Archive for the Snarky Pride? Category

At least I know when the milk goes bad. Probably.

Posted in Snarky Pride?, Teh Cuteness on September 4, 2015 by Misanthropic Mom's Group

My cat is a total dick.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore his fuzzy butt, and he is an wonderful, good natured, fluffy ball of purrs. It is just that he is also kind of an asshole.

Case in point. For some obscure feline reason he feels the need to inspect dairy products. If he sees dairy, he needs to sniff at it. He doesn’t actually lick it, and once it is sniffed he is basically done, but that sniffing must occur. (Except that he has developed a taste for ice cream. Specifically my ice cream. Whenever I get it out of the freezer he immediately teleports to directly underfoot, and I am obliged to share. He doesn’t do this with anyone else in the house, so it is uncertain whether he just knows that I am the only one who will share with him, or if he just really likes coffee toffee ice cream in particular. But I digress.)

His most regular dairy inspector job is my morning coffee. (I don’t care what time it is, if it is the first thing consumed after waking up, it is morning coffee.) I drink my coffee heavily latte, so I generally pour milk into the cup about a third of the way up before adding coffee. He has gotten so that when the cup is set down and I am still opening the refrigerator he has himself in position. When I do this in the kitchen he almost never misses a cup. But if I am upstairs at the mini-fridge he sometimes isn’t there.

The other day was a day when he missed it. I had just filled the cup with coffee when Mark said, “You didn’t let Momo inspect the milk!” I mumbled something about how Momo would adjust and went off to heat up the coffee-milk. A minute later Mark was standing in the doorway looking stern.

“Go LOOK at what you have done!”

I go look, and lo and behold Momo is sitting on top of the mini-fridge just staring at me. Unblinking. With that cat look that is somewhere between disappointment and condemnation.

Well, there was really nothing else I could do at that point but get another cup and go pour a token amount of milk in it so he could sniff it.

He sniffed it.
He dipped his paw in the cup. (Okay, so much for that milk.)
He put his head down, as if to rub the side of his face appreciatively against the cup. For a microsecond I thought to myself, “Look! I’ve made him happy and he is grateful.”

That was the moment when he started to push the cup off the mini-fridge. Luckily I KNOW HOW HE IS, so I caught it in time. But yeah, my cat is a total, unrepentant dick.

I still can’t figure out why that fact is so damn cute.

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Laundry Day and Daleks

Posted in Geek Pride!, Snark, Snarky Pride? on January 20, 2015 by Misanthropic Mom's Group

While mining for laundry in Lamp’s room I came across a particularly rich vein of socks. At least a half dozen “pairs”. Meaning that they are all black because I only buy him black socks, so I use the term pairs loosely. It is funny how much pleasure this gives me. My life is sad.

There are also some stains of questionable provenance. But we mustn’t go there.

When mining for teenaged laundry one needs to take the same sort of precautions one would take for any other sort of mining. First it is imperative that someone else knows you are in there. You don’t need to be in constant two way communication with someone on the outside, but at the very least there needs to be someone who will alert authorities if you fail to return in a timely manner. Cave ins are always a possibility, and your screams could be muffled if you are beneath a pile of laundry, old kleenex, and a metric ton of Legos. Because of this, you should always work from the top down. Pulling a likely looking sock from the side of a pile could easily result in a landslide.

Always watch your footing. Place each foot down gently yet firmly to ensure that the substrate is stable. As always, watch out for Legos. They are everywhere, and unlike guitar picks can deliver a nasty wound. If you see one, be assured that there are 10,000 more in hiding.

Breathing gear is optional, but recommended for any but the most strong of stomach. Food containers can and will have things growing in them that may emit hazardous agents. Try to remember that your goal is only the laundry or you could be trapped for days. Get in and out quickly, yet safely. You can always check pants pockets for money after leaving the hazard zone.

Bright lighting is a bit of a quandary. One needs light enough for safety, and to be able to avoid at all costs stepping IN something, but there are certain things that one would rather view in a softer lighting. If one must view them at all. I find that a single overhead is more than enough and can even be dispensed with entirely on bright days if the window happens to be visible.

Finally, try not to think too hard on where the stains may have come from. Just wash the blanket/sock/shirt/curtains and move on. Too much thought can lead to dark places, and that way leads to madness. However, as I learned after the quail incident, sometimes the reason it smells like something is dead in there… is that something is dead in there.

Anyhow laundry day was a nice break from the partially completed knitted Dalek shaped coffee press cozy which is taunting me from where I discarded it in exhaustion yesterday. It is slightly lopsided so far, and is only about 1/3 complete, but I can still hear it in my head. Obligate! Obligate! Obligate!

I think I may actually be getting better at un-knitting mistakes than I am at knitting them in the first place.

