The Christine Show

Captain Planet

I was a single mom, and when I wasn’t wishing permanent genital disfigurement upon his sperm donor who didn’t think it was wrong to date a high school senior while his wife was pregnant, I was treasuring the moments I knew Young Skywalker’s sperm donor would never experience. 

He missed the first step, the first word, the first tooth; the first time elbow-met-asphalt, the first black eye.  And he missed out on an incredible sense of humor that was inherited from my side of the family.  Young Skywalker is almost 23 years old, but I can still remember, like it was yesterday, the things he used to say that either made me laugh until I cried, or wonder, “how the hell did he come up with that?”

Back when he was about 4 years old, he and I went shopping with my Mom.  It was at a Laneco.  Remember those?  They were the pre-cursor to Walmart.  There was a display set up near the toy department of action figures, and Young Skywalker spied them before I did.  He asked if he could get one, and before I could answer, Grandma said, “I’ll get it for you.”

I drove Young Skywalker home, and he was as happy as a clam with the new action figure.  Captain Planet came with a crime fighting ring (I guess so the Captain Planet fans could be easily identified in a crowd), and some other accoutrements to make him seem invincible.  He played with it constantly, making up his own little Captain Planet scenarios, none of which I could understand.  But hey, as long as he was happy.

Fast forward a few weeks.  He and I are horsing around in the living room, and at one point are rolling on the floor.  He “wrestles” me, and pins me to the floor, then sits back on his heels, and regales me:  “Remember that day we went to that store and we were with Grandma and you were pushing me in the cart and I had to sit in the back because I couldn’t fit in the seat and I saw those action figures and Grandma said she’d buy me one and it came with that ring and the card and you told me I couldn’t open it in the car and I had to wait until we got home and then you bought that Captain Planet lunchbox and it was green and had those little boxes in it? "

Whew!  “Yes, Young Skywalker.  What about it?”

“You’re laying on the ring.”

You can’t make this stuff up.

Stuff To Think About

Yes, it’s been an extremely long, long, long time since I’ve updated my blog.  So many things going on … so little time to sit down and kvetch about them.  I’m easing back into the swing of things slowly.  Here, for your amusement and possible Budweiser-induced bar discussions, are a few topics to get you thinking before my next post.

Why do we press harder on a remote control when we know the batteries are almost dead? 

 
Why do banks charge a fee on 'insufficient funds' when they already know there is not enough money?

 

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars; but have to check when you say the paint is still wet?

 

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

 

Why does Superman stop bullets with his chest, but ducks when you throw a revolver at him? 

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

Who had the bright idea to put an 'S' in the word 'lisp'?

 

If people evolved from apes, why are there still apes?

 

Why is it that no matter what color bubble bath you use the bubbles are always white?

 

Is there ever a day that mattresses are not on sale?

 

Why do people constantly return to the refrigerator with hopes that something new to eat will have materialized?

 

Why do people keep running over a string a dozen times with their vacuum cleaner, then reach down, pick it up, examine it, then put it down to give the vacuum one more chance?

 

Why is it that no plastic bag will open from the end on your first try?

 

How do those dead bugs get into those enclosed light fixtures? 

 

When we are in the supermarket and someone rams our ankle with a shopping cart then apologizes for doing so, why do we say, 'It's all right?'  Well, it isn't all right, so why don't we say, 'That really hurt, why don't you watch where you're going?'

 

Why is it that whenever you attempt to catch something that's falling off the table you always manage to knock something else over? 

 

Why, during the winter, do we try to keep the house as warm as it was in summer when we complained about the heat?

 

Why haven’t you heard any father-in-law jokes?

 

Discuss.

 

 

Christine Advises The Ex-Wives

Hey Christine!  My ex-husband has started bringing his girlfriend to our daughter’s high school swim meets.  Although my daughter says she doesn’t mind, the woman’s presence makes me very uncomfortable.  Shouldn’t he, out of respect for me, keep her away from public gatherings where he knows I’ll be?

