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I’m Gonna Gripe a Bit, Don’t Mind Me.

There are some things that as parents, we learned to do with much, much more spontaneity. I mean, you see all over, people who are concerned about their sex lives becoming regimented or whatever- but, the opposite has proven true in our case: duck and go whenever you can catch the chance.

The 5 year old has started to become quite curious as to why it is Mom and Dad run off to the bathroom or the bedroom on occasion- which, requires significant sneakiness akin to the good ol’ days- as I imagine them. You know, I hear some people would sneak around their parents to get it on as teenagers. I never dealt with that, but, now, I find myself doing so because I swear to god, that kid has an inbuilt system:

Warning! Warning! Those two may be having fun! Cock-Block Engage! 

Of course, he has no clue what cock block is, he has no concept of any of this. He knows how babies are made. He knows that we need alone time, sometimes. The second part, he finds absolutely despicable, however and I wish to god I’d never put it that way.

12 and 18 know what’s going on and would rather not. They do not hear anything, we make sure of that- however, I do notice they both attempt to head off the rug rat, which is awesome. Usually, Mission Impossible, but they do try. Whether we’re talking or doing something, they try to keep him engaged elsewhere. We do not thank them for this. That would involve possibly some weird discussion that steps over boundaries neither of us are even remotely into stepping over- instead, we thank them for helping out in general and reward accordingly.

The thing that’s baffling me here, though is that a 12 and 18 year old can understand that we are busy as shit.

Adults in our lives, however, seem to have a very difficult time with that one.

You know what? I tried. I did. I don’t need a whole lot of social interaction and I am pretty happy with the occasional visits from friends who are similarly inclined. Kurt, on the other hand, gets locked into these slumps- and, it’s really difficult for me to explain that push, push, push, nag, nag, nag is just not the way to go with him.

Actually, it wouldn’t be all that difficult except that would mean explaining things he’s dealt with which made him that way. In one case of a very close friend I genuinely feel I owe- his support during the heat stroke coma thing was…beyond what I can express gratitude for: I did. I don’t think he understands psychology, however.

I said a good balance would be back and forth. You know, come to dinner on the homefront- he’s very okay with that and would love it. We go there. I explained why. I know that once there’s an established comfort level there, he’ll up the ante himself, no nagging needed. Drop in, I said, He’d love that. I invited he and his partner to dinner. They totally ignored my invitation- which, is my partner’s rude way and decidedly not mine. We go round and round about that one: hospitality is not a fuckin’ option and it’s deplorable manners to ignore an invitation.

I have strong feelings about that sort of thing…


My partner is working on that- it’s his issue with saying “No”. He has a rough go of it. I suppose some felt that perhaps I shared that but I decidedly do not: ignoring an invitation is rude as shit and I’m disinclined to extend them after that. Recently, I invited someone- know what she did? She let me know she couldn’t make it. Well, halle-fuckin-lujah SOMEONE knows how to conduct themselves. I was bummed but not ghosted. Lemme say, on the advice of my awesome friends in the ladies’ guild: I try. I do. However, I just do not have time to deal with the petty, shit-level shallow bullshit which passes for friendship nor do I care much for bad manners- and oh, it’s in spades.

Still. The nagging and eventually as it always happens, I am sure to hear about it, get asked to push and frankly: welp, there’s one I will respond to for sure. That is beyond me- ghost an invitation and then hit me up like my partner’s answering service? Lord have mercy. Born in a freaking barn. It’s crazy- I’ve had to teach myself manners and still have better breeding than most people I meet. (Granted, talking about my sex life and this shit isn’t, but it’s a blog. Whatever. I got the social skills of a nutria rat and yet..)

He isn’t the worst one and I get why he does it, it’s kinda misguided and I did explain why- but holy hell: my partner has some friends who are totally oblivious to how taxing our responsibilities are. And we got a lot more of them than our kids, who we really enjoy being around.

Admittedly a large part of that IS definitely his inability to say no. It’s not that he takes on far, far too much- though he does do that: but he also will simply ignore things rather than respond and have to say “No.” Honey, baby, sweetie, you’re entitled to it and it’s just gnarly manners to avoid it anyhow. To no avail.

I guess a lot of this gets to me on account of often being looked down upon as some kinda backwoods hillbilly- but in truth, I’ve seen shittier manners here in the city than anywhere else. Fuck, even in Boston where there was a general culture of  Leave Me The Fuck Alone, Leave Others The Fuck Alone, Mind Your Damn Business (Which let me say I adore!) I saw better manners. Yet I observe people thinking they’re so much better, particularly when you get into the Down South Saint Louis vs Up North Saint Louis culture and the weird “Where’d you go to school?” litmus test proving not shit more than what kinda rude you’re gonna be and the accent you’ll have doing it. It’s hilarious to me how very similar everyone truly is- yet everybody thinks accident of birth or where you live makes you better. I assure you, it does not.

giphy (13)

I have been asked that shit more times than I can count and I can see the expectant look to the face each and every time. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that some dumb fuck shit will inevitably come out of their mouths. I tested it by lying, I did.

Oh, I went to- such and such school.

Watch the reaction. And within a half an hour or less, I shit you not: somebody puts their foot in it in such a way as to reveal that shockingly, where the hell they went to school doesn’t matter. Fart in a high wind. My accent invites all manner of disgusting opinions I’d really rather never hear, to boot.

When we moved to Ferguson, that was also hilarious. As in, hilariously bad. At one point I just started responding with: Ya’ll know an entire family got slaughtered right up the street from us, down here, right? Bosnian guy got his head beat in with a hammer, too. Pizza guys get shot. Want me to go into how ya’ll got a problem with literal slum lords scamming Section 8 like a personal piggy bank? The fuck crime statistics are you paying attention to, ’cause I did a report on this shit and seems to me you got other reasons for being so afraid of Ferguson. What could they beeeee?

Tell you something else, that cat-calling issue?

It is most assuredly not exclusive to one race and in fact, since we moved here I got much less of a problem with it and I certainly haven’t found myself standing with a woman in her hijab so she could see her kids get on the damn bus with no ugly shit. I loved my neighborhood in Bevo and I loved my neighbors but it damn sure wasn’t the black people or the Muslims driving around screaming nasty shit at mothers with small children and they damn sure never scared me. Do I even need to tell you what kinda bumper stickers were on the truck of the guy who genuinely felt I needed to see his penis out the window? Or the one who felt like screaming commentary about my ass as I worked in my garden was appealing?

Weirdly coincidental, I am sure. Right?

Come to think of it, wasn’t black people or Muslims that caused me to be confronted by a dude in freaking SWAT gear with his damn rifle one day, either.


But anyrate. That is not to say I don’t judge- pretty clearly I do, that’s all I’ve done here. The thing is, I don’t rightly give a shit where you went to school and I don’t give a flying purple mongoose ass what you are or where your kin’s from: I’m watching what you fuckin’ do.

And holy hell, here in Saint Louis that is mighty freaking telling.

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