Since Morgan was released, on parole, from prison. One might argue that it's early days and I ought not to expect overmuch; certainly such would be Sonya's argument if we were prepared to discuss the issue. So far we don't seem prepared.
Nonetheless, on the evidence of two days I have to say not much has changed. I was treated to the dancing hippopatami during my afternoon nap (which I always take after I get home from the office and before dinner). I heard Sonya try to shush her and heard the response 'I didn't know he was home'. Which response was accepted by Sonya. When I arose I was more pointed 'of course you didn't know I was home. To know that would have required looking at a clock or out the front door at my car!'.
I'm advised that when one goes to prison one surrenders ones street clothes and, here at least, dons an orange jump suit. Sonya wasn't really open to my suggestion that we buy a pair and wear em when she returned. *shrug* She was even less responsive to a suggestion that we schedule a night of films, featuring such titles as Women in Chains[^] or Caged[^]. Well, *I* thought it was a good idea!
Now if you think about it, it's pretty obvious that one enters into custody at a place other than the prison itself. It also seem obvious that, once in custody, one must be 'marked' in some way if only to make it easy for the transport guards to know who's who and who isn't. Thus, Morgan, having been sentenced and taken down, had to change out of her street clothes into the orange jump suit aforementioned. I'd have imagined the street clothes would follow her but not a bit of it. To reclaim those she has to go down to the Fourth Avenue gaol.
Thinking this through a bit further and knowing the propensity of the state to hang onto what it owns I asked the next question; if her street clothes are at the Fourth Avenue gaol but she's at Perryville *and* she has to return the orange jump suit what does she wear out of prison? I mean literally, what does she wear as she walks through the gate and back into our world? The answer, it seems, is that if no one arrives with clothes, either nothing or whatever they can scavenge out of a charity bin of clothing.
Since the nothing option would probably lead to swift arrest and return to prison it seems the released felons are very much subject to charity. Interesting catch 22.
Now you understand that this is what I've gleaned from my wife. I'd sooner die than ask Morgan about it. Indeed, on Sunday Sonya was waxing enthusiastic on getting the 'lowdown' on prison life from Morgan. I stared at her aghast. 'Are you insane? The very last thing you should do is lend the faintest odour of glamour to her last month!'
The little princess was to be released sometime between 8 and 10 AM. Sonya, of course, planned to be there at 8. I counselled an arrival no earlier than 10. As I put it, whichever way it goes one of you will have to cool your heels waiting on the other. Why should it be you? I'll let you guess what time Sonya got there.
On a totally unrelated note, today marks my seven year anniversary of living in the USA. As I said to Sonya, 'I've done my time - atoned for that mirror I broke. Can I go home now?'. Permission not granted!
Showing posts with label The bitch from Hell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The bitch from Hell. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Demonstrating ones intelligence.
My wife continues, in the face of all the evidence, to insist that Morgan is highly intelligent. Perhaps she is but she certainly doesn't seem to want to *use* that intelligence. What use being intelligent if you're not prepared to exercise it at least some of the time?
I mentioned in my last post that the little princess is currently in prison. I have to admit that I don't fully grasp the differences between being in gaol (jail) and being in prison here in the US. Nor have I found anyone who could explain the subtleties to me; somehow or other gaol is 'less' than prison. And when I express surprise that someone has been to either place I'm always left with the feeling of being incredibly naive; as though having spent a night in gaol, in particular, is a rite of passage rather than something to be avoided if humanly possible.
Or perhaps that's just me; the idea of being behind bars for even a day is something I'd really rather avoid!
So here we are, in what is the last week (according to the Arizona Department of Corrections website) of peace and quiet. I mentioned in the last post that the inmates contact list has to be vetted before communication is permitted; it seems that at least her two home addresses (ours and her fathers) have been approved, for small pieces of card of the sort once used in library catalogues have arrived, with incredibly small print in pencil!
The first arrived a week or so ago; Sonya drew my attention to it with the forlorn hope that I might care to read it. I didn't.
I gathered, from hints dropped over the next few days, that the pencilled epistles were full of regret for a life gone wrong garnished with many promises to do better upon release.
I've heard it all before, and so has Sonya. Not being the miscreant's father I can wallow in the luxury of disbelief; not so my wife. Oh, I'll be civil enough when she returns; I might even, if I had a good day at the office and a better drive home, greet her with something approaching cordiality. If we shake hands I'll be sure to count my fingers afterward!
Over dinner tonight Sonya related some details of the latest epistle directed toward her father. It seems that smoking is forbidden in prison. Hmm, so much for all those British movies where 'snout' is traded! Ok, I couldn't resist the temptation to use the word 'snout'. So much for all those Hollywood movies where the defiant prisoner rolls a smoke in the exercise yard. Anyway, the princess was suffering nicotine withdrawal until she was advised by fellow inmates that there was a particular place in the yard just out of sight of the guards where one could snatch a smoke!
I can sympathise with this. I am, as you well know, a devout smoker and, apart from long flights over oceans, I don't go more than a sleep without a smoke. Another reason, methinks, to stay out of prison, if you can't smoke inside em!
But what struck me as comical was the naivety with which this information was imparted, on a small piece of stiff card, written in pencil. Does she not think her written communications are vetted?
Intelligence has to be demonstrated!
I mentioned in my last post that the little princess is currently in prison. I have to admit that I don't fully grasp the differences between being in gaol (jail) and being in prison here in the US. Nor have I found anyone who could explain the subtleties to me; somehow or other gaol is 'less' than prison. And when I express surprise that someone has been to either place I'm always left with the feeling of being incredibly naive; as though having spent a night in gaol, in particular, is a rite of passage rather than something to be avoided if humanly possible.
Or perhaps that's just me; the idea of being behind bars for even a day is something I'd really rather avoid!
So here we are, in what is the last week (according to the Arizona Department of Corrections website) of peace and quiet. I mentioned in the last post that the inmates contact list has to be vetted before communication is permitted; it seems that at least her two home addresses (ours and her fathers) have been approved, for small pieces of card of the sort once used in library catalogues have arrived, with incredibly small print in pencil!
The first arrived a week or so ago; Sonya drew my attention to it with the forlorn hope that I might care to read it. I didn't.
I gathered, from hints dropped over the next few days, that the pencilled epistles were full of regret for a life gone wrong garnished with many promises to do better upon release.
I've heard it all before, and so has Sonya. Not being the miscreant's father I can wallow in the luxury of disbelief; not so my wife. Oh, I'll be civil enough when she returns; I might even, if I had a good day at the office and a better drive home, greet her with something approaching cordiality. If we shake hands I'll be sure to count my fingers afterward!
Over dinner tonight Sonya related some details of the latest epistle directed toward her father. It seems that smoking is forbidden in prison. Hmm, so much for all those British movies where 'snout' is traded! Ok, I couldn't resist the temptation to use the word 'snout'. So much for all those Hollywood movies where the defiant prisoner rolls a smoke in the exercise yard. Anyway, the princess was suffering nicotine withdrawal until she was advised by fellow inmates that there was a particular place in the yard just out of sight of the guards where one could snatch a smoke!
I can sympathise with this. I am, as you well know, a devout smoker and, apart from long flights over oceans, I don't go more than a sleep without a smoke. Another reason, methinks, to stay out of prison, if you can't smoke inside em!
But what struck me as comical was the naivety with which this information was imparted, on a small piece of stiff card, written in pencil. Does she not think her written communications are vetted?
Intelligence has to be demonstrated!
Monday, November 09, 2009
Inmate 123456789*
I'd be lying if I denied enjoying the last three weeks. Such a pleasure not having the dancing hippopotami in the room above. Such a pleasure not having to negotiate the lounge room floor with the kind of care one usually reserves for tiptoeing gently across a minefield*!
In short, Morgan is in prison!
It was a long time coming. I'm not going to rehash all the details; I only know some of them. I took my stance on Morgan some years ago and methinks my wife prefers not to fuel the fire by aquainting me with the full depths of depravity. This is probably a wise decision!
Suffice it to say the offences involved the possession and disposal of stolen goods. I think I've mentioned it before but ones suspicions have to be roused when an expensive laptop or palm computer (both) sudddenly appear and are explained away as a gift from a friend who no longer wants them. Must be friends not invited to this house because, based on ocular evidence, those who *are* invited here certainly couldn't afford such luxuries!
The months leading up to incarceration were punctuated with desperate attempts to avoid the legal consequences. The DA offered her a deal and, as far as I can tell, she spent the next month trying to find a lawyer who'd advise her that it was *not* the cheapest way out! Failing that she eventually agreed to the deal and appeared in court for sentencing.
Now I wouldn't mind that if it was being paid on someone elses wages but I have my suspicions. Dangerous subject; Sonya and I have had hot argument over the drain down which I believe my earnings are being poured. I pretend, these days, to believe otherwise but the evidence is against it.
You understand that it has never entered her head to actually get a job to earn the money to pay lawyers fees!
Indeed, I remember asking Sonya a few weeks ago if she believed Morgan was guilty as charged. The answer being in the affirmative I then asked the most futile question in the universe 'if that's so then why are you helping her wriggle out of it?'.