Dear Non-Trophy Ex-Wife:  Respect?  What planet are you from?  Since when does an ex-husband have to show you anything but civility?  How respectful were you of him during the divorce?  Get over your highfalutin self.  You’re just jealous that your ex-husband is a better person than you and was able to land a stone cold fox, while your slime of a boyfriend is still stumbling to first base.  If you’re uncomfortable around someone who is probably prettier and smarter than you, then I think you’re the one that has to make alternate plans to avoid public gatherings where the object of your ex-husband’s affection may show up.  Grow up, Sweet Pea. 

 

Hey Christine!   I am at a loss as to how to handle my ex-husband’s girlfriend. She and my husband were together many times before the end of our marriage, and I see her as a home wrecker in the least, and unprintable names at the worst. I have no choice but to be civil to my ex-husband because of our child, but do I also have to acknowledge her?  I’m sure she’ll show up at my son’s soccer game, and I don’t know what to do or say to her.

Dear Divorced Hag:  So many things going on here, and so little space to set your ass straight.  First, you do not handle your ex-husband’s new girlfriend.  Your ex-husband stepped out on you, probably because of your whininess, and the girlfriend just happened to be the one that caught his eye.  She is not the home-wrecker, and neither is your ex; you are.  You are the one that forced him into the arms of another woman because of your frigidness, so the blame’s all on you, sweetheart.

Second, yes, you have to acknowledge her.  What were you planning on doing … pretending she was invisible?  Pull yourself together, woman!  Just because your ex is puppy-dog in love, and you’re just withering away because of your inability to keep a man happy, doesn’t mean you’re allowed to treat the girlfriend like shit.

And third, has your divorce made you socially inept, with no clue as to how to act in public?  You would do and say the same things if you were meeting anyone for the first time:  You say hello, nice to meet you, and shake her hand.  You dipshit.

 

Hey Christine!  It just kills me to see my ex-husband happy with his new girlfriend.  How do I get over this?

Dear No Second Chance:  You don’t.  Do you know why it’s killing you to see him happy?  Because it brings up old flashbacks of how you got all bitchy and everything, nothing made you happy, you cheated on him with some white trash wannabe, and you know that the life you chose with ol’ Sleaze Bag is nothing compared to what you chased out of your house.  Too bad.  So sad.  I hope your ex lives really close to you so you have to see his happy-ass-self and his drop-dead-gorgeous squeeze everyday.

 

Our House, In The Middle Of Our Street

Jersey Mike and I are newly inducted members of the Homeowners of New Jersey Club.

I never thought I’d be able to join that club; I always thought it was my lot in life to be a renter. Jersey Mike is the opposite; he was always a homeowner until he got divorced, and was thrust into Renter’s World.

Young couples just starting out, who are able to purchase a house, think that it’s just another step in their lives, like getting married or scoring the big corner office at work. I don’t think they truly realize how big of a deal it is; they haven’t fought for years with pant-load ex-husbands over emotional and financial support for their children. Or made deals with God to keep the phone and electricity turned on when money got tight. Or searched the pockets of coats in the closet, looking for change to buy milk.

I kept a roof over my kids’ heads through some very lean years. I kept food on the table, and clothes on their backs. Maybe it wasn’t all puppy dogs and rainbows, but I managed. And even if it meant I had to eat tuna salad for 6 months, I made sure that Young Skywalker and Grasshopper had nice birthdays, and that they woke up every Christmas morning to a brightly lit tree and gobs of gifts stashed underneath.

Two ex-husbands broke me financially, and it took me years to recover. I never asked for sympathy. I made my own choices. No one held a gun to my head to marry either one of these rat-bastards. But when the realization hit that I couldn’t handle everything on my own, even while working two, or sometimes, three, jobs in one week, I swallowed my pride, and humbled myself to my family for help. And they were there for us.

(Props also to the U.S. Government when I finally tracked down a deadbeat dad who thought he was above having to pay child support for 12 years. But I digress.)

My kids always had a home, but I’m sad that they didn’t have one home … one that they can come back to and say, remember when we jumped off the garage roof into the pool? Or, how about the time we hid under the porch until Mom started crying because she couldn’t find us? Rising rents, or landlords who wanted to sell the places where we were living, forced us to move a few times when the boys were growing up.

