Friday, February 22, 2013
Killing Me Softly With His Crap
Sorry about that. Time was slipping away and I had things to do.
I will say that Karaoke Mayhem was a total success. B and I spent most of the time banished to the kitchen.
When the all around noise began to get louder and the party started to dissolve into the sequel to The Lord of The Flies (Lord of The Flies II-Karaoke Mayhem!) We threw pizza at them. They calmed.
It got loud again, we broke out the ice cream. And again-I gave them kazoos. By the fourth time, it was time to go.
Managed perfectly, no injuries, everyone had fun, no fights. Surprisingly, for all the noise, stomping and waving around of various types of weapons including a medieval battle axe, several guns and a light saber (The boys decided to attack the girls at the karaoke machine), there was no mess.
I'm going to get back to this subject in another post, maybe today, maybe tomorrow because I have learned one of the most important parenting secrets over the past few months and I want to share.
But I looked out my kitchen window from where I am writing and I spied Horst walking to the bus, his jaunty little hunting cap on, towing his backpack full of God knows what. A reminder of why I am here writing in the first place.
So after a 14 hour delay, back to Horst.
We generally have to let him do things the way he wants to. It is definitely for the sake of our own sanity. I have 2 excellent examples.
The Package part 2.
It was my sister in law's birthday and we needed to get belated gifts for my niece. So on last Sunday, a very cold, snowy and blustery day, we headed out to get some stuff.
I was already tired and annoyed from the get go.
We got the bracelets for my sister in law, whom I will refer to as K, that went fairly well. We left the store and drove to the children's clothing store. My nerves were beginning to fray as we had a little difficulty finding the place and I couldn't really listen to the radio because Horst was also running his own constant stream of commentary.
We get to the store and I have to tell my father three times to go find something for the baby. He stands in the middle of the store like a deer in the headlights, then starts to follow me.
I instruct him to look around and find a few things that catch his eye and then we'll find the right size. I needed a few minutes and had to find my own present.
He does well and gets some gifts. That's the problem I have. He wants someone else to take him by the hand and do things for him. He is very capable of doing things himself.
My line of work involves helping people who have difficulties doing things for themselves. Having to help someone who is perfectly capable both cognitively and physically, to complete a task, often puts me over the edge.
Like serving a platter of donuts to an employee of Dunkin Donuts.
He chooses two very cute outfits and two small sock monkeys. He pays and now it is my turn.
I chose 2 pairs of fancy knee socks and a pair of leg warmers. I decide to have them wrapped.
God help me I had them wrapped.
They place the socks in a small thin box and tie a cute ribbon around it to which they stick a cute label on which you can write the name of the recipient.
Horst wants to get in on the gift wrapping action and decides to have it done as well.
Suddenly I feel clammy and my bowels turn to water. Here it comes.
They wrap the 2 small outfits in a ridiculously large and cumbersome box. Because of the sock monkey. You can't squish the sock monkey you know, because it might do something crazy like get a little squished before it bounces back to it's original form.
I watch in horror as the girl places the extra sock monkey (for my nephew. Horst has painfully mentioned at least a dozen times in the hour and a half in which this trip took place that he "can't get something for one and not for the other") because you can't be too careful with sock monkeys. They need a lot of room, so they don't suffocate during shipment.
Now, this is not the bad part. The part that kills me is Horst standing next to me and justifying it all. "It's better this way, it's easier to pack and ship." He says this over and over while the girl is wrapping.
Visions of a simple padded mailer are dashed away to be replaced with Horst standing over me and saying "It's better this way" before he dashes out my brains with a large Priority mail box.
I take deep breaths and make it through the transaction and back home. I run away when he starts asking me how to wrap and label a small jewelry box.
I find a simple solution to this whole packing thing the next day. Instead of wrestling everything into a big postal box and forgetting the roll of packing tape and having to buy yet another roll for the house, I simply go to UPS and drop off my packages. I give Horst the shipping receipt. He pays me back with no problem. Solved.
Gretel comes to me on Monday morning and presents me with her Wii remote. She asks me to get new batteries from downstairs. I am at the computer, still eating breakfast while writing. I sigh and get up to trudge downstairs.
I get some batteries from the shelf where Horst keeps them. Horst likes to purchase the batteries for the house. He even keeps them in cute little battery containers that he has ordered special. From either Ginny's or The Vermont Country Store.
Like an idiot who should know better, I go back upstairs and replace the batteries.
They don't work.
Here is the second thing that kills me.
Horst has ordered, in addition to his special battery cases, a battery charger that is supposed to charge regular non-rechargeable batteries.
It doesn't work. He says it does. But it doesn't work.
Also, Horst has taken to storing the uncharged batteries that he likes to hoard now right next to the newer batteries in identical, unlabeled containers. I honestly think he throws everything in the same container because he forgot which is which.
Instead of sitting in the basement trying battery after battery and getting angrier and angrier, I found Gretel a Wii remote that works and decided to wait until Horst got home later in the day to ask him to find me a pair of working batteries.
I do so, I tell him (again) that he should store the batteries that need to be charged somewhere else, like the garbage. I ask him to find me some batteries that work. He does this by taking out his battery charger and placing batteries in it until he finds 2 that read as fully charged.
He then tells me that I should bring the batteries that I already tried down to him so that he can put them in the charger.
I will fully admit to a surge of an adolescent like rush of evil pleasure when I hissed, "I put them in the garbage."
I quivered with malicious delight at his snort of disgust and frustration.
I have decided that I will go and buy my own batteries and keep them upstairs, in secret.
I could have just bought my own in the first place, but that is yet another way that Horst will kill me if he finds out I'm doing that.
For example, if Horst finds out I have purchased cranberry sauce, poultry gravy of any sort, or sauerkraut, to name a few, he will exclaim, "I have that downstairs!" He will rush down and come back up, to place in my hand, an ancient and withered can of what once was the needed product.
I will thank him in a sad, defeated sort of way. He always replies by laughing triumphantly.
It will be the same with the batteries.
In wrapping this up, I want to thank you for your time. It's like free therapy for me. I feel better. As long as I have an outlet, Horst will stay for years to come. I will be able to entertain you more and more I'm sure, as he gets older and eventually retires to spend all day with me.
We all can't wait for that.
I'm also happy to report that Horst's malevolent powers can cross state lines as well. This makes me feel less alone.
I received a post on Facebook from K, my sister in law in Illinois, who always gets the packages that are the cause of my heartache.
She said that the UPS guy must have known that she had a household of young children and a cat. She stated that he must have laughed evilly as he packed extra peanuts, that ended up scattered all over her house.
That wasn't the UPS guy at all. That was Horst.
Raising my fists to the sky as I scream