Tuesday, June 9, 2009

I am the Frito Bandito.

That's not PC, is it? It was a funny commercial, though. Nice jingle. We seem, as a country, to have become consumed by these gasping vapors of "Oh, that's not nice!"

I, obviously, am one of the consumed. See: Irate post down there about Proposition 8.

Sorry about that. I won't go into it again, I was just... venting. Blowing my top some. I just don't like to think of people being hurt for being who they are. It makes me twitchy. So moving on.

I've been in New York for the past week or so, to put whomever reads this thing's mind at ease: I didn't go and throw myself into traffic in a fit of rage after the whole "Don't be mean to the gays, you mean meanies" post.

My sister lives there. In New York, that is-- the sister that's older, but I have trouble not calling her "My Little Sister." (Wasn't there a doll by that name a while ago?) The one that was there with me through all of the issues with our mother, the one I wound up and wind up mothering a good bit myself. There's another sister, too, an older one. Older by 14 years, or something like that... It's not that we aren't close, we just aren't AS close. Living with The Crazy will bond people together, I guess, and being as The Oldest missed most of that (she was around for Unstable and Rocky, but long gone from the house by the time Oh Shit and Full On Fucked Up hit) she had trouble understanding the extent of it all. So that has a way of driving a rift between people, you know, when one of them is saying how hard a situation is, and the other is saying it can't possibly be so bad because they haven't looked it in the eye.

...I can't tell yet if this is going to be a blog about New York and how it's beautiful but smells like urine, or about my mother and how hard it was to leave my sister. Shit. I'm all discombobulated, here. I stepped off the plane harboring some nasty cold bug that has since burrowed itself into my head and neck and stomach, and the resulting fever on top of this pregnancy thing is making me a little bit insane. Oops. Correction: A little bit MORE insane.

Speaking of the bug I have: I got it from my sister's dickhead fiance. He was hacking all over everything while I was there, saying, "I'm not contagious."

My pasty white ass.

That guy's about 7 feet tall and might be just north of 250 pounds. Do you know how much mucous and general disgusting shit can come out of a person that big? A LOT, that's how much. And when he's pretty much spraying all and sundry everywhere he points his hack hole... Well, how were we supposed to avoid catching it? We weren't. The Older and I both got it, as we were obviously going to. And that makes him just goddamned rude.

Huh. I guess it's going to be about New York, after all. In a fashion, anyway. I think I want to talk about Big Boy and The Older.

See, The Oldest has always had this idea that The Older would marry the first person she seriously dated. I always bucked against that because I thought it was trite and that The Oldest was passing judgement against The Older and the fact that she wasn't much for dating or friends or people or being social at all. So I defended her. Wrongly, as it turns out, because as nice as Big Boy is, he's a manipulative, whining pain in the ass sometimes, and I'm afraid that part of the reason The Older puts up with that is that she's afraid to be alone. I think sometimes that she's afraid she won't find someone else to love her, so she stays with Big Boy and his mother.

Wait. Did I mention they're caring for his bed ridden mother? Oh, fuck, this post could go on for YEARS... Okay, so Big Boy's mother is bed ridden. She's not in bed because she's sick, she's SICK because she's IN BED. She's BEEN in that bed for the last 25 years. (I'm not exaggerating. That bed. The whole time. 25 years. No, wait. She was hospitalized for the entire duration of Big's high school years, during which time he had to fend for himself. So her ass was ridden to a different bed that time.) The reason she's been in that bed for 25 years is that she understood that if she could care for herself, eventually her son would leave her and have his own life, and she would be alone. So she took herself a lie down one day, and just decided not to get up.

No joke, people. This is the extent of the woman's selfishness: She's decided to kill herself (the health problems associated with a near-30-year stretch of bed rest are terrible and will end her life) so that her son cannot leave her.

So you can see that Big might have had some good long years to study the in's and out's of extreme selfishness and manipulation. Case in point:

We went to The Met for The Older's birthday. She loves that place, and she was so excited to show it to me. (Let me stress here, as I have before: My sister is the closest thing in the world to my heart. She is my soul, I would die and kill for her without question. She is the sweetest, most caring, giving person in the world. She is also a touch spineless when it comes to people. This is not a good combination for her sake. Let us carry on.) So we go in, and not 10 minutes into our little adventure, Big picks a fight with The Older.

On her birthday.

In her favorite place in the world.

With me (Who had been on planes and in airports for 13 motherfucking hours to get there to be with her) standing a foot away.

ON HER BIRTHDAY. Did I say that? Because let me also say that our birthdays have always been extra special to us- we make them special for each other. We've always thought that your birthday is the one day a year that people should express their happiness that you're alive, and that is a pretty precious thing that you cling to when you grow up in a home as volatile as ours could be.

Anyway. It was the single most juvenile, selfish, ridiculous load of bullshit I've ever seen in my life, and because of it I can honestly say that I will never look at that man the same way again. Ever. He stormed off. IN THE MET. Stomped off like he was 6 years old!

Excuse me, but if you're a grown ass person, what in the hell are you doing? Just what in the hell are you doing A: picking a fight with someone in public (a very classy, quiet, upscale, famous public, Jesus Christ, amen,) and B: Stomping off? Oh, that's right. You've no business acting that way AT ALL, so scrote up and act like a big boy, there, Big Boy.

I said as much. It was not well received. Now Karma is kicking my ass for being mean and I keep trying to hack up my spleen. Oh, and The Older wound up caving in and basically apologizing to him for his big fat leaking man-gina and the feelings she didn't hurt in the first place. Whatever. All I know is that I no longer think Big is at all good for The Older, and if he ever gives me another reason to punch him in the throat, I'm not going to hesitate. Unless, I suppose, it's in The Met on my sister's birthday.

Because for the love of God, we can all show restraint on occasion.

(The trip was probably entirely lovely. This has just been stewing in my head since it happened over a week ago, and I needed to express it. Also, the cold I have is distracting me from the fact that I don't know but I'm almost sure that I can feel the baby moving, which is kind of pissing me off. The distraction, not the movement, which is awesome and amazing and incredible.)

1 comment:

  1. I think movement starts around four months! By seven or eight months if you sit something on your belly the little nugget can launch it across the room.

    Take care of that cold. Try not to get too pissed off at things.