My Dog Ain't Dead

I KNOW I've been a bad, bad blogger. I wrote a couple of weeks ago about how my mom finally decided to let go of all the 78rpm records my step-dad collected and how a dealer offered her a dime a piece for the 700 piece lot for a total of 70.00 (he told her the collection wasn't worth any more). I protested, and she handed them over to me, so I've been ass-deep in shellac and vinyl for the last 3 weeks.

And taking a crash course in record values.

The dealer was at least partially correct. About 80% of this stuff is worth very little. On the other hand, I think he was trying to take my mom for a ride.

I could write a country song about this. Especially since Pops apparently had a somewhat valuable and rare Country/Blues/Jazz collection.

So here's my country song (with lots of bass):

Da da da dum
My dog ain't dead
Da da da dum
My truck works fine
Da da da dum
I've been finding out
da da da dum
These discs are worth more than a dime

(banjo riff here)

Da da da dum
Been selling these records
Da da da dum
There are seven hundred or more
Da da da dum
There have been one hundred and fifty
Da da da dum
Shipped out my door

(little violin riff here)

Da da da dum
The dealer said they were worthless
Da da da dum
But as of today
Da da da dum
I totaled it up
Da da da dum
And my mom made 3K

I am WEARY, to quote some of these titles.

I love you all, and I'm sorry I've been a bad blogger. Got another 550 records to sell. ;-)

Gah!

Yeah, that's enough to give me nightmares....

Nobody Likes an A-Hole

Really, Just Kill Me Now

Ohhhh, Ratzelfratzel, Farfignewgen, and just plain $#@%$$!!

When is summer vacation REALLY going to start? Arrrgghhh!

Big Kid's lease was up, and since there was a substantial increase in rent, he and Kitty decided that he was going to move in to her house. The one that she shares with her 86-year-old mother-in-law (Kitty is a widow).

Shares is a relative term, because Kitty essentially moved in with Big Kid at the apartment. She was there more often than she was at her own house.

The situation seems to be a good one, because MIL is becoming increasingly infirm, and it would be good to have someone there in case she fell or something (which has happened), it's close to Kitty's work, and the management won't call me up about complaints regarding Big Kid's music, because MIL is almost deaf as a post. He can rock on to his heart's content.

I haven't written a lot about him or them in this 8 months, because I still have mixed feelings about the whole relationship, and I didn't want to invade their privacy that much, because Big Kid knows I blog.

Frankly, I just don't give a rat's ass now. Seriously.

A month ago, Big Kid and I went to the leasing office to fill out the "intent to vacate" form, since I am the co-leasee with him. Big Kid and Kitty have had 30 days to pack up their crap and move it. We'd get a truck and move the big stuff.

Hubby and I weren't unreasonable. We knew that Kitty's house is full of furniture, and there wasn't a whole heck of a lot that they needed, ie; Big Kid's kitchen table and chairs, futon bed/couch (which dissassembles), assorted end tables etc could come back here and be stored in the basement.
What we DIDN'T know is that some other renter BSed them into taking HIS big-ass nasty greasy spoogy couch and easy chair so that HE didn't have to move it. They thought, "hey free furniture!", and not "oh shucks, if we leave this crap here, or can't move it, the complex will charge us 100.00 per item for disposal!" gah

Last Thursday, 5 days before the walkthrough, THD, Little Guy and I showed up as planned to start cleaning. Everything was supposed to be boxed---what needed to go to Kitty's in one part of the apartment, what needed to be stored at our place (like dishes and stuff) in another.

Practically nothing had been done. Of course, they'd taken the stuff that was immediately "important" to them---the TV, game system, stereo system, a few clothes....the place was knee-deep in crap. Literally.

So for 3 hours, we helped them pack...just shoveled sh*t into boxes and garbage bags. Of course, Kitty's car was so full of other crap that she couldn't actually MOVE anything back to her house.

Nothing like planning ahead, eh?