I know I'll never understand this; no one has sprung from my loins! I suppose, being 'in loco parentis' to Morgan, I should be more concerned than I am; certainly I ought not to be having feelings of Schadenfreude, but I do and there's an end of it. She's legally an adult; has theoretically been educated in the responsibilities as well as the freedoms of adulthood. How long does one make excuses?
Alas, all proceeding according to the schedule laid out on the Arizona Department of Corrections website, she's out of prison a week from now. Far too short I fear, not just for my enjoyment of peace. Far too short for her to have learned anything from the experience. I'll admit it here if I'm wrong but methinks she'll have been in just long enough to pick up some new slang and to establish 'street cred'.
I was selfish enough over it all; the news that she was going to accept the plea deal broke a couple of weeks before my most recent visit to Australia. My only comment was that I hoped she wouldn't go to prison until *after* I returned - I wanted the entire month of peace!
In the meantime I've learned a lot about how the prison system works here. I never realised that the incarcaree (is that a word) is incommunicado while their contact list is being vetted. Nor did I know that after release on parole the parolee has to pay the costs of their supervision. (Want to guess who I think is going to be stuck with *that* bill?) Other things were more obvious; the new inmate goes into maximum security while their status is assessed.
*this is a reference to the fact that Morgan does not agree that it is her responsibility to tidy up after her offspring if they are too young or careless to clean up after themselves. I've lost count of the number of times I've kicked toys out of the way, long after their *owner* has departed. And no, I won't pick up after her or her children!
*I know the real inmate number but I made up one for this title. It's always been my policy never to reveal enough information about anyone other than myself that one could follow a trail on the 'net or in the real world.
In short, Morgan is in prison!
It was a long time coming. I'm not going to rehash all the details; I only know some of them. I took my stance on Morgan some years ago and methinks my wife prefers not to fuel the fire by aquainting me with the full depths of depravity. This is probably a wise decision!
Suffice it to say the offences involved the possession and disposal of stolen goods. I think I've mentioned it before but ones suspicions have to be roused when an expensive laptop or palm computer (both) sudddenly appear and are explained away as a gift from a friend who no longer wants them. Must be friends not invited to this house because, based on ocular evidence, those who *are* invited here certainly couldn't afford such luxuries!
The months leading up to incarceration were punctuated with desperate attempts to avoid the legal consequences. The DA offered her a deal and, as far as I can tell, she spent the next month trying to find a lawyer who'd advise her that it was *not* the cheapest way out! Failing that she eventually agreed to the deal and appeared in court for sentencing.
Now I wouldn't mind that if it was being paid on someone elses wages but I have my suspicions. Dangerous subject; Sonya and I have had hot argument over the drain down which I believe my earnings are being poured. I pretend, these days, to believe otherwise but the evidence is against it.
You understand that it has never entered her head to actually get a job to earn the money to pay lawyers fees!
Indeed, I remember asking Sonya a few weeks ago if she believed Morgan was guilty as charged. The answer being in the affirmative I then asked the most futile question in the universe 'if that's so then why are you helping her wriggle out of it?'.
I know I'll never understand this; no one has sprung from my loins! I suppose, being 'in loco parentis' to Morgan, I should be more concerned than I am; certainly I ought not to be having feelings of Schadenfreude, but I do and there's an end of it. She's legally an adult; has theoretically been educated in the responsibilities as well as the freedoms of adulthood. How long does one make excuses?
Alas, all proceeding according to the schedule laid out on the Arizona Department of Corrections website, she's out of prison a week from now. Far too short I fear, not just for my enjoyment of peace. Far too short for her to have learned anything from the experience. I'll admit it here if I'm wrong but methinks she'll have been in just long enough to pick up some new slang and to establish 'street cred'.
I was selfish enough over it all; the news that she was going to accept the plea deal broke a couple of weeks before my most recent visit to Australia. My only comment was that I hoped she wouldn't go to prison until *after* I returned - I wanted the entire month of peace!
In the meantime I've learned a lot about how the prison system works here. I never realised that the incarcaree (is that a word) is incommunicado while their contact list is being vetted. Nor did I know that after release on parole the parolee has to pay the costs of their supervision. (Want to guess who I think is going to be stuck with *that* bill?) Other things were more obvious; the new inmate goes into maximum security while their status is assessed.
*this is a reference to the fact that Morgan does not agree that it is her responsibility to tidy up after her offspring if they are too young or careless to clean up after themselves. I've lost count of the number of times I've kicked toys out of the way, long after their *owner* has departed. And no, I won't pick up after her or her children!
*I know the real inmate number but I made up one for this title. It's always been my policy never to reveal enough information about anyone other than myself that one could follow a trail on the 'net or in the real world.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The outcome
Well, at least for now.
You'll remember that I posted, a week ago, about Morgans troubles and travails.
In the event, I didn't attend the conference with Child Protection Services. I couldn't see a lot of point to attending; nothing I could contribute would be of any value to the process.
She lost custody of her children. That's passed to the father and his family. I doubt it would have passed there if it had been just the father alone though; I suspect his parents had some influence on the outcome. I don't mean unwarranted influence though, merely that they seem to have been supportive.
The loss is, for the nonce, temporary, with the carrot of the return of parental rights contingent upon successfully completing a drug rehabilitation regimen. One might expect, then, that immediate efforts would be expended upon finding such a regimen within her means (or more bloody likely, ours). Perhaps it's early days but so far I've seen or heard of no such efforts.
I imagine I come over as extremely negative about Morgan and let me tell you, if that's the impression you're getting you're absolutely right. I've watched her go to the dogs for six and a half years, ignoring every piece of good advice on the way down, refusing to take any responsibility for herself.
Well, six and a half years is long enough to be given free rein. If, after that length of time and a few nights spent in the cells the message hasn't gotten through then I reckon we're talking a case of wilful deafness to good sense that I just can't be bothered with.
So let her rot!
You'll remember that I posted, a week ago, about Morgans troubles and travails.
In the event, I didn't attend the conference with Child Protection Services. I couldn't see a lot of point to attending; nothing I could contribute would be of any value to the process.
She lost custody of her children. That's passed to the father and his family. I doubt it would have passed there if it had been just the father alone though; I suspect his parents had some influence on the outcome. I don't mean unwarranted influence though, merely that they seem to have been supportive.
The loss is, for the nonce, temporary, with the carrot of the return of parental rights contingent upon successfully completing a drug rehabilitation regimen. One might expect, then, that immediate efforts would be expended upon finding such a regimen within her means (or more bloody likely, ours). Perhaps it's early days but so far I've seen or heard of no such efforts.
I imagine I come over as extremely negative about Morgan and let me tell you, if that's the impression you're getting you're absolutely right. I've watched her go to the dogs for six and a half years, ignoring every piece of good advice on the way down, refusing to take any responsibility for herself.
Well, six and a half years is long enough to be given free rein. If, after that length of time and a few nights spent in the cells the message hasn't gotten through then I reckon we're talking a case of wilful deafness to good sense that I just can't be bothered with.
So let her rot!
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Time for a good whinge
I haven't had a good one in ages!
Morgans second was delivered this week - Thursday morning to be precise. I actually didn't know the second little bastard had entered the world until Friday morning; my wife didn't think I'd be all that fussed to know. And let me tell you, she was correct.
What I did know was that on Wednesday my wife and Morgan had rushed off to the hospital on what turned out to be a false alarm; and that Morgan had been denying possible reality by saying 'it can't be born today'. When the kid's my age I'd posit that a day here or there will make no difference and indeed, to the kid today it probably also makes no difference. But it seems that the extra day *did* make a big difference to Morgan.
Everything had been scheduled to happen on Friday. I have to confess, not being a father, that I was a trifle puzzled at this 'scheduling' thing. Surely, I reasoned, a pregnancy came to a conclusion in its own time? Even if one were able to pinpoint to the second the moment of conception there is *still* some uncertainty, no?
All of which shows how out of touch I am with 'reality' today, for, as almost all of you are thinking, they had scheduled an induced birth. Such a pity for Morgan then, that nature had taken things into her own hands.
For, on the Thursday, the news came that Morgan had failed a drug test. Now you'd reckon that after some run-ins with the police, a few nights spent in gaol and the might of the State of Arizona in the shape of Child Protection Services focussed on her, that she might realise that partaking of her favourite, illegal, recreational drug a few days before giving birth to child number two might not be a good idea.
Hence her panic when nature took its course. Of course, I'm sure she calibrated her indulgence, calculated to a nicety breakdown and excretion rates, allowed for margins of error in the testing process and knew with absolute certainty that on Friday all the evidence would be gone. I'm equally sure that pigs can fly!
Well, the might of the State of Arizona swung into action and on Friday the family interview took place. I wasn't present of course; the first I knew about it was Friday afternoon when I found the family copy of the paperwork sitting on the kitchen table.
All kinds of restrictions; Morgan is not allowed, on pain of imprisonment, to take her children off the premises without an 'approved monitor' accompanying her. Want to guess who the approved monitor is?