Mourning My Imaginary Gay Son

Posted in Snarky Pride?, Um, Seriously Snarky? No. Snarkily Serious. on July 7, 2014 by Misanthropic Mom's Group

* Edited for 2016, please see end

Recently I got a lot of Facebook love for a quip I made about wanting to turn my son gay. It was in reference to someone else’s snark about how the god botherers are worried everything will turn their kids gay. It was meant to be satirical, so like all good satire it was almost entirely true.

“Lemme tell you, I’ve tried and tried to make my son gay. I raised him in San Francisco. I never put him in sports. I encouraged music and drama. I made him watch Cabaret… nothing. The damn boy insists on being straight. I put him through 9 years of episcopalian boys’ school, for fuck’s sake. Even though we are atheists! I’ve tried to explain that if he insists on being a musician, he could use a husband to support him. I’ve exposed him ad nauseum to the gay agenda. Nada. Now I’ve got a long haired, neon skinny jeans wearing, guitar playing straight teenaged boy on my hands, with nothing to look forward to but years of *girlfriends*. GIRLFRIENDS. The very thing I wanted to avoid.

I am here to tell everyone, I am living proof that you can’t make a child gay.”

Every detail there is actually true, except that I never would try to make my son be anything. (Also, he did do one year of soccer in 1st grade, but that was his father’s fault. And he hated it.) It has always seemed to me an absolutely unforgivable parental abuse to deny one’s own child for being gay. Or straight. I would really struggle if one of my kids came out as Republican, but I can’t see disowning them. Thankfully the capacity to use logic and reason seems to be somewhat genetic, so neither has shown any dangerous conservative tendencies. But I would still love them.

I hope.

Before I became a mother I was confused as to why even some liberal parents would hope their kids didn’t turn out gay. I was told that it was because they wouldn’t wish them to be discriminated against, which makes some sense, but never really washed for me. However, your perspectives on parenting issues often do change significantly after actually becoming a parent, so once my baby boy was born I wracked my brain trying to decide if it would bother me, even the slightest little bit if he turned out to be gay. I examined numerous scenarios, and I just couldn’t see a downside. I wouldn’t just accept a gay son, I think I’d be happy about it. The statistics on the percentage of the population that is gay are questionable, but it is pretty safe to say that the odds of getting lucky are against you. Only a small percentage of mothers are fortunate enough to get a gay son.

Periodically as he grew I would revisit the question in my mind. Would it bother me? At all? And all I could think is “What is not to love?” I wouldn’t have to deal with teenaged girlfriends, that is one big plus. I was a teenaged girl, and I knew plenty of them, and in general? Not a fan. Ditto that I would not have to worry about PREGNANT teenaged girlfriends. Big plus. He is very good with children, so it is likely he will want to be a dad, but that is hardly even an issue anymore. Gay guys have strong networks of friends, and a wonderful culture. And they love their moms. I could SO live with that.

I fantasized about my gay son. He would be gorgeous, of course. He would always know he was accepted by his family, so he would be unconflicted about his sexuality. He would have a series of fun boyfriends, like Lorenzo, who would do my hair. We would go out to tea, my gay son and I. And sometimes brunch, so long as they serve late. We are NOT morning people. Eventually he would meet a nice, quiet boy with a good paying, yet meaningful career. Perhaps a pediatrician. And even though my son would sometimes forget to call me, Josh would be the type to keep in touch and send me endless pictures of the grandchildren.

Sigh.

Of course we love the children we have, not the ones we imagine. Yet for years I tried to ignore the little signs that he might be straight. I told myself that there was plenty of time for him to discover the truth about his orientation, yet I think I always knew. My dream died about a year or so ago when we were backing up his laptop and found some porn in his browser history. Straight porn. I was a little bit crushed. I thought he might just be experimenting, but I knew the odds were not in my favor. I live in San Francisco. I grew up in a gay resort community. My gaydar is above average for a basically straight woman. I had to face the fact that my sweet little boy was straight. His tastes in clothing are certainly… different. He is definitely not a macho guy. He still hates sports and wants to be a musician. He wears his hair long these days and has a wry, artistic sensibility. He doesn’t care what people think of how he dresses, or behaves. He is unconcerned with being popular. He plays guitar. And sings. On stage. In front of people. He is an unabashed nerd.

He is really, really cool.

Holy beer-battered Christ on a stick, I have inadvertently created teenaged girl catnip.

Fuck.

So I utterly love the boy I have. Yet there is a part of me that mourns the gay son I don’t have. It hardly seems fair that there are women out there who are lucky enough to hear the words, “Mom, I’m gay.” and instead  of being properly grateful, they turn him out of their home. Those mothers don’t deserve to have a gay son.

But maybe, somewhere out there, there is an unloved gay boy who needs a mom.

We could do brunch.