Left them with boxes, bags, etc to pack the rest of the stuff up in. Said we'd be back Sunday Morning (in 3 whole days) with the truck and trailer to move the big stuff and anything they wanted to store at our house.

Of course they didn't show up, and had done NOTHING to pack the rest of their crap up, so Hubby and the boys loaded everything they could. Including the fug couch and chair.

Their excuse?

Kitty: I had to work! (24 hours a day for 3 days, apparently).

Big Kid: I'm feeling too overwhelmed to lift a finger! And you got me into this apartment, it wasn't my idea, so it's your job to get me out of it! (ah yes, the old "clean up my mess, because nothing is my fault" argument again)

I am NOT sh*tting you.

They've had 30 days to do this. It wasn't a surprise. They aren't the victims they think they are. Really, the whine fest between the two of them could have used at least 3 pounds of cheese and crackers. And an orchestra of tiny violins.

The last two days, the boys and I have been cleaning and disinfecting the freaking apartment. Scrubbing walls, especially the petrified puke chunks splashed a foot and a half high around the toilet. Different basic colors, obviously from different times.

Big Kid, Kitty and friends had dyed their hair a few times over the months, but didn't bother to clean up after themselves. There was permanent hair dye stains in the carpet, in the heating vents, on the walls, and all over the brand-new linoleum floor that was installed in the walk-in closet just off the bathroom. Which now has to be paid for.

We've loaded the car up to move stuff up to our house in the mountains to be gone through later, multiple times.

THD has been suitably traumatized (since Little Guy assisted in moving Big Guy out of our house, he was inured). While cleaning out a cabinet, he found a half-gallon jug of milk with a loose lid and about 4 inches of curdled crap. And he found and packed Kitty's vibrator collection. Oh joy.

Pigs. The two of them live like pigs. It's as simple as that.

Had the walk-through today. Had planned to shampoo the carpets, but after we got the initial crap cleaned up off of them, we knew it was a lost cause.

The geniuses had tried to lift off some of the stains with bleach. Yes bleach. On a tan carpet.

But not that it mattered. There were over 50 carpet burns throughout the apartment from where they put their cigarettes out. Along with the hair dye stains. And several gunky spots that may have been milk-shakes. Or puke. It seems they puked a lot. The place certainly smelled like it.

So the damage is estimated around 800 dollars for the carpet and linoleum replacement. The complex didn't ding us on the cleaning because Little Guy, THD and I scrubbed the living crap out of every surface in and out. But of course, I'm going to have to pay it, because my name is on the lease and I don't want to mess up my credit.

Did Big Kid and Kitty call today to find out how it went? How much work we did? What the ultimate damages were?

No, they called to find out what time they could come tomorrow to pick up our monthly support check to pay for Big Kid's basic living expenses.

Anyone wanna take bets on how far my foot is going to implant itself up a couple of asses?

But hey, there is nothing in my name any longer associated with the kid. If he tries to rent again, there will be a positive reference for him. I will never, evah, sign my name to anything else.

He and Kitty can live like pigs in their own hollar, and deal with it on their own.

I'm really really tired and being a bad fellow blogger.

I simply can't keep up.

Be back to check up on you guys in a week or so. I'm sorry.

ATM

Character 101

A few days ago I was packaging a couple of items that I had sold on eBay. Turns out that I had overcharged a little for shipping (I had calculated what each item would sell for singly, but combined, it was a bit less), so I asked THD if he had a couple of ones I could borrow until I went to the bank.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

I explained as I slipped the ones in a note card I had written, thanking the buyer for taking some of my Mom's crap off our hands (as they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure!)

"Why don't you keep it? It's only a couple of bucks!"

Because people work hard for their money. I've overpaid on shipping before, and have had honest sellers do the same for me. It's good karma. Most major religions tell you to do it too. So does the Second Amendment of the Constitution. No wait, I mean the Golden Rule (the ethic of reciprocity). You know, "do unto others..."

"What's 'reciprocity'?"

And off we go...