As I said to my wife over dinner that evening, it's effectively house arrest for us! Oh sure, I can go out anytime I like. I can even hop on a plane to Australia (and I will, 117 days from now, not that I'm counting). So can my wife, if Morgan is still at the hospital. But she comes back here tomorrow and that's when the house arrest starts, for Morgan cannot be trusted and therefore my wife must be constantly here to monitor the situation.
In the light of that it almost felt churlish to object when I discovered that they are running a background check on me! I understand their logic but it doesn't sit well with the presumption of innocence. Fortunately they'll find me one of the easier investigations; I've been through it before for other purposes and haven't changed address since then. Always assuming an FBI background check is 'good enough'.
There's another family interview taking place this Wednesday and I'm still debating whether to attend. I'm not sure there's anything I could constructively add. I'd be much more likely to make things worse by objecting to the aforementioned presumption of guilt without evidence. Probably best left alone.
I'm sure that attitude is how anti-semitism managed to grow in post Weimar Germany.
Morgans second was delivered this week - Thursday morning to be precise. I actually didn't know the second little bastard had entered the world until Friday morning; my wife didn't think I'd be all that fussed to know. And let me tell you, she was correct.
What I did know was that on Wednesday my wife and Morgan had rushed off to the hospital on what turned out to be a false alarm; and that Morgan had been denying possible reality by saying 'it can't be born today'. When the kid's my age I'd posit that a day here or there will make no difference and indeed, to the kid today it probably also makes no difference. But it seems that the extra day *did* make a big difference to Morgan.
Everything had been scheduled to happen on Friday. I have to confess, not being a father, that I was a trifle puzzled at this 'scheduling' thing. Surely, I reasoned, a pregnancy came to a conclusion in its own time? Even if one were able to pinpoint to the second the moment of conception there is *still* some uncertainty, no?
All of which shows how out of touch I am with 'reality' today, for, as almost all of you are thinking, they had scheduled an induced birth. Such a pity for Morgan then, that nature had taken things into her own hands.
For, on the Thursday, the news came that Morgan had failed a drug test. Now you'd reckon that after some run-ins with the police, a few nights spent in gaol and the might of the State of Arizona in the shape of Child Protection Services focussed on her, that she might realise that partaking of her favourite, illegal, recreational drug a few days before giving birth to child number two might not be a good idea.
Hence her panic when nature took its course. Of course, I'm sure she calibrated her indulgence, calculated to a nicety breakdown and excretion rates, allowed for margins of error in the testing process and knew with absolute certainty that on Friday all the evidence would be gone. I'm equally sure that pigs can fly!
Well, the might of the State of Arizona swung into action and on Friday the family interview took place. I wasn't present of course; the first I knew about it was Friday afternoon when I found the family copy of the paperwork sitting on the kitchen table.
All kinds of restrictions; Morgan is not allowed, on pain of imprisonment, to take her children off the premises without an 'approved monitor' accompanying her. Want to guess who the approved monitor is?
As I said to my wife over dinner that evening, it's effectively house arrest for us! Oh sure, I can go out anytime I like. I can even hop on a plane to Australia (and I will, 117 days from now, not that I'm counting). So can my wife, if Morgan is still at the hospital. But she comes back here tomorrow and that's when the house arrest starts, for Morgan cannot be trusted and therefore my wife must be constantly here to monitor the situation.
In the light of that it almost felt churlish to object when I discovered that they are running a background check on me! I understand their logic but it doesn't sit well with the presumption of innocence. Fortunately they'll find me one of the easier investigations; I've been through it before for other purposes and haven't changed address since then. Always assuming an FBI background check is 'good enough'.
There's another family interview taking place this Wednesday and I'm still debating whether to attend. I'm not sure there's anything I could constructively add. I'd be much more likely to make things worse by objecting to the aforementioned presumption of guilt without evidence. Probably best left alone.
I'm sure that attitude is how anti-semitism managed to grow in post Weimar Germany.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
A small mystery
You'll remember that a few weeks ago I had to attend court as prospective juror. I made fun of the fact that they provide transport[^] to cover the two blocks from the free parking to the courthouse!
Not only do they provide the shuttle bus aforesaid, they also provide a free pass, sent in the mail along with the juror summons, good for a days travel anywhere in the Valley on any Metro Bus or Rail Route. I'm not sure which rail route they're talking about - I certainly haven't seen any trams running on the light rail[^] and there's no suburban rail system.
In addition, they also pay mileage on the assumption that one has driven in; the amount paid is so many cents per mile (I can't remember the number) based on ones zipcode. It's certainly an assumption; the cheque arrived in the mail a few weeks ago without my having to turn in the free bus pass and without my having to do anything to claim the money apart from appearing as summoned.
Methinks they know we don't use the buses. Indeed, I've been here more than five and a half years and haven't been on a bus yet. I don't even know how one pays the fare; is it cash or does one purchase a card somewhere? If paid in cash what is the price? Do they provide change?
The free bus pass has been sitting on the desk above my keyboard and below my monitor ever since receiving it. Today, for some reason, I moved it and found the following inscribed on my desk.
Andrew swears he didn't write it and I'm inclined to believe him; I'm not sure he knows how to spell the word. Somehow I can't see my wife writing it. That leaves one obvious suspect but I think not. If it were Morgan I'd expect the word to be carved into my heart rather than texta'd onto the desk.
So who?
Not only do they provide the shuttle bus aforesaid, they also provide a free pass, sent in the mail along with the juror summons, good for a days travel anywhere in the Valley on any Metro Bus or Rail Route. I'm not sure which rail route they're talking about - I certainly haven't seen any trams running on the light rail[^] and there's no suburban rail system.
In addition, they also pay mileage on the assumption that one has driven in; the amount paid is so many cents per mile (I can't remember the number) based on ones zipcode. It's certainly an assumption; the cheque arrived in the mail a few weeks ago without my having to turn in the free bus pass and without my having to do anything to claim the money apart from appearing as summoned.
Methinks they know we don't use the buses. Indeed, I've been here more than five and a half years and haven't been on a bus yet. I don't even know how one pays the fare; is it cash or does one purchase a card somewhere? If paid in cash what is the price? Do they provide change?
The free bus pass has been sitting on the desk above my keyboard and below my monitor ever since receiving it. Today, for some reason, I moved it and found the following inscribed on my desk.
Andrew swears he didn't write it and I'm inclined to believe him; I'm not sure he knows how to spell the word. Somehow I can't see my wife writing it. That leaves one obvious suspect but I think not. If it were Morgan I'd expect the word to be carved into my heart rather than texta'd onto the desk.
So who?
Sunday, July 06, 2008
She's a good shot
Anyone who points out that my occasional (meaning every weekend) need for an afternoon nap is really a sign of advancing years is welcome to go read another blog! Nonetheless it's true that I do enjoy the odd Saturday afternoon nap. I also enjoy the odd recline between arriving home from the office and dinner.
Such a pity, then, that we still have Morgan here, in the room directly above ours. Now I'll admit that it was a strategic error, borne of insufficient experience with the young lady aforesaid, when, five years ago, I suggested we remove the carpets and lay down hardwood floors. How was I to know, then, that Morgan is capable of making more noise, for less reason, than a fully laden 747 on it's take off run?
Well, maybe I exaggerate, but not by much.
Thus, over the last nine months or so since we were 'blessed' with her return, I find myself sometimes unable to nap. I don't know what she's dropping on the floor but I refer to it as 'someone dropped their testicles again'. More than once I've vaulted up the stairs to shout at her. Such are the vicissitudes of sharing a house with the thoughtless. Every time I make protest she tries the 'butter wouldn't melt in her mouth' pose of innocent surprise. 'I didn't know you were trying to sleep'.
Hmmm. I could go on with the justifications for my position on the matter but methinks you get the drift.
Today Ryan, her infant, was somewhat cranky. I don't mind his noise half as much as I mind Morgans. She interprets that as 'I can't do anything right as far as Rob is concerned' and she may be right. Just the other night Sonya asked me, apropos of a conversation she'd had with her daughter, 'why do you live?'. Without even thinking about it I replied 'I live to thwart Morgan at every turn'. Sonya laughed but I fear there is more than a grain of truth in my reply. The original question was prompted by Morgan musing on the paradox of working for a living. As she apparently expressed it (she never says these things in front of me - I get them secondhand) 'I can live at Dads and be broke, or I can get a job and have my own place and be broke. So why work?'.
Words fail me. I could have wasted my breath retailing all the standard reasons for working and being independent and standing on your own feet and all that. Given that my audience was Sonya it would have been preaching to the converted.
I've digressed somewhat but no matter; Ryan makes noise because he doesn't know any better. He's only 25 months old. Morgan at 245 months should know better.
This afternoon the little princess was trying to get an afternoon nap and Ryan wasn't having any of it. She came downstairs complaining that it was 'impossible' to get any sleep in this house.
I fear that I was less than charitable. Indeed, it struck me as quite the funniest thing I'd heard in ages. Morgan didn't much appreciate my laughing quite as uproariously as I did; she whizzed a cushion at me.
