & Connie are blogger illiterate.

Fuck me.

Fuck me running with a sword.

I know you guys don't know #2 and Mrs. #2, but they're great. I love them to pieces.

However.

Mrs. #2 is more neurotic than I am (yeah, I know you didn't think that was possible), and her mother, who is one of my favorite aunts (from the other side of the family - it's complicated) sees conditions and problems where they aren't. Plus, Mrs. #2 is so innocent that I think I'd probably shock her with my blunt and snarkey ways.

#2 is as mellow as they come, and really kind of accepts me for who I am, but he's gotten close to Amara recently, and I don't think he really wants to hear me bash her like I do. And his parents, who I bow down in awe of, and adore, are almost too conservative to function, and hate it when I say "darn" in their presence.

So you can see why I wouldn't really want them as readers as much as I love them. If this shit got out, there'd be a big ole' come to Jesus family meeting and JJ would be one pissed off camper.

Also keep in mind that Amara, my bitch of a sister, with the lazer beam eyes and the nails of steal and the heart of stone was the comment right before mine.

Where was I??

Oh yeah.

Fuck me running with a multi-twigged branch.

Miley.

Miley's unemployed.

Miley's TOTALLY blogger literate.



Me: Are you at home?

Miley: Yes.

Me: I'm fucked.

Miley: eh?

Me: insert the whole explanation that I already gave you guys

Miley: ookay..

Me: So can you go log in and delete my comment??

Miley: Oh, yeah, no problem, what's your password?

Me: insert me telling Miley my ridiculously long and hacker-proof password

Miley sheesh, woman.. ok, I'll take care of it.


So I breathed a small sigh of relief.

Then I realized.

When someone posts a comment on my blog, I get an email.

And in that email, if I click on their name, it goes to their profile.

That's when the text messages started flying.



Miley: Done.

Me: Does it say who deleted the comment??

Miley: Nope - I went back and checked.

Me: God I hope he doesn't have it set up to email him about comments but it probably does and then I'm totally fucked!!

Miley: Nah you'd be ok. I think. I'll tell you what it looks like, I don't think there's a link to a site.

Me: But it says who left the comment and they might go digging.

Me: Does it have their profile pic??

Miley: Eh go change your user name real quick?

Me: I'm all fucking paranoid now!!

Miley: Calm down hon.

Miley: No pic.

Me: No. I'm not going to let nosy family members make me change my blog stuff.

There was more. But mostly it boiled down to us deciding that there was indeed a link in the emails and Miley agreeing to go take down all the identifying information from my profile and making it private for awhile so that at least they wouldn't be able to follow it back to link up to the blog. Because while I can do that from my phone, it's a pain in the ass.

And that, my dear Aunt Crazy is why you couldn't reply via email to my comments, but no longer, my profile is back for your viewing pleasure and reply to your heart's content.



By the way, I saw #2 this weekend and he did get the email, did know it was from me, and said he doesn't care, and insinuated that he'll keep Mrs. #2 off my back. We'll see.

Either way, I've decided that I don't care. If the family wants to come and read the blog that I didn't tell them about, that I don't particularly want them to read, then let them.

Maybe we'll weed out some of the dickwhistles, fucktards and douchecanoes and then at least my Christmas list will be shorter.

Commencement

It's time to get a little sappy and serious y'all. Sorry.

My cousin, Hero is about 5 years younger than I am, and she and I have a lot in common - we're both a little on the volatile side, we have similar ideas of how people should live (as in how often you should do the dishes and what it means to do laundry), we are both crazy loyal to our friends and love our family, and we both had a not so great childhood.

I think Hero would probably agree with the way I like to describe my childhood,

A lot of people had it worse, but it should have been better.

She moved in with us during high school, mostly because I was feeling pushy one day, and after high school she went to the community college nearby.

She was doing really well, working, going to class and not a whole lot of partying (which is unnatural, but, hey). And then she came up pregnant.

She moved back home with her dad and took her boyfriend with her and transfered everything to the Community College of BFE.

And had the most gorgeous daughter, Cassidy.

And you know, she's an amazing mother. She plays with her, takes good care of her, disciplines her. I have no idea where she learned it, because she certainly didn't have a good model growing up, but that girl is amazing.


Hero graduated with her bachelor's degree yesterday from Sam Houston State.


I want to say I'm proud of her, but for some reason that sounds condescending coming from me, little Ms. No Degree.

I think that it would be more accurate to say that I'm in awe of her.

She graduated from college in 5 years.

With a child.

While working. And paying bills. And putting up with bullshit.

We have other cousins and family members with college degrees, she's not the first. And I'm not belittling anyone who went to college, but Amara and Mrs. #2 didn't work through college at all. And #1, #2, and #3 may have worked through college, but they didn't have a child and they could have gone back home to the parents whenever they wanted.