We've hit a couple of small bumpy patches integrating THD into our home and family. One of them involves the concept of stealing. As in "what is the difference between stealing and 'borrowing'"?

Let me first say that THD is a fundamentally a great kid. He'd give you the shirt off his back. He's the first to volunteer, even for the cruddy jobs. He tries to be kind and honest. He has a gentle heart. He jumps in and covers at work for anyone who calls.

But he has some really messed-up ideas about life. And frankly, who can blame him?

With this particular issue, I can see why he might be confused. My ex-SIL had the messed-up (I'm being polite, because I'd really rather be throwing the f-bombs around) concept that none of the children were allowed to be singled-out. Everything had to be the same. If one child got a birthday present, then they all had to get something too, even if it wasn't their birthday. She thumbed her nose at the red plate philosophy ("You are special today").

They all had to be special, or none got to be special. Everything was communal (but not her stuff, of course).

In the group homes he was in, kids ::koff:: "borrowed" stuff from each other all the time. If they got caught with the stuff, they had to return it, and there were no tangeble consequences. What were the powers-that-be-going to do, throw the kids out?

So I can understand his confusion, but it has proved to cause some weirdness in our house.

We've had to spell out that there is "communal stuff" ie; towels, toothpaste, the toaster--for everybody to use, and personal items, such as cd's, dvds, books, clothing, cologne etc. that are "hands-off" without permission.

Or, as is becoming a new mantra in the Attila household, "If you didn't buy it, it's not yours. If it's not yours, ask first before appropriating."

This has become a bit of an issue lately.

In the last couple of weeks, THD has come home from work with several snack-sized bags of " organic vinegar and salt" potato chips.

Did you pay for these? I asked.

"No. Nobody is buying them. So they need to get rid of them."

I persisted. But did somebody in charge actually TELL YOU that you could take them home? Are they throwing them away?

"No, but nobody ever buys them. They just sit there."

::sigh::

One day he came home with a CD. "I burned this music at work, I thought you might like it!"

With some careful questioning, it comes out that not only did THD appropriate a blank CD, but downloaded a program that enabled him to download music on the company computer.

"Well there's a whole stack of CD's there, and nobody's using them, so I just thought I'd borrow one!"

WTF?

The last straw came several days ago, when we had a bunch of cardboard boxes we needed to cut up to secure shipment of any of the gazillion 78 records we're putting on eBay for my mom. THD produced a box-cutter. Ta daa!

Where in the world did you get that?

"I borrowed it from work!"

Do they know that you borrowed it?

"No, there was nobody in charge to ask!"

At that point, I'd had it. Totally had it. And read him the freaking riot act.

THD, do you like your boss? The guy who owns the store where you work?

"He's great!"

Then why would you steal from him?

"I'm not stealing! What do you mean?"

All those potato chips. Who do you think pays for them?

"Well nobody, because nobody is buying them!"

Somebody has to pay for them. Your boss bought them from a supplier, he didn't pick them off the potato chip tree. Actually, you're just stealing money from your boss as sure as if you were reaching into his pants and stealing his wallet.

As far as downloading music, you're using company time and resources, which is the same as stealing. Do you think your boss is paying you to fart around on his computer? And when it comes down to "borrowing" box cutters, it isn't borrowing if the person who owns them doesn't give you permission to take them...it's STEALING!

"I didn't think about it that way."

So yesterday after work, THD handed me two receipts. One was from the office supply store, for blank CD's. The other was from his place of business, for the payment of 5 bags of chips.

I gave him a hug and told him I was proud of him for "fixing" this.

"Don't worry Aunt A, Judge Judy says I'm 'not fully cooked yet'. I'll get there."

I hope so. This worries me a little.

What do you think?

Nuns With Guns

I know I've been a woefully bad blogger as of late, and I hope to catch up with you all this weekend.

Let's just say that in the last week I found the birth family of one of our personal friends after he was able to walk into the courthouse where his adoption was finalized and walk out with a copy of his records, due to this new law change in Colorado I mentioned a couple of posts ago.