How unfortunate that I'd just made myself a coffee. Uh huh, the entire cup (barely sipped at) went flying, all over my three computers. Fortunately they had the covers on (the geeks among you will understand that) and there was no damage.
I couldn't see her face so I don't know what she expected. I can guess the expectation was of a confrontation, which would probably have been exactly what she wanted. Instead, I picked up the cup and said 'damn, now I have to make another coffee'.
Sometimes you just have to mess with their minds. But damn, she's a good shot. I suppose I ought to be glad there wasn't a knife handy!
Such a pity, then, that we still have Morgan here, in the room directly above ours. Now I'll admit that it was a strategic error, borne of insufficient experience with the young lady aforesaid, when, five years ago, I suggested we remove the carpets and lay down hardwood floors. How was I to know, then, that Morgan is capable of making more noise, for less reason, than a fully laden 747 on it's take off run?
Well, maybe I exaggerate, but not by much.
Thus, over the last nine months or so since we were 'blessed' with her return, I find myself sometimes unable to nap. I don't know what she's dropping on the floor but I refer to it as 'someone dropped their testicles again'. More than once I've vaulted up the stairs to shout at her. Such are the vicissitudes of sharing a house with the thoughtless. Every time I make protest she tries the 'butter wouldn't melt in her mouth' pose of innocent surprise. 'I didn't know you were trying to sleep'.
Hmmm. I could go on with the justifications for my position on the matter but methinks you get the drift.
Today Ryan, her infant, was somewhat cranky. I don't mind his noise half as much as I mind Morgans. She interprets that as 'I can't do anything right as far as Rob is concerned' and she may be right. Just the other night Sonya asked me, apropos of a conversation she'd had with her daughter, 'why do you live?'. Without even thinking about it I replied 'I live to thwart Morgan at every turn'. Sonya laughed but I fear there is more than a grain of truth in my reply. The original question was prompted by Morgan musing on the paradox of working for a living. As she apparently expressed it (she never says these things in front of me - I get them secondhand) 'I can live at Dads and be broke, or I can get a job and have my own place and be broke. So why work?'.
Words fail me. I could have wasted my breath retailing all the standard reasons for working and being independent and standing on your own feet and all that. Given that my audience was Sonya it would have been preaching to the converted.
I've digressed somewhat but no matter; Ryan makes noise because he doesn't know any better. He's only 25 months old. Morgan at 245 months should know better.
This afternoon the little princess was trying to get an afternoon nap and Ryan wasn't having any of it. She came downstairs complaining that it was 'impossible' to get any sleep in this house.
I fear that I was less than charitable. Indeed, it struck me as quite the funniest thing I'd heard in ages. Morgan didn't much appreciate my laughing quite as uproariously as I did; she whizzed a cushion at me.
How unfortunate that I'd just made myself a coffee. Uh huh, the entire cup (barely sipped at) went flying, all over my three computers. Fortunately they had the covers on (the geeks among you will understand that) and there was no damage.
I couldn't see her face so I don't know what she expected. I can guess the expectation was of a confrontation, which would probably have been exactly what she wanted. Instead, I picked up the cup and said 'damn, now I have to make another coffee'.
Sometimes you just have to mess with their minds. But damn, she's a good shot. I suppose I ought to be glad there wasn't a knife handy!
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
The combination lock
In something of a minor miracle Morgan's managed to keep a job for an entire week.
She announced on Saturday that she needed a lock for her locker, that others might not pinch her stuff while she was out on the sales floor. Yep, she's working at a local department store though which department I couldn't say.
Andrew thought a moment and announced that he had a spare combination lock. Sounded reasonable given that his most precious asset at the moment is protected by his World of Warcraft password! So up the stairs he went and down came a padlock of the sort that has four little wheels, each numbered 0 to 9.
Of course he'd forgotten the combination! So Morgan played with it for 30 seconds or so and gave up. There are, after all, only 10,000 possible combinations. She handed it to Mom and she, Mom, handed it straight on to me. Uh huh, that'd be right.
I immediately turned the wheels to 0000 and 'click' it was open! Amazed looks! 'How did you do that?' they chorused.
'Well', I replied, 'it was easy.' Dad (their dad not mine) bought it and gave it to Andrew. And they're both so lazy they wouldn't have read the instructions on how to set the combination. Therefore it had to be still set at the factory default!
Perhaps I ought to have played the role of Houdini rather than that of Sherlock Holmes; now they know how it was done they're not half as impressed. But I bet you are!
She announced on Saturday that she needed a lock for her locker, that others might not pinch her stuff while she was out on the sales floor. Yep, she's working at a local department store though which department I couldn't say.
Andrew thought a moment and announced that he had a spare combination lock. Sounded reasonable given that his most precious asset at the moment is protected by his World of Warcraft password! So up the stairs he went and down came a padlock of the sort that has four little wheels, each numbered 0 to 9.
Of course he'd forgotten the combination! So Morgan played with it for 30 seconds or so and gave up. There are, after all, only 10,000 possible combinations. She handed it to Mom and she, Mom, handed it straight on to me. Uh huh, that'd be right.
I immediately turned the wheels to 0000 and 'click' it was open! Amazed looks! 'How did you do that?' they chorused.
'Well', I replied, 'it was easy.' Dad (their dad not mine) bought it and gave it to Andrew. And they're both so lazy they wouldn't have read the instructions on how to set the combination. Therefore it had to be still set at the factory default!
Perhaps I ought to have played the role of Houdini rather than that of Sherlock Holmes; now they know how it was done they're not half as impressed. But I bet you are!
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
When the lazy meets the implacable
I've hinted a few times that Morgan is living with us again. Sadly, it's true. She's been back here 6 months today. I suppose I should be glad she waited until Heino had gone back to Australia. Had I known, I'd have gone on bended knees and begged him to stay.
Of course, Mom solemnly assured me that she was 'only going to stay for a week' while she made other arrangements. And, of course, I solemnly pretended to believe.
At the time of her pregnancy, a couple of years ago, it was decided (I wasn't consulted) to move her to another school to finish her high schooling. She didn't do her homework and I was given to understand that she scraped through by the skin of her teeth, having delivered her final assignment within half an hour of the third and final deadline.
She went into the workforce for a few days but found the kinds of jobs for which her education qualified her not quite to taste. It is apparently beneath her dignity to stand behind the counter at Blockbuster. I can't say she's had a lot of jobs.
As a parenthetical note, I applied for a job at Hollywood Video a few years ago; at least I can talk intelligently about movies though I fear most customers wouldn't be particularly interested in a dissertation about the merits of Edmond O'Brien[^] as an actor!
I don't have a lot of sympathy with Morgan. Did you really need me making that clear?
Half a year after moving back here Morgan has played the role of the earnest student to the extent of getting ten grand from the state to cover her living expenses. She's even, once, and with much fanfare, bestowed a hundred bucks on us. Once. Where the rest went I cannot say though I have my suspicions. As for her success as a student? Let's just say that, having been advised by her tutor that she's unlikely to pass, she's chucked school up. One might have expected a concerted effort in the two months of the academic year remaining; expected it if one did not know Morgan! Especially since she has to return the money!
So now we have a 20 year old with no job and no qualifications to speak of on our hands.
Now it's quite likely that my previous history with Morgan coloured later events. Likely? Bloody inevitable! I don't really mind if she's occupying the room above ours if she could only bring herself to be inobtrusive. Minor things like, perhaps, cleaning her plate after eating. Or even moving the damn plate from the table to the sink. Not hosting the dance of the hippotami at midnight when we're trying to sleep. Or how about cleaning up her kids toys if he's too young to do it himself? But no, not a bit of it. Nope, she eats half a meal and leaves the plate there on the table. I've been there before[^] but the previous time it was with a wife and one sometimes has to give in. This time around I feel no need to give in, particularly when she seems to have time on her hands.
As for the toys, I've gotten into the habit of kicking them out of the way, so long as Ryan isn't actually playing with them or nearby. What care I if Morgan feels outrage? If she's that outraged then she can damn well tidy up after her offspring!
Sonya, mother of the monster, is in a bind. At one level she knows Morgan is a lazy bitch, on another level she's her daughter. Thus, I've gotten into the habit, having observed in the morning as I leave for work that last nights plate is still on the table and observed when I get home in the evening that it's gone (I promise this sentence will soon end), of saying 'look me in the eye and tell me Morgan cleaned up the plate'.
Sometimes she *can* look me in the eye!
Meanwhile, I reckon my wife has done her stretch and she shouldn't have to be cleaning up after a 20 year old. As for me? Damned if I will!
Of course, Mom solemnly assured me that she was 'only going to stay for a week' while she made other arrangements. And, of course, I solemnly pretended to believe.
At the time of her pregnancy, a couple of years ago, it was decided (I wasn't consulted) to move her to another school to finish her high schooling. She didn't do her homework and I was given to understand that she scraped through by the skin of her teeth, having delivered her final assignment within half an hour of the third and final deadline.