* EDIT: UPDATE 11/15/2016

I take back everything I have said about girlfriends. His girlfriend is lovely. Couldn’t be better if I’d picked her out myself. Which I totally DIDN’T DO, okay? That would be creepy. His sister picked her out. And while I will admit that is a little bit like me picking her out in that his 13 year old sister acts enough like me that there isn’t much difference. But it is totally different.

Is.

Anyway. Girlfriends are cool. While a final answer may change given limited sample size, and a lack of a control, I’d even be prepared to say that girlfriends are cool in all instances. With the way the country is going at the moment it’d be a relief to have a gay daughter. The discrimination can be mostly mitigated by living in our ultramarine blue area, and with the upside being that the risk of unintended pregnancy drops to near zero? I would advocate that all girls in this country just consider lesbianism. It doesn’t have to be forever. Just until we all regain our senses, or until the inevitable descent into the world of Mad Max.

Lamp, meet Toilet

Posted in Snark, Snarky Pride? on October 15, 2012 by Misanthropic Mom's Group

Yesterday I was explaining to the boy that I now have a Blog. I explained to him that he will be featured in said Blog, and that it will likely include some of his… let us call them “exploits”. Actually, I think I told him I would be writing about the stupid-ass things he occasionally does, and that having them revealed in the Blog is in fact his punishment for every so often being a complete idiot. And by idiot, I really mean being a thirteen year old. He immediately told me that I was not to use his name, and I assured him that I would not, and that I planned to refer to him simply as The Boy. He said he preferred to be called “Lamp”, because that is just the kind of guy he is.

I find being around a thirteen year old boy to actually be quite fascinating. He and all his friends are such a bizarre combination of intellectual maturity like cheese sprinkled at random onto a noodley bed of impulsive actions, thoughtless behavior, random kindness and resentful frustration. With hormone sauce. They all have effortless musical talents most adults would kill for, and they are all as awkward and adorable as Saint Bernard puppies. I never had any brothers, so most of the time I find them delightful as long as I stay far enough away to avoid the smell.

So anyhow, we recently made the decision to get Lamp his own iPhone. His little sister, The Responsible One, has had one for about a year now, and it has been a small point of contention. She got hers mainly because he already had a phone, which was provided by his father. This phone had proven useless for the purposes of reaching him because after six months of neglecting to charge it, neglecting to carry it, and repeatedly losing it, his father forbade him to remove it from the premises. This phone had no data capabilities, and was most certainly NOT an iPhone, so it held little appeal for him and as a result spent all of its time at his dad’s apartment. Mostly turned off. His sister, on the other hand, could be trusted to carry and charge her phone, and thus provided me with a means to keep in touch with them when spending time with their dad. She also immediately installed the safety lock screen with a passcode so that Lamp could never, ever use her phone without permission. And groveling.

I decided to finally get him his own because he was spending more time out and about by himself, or with friends, and I wanted a way to reach HIM specifically. I figured that an iPhone would hold more appeal for him as he could also listen to music, play games, and use the internet, thereby providing him with an incentive to charge it and care for it. He didn’t get the latest model, because I never get the latest model of any Apple product, but he was still utterly, completely thrilled. He carried it with him with the dedication and loving devotion of a father penguin caring for his egg through the harsh polar winter. He had it about 30 hours before the Incident.

As I was coming downstairs I heard something between a shriek and a squawk and by the time I arrived he was frantically drying his new iPhone with his shirt. It seems that he had taken it with him to the bathroom.

And dropped it.

In the toilet.

Which he had just peed in.

When I asked him why, WHY??? would he bring it with him into the bathroom, he said, and I quote, “I was testing the light.”

Once I had finished laughing at him I was just grateful that he was not testing the camera.

I was also a little impressed. Had he dropped anything else into a bowl full of fresh, warm urine I am pretty damn sure that I would have been recruited to fish it out. This is a boy who doesn’t even like to scrape out the inside of his own pumpkin at Halloween. But in this case he was like the proverbial 105 pound woman who lifts a car off of her beloved child. He didn’t hesitate. He acted! And in the end, no lasting harm was sustained by the phone, which I think is a testament to the engineering and foresight of the folks at Apple. I am tempted to send them a user testimonial, but I am not sure how useful it would be to them for marketing purposes.

So one minute I am tearing my hair out trying to find ANY sense of logic in “testing the light”, and the next minute I am unimaginably proud. Last night I took him to see Argo (which was great by the way) and ALREADY pretty pleased that my 13 year old son wanted to see a movie about the Iranian hostage crisis. As we walked through the theater lobby I noticed a poster for a Twilight movie marathon, and I was unable to resist teasing him a little by suggesting that I get him a ticket. After the predictable snort of derision, I reminded him that it might be a good place to meet girls.

His immediate response?

“Not the right kind.”

GOOD boy. YOU get a biscuit!