May 8th, 2007

Bitch please

(no subject)

One and a half years.

That's how long my sister's son has been living with me and growing up.  My sister is one of those extreme left-wing psycho California liberals (we're talking Human Shield and we deserved 911).  Her violent, aggressive, non-social son came to live with me because she couldn't deal with him and he was tearing the family apart.

I took him not knowing what to expect.  I expected bi-polar, ADD, autism, some extreme personality or learning dysfunction.  What I got, 1 1/2 years ago, was a very immature 12 year old who needed structure, stability, accountability, and consequences in his life.

He has grown up a lot.  He is happy, which is a word that my father never expected associate with him.  He has rules and consequences.

Now my sister wants him to come back home where he doesn't function.  This is an extremely bad decision.  They think he is broken and that he needs to be fixed.  He has been in and out of therapy over there and probably will wind up back in therapy.

He is not broken, there is nothing there to fix.  He just doesn't fit their mold and they can't see that.  
This is a time for tough-love and for the grown ups to be strong and think of what is best for the child, not their own feelings.  My sister is being extremely selfish, self-centered, and self-serving.  She is thinking about what she wants and not what is best for the child.  He went home for a week at Easter and the situation blew up again, but she can't see that he is not ready to go home, that the problem is there with her and not with him.

cunning

THE RESTROOM

THE RESTROOM
 


When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line
of women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your
turn, you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is
occupied.

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the
woman leaving the stall.

You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter the wait
has been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for
the modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is
handy, but empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if
there was one, but there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly
drape it around your neck,
(Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!),
yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake.
You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe
the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you
discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you
can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to
clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" 
Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - 
the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around
your neck, that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle
yourself at the same time). That would have to do. You crumple it
in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The
door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of
your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank
of the toilet.

"Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your
precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your
footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT.
It is wet of course. You bolt up knowing all too well that it's too
late.

Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and
life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet
paper - not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. 
You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew,
because, you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public
toilet seat because, frankly, dear, "You just don't KNOW what kind
of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a
firehose against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of
water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your
shoes. The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force
that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being
dragged in too. At this point, you give up, You're soaked by the spewing
water and the wet toilet seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum
wrapper you found in your pocket and then slink out conspicuously
to the sinks.

You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic
sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and
walk past the line of women still waiting. You are no longer able
to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line
points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when
you NEEDED it??)  You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in
the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need
this."

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used,
and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks, "What took you so
long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?"
 


{This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public
restrooms (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!). It finally explains
to the men what really does take us so long. It also answers their
other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom
in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your
purse and hand you Kleenex under the door!}