She went into the workforce for a few days but found the kinds of jobs for which her education qualified her not quite to taste. It is apparently beneath her dignity to stand behind the counter at Blockbuster. I can't say she's had a lot of jobs.
As a parenthetical note, I applied for a job at Hollywood Video a few years ago; at least I can talk intelligently about movies though I fear most customers wouldn't be particularly interested in a dissertation about the merits of Edmond O'Brien[^] as an actor!
I don't have a lot of sympathy with Morgan. Did you really need me making that clear?
Half a year after moving back here Morgan has played the role of the earnest student to the extent of getting ten grand from the state to cover her living expenses. She's even, once, and with much fanfare, bestowed a hundred bucks on us. Once. Where the rest went I cannot say though I have my suspicions. As for her success as a student? Let's just say that, having been advised by her tutor that she's unlikely to pass, she's chucked school up. One might have expected a concerted effort in the two months of the academic year remaining; expected it if one did not know Morgan! Especially since she has to return the money!
So now we have a 20 year old with no job and no qualifications to speak of on our hands.
Now it's quite likely that my previous history with Morgan coloured later events. Likely? Bloody inevitable! I don't really mind if she's occupying the room above ours if she could only bring herself to be inobtrusive. Minor things like, perhaps, cleaning her plate after eating. Or even moving the damn plate from the table to the sink. Not hosting the dance of the hippotami at midnight when we're trying to sleep. Or how about cleaning up her kids toys if he's too young to do it himself? But no, not a bit of it. Nope, she eats half a meal and leaves the plate there on the table. I've been there before[^] but the previous time it was with a wife and one sometimes has to give in. This time around I feel no need to give in, particularly when she seems to have time on her hands.
As for the toys, I've gotten into the habit of kicking them out of the way, so long as Ryan isn't actually playing with them or nearby. What care I if Morgan feels outrage? If she's that outraged then she can damn well tidy up after her offspring!
Sonya, mother of the monster, is in a bind. At one level she knows Morgan is a lazy bitch, on another level she's her daughter. Thus, I've gotten into the habit, having observed in the morning as I leave for work that last nights plate is still on the table and observed when I get home in the evening that it's gone (I promise this sentence will soon end), of saying 'look me in the eye and tell me Morgan cleaned up the plate'.
Sometimes she *can* look me in the eye!
Meanwhile, I reckon my wife has done her stretch and she shouldn't have to be cleaning up after a 20 year old. As for me? Damned if I will!
Monday, March 03, 2008
How does Google work, again???
Morgan knows I blog. I'm not sure she knows why (nor for that matter am I sure either) but she does know that she gets the occasional mention. Naturally she's consumed with curiousity to know just what I've written about her but I have to admit I'm not in any hurry for her to read it. She does know that her special category is 'The bitch from hell'. I fear she's rather proud of that!
Thus, whenever she asks (which isn't all that often), I tell her to Google! Strangely enough she hasn't managed to find it yet. I wouldn't have thought it all that difficult a search. I just Googled myself and at the time of writing the first seven matches on my name are to things I've written. Number eight is an impostor. He must be. I couldn't afford to be a member of the Rolls Royce club, let alone be a member of the board!
Even Andrew chuckles that she can't find my blog and I think we all know by now just how resourceful he is!
Thus, whenever she asks (which isn't all that often), I tell her to Google! Strangely enough she hasn't managed to find it yet. I wouldn't have thought it all that difficult a search. I just Googled myself and at the time of writing the first seven matches on my name are to things I've written. Number eight is an impostor. He must be. I couldn't afford to be a member of the Rolls Royce club, let alone be a member of the board!
Even Andrew chuckles that she can't find my blog and I think we all know by now just how resourceful he is!
Sunday, February 03, 2008
The Actress
I've mentioned once or twice that Andrew has become a big fan of World of Warcraft. I may even have hinted that it's become quite an obsession with him; to the extent that he's all but stopped watching TV and neglects his homework. Well, I can't blame the latter on WoW; lazy bastard would neglect homework on principle!
One of his Christmas gifts was an Xbox 360 from his father. Dad gets off lightly; he buys the box itself, basks in the moment of gratitude and it's over for him. We get the pleasure of forking out the monthly subscription fees to say nothing of having to purchase, the day after Christmas, another network switch and network cable, plus drilling holes in the wall to run the cable. Let's not go there with wireless; I find the technology irritating and unreliable.
And of course, having sprung for the extra networking hardware (we haven't subscribed to the online services), Andrew ignores his Xbox; he wants to play WoW. Bloody kids!
Well, one side benefit of having an unused Xbox in the house was that I belatedly remembered it can act as a Media Centre Extender. Ten minutes following easy instructions and 20 bucks for yet another remote control and Sonya was able to watch American Idol up in Andrews room from our HTPC while I continue to watch old movies on our 57 inch widescreen TV.
Gotta love technology. Indeed, I can't imagine ever going back to the old way we used to watch movies on TV; staying up to 2 AM to catch it live.
Somehow Andrew seemed uneasy with the idea of his mother sitting up there in his room watching American Idol. I feel uneasy about it too but for entirely different reasons; I can't stand American Idol (or Australian Idol or Philippine Idol for that matter. I suspect I'd hate Russian Idol just as much). Did you need me saying that to know it?
In Andrews case the excuse put forward was that his room wasn't in a fit state. My comment, that it ought always to be in a fit state, fell on deaf ears. Even when I invoked Her Majesty and remembered I was in the wrong country and quickly changed to invoking The President he seemed unimpressed. I have to admit, it does seem unlikely that either personage will visit but it never hurts to be prepared.
Thus to the other night, when Andrew suddenly discovered that he has an Xbox at about the same time that Mom intimated a desire to watch this weeks installments of American Idol. Just between us, I reckon it was sheer bloody mindedness; Mom wanted to watch his TV so he decided to use the Xbox himself merely to thwart her. But Mom is a martyr to her offspring and she meekly accepted the situation. Me? I'd have ridden roughshod over his objections, reminded him of a year or more of obsessive WoW and told him he could damn well wait. But that's me.
The following evening, when I got home from the office, he was back at the computer playing WoW. Case closed methinks!
At dinner I told him I'd heard his computer the previous night whimpering. 'Andrew, where are you? Why have you forsaken me?' and so on. Morgan (yeah, she's back living here) piped up with the best fake credulity I've ever seen. 'Really???'.
She couldn't be that stupid, could she??
One of his Christmas gifts was an Xbox 360 from his father. Dad gets off lightly; he buys the box itself, basks in the moment of gratitude and it's over for him. We get the pleasure of forking out the monthly subscription fees to say nothing of having to purchase, the day after Christmas, another network switch and network cable, plus drilling holes in the wall to run the cable. Let's not go there with wireless; I find the technology irritating and unreliable.
And of course, having sprung for the extra networking hardware (we haven't subscribed to the online services), Andrew ignores his Xbox; he wants to play WoW. Bloody kids!
Well, one side benefit of having an unused Xbox in the house was that I belatedly remembered it can act as a Media Centre Extender. Ten minutes following easy instructions and 20 bucks for yet another remote control and Sonya was able to watch American Idol up in Andrews room from our HTPC while I continue to watch old movies on our 57 inch widescreen TV.
Gotta love technology. Indeed, I can't imagine ever going back to the old way we used to watch movies on TV; staying up to 2 AM to catch it live.
Somehow Andrew seemed uneasy with the idea of his mother sitting up there in his room watching American Idol. I feel uneasy about it too but for entirely different reasons; I can't stand American Idol (or Australian Idol or Philippine Idol for that matter. I suspect I'd hate Russian Idol just as much). Did you need me saying that to know it?
In Andrews case the excuse put forward was that his room wasn't in a fit state. My comment, that it ought always to be in a fit state, fell on deaf ears. Even when I invoked Her Majesty and remembered I was in the wrong country and quickly changed to invoking The President he seemed unimpressed. I have to admit, it does seem unlikely that either personage will visit but it never hurts to be prepared.
Thus to the other night, when Andrew suddenly discovered that he has an Xbox at about the same time that Mom intimated a desire to watch this weeks installments of American Idol. Just between us, I reckon it was sheer bloody mindedness; Mom wanted to watch his TV so he decided to use the Xbox himself merely to thwart her. But Mom is a martyr to her offspring and she meekly accepted the situation. Me? I'd have ridden roughshod over his objections, reminded him of a year or more of obsessive WoW and told him he could damn well wait. But that's me.
The following evening, when I got home from the office, he was back at the computer playing WoW. Case closed methinks!
At dinner I told him I'd heard his computer the previous night whimpering. 'Andrew, where are you? Why have you forsaken me?' and so on. Morgan (yeah, she's back living here) piped up with the best fake credulity I've ever seen. 'Really???'.
She couldn't be that stupid, could she??
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
It's a hard life
A few weeks ago, when I got home from the office, my wife mentioned that Morgan was feeling 'bummed out'. In the place and at the time I was a kid that exact phrase had certain overtones I felt were inapplicable so I requested enlightenment as to what feeling 'bummed out' meant.
