Sunday, January 6, 2013

A swine in a nightdress, is just another name for a pig in a blanket

I got a nasty comment from a stranger (at least I hope it was a stranger), telling me to stop being so attention seeking and to read his blog.
First of all being mean to me is not a very effective marketing tool, you asshole, and secondly, I get to be as whiny and as attention seeking as I want to be Jack!
This is my blog, which I like to think of as a much cheaper alternative (although possibly, not as effective) to therapy, which I shun, because my insurance only covers those really boring counselors, that have grey offices and try to get you to do things like modify your behavior. 
If I could modify my behavior I wouldn't need therapy, now would I ?
If I was going to go to a therapist, I would want one with a dark, wood paneled office, with a chaise lounge for me to lie on.
Anything short of old school Freudian?   
No thank you

I think I am totally hopeless. I can't even figure out Pinerest.  Everyone is going on and on about Pinterest and I can't seem to make heads or tails of it.  I now have an account under heidelfinc, if you know how to make it work, please fill me in.

In addition to my total and complete failure to understand Pinterest my nerves have been further shattered this week by the ongoing, late night crank calls, from two kids Maxwell goes to school with. This has been going on since August.

I suppose they think they are a regular laugh riot, but there is nothing remotely funny about waking a nervous woman up at 1:00am.

I could shut off my phone, sure, but I hate having my behavior dictated by a 13 year old  heel who lacks the good sense to not make crank phone calls.

These calls were particularly unwelcome when grandpa's health was failing and each late night call made me think the end was near.

In fact, I can't really get a call past 10:00pm without assuming that someone had died.  

It all came to head on Saturday, when Mark paid the families of the fellows involved a visit.

For a small person Mark can be surprisingly intense, and sometimes a little scary.  His eyes get all Iggy Pop, and he jumps around and gesticulates a lot when riled up. His is a pointer too, which I think worked in his favor, when he turned to the kid and said  
"and don't you dare take this out on Max, he doesn't even know I am here.  This is about YOU waking my wife up and upsetting her!"
Finger jabbing all the while.

I think it is handled now, but man, it was causing me a lot of stress, which required Rolf taking me out to breakfast at Bob's Redmill.   Not quite as good as a session on the couch, but it settled my nerves a teensy bit.   Bob's is a magical place that has many things I find comforting, like coffee in yellow Fiesta cups, biscuits, strawberry freezer jam, and lunch ladies with hairnets. Bob also gave the company to his employees when he retired, which makes me love supporting them, even though the food is a tad bit expensive.   While we were eating we got onto the topic of pig's in blanket, which in my family means a sausage wrapped in biscuit dough, which in German is called a swine in a nightdress, so same thing.  Some people think a pig in a blanket is a sausage wrapped in a pancake, which is just absurd.

I know what you are thinking; why didn't she just go talk to the mom herself? And why all this talk about pigs in blankets?
Well, because I had tried to call this mom in the past and she never returned my calls, and I get really easily upset about things concerning my kid, and I come from a family of people that tend to settle things loudly and sometimes with mild violence, and I don't really fit into that model very well, but when this started, I did hear my grandmother's voice in my head saying "knock him right on his ass and he wont do it again." which, is totally against my personal peaceful nature and philosophy, but to tell you the truth didn't sound half bad, at 2:00am when I was thinking of how sad and bad this was making me feel.  And that is why I didn't take care of this problem myself and also why I don't own a weapon, or carry an ax handle under the seat of my car, because I am afraid that I might just randomly snap one day and start channeling my angry Irish relatives and kicking ass and taking names, which would spoil everyone's image of me as a pacifist and sniveling earthworm.

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