Plus, there are people on every corner and in every walk of life who use childhood's like Hero had as excuses for being assholes, and for not being able to do anything productive, and I'm not sure that it even occurred to her that it's an option.

I'm in awe.

Also, I'm ashamed.

Of myself.

Because I couldn't do it.

I couldn't do it before my first marriage because I was an idiot. And I couldn't do it while I was married to Perry because he wouldn't have supported me and he truly made me feel like an imbecile, plus he would have seen an affair in every classroom.

And now, there's the bills and Bean's health and all these other things that make me feel like I shouldn't.

When I think that maybe the real issue is that I'm terrified I'll fail.

But Hero kind of makes me feel like I can. Not because if she can do it, then I can do it better, but because it makes me realize that the personality traits that she has that made it possible for her to finish, are traits that we share.

Impatience - we don't like to wait for someone else to do something, we'll just do it our selves.

Stubbornness - we will make it work this way dammit!!

So really, the only thing Hero's got on me is bravery, and that she has in spades.




I love you Hero and you are mine.

Fawk You Friday

Yeah, I totally did 2 different Friday Follow posts - I wouldn't want to offend any sticks in the mud who happen along accidentally.

Fawk you Perry. I'm not married to you any more. My groceries are not your groceries. Maybe you should think about bringing your own fucking food over to my house. It wouldn't kill you - you're a fucking architect and I'm a secretary for fucks sake - I promise you make more money than me.

Fawk you Amara and Mom. I made plans for my children and I'm not changing them just so that Amara can bless them with her presence.

Fawk you stupid movie that made no sense (AKA The Handmaid's Tale). You made me need to read the book version and it's pretty fucked up and disturbing when you're as neurotic as I am.

Fawk you Mr. My Favorite Author's Son. I'm thrilled that you took over your mom's series - really I am, because she's getting pretty old. But really do you have to make so many convoluted 3+ people sexual relationships?? I mean, yeah, it's kind of kinky, but if this is how you think, I believe you need to move over to romance.

Fawk you Dr. No Personality. You gave me an unlimited supply of vicodin for my headaches, but you won't give me anything for weightloss when I've gained 40 lbs in 7 months for no apparant reason AND you agree with me that I need to lose weight??

The Not Prodigal Daughter

If you read my Fawk You Friday post, you know that my mother has been driving me a little nuts lately, here's a little bit of why:

I was in the hospital for 4 days and she came to visit once (maybe twice, I was a little drugged), and the whole time she gave me a guilt trip about how much Tallulah missed me. (Because I chose to be in the hospital, obviously)

She can't sit in an uncomfortable auditorium chair for 1 hour for my daughter, but she can drive 8 hours for my sister's daughter's birthday party.

She was telling me about her will and explained how she's leaving my sister most of the money, because I get the house. (Keep in mind this is the same house that I have been paying the mortgage on for almost 6 years)

She wants to have a mini-family reunion in September because my sister won't come to Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter or 4th Saturdays (extended family dinner once a month).

All of these are on top of the day to day irritations, like not buying me toilet paper when I ask her to (she's in charge of groceries, I'm in charge of bills) or interfering with my parenting or making comments about how I do laundry (when I clearly remember as a child having to dig through the dirty laundry that covered half of a 2 car garage to find something to wear).

And none of these things would really bother me if a) it was only one of them or b) my sister wasn't such a raging bitch to her.

I'm feeling very much like the Not Prodigal Son. He stayed home and tended the sheep (or whatever the hell it was they had) and helped his father with the servants and did everything that was expected of a good son, and his dickwhistle brother gave Dad a big "fuck you" and went off on his own. But then when he came back Dad's all open arms and "I missed you so much!!!!!" and "let me throw a feast for you".

Did Dad ever throw a feast for the son who brought him his dinner and washed his dishes and paid his bills and ran his errands and nursed him when he was sick and picked up his perscriptions and cleaned his house and entertained his friends and actually gave a flying fuck about him??

No.

He rolled out the red carpet for the fucktard.

Yeah, that's my mom.

What can I do that will make Amara love me?

Amara wants something, so I'd better drop everything and run to her.

Amara is upset with me, I'll think I'll cry.

I'm getting fed-up with this shit. Amara's not going to be the one wiping Mom's ass when she's old and decrepit. In fact, as soon as she turns senile and forgets her number, my money's on Amara never calling her again.

And I get that you love your children equally, but this is not equal, this is "I don't need to take special care of my relationship with Jenn, because she'll always be there" - and it's fucked up.

I've Been Caught or How the Hell Am I Going to Talk My Way Out of This One??

**DISCLAIMER** I'm blogging from my phone & that doesn't usually work out very well for me. So please just forgive the massive typos & formatting issues.

I'm pretty sure I'm fucked. I mean I was a little fucked last week when I asked Bean to proofread the Father's Day post and he's all wait a second.. "Bean Bean The Magical Fruit", W.T.F.????? and then he had to go through and read every posting that even remotely mentioned him.