It seems the little princess had spent three and a half hours that day at some social welfare agency filing paperwork and being interviewed for benefits available to the unwed mother.
In return for her time the state will give her approx $150 a month in cash, approx $250 a month in food stamps and pays the entire cost of health insurance for her infant.
In the scheme of things this isn't an enormous amount of financial assistance. I'd be guessing at the cost of health insurance given that I let Sonya worry about those details. That's pure laziness on my side of course but I do hide behind the flimsy excuse of being a newcomer to this society and of course 'we do things differently in Australia'. But at a rough guess we're talking maybe $7000 a year which is hardly a living income.
As I say, not an enormous amount, but I couldn't help feeling bemused at the thought of the little princess being 'bummed out'. As I put it to Sonya, 'Strewth, I'd put in three and a half hours work for seven grand.' On the other hand, I haven't spent my entire life imagining the world owed me a living.
*shrug*
It seems the little princess had spent three and a half hours that day at some social welfare agency filing paperwork and being interviewed for benefits available to the unwed mother.
In return for her time the state will give her approx $150 a month in cash, approx $250 a month in food stamps and pays the entire cost of health insurance for her infant.
In the scheme of things this isn't an enormous amount of financial assistance. I'd be guessing at the cost of health insurance given that I let Sonya worry about those details. That's pure laziness on my side of course but I do hide behind the flimsy excuse of being a newcomer to this society and of course 'we do things differently in Australia'. But at a rough guess we're talking maybe $7000 a year which is hardly a living income.
As I say, not an enormous amount, but I couldn't help feeling bemused at the thought of the little princess being 'bummed out'. As I put it to Sonya, 'Strewth, I'd put in three and a half hours work for seven grand.' On the other hand, I haven't spent my entire life imagining the world owed me a living.
*shrug*
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Enough is enough
and I'm sure you're as tired of the subject of Morgan as I am.
Reading over what I've written on the subject over the last couple of days I conclude that it's becoming an unhealthy obsession. If I must have unhealthy obsessions so be it but methinks it's probably better for all of us if they involve obscure early 20th century composers and the number of stars[^] on the US flag.
So if I start writing about Morgan at that level of vituperation again someone please come and kick my arse! We all have better things to do with our time!
Reading over what I've written on the subject over the last couple of days I conclude that it's becoming an unhealthy obsession. If I must have unhealthy obsessions so be it but methinks it's probably better for all of us if they involve obscure early 20th century composers and the number of stars[^] on the US flag.
So if I start writing about Morgan at that level of vituperation again someone please come and kick my arse! We all have better things to do with our time!
Monday, August 21, 2006
$1800 bail
They caught the bastard[^] last night!
The bastard is of course the man who may or may not be Ryans father. TBFH (Morgan) has no idea if he is or not though a non legally binding DNA test was run a month or so ago that indicates he probably is. How curious that neither side wanted to do a legally binding test!
My sympathies to Ryan. Of course, my sympathies with Ryan extend to the identity of his mother. I reckon I'd cry if Morgan was my mother too!
Anyway, last night (Saturday night), a motorcycle was stolen by the bastard. Through whatever magic the Phoenix Police effected an arrest and he found himself in gaol.
It's at about this point that you'll start to understand just how ill-equipped I am to cope with TBFH. You see, I reckon that if I was involved, romantically or not, with a woman who was a known drug dealer and small time fence and who had just stolen a motorcycle I'd think it was time to cut my losses and walk away. I'm just not mentally prepared for life in prison and being Bubbas bitch.
But it seems I'm out of tune; when Morgan found out early this afternoon it was all tears and flapdoodle[^] and nothing would do but she had to have the car. She lied of course; the car was needed so she could go buy some textbooks for the post-high school course she'll never complete and Mom bought the story hook line and sinker. Ryan was left with us.
Half an hour passes during which Mom preens herself, secure in the knowledge (remember we didn't know he'd been arrested) that the little princess is 'doing the right thing!'.
Then the phone rang. 'Mom, I have no idea where I am'. A little questioning and it seems she was trying to find the gaol on (I'm a little vague here because I really don't know the exact address of the gaol) Jefferson. Mom lets this go. I, hearing the word Jail (and spelling it in my head and here as gaol) don't let it go. 'She's looking for what????'. It's about this time that the sordid story of a stolen motorcycle comes out...
A little later the phone rings again. This time TBFH is down at I10 and Elliot. This is maybe 5 miles from the gaol on the other side from here (and damn close to the office I work in). I drive through there everyday. So she's lost. She's lived here three times longer than I have but she's lost? So Mom tells her to get onto I10 West and take the I17 North exit. Go to loop 101 East and she'll be back here. Uh huh.
The phone rings *again*. This time she's at the junction of I10 and loop 101 which is about as far to the west as you can get and still be on that part of the world map that is dotted as Phoenix. Oh and she ran out of petrol. And she's locked the car but the keys are inside!!!
It was at about this time that I exploded. Mom is no longer in any doubt whatsoever about how I feel about TBFH. Not that she was before!
What happened in the next hour is something I can't accurately relate; something about the bastards mother picking up a spare set of keys from here though I certainly didn't see her, so she could drive to the other side of the valley and release the car.
Then followed another hour or two punctuated by phone calls as TBFH got more and more lost in a city that is laid out on a grid and has freeways that are logically laid out. Somehow or other she found herself back at I10 and Elliot.
It was about this time that Sonya tried to hand the phone to me since I know the route from there back to here much better than Sonya does. I wouldn't touch that phone for less than a million dollars! I relayed the directions; I10 West to the SR143, go to MacDowell, left to 44th street and follow it north. Eventually you'll hit Tatum and get back here!
So eventually TBFH got back to here. I'd have been much happier if she'd got back to 2 miles east of here; where Dad lives but I'm stuck with Mom's insane belief that TBFH can be saved by praising the rare moments when she shows commonsense.
Thus to dinner. I did the underpants on the head thing given that it's Sunday. Dinner over it was sanity time; I stuck my headphones on, selected a symphony (Bruckners 2nd) and went for my nightly walk.
Returned just in time to find Sonya preparing to drive TBFH and Ryan to the courthouse! TBFH just *had* to be there when the bastard was arraigned! He was granted bail in the amount of $1800.
The last I heard the bastards mother was rallying for the bail money. I made it very clear that we will not donate one cent!
The bastard is of course the man who may or may not be Ryans father. TBFH (Morgan) has no idea if he is or not though a non legally binding DNA test was run a month or so ago that indicates he probably is. How curious that neither side wanted to do a legally binding test!
My sympathies to Ryan. Of course, my sympathies with Ryan extend to the identity of his mother. I reckon I'd cry if Morgan was my mother too!
Anyway, last night (Saturday night), a motorcycle was stolen by the bastard. Through whatever magic the Phoenix Police effected an arrest and he found himself in gaol.
It's at about this point that you'll start to understand just how ill-equipped I am to cope with TBFH. You see, I reckon that if I was involved, romantically or not, with a woman who was a known drug dealer and small time fence and who had just stolen a motorcycle I'd think it was time to cut my losses and walk away. I'm just not mentally prepared for life in prison and being Bubbas bitch.
But it seems I'm out of tune; when Morgan found out early this afternoon it was all tears and flapdoodle[^] and nothing would do but she had to have the car. She lied of course; the car was needed so she could go buy some textbooks for the post-high school course she'll never complete and Mom bought the story hook line and sinker. Ryan was left with us.
Half an hour passes during which Mom preens herself, secure in the knowledge (remember we didn't know he'd been arrested) that the little princess is 'doing the right thing!'.
Then the phone rang. 'Mom, I have no idea where I am'. A little questioning and it seems she was trying to find the gaol on (I'm a little vague here because I really don't know the exact address of the gaol) Jefferson. Mom lets this go. I, hearing the word Jail (and spelling it in my head and here as gaol) don't let it go. 'She's looking for what????'. It's about this time that the sordid story of a stolen motorcycle comes out...
A little later the phone rings again. This time TBFH is down at I10 and Elliot. This is maybe 5 miles from the gaol on the other side from here (and damn close to the office I work in). I drive through there everyday. So she's lost. She's lived here three times longer than I have but she's lost? So Mom tells her to get onto I10 West and take the I17 North exit. Go to loop 101 East and she'll be back here. Uh huh.
The phone rings *again*. This time she's at the junction of I10 and loop 101 which is about as far to the west as you can get and still be on that part of the world map that is dotted as Phoenix. Oh and she ran out of petrol. And she's locked the car but the keys are inside!!!
It was at about this time that I exploded. Mom is no longer in any doubt whatsoever about how I feel about TBFH. Not that she was before!
What happened in the next hour is something I can't accurately relate; something about the bastards mother picking up a spare set of keys from here though I certainly didn't see her, so she could drive to the other side of the valley and release the car.
Then followed another hour or two punctuated by phone calls as TBFH got more and more lost in a city that is laid out on a grid and has freeways that are logically laid out. Somehow or other she found herself back at I10 and Elliot.