For those of you who weren't adopted, I can only say...this is huge. A truly life-altering event. There's some happy and sad in it----his birth parents have passed, but I found his siblings. He's digesting all the info and deciding whether to contact them or not.

I've also helped my Mom with some de-crapifying of her basement. When my step-dad passed a few years ago, he left behind several enormous collections. One of them was a collection of about 700 78rpm records that he collected as a young man.

Mom had a dealer give the collection an eyeball, and he offered her 10 cents a piece. With the economy being what it is, and with the requests (ahem, no comment, not me, I'd rather sell blowjobs for a 100 bucks a pop, and yes I'm that good, not that you were asking) some of her children and grandchildren are currently making on her in regards to funditude, I demanded that she let me go over them.

Heh. I've only waded through half the collection and have found about 40 records that have recently gone for amounts between $30 and $220 each on eBay. Feh. So yes, I've been knee-deep in dusty crap that hasn't seen the light of day in about 25 years too.

Which brings me to the current observation.

The other day, I took Big Kid to see his neuropsychiatrist. Since the office recently moved, I left extra time to find it, but it turned out to be a piece of cake. So we had to wait an additional 30 minutes or so because we were early.

The Doc's practice (there's about 6 docs and therapists there) specializes in patients who have somewhat severe neuropsychiatric issues, such as schizophrenia, MPD, rapid-cycling bi-polar, recovery from head injuries, etc. There have been a few times where while we were waiting, we've heard people screaming or having absolute fits behind closed doors.

While we were waiting, Big Kid and I watched the program "Galapagos" from cable on an absolutely incredible hi-def TV system. After a few minutes, Big Kid leaned over.

"Mom, take a look at the magazines in the rack on the wall. Isn't that weird?"

I hadn't noticed them at all, because normally, I bring a book if I have to wait.

There wasn't your uh "normal" waiting room fare there. You know, like People, Good Housekeeping, Time, etc.

There was Guns and Ammo, Weekend Sport Shooting (something like that), and some other magazine like Hunting for Fun amongst the National Geographic and Forbes.

Are we the only people who find that incredibly freaking nucking futso? I mean seriously?

It's like nuns with guns.

The Days Have Been Flying By...

Sometimes it just seems like there aren't enough hours in a day, doesn't it?

This week we've been running back and forth down to the city to have THD totally evaluated mentally and physically. It just happened that we set the appointments up when he got here at the end of March, and this is the soonest any specialist could see him as a new patient.

Unfreakingbelievably, we STILL don't have his new state-issued Medicaid card, although he has been assigned a number. Our local pharmacy and family doc took the number with no problems, but I had to do a lot of sweet-talking to the others to accept it. grr.

Like a used car, we're having the kid completely overhauled. It's been years since he's seen a dentist. Next up is an eye exam.

When he got here, THD's medical records were sketchy. Apparently, with all the moving around he's done, whoever was in charge of his care at whatever time didn't get records forwarded from all the previous carers. So he had a lot of diagnoses without any original evaluations. In fact, he doesn't remember even HAVING any primary evaluations. Except for an MRI in 2004 which isn't included anywhere.

So he came to us with a boatload of diagnoses hung around his neck without any data to back it up. Complete with prescriptions. It's been absolutely puzzling to us, simply because the kid REALLY DOESN'T SEEM TO HAVE ANY PROBLEMS (other than being a teenager)! We needed to do more than kick his tires, and in the last 7 days or so, we've had a complete diagnostic.

These are the results so far: ADHD? No. Whatever mild attention deficits he might have had could be explained as a result of anxiety and depression due to his life circumstances. He completed this final quarter at school with straight A's while holding down an after school job, and enjoying a budding social life without the benefit of ADHD meds.

Tourette's Syndrome? No. This diagnoses was actually grandfathered in when THD's older sister looked up "eye twitching" on the internet. She found Tourette's Syndrome, and the family started telling everyone he had it. He doesn't. He has eye twitching due to a brain injury he had as an infant in his biological home. It's called nystagmus.