But Bean is smart enough to know that its his own damn fault. If he were religiously following my blog then he would have seen all the posts before ya'll did & objected (not that it would have done much good).

But now Mrs. #2 saw my other facebook profile.

Just to explain, I grew up with Mrs. #2 and we were very close as kids & then my cousin #2 fell for her & I convinced her to marry him (she's all blissfully happy, its good). But in the last few years she's gotten close to Amara and is all thinking that maybe Amara's right about me and our fight is all my fault and it pisses me off, because Amara has ALWAYS been a bitch, and I have always not been (at least not witho. ut. Provocation).

Anyway, so she found my new I-get-to-post-whatever-the-fuck-I-want-to facebook profile & friended me and is all why'd you get a new profile?????.

I want to say to be honest with her. I wanted to be able to say whatever I wanted. But then she'll wonder why she's not my friend and I'll have to tell her.

And I don't want to.

She picked the bitch. She couldn't drive 30 minutes to come to my birthday party or to my kids birthday parties, but she drives 4 1/2 fucking hours out of her way to stop in at the bitch's son birthday party to stay for 30 minutes.

Its pretty obvious who is more important to her.

So why is she making me answer this question?? Ugh.

Practice Makes Perfect

**DISCLAIMER**

My potty mouth really ran away with me during this post.. I'd really like to apologize, but you did, after all, come here of your own free will..

I am absolutely convinced that talking to yourself is like pot. Everyone's done it, but not everyone admits they have.
I'll admit it (on both counts, talking to myself & trying pot - though for the record, it was only twice but I did inhale).
I talk to myself all the time. I like to think of it as personal pep talks, but alot of times it's rehearsing for imaginary conversations.
For instance, if I'm on my way home from work and I've gotten an email from Oliver's teacher that says he threw a chair and then he skipped class (that last part has never happened, the first part has, several times - my boy has anger management issues), I might want to rehearse for the conversation I know is coming. Because honestly, what I really want to say goes something like this:

Me: Oliver, what the fuck is the matter with you, why did you go ape-shit on your teacher?!?! I think I will have to take your flat screen TV, and X-box 3 and put them in my room as punishment, you'll have to make do with my big-ass TV and Super Nintendo. Now maybe next time you'll think about it before you decide to act like an evil little shit.

But I totally realize that I can't call my son an evil little shit, and I probably shouldn't say "WTF?" to him either. Thus the rehearsal.*

Other times I practice for conversations that I know are almost certainly never going to happen. Like today. My bitch, I mean sister**, is in town and asked Mom and the kids to go to a movie and then dinner with her. I really don't like the idea of the kids spending time with her. Not only because I don't trust her, but also because I hate that they think she's nice and that she cares about them. I hate knowing that at some point she is going to hurt them.

But I wasn't off of work yet when Mom needed to leave and if she really wants to torture herself by spending time with the evil bitch then I should be supportive. So the kids are with her as I type, and on my way home from work, I practiced what I would say to her if she were speaking to me, it went something like this:

Me: Amara, I really don't know what your problem is, since you've never bothered to actually tell me, but I pity you. You have surrounded yourself with all of these wonderful people who don't know you. They know you're sweet and funny and caring and all of that bull-shit, but they don't know the insane and vindictive things you are capable of. You only have one friend that actually knows you and you don't even like her that much.
You have cut yourself off from your family and embraced your in-laws like they are some kind of saints. I don't get it. You MIL is a slut, and your FIL is a snob (and also kindof slutty) but you think they're fantabulous. How the hell are they better than our Mom?? At least she never deliberately hurt us.
You're a sorry piece of shit, and I don't want you around my kids anymore. You can't have your cake and eat it too, you have to pick. If you want to be one big happy fucking family you have to acknowledge my husband and apologize to me. If not then fuck off.

Unfortunately, she's not speaking to me, so I will never get to deliver my diatribe, and when we see each other at family functions, she puts on a great show, so that the whole family thinks I'm the problem. It pisses me off, obviously. But really, if I'm being honest, it's probably a good thing she's not speaking to me, because I get very doormatty with her, so if we did talk it would probably go like this:

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! I miss you.

* I promise that I'm not THAT bad of a mother. I would never actually say that to Oliver. I would eventually come up with something very stern, yet supportive and ground him (unless he chose to be beaten, in which case, who am I to argue??)
** I haven't had a normal conversation with my sister, Amara, since the week before Perry moved out. Don't ask why, because I don't actually know, when I asked she said that I was "too sick to understand and she wouldn't talk to me until I got some help". I have never so much as touched my nephew and neither he nor my niece know who I am. I suspect that our evil, vindictive, back-stabbing, self-serving and very bi-polar cousin is fueling the fire, and I'm fairly certain that her husband, Mr. Incredible is thrilled.