It was about this time that Sonya tried to hand the phone to me since I know the route from there back to here much better than Sonya does. I wouldn't touch that phone for less than a million dollars! I relayed the directions; I10 West to the SR143, go to MacDowell, left to 44th street and follow it north. Eventually you'll hit Tatum and get back here!
So eventually TBFH got back to here. I'd have been much happier if she'd got back to 2 miles east of here; where Dad lives but I'm stuck with Mom's insane belief that TBFH can be saved by praising the rare moments when she shows commonsense.
Thus to dinner. I did the underpants on the head thing given that it's Sunday. Dinner over it was sanity time; I stuck my headphones on, selected a symphony (Bruckners 2nd) and went for my nightly walk.
Returned just in time to find Sonya preparing to drive TBFH and Ryan to the courthouse! TBFH just *had* to be there when the bastard was arraigned! He was granted bail in the amount of $1800.
The last I heard the bastards mother was rallying for the bail money. I made it very clear that we will not donate one cent!
Sunday, August 20, 2006
A truer word was never spoken
Tonight we had the 'pleasure' of a visit from TBFH (The bitch from Hell aka Morgan, my 18 year old step-daughter).
You'll remember that a month ago[^] I was beside myself with joy at the thought of her moving out however short the pleasure might have been. The pleasure has been prolonged almost beyond belief.
I have no idea how Dad, who has, to date, ducked his responsibilities completely, has been coping nor do I much care. As long as TBFH is not living here I'm happy!
You understand that a month ago she didn't move out to live with Dad; she moved out to live with some friends who found her somewhat less attractive in the reality of 24 hours a day than she'd been up to then. In short, she was evicted, baby and all. Disbelief! How could the centre of the universe be evicted??? Thus has reality hit the 'little princess'.
Some pointed words by yours truly convinced her to try Dad before returning, tail between her legs.
Cruel? Probably. Careless? Probably. But she aint the progeny of my loins and I owe her the loyalty I'd owe a stranger. Most strangers would come higher on my list.
I'd think it's pretty clear I don't like her. She returns the sentiment.
So tonight she was at dinner. It took a bit of convincing to get Sonya to agree that if TBFH wanted to eat at our expense she should have the decency to sit at the dinner table. In short, I'm not going to put up with her dropping in at her convenience, take food and run. She wants support from us she pays the price and the price is that she treats us like family.
It costs me too! I have to sit at the same table as the spawn of the devil. Believe me, it's not easy listening to someone who acts as though her shit doesn't stink on a hot summer day and keep my mouth shut! But I love my wife and if that's what it takes to keep them both happy I'll bite my tongue and not tell the little princess what I really think of her!
So there we were tonight showing the barest vestiges of being a family. Andrew, Sonya and I do very well at being a family. Add in Shelby and her new husband Matt and we've got the makings of a very happy family group indeed. Throw in TBFH and you can hear everyone's teeth grinding with a sound reminiscent of chalk on a blackboard!
Andrew was talking about his first week at high school; complaining about having to learn spanish. TBFH rattled off a few phrases in that language; I reckon I understood maybe half of them. Which was maybe twice as much as Andrew understood. He excused himself by pointing out that it was Saturday and he'd 'learned nothing' today.
That'd be right!
You'll remember that a month ago[^] I was beside myself with joy at the thought of her moving out however short the pleasure might have been. The pleasure has been prolonged almost beyond belief.
I have no idea how Dad, who has, to date, ducked his responsibilities completely, has been coping nor do I much care. As long as TBFH is not living here I'm happy!
You understand that a month ago she didn't move out to live with Dad; she moved out to live with some friends who found her somewhat less attractive in the reality of 24 hours a day than she'd been up to then. In short, she was evicted, baby and all. Disbelief! How could the centre of the universe be evicted??? Thus has reality hit the 'little princess'.
Some pointed words by yours truly convinced her to try Dad before returning, tail between her legs.
Cruel? Probably. Careless? Probably. But she aint the progeny of my loins and I owe her the loyalty I'd owe a stranger. Most strangers would come higher on my list.
I'd think it's pretty clear I don't like her. She returns the sentiment.
So tonight she was at dinner. It took a bit of convincing to get Sonya to agree that if TBFH wanted to eat at our expense she should have the decency to sit at the dinner table. In short, I'm not going to put up with her dropping in at her convenience, take food and run. She wants support from us she pays the price and the price is that she treats us like family.
It costs me too! I have to sit at the same table as the spawn of the devil. Believe me, it's not easy listening to someone who acts as though her shit doesn't stink on a hot summer day and keep my mouth shut! But I love my wife and if that's what it takes to keep them both happy I'll bite my tongue and not tell the little princess what I really think of her!
So there we were tonight showing the barest vestiges of being a family. Andrew, Sonya and I do very well at being a family. Add in Shelby and her new husband Matt and we've got the makings of a very happy family group indeed. Throw in TBFH and you can hear everyone's teeth grinding with a sound reminiscent of chalk on a blackboard!
Andrew was talking about his first week at high school; complaining about having to learn spanish. TBFH rattled off a few phrases in that language; I reckon I understood maybe half of them. Which was maybe twice as much as Andrew understood. He excused himself by pointing out that it was Saturday and he'd 'learned nothing' today.
That'd be right!
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
I still have the power
to shock Morgan. Despite her veneer of 'sophistication' she's still really a very naive 18 year old.
We're having a holiday from each other this week. She moved out tonight to go share a flat with some friends. It's only for a week though; she's moving back in on Wednesday of next week.
It just so happens that Wednesday next week is when Sonya, Andrew and I jet off to Chicago for 11 days of swanning around the mid-west, starting at Chicago aforesaid, taking in Cleveland (no prizes for guessing why Cleveland) and thence to Niagara Falls and Toronto. We return to Chicago in time for another family wedding and then fly back to Phoenix.
So in total we're having about 18 days of not having to sleep under the same roof. Who knows? I might even miss her!
I got home during the climax of the packing; my wifes Kia Sportage was a couple of inches closer to the ground as the suspension bowed to the superior force of gravity. It was quite the surprise to walk into the kitchen and see that the sink was still there!
Seriously, I've never seen anyone pack so much for a weeks sojourn to an address about 2 miles away! Indeed, three years ago when we were about to embark on our east coast tour[^] and I observed that Morgan had three (count em, 3) suitcases, I decided that we needed a new rule. You pack it, you carry it! After some sotto voce swearing she whittled it down to two suitcases. I manage on one small suitcase. So does my wife!
Sportage packed she was ready to depart on her grand adventure but she couldn't leave it at that. Nope, she came down to announce that she was out of my hair for an entire week, with a flourish that told me she expected me to go down on bended knees and thank god!
Despite what I've written in the past about Morgan I'm not about to go twist the knife but, on the other hand, she did need some encouragement.
So I said 'Ah, so that means me and Mom can have sex again? You have no idea what a contraceptive effect you and Ryan (her son) being around can have!'.
Poor girl didn't know what to say!
We're having a holiday from each other this week. She moved out tonight to go share a flat with some friends. It's only for a week though; she's moving back in on Wednesday of next week.
It just so happens that Wednesday next week is when Sonya, Andrew and I jet off to Chicago for 11 days of swanning around the mid-west, starting at Chicago aforesaid, taking in Cleveland (no prizes for guessing why Cleveland) and thence to Niagara Falls and Toronto. We return to Chicago in time for another family wedding and then fly back to Phoenix.
So in total we're having about 18 days of not having to sleep under the same roof. Who knows? I might even miss her!
I got home during the climax of the packing; my wifes Kia Sportage was a couple of inches closer to the ground as the suspension bowed to the superior force of gravity. It was quite the surprise to walk into the kitchen and see that the sink was still there!
Seriously, I've never seen anyone pack so much for a weeks sojourn to an address about 2 miles away! Indeed, three years ago when we were about to embark on our east coast tour[^] and I observed that Morgan had three (count em, 3) suitcases, I decided that we needed a new rule. You pack it, you carry it! After some sotto voce swearing she whittled it down to two suitcases. I manage on one small suitcase. So does my wife!
Sportage packed she was ready to depart on her grand adventure but she couldn't leave it at that. Nope, she came down to announce that she was out of my hair for an entire week, with a flourish that told me she expected me to go down on bended knees and thank god!
Despite what I've written in the past about Morgan I'm not about to go twist the knife but, on the other hand, she did need some encouragement.
So I said 'Ah, so that means me and Mom can have sex again? You have no idea what a contraceptive effect you and Ryan (her son) being around can have!'.
Poor girl didn't know what to say!
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Everytime
I think I've seen it all and there is nothing new to be seen the world just comes along and smacks me down for arrogance! :-)
As well it should. The hubris of imagining that I've seen even a billion trillionth of it all!
Nonetheless it came as quite a shock the other day to learn that the cradle in which Ryan, Morgan's son, rocks, is battery operated!
Say what???
Well at least I now know why she's buying quite so many C cells; and there I was with a rather more sinister explanation.