Anxiety disorder? No. Duh. He was in multiple foster homes and even a shelter over an 18-month period. If you were worried that somebody was going to steal the only pair of shoes you had while you were sleeping, you might be anxious too.

OCD? Hah. The kid pees on the toilet seat sometimes and has to be reminded to wash his hands. Monk he is not. On a more serious note, he doesn't have any obsessive or compulsive thoughts or habits. This diagnoses just got attached like a bad smell that you can't find the origin of (so you blame the dog for poofting).

ODD (Oppositional Defiant Disorder)? Another dog fart. This is one of those issues that is self-controlled. You choose to argue or you don't. We happen to be a family that enjoys a lively debate as long as it doesn't include dish throwing or spurting stumps caused by machetes. Tomato, Tamahto.

RAD? While this is a very real and serious condition, THD's treating doctors feel like sometimes it is automatically attached to children who have been in the system whether they have it or not. If THD has it, it's manifesting itself in a mild way. He exhibits a strong capability to bond, but is impatient with silly girls who want a commitment. Doesn't sound like much of a problem to me. He's a teenage boy, for pete's sakes. LOL

Lowgrade depression? Maybe. He's on a low dose of an anti-depressant and that may be keeping things smooth for him. So he's going to stay on it for the time being. Everything else is gone.

How is he doing? Really great. Along with good grades, a job and friends, he is volunteering at the local animal shelter in his spare time. He's a guy who likes to keep busy. The honeymoon period is definitely over--hehehe--he's had to be on phone restriction a couple of times (oh a fate worse than death!), but all in all, it's a cakewalk compared to 99% of the rest of life.

The other day we were in the car and he said, "How come our dogs are soooo stupid?"

My eyes filled with tears. He said "our"! He really feels like he's a member of the family!

He noticed instantly and said, "Are you crying? Did I say something wrong?"

I didn't want to get all gushy and embarass him.

"You're not allowed to call my dog stupid! It's not HER fault her brain is the size of a walnut!"

LOL

Pooped...

Sorry I fell off the grid there. LOL

There has been a quiet change in Colorado case law regarding open records for adoptees and I volunteered to contact as many as I could find to make them aware of it.

The past few days have been exhausting but exhilarating as I've sent over a hundred emails and called more than 25 to speak personally.

Just too dang tired to blog.

Catch up in a few.

ATM

Devil 1, Angel 0

Ok, one last repost to get me through the week...yippee, it's almost over! Mentioning Kim at the Yellow Trash Diaries a week or so ago made me feel nostaligic for this oldie. Catch up to you in a few!

Ever have a moment when you feel like you have a little devil sitting on one shoulder and a little angel on the other arguing about whether or not you should do something?

It happens to me quite frequently.

I blame my adoption.

I clocked a lot of road miles this summer driving the Big Kid back and forth to college classes down in the city. I think I put more mileage on my car in the last two months than I have in the last 2 years.

Obviously I don't get out of our little town a lot.

On one of the interminable drives back home, the Big Kid was sitting in the back seat telling me what he learned that day in Biology class. It had been a really long day, and I was hot, exhausted, and fighting bumper to bumper tourista traffic back into the mountains.

Did you know that hairy knuckles are genetic?

"Really."

Yes, we all compared them in class. Mine are pretty hairy.

I looked at my hands on the steering wheel. "I don't have any hair on mine."

Does my dad have hairy knuckles?

"No." I would have definitely noticed THAT when we were married. Ew.

Well then how did I get them?

This was the moment I was talking about above. Angel on one side Devil on the other. What to do, what to do....

This time the little devil won.

"You can get hairy knuckles from excessive masturbation. Didn't your teacher tell you that?"

Are you SERIOUS????

"Well yeah, everybody knows that. And even worse, it'll make you grow hair on your palms."

NO WAY!!

I glance in the rear-view mirror.

He's scrutinizing the palms of his hands. It's taking everything I have not to bust out laughing.

Mom, are you sure?

"I'm surprised you didn't learn it in your sex-ed class back in high school. You must not have been paying attention that day."

He was pretty quiet the rest of the way home.

Later that night, I mention the conversation to Hubby (who chastised me for letting the little devil win this time), and I solemnly promised to clue the kid in before his next Biology class just in case he felt the need to mention it to his professor.

The next day, the Big Kid was bent over the bathroom sink examining his eyeballs.

Mom?

"What?"

When we went to get my eye exam a couple of months ago, was there a change in my contact prescription?

"No."

Are you sure?

As you can tell, this is a line he uses frequently.

"Yes."

Can I see it?

"What's wrong?"

I dunno. Everything just seems to be a little bit blurrier.

"Maybe it's time to change your 30-day contacts. Let's keep an 'eye' on it, shall we?" I chortled at my own lame humor.

I remarked on the eye thing to Hubby in passing. He turned bright red and looked sheepish.

Rut Row.

"What?" I asked. "What did you do?"

Big Kid had come to him early in the morning to ask him about hairy knuckles.

Did you know you can get hairy knuckles and palms from too much, you know....?

Hubby acknowledged that he was indeed in possession of that little tidbit of information.

"It can also make you go blind", he added.

Oh no.

We're going straight to hell for that one!

Thank goodness the kid has a sense of humor...

Eat My Shorts!

As we're winding up the school year for THD and Little Guy, I've got an incredibly full week ahead. I thought I'd repost one of my favorite oldies. Hope you get as big a giggle out of it as I did. ;-)

What's up with Ohioans in the news lately? Last week it was mummies, now some dingleberry was arrested for making nasty phone calls.

'Hood's phone records show he made 2,623 calls in 20 days, "all basically obscene in nature," Coshocton County deputy Brent McKee said.'

It gets even better. James Hood, from Licking County (ok, I had to get that in there!) made all the calls between 2am and 3am.

That's about 131 nasty calls in an hour.

So...that begs the question.

Given the time allotted, exactly how obscene could these calls have been?

In the spirit of one of my favorite shows, Mythbusters, I decided to test it out myself.

First some calculations.

1). Since Hood allegedly made these calls between 2 and 3am, I tried to figure out what most likely set him off at that particular time. My guess is that it was after closing time at the bar, and he came home three sheets to the wind.

2). 131 calls in 60 minutes equals a little over 2 calls per minute, or about 27 seconds per call.

3). Some people have telephones in their bedrooms. Some don't. So if you calculate the answering time from dead-to-the-world to "hello", it's probably between 2 and 8 rings. Midline is about 5.

Armed with those stats, I set to work.

Obviously, I wasn't going to drink all night and let my fingers do the walking at 2am.

I did, however, have a couple of martoonis and watched the season premiere of The Sopranos. Since hubby wasn't interested in watching the polygamists in Big Love, he departed upstairs to watch some sporty thing on Espn2.

The kid was reading in his room, so I had the place to myself.

When the second hand on the big clock hit 12, I started dialing on my cell phone.

Ring...Ring...Ring...Ring

Hello?

Me (in my best Chester-the-molester voice): "I like to sniff bicycle seats!"

What?

"I like to sniff bicycle seats!"

What the f...?

Click. Buzz. I hung up.

Looked at the clock. Damn. 39 seconds. Too long.

So I dialed again.

Ring...Ring...Ring...

Hello?

"BIG BOOBIES!!" I bellowed.

Wha..? Who is this?

Click. Buzz. The clock read 28 seconds. Right on time.

So I established that I could dial the phone, wait for an answer and get two words out in the time allowed. I had a control.

Now I had to do it again to confirm it, so I made one more phone call.

Ring...Ring...Ring...

Hello?

Rut row. Definitely a hostile voice.

I hissed into the phone, "Sweaty Socks!"

My better half--exasperated--said from the extension upstairs:

Honey, do you want something, or are you trying out that Mythbusters crap again?

Rats! Busted!