I'm beginning to believe I'm not as modern and up to date as I'd imagined. First the digital music thang and now this? I expect any day now to find myself investing in a buggy whip manufacturer!
As well it should. The hubris of imagining that I've seen even a billion trillionth of it all!
Nonetheless it came as quite a shock the other day to learn that the cradle in which Ryan, Morgan's son, rocks, is battery operated!
Say what???
Well at least I now know why she's buying quite so many C cells; and there I was with a rather more sinister explanation.
I'm beginning to believe I'm not as modern and up to date as I'd imagined. First the digital music thang and now this? I expect any day now to find myself investing in a buggy whip manufacturer!
Monday, June 19, 2006
Schadenfreude
Yeah yeah, I know. I shouldn't but I'm only human.
When the shriek came tonight from upstairs that the newborn infant, all of three weeks old, had pissed when he shouldn't (by Morgans reckoning) have, was it wrong of me to think of roosters coming home to roost?
I think not!
When the shriek came tonight from upstairs that the newborn infant, all of three weeks old, had pissed when he shouldn't (by Morgans reckoning) have, was it wrong of me to think of roosters coming home to roost?
I think not!
Friday, June 02, 2006
It happened today
the birth that is.
Yes, Morgan delivered today, a boy, Ryan. Mother and son doing well I'm told and indeed, to go by the blazing row she and Sonya had over the phone an hour or two ago, Morgan is already back to her old self.
The birth was induced and, indeed, planned yesterday (Wednesday) to take place today (Thursday).
It was interesting to see the contrast between office expectations of how I should react and family expectations. Quite the opposite of what I'd expected. Ron wanted to know why I was still at the office instead of rushing to the hospital. Randy and Dave were ribbing me. Randy in particular wanted to know what I wanted to be called; Grandpa?? I told him 'screw you buddy'! :-)
At home there was no expectation whatsoever that I'd be anywhere near at the time. Whether Sonya is disappointed that I didn't offer to be present (or at least in a nearby waiting room) is something I couldn't say. *shrug*
Whether she's disappointed that I have no intention of visiting Morgan at the hospital is another something I couldn't say.
I wish I could feel anything about this other than a deep foreboding.
Yes, Morgan delivered today, a boy, Ryan. Mother and son doing well I'm told and indeed, to go by the blazing row she and Sonya had over the phone an hour or two ago, Morgan is already back to her old self.
The birth was induced and, indeed, planned yesterday (Wednesday) to take place today (Thursday).
It was interesting to see the contrast between office expectations of how I should react and family expectations. Quite the opposite of what I'd expected. Ron wanted to know why I was still at the office instead of rushing to the hospital. Randy and Dave were ribbing me. Randy in particular wanted to know what I wanted to be called; Grandpa?? I told him 'screw you buddy'! :-)
At home there was no expectation whatsoever that I'd be anywhere near at the time. Whether Sonya is disappointed that I didn't offer to be present (or at least in a nearby waiting room) is something I couldn't say. *shrug*
Whether she's disappointed that I have no intention of visiting Morgan at the hospital is another something I couldn't say.
I wish I could feel anything about this other than a deep foreboding.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
All good things must come to an end
I suppose :-)
Today I had to buy a carton of cigarettes. Nothing much remarkable in that if you're a smoker except that this is the first carton I've had to buy in about six months. To be sure, I have been smoking during all that time. As the Americans say, nobody likes a quitter which is enough reason not to quit :-)
But seriously, we've had a lot of people, most of them non-smokers, travelling to the Philippines so I asked them to bring me back cartons of smokes. It costs, in US dollars, roughly the same to buy a single pack here or a whole carton there. Thus I had a steady stream of ciggies coming in from overseas and all, so far as I can tell, completely legal.
Today I finally cracked the last pack in the last carton. Oh, the horror! All day I debated the question in even the most dedicated smokers mind; should I stop smoking? And, as all smokers do, I rationalised. The new baby (not mine) is due this week or the next. I even made it all the way home, knowing I had only a dozen smokes left, without buying the new carton.
I walked into chaos. Sometime this afternoon Morgan decided to rearrange her room; the reason given was to make it easier to cope with a baby living up there with her. But, being Morgan, nothing would do but she had to make it into the ultimate histrionic performance complete with fits of tears and the vomiting up of the entire contents of her room into the rest of the apartment.
Thus boxes and shoe racks and piles of clothing strewn throughout the kitchen and living room. That might not sound so bad until you learn that she'd blocked off all paths leading to anywhere but her own room!
I'm disinclined to be all that forgiving where she's concerned; she used up her credit with me years ago so maybe I'm being unreasonable, but when I have to move a dozen boxes full of assorted crap before I can safely essay the stairs down to our bedroom I think she's pushed her luck rather too far.
She pushed it a lot further. We went out to dinner, my wife and I. Cooking with the kitchen in the state it was would have been an exercise in living dangerously; you really do need a clear path from stove to sink.
All of which is a thin justification that I know doesn't pass muster for buying a carton of smokes. Thin or not the smokes were purchased and I'm half way through the second ciggy out of that carton as I type.
When we came home from an unhurried dinner it seemed no progress had been made.
Of course not; Morgan has no reason to consider the convenience of others. Thus it was that at midnight she was still moving furniture and boxes around. Mom had retired at 11 but was unable to sleep. Did she think it had anything to do with the noise coming from the room above ours?
I reckon you could more easily pull the teeth from the jaws of a conscious tiger than you could get Mom to admit that the little princess gets on her wick! And it would certainly be safer to attempt the dental work than to attempt the confession!
So I played hardball. If the couch I sit upon when I watch TV is piled high with the refuse of her room and she hasn't bothered to ask me ahead of time I'll make waves. Some stern words to the effect that if it wasn't cleared along with a path from the rest of the apartment to the couch by my usual time for settling in had their effect. She knows I'm perfectly capable of carrying her stuff to the rubbish bin! I've done it before and I'll do it again if need be.
Oh well, at least the little princess provides me with the perfect excuse to keep on smoking! Whatever shall I do when she finally moves out? Oh yeah, I know, I'll enjoy the peace and quiet and lack of drama. I may even need to watch some soap operas[^].
Today I had to buy a carton of cigarettes. Nothing much remarkable in that if you're a smoker except that this is the first carton I've had to buy in about six months. To be sure, I have been smoking during all that time. As the Americans say, nobody likes a quitter which is enough reason not to quit :-)
But seriously, we've had a lot of people, most of them non-smokers, travelling to the Philippines so I asked them to bring me back cartons of smokes. It costs, in US dollars, roughly the same to buy a single pack here or a whole carton there. Thus I had a steady stream of ciggies coming in from overseas and all, so far as I can tell, completely legal.
Today I finally cracked the last pack in the last carton. Oh, the horror! All day I debated the question in even the most dedicated smokers mind; should I stop smoking? And, as all smokers do, I rationalised. The new baby (not mine) is due this week or the next. I even made it all the way home, knowing I had only a dozen smokes left, without buying the new carton.
I walked into chaos. Sometime this afternoon Morgan decided to rearrange her room; the reason given was to make it easier to cope with a baby living up there with her. But, being Morgan, nothing would do but she had to make it into the ultimate histrionic performance complete with fits of tears and the vomiting up of the entire contents of her room into the rest of the apartment.
Thus boxes and shoe racks and piles of clothing strewn throughout the kitchen and living room. That might not sound so bad until you learn that she'd blocked off all paths leading to anywhere but her own room!
I'm disinclined to be all that forgiving where she's concerned; she used up her credit with me years ago so maybe I'm being unreasonable, but when I have to move a dozen boxes full of assorted crap before I can safely essay the stairs down to our bedroom I think she's pushed her luck rather too far.
She pushed it a lot further. We went out to dinner, my wife and I. Cooking with the kitchen in the state it was would have been an exercise in living dangerously; you really do need a clear path from stove to sink.
All of which is a thin justification that I know doesn't pass muster for buying a carton of smokes. Thin or not the smokes were purchased and I'm half way through the second ciggy out of that carton as I type.
When we came home from an unhurried dinner it seemed no progress had been made.
Of course not; Morgan has no reason to consider the convenience of others. Thus it was that at midnight she was still moving furniture and boxes around. Mom had retired at 11 but was unable to sleep. Did she think it had anything to do with the noise coming from the room above ours?
I reckon you could more easily pull the teeth from the jaws of a conscious tiger than you could get Mom to admit that the little princess gets on her wick! And it would certainly be safer to attempt the dental work than to attempt the confession!
So I played hardball. If the couch I sit upon when I watch TV is piled high with the refuse of her room and she hasn't bothered to ask me ahead of time I'll make waves. Some stern words to the effect that if it wasn't cleared along with a path from the rest of the apartment to the couch by my usual time for settling in had their effect. She knows I'm perfectly capable of carrying her stuff to the rubbish bin! I've done it before and I'll do it again if need be.
Oh well, at least the little princess provides me with the perfect excuse to keep on smoking! Whatever shall I do when she finally moves out? Oh yeah, I know, I'll enjoy the peace and quiet and lack of drama. I may even need to watch some soap operas[^].
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