Young Skywalker started his new life in Omaha Freakin’ Nebraska before I had the chance to give him a home to call ‘his’. Grasshopper is just a couple of years away from flying the coop, and so far, he hasn’t stopped playing video games in his room long enough to enjoy the rest of the house. But I hope they both have the satisfying feeling of knowing this is their home - where Jersey Mike and I will always be; where they will always have a bed to sleep in (even if they have to share it with Bad Dog Tank); and where they’ll accept my Justin Bieber posters being hung in the family room, as my reward for doing everything right to keep my little family afloat.

I wish this signing-your-name-to-a-mortgage-for-30-years could have happened a long time ago, but I’m not doing any looking-back; we’re going forward. And it’s all good. I'm incredibly lucky to have Jersey Mike (his name's on the Deed, along with mine, and the ring's on my finger; too late for him to back out now), to have my fabulous family, and to have happy and healthy children. Oh yeah, and I'm lucky to have the Baddest Dog in the World. Yep, life is good.

A lot of people take owning a house for granted. They complain about the taxes. They complain about lawn maintenance. They complain about having to shovel the snow. They’ve told me that “owning a home is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Don’t rain on my parade. It took me a very long time to get to where I am now. Let me enjoy this.

It's For You

So, I’m sitting at home on a Jersey Mike-less Sunday, not doing anything, unless you count ‘watching movies’ as ‘doing something.’  And the phone rings. 

The call is from someone who I’d rather not speak to, evidenced by my friend, Caller ID, and this person is going to ask to speak to Grasshopper after putting me through the usual inquisition … How are you?  What are you doing?  Going anywhere on vacation?  Heard from Young Skywalker?  How’s he doing?  Blah, blah, blah.

 

Evidently, Grasshopper doesn’t want to speak to This Person, either, as he doesn’t pick up the extension.  So the call goes to voicemail. 

Two minutes (2 minutes …120 seconds) later, the phone rings again.  It’s another call from This Person.  I know she doesn’t want to speak to me; she wants to speak to Grasshopper.  Again, he and I let the call goes to voicemail.

One minute (1 minute … 60 seconds) later, the phone rings yet again.  It’s another call from This Person.  It still goes unanswered.  Boy, my voicemail is sure going to be jam-packed today!

Does she think that by calling at one or two minute intervals that I will relent and pick up the phone?  There is absolutely nothing – n-o-t-h-i-n-g – that this person needs to speak to me about whereby I need to be interrupted.  Blathering gobbledygook is just the cover for trying to pump me for confidential family information that she feels she’s entitled to know.  I’m not fallin’ for it, lady! 

I’m a staunch believer in the idea that the telephone is in my home for my convenience, not the convenience of the caller.  And on this Jersey Mike-less Sunday afternoon, it was not convenient for me to do anything other than to work my way through the 100-or-so DVD’s in my collection.

Even before the days of Caller ID, I could choose whether I wanted to answer the phone or not.  Caller ID just makes it easier to see who I’m ignoring.  Maybe I’m taking a shower, maybe I’m in the middle of rotating the contents of the pantry, maybe I’m watching TV, maybe I don’t want to speak to you, maybe I’m not even freakin’ home.  When my phone rings three times in three minutes, from the same person, it doesn’t make me want to grab the receiver to hear what it is that’s so important that you just had to get me on the line.  What it does do is piss me off. 

If you’re calling me to tell me that your Great Aunt Sophie died, well, I’m sorry to hear it, but I’m sure she won’t be any less dead when I listen to the message that you should leave for me instead of re-dialing and re-dialing my number, hoping I pick up.  Maybe you’re calling me with good news, i.e., your daughter’s pregnant.  Wonderful!  She’ll still be pregnant when I call you back … at a time that’s more convenient for me!

If it’s a family member who’s calling, I’ll grab the phone on the first couple of rings; there’s nothing like talking to someone in my family for a good laugh or two.  Same goes for a neighbor or friend; they obviously need something … a cup of sugar or bail money.  But this rant is directed more towards the ex-in-laws, who still think they’re your family, despite a Final Order of Divorce proclaiming to the entire world that they are not still your family.  The ones who can’t take a hint that you no longer desire to have contact with them after putting up with years of meddlesome, intrusive, and judgmental behavior towards you; they are the ones who are not high on my list of people to speak to on the phone.

So, meddlesome ex-in-law - you couldn't take a hint for 6 or 7 years; can you hear me now?  Am I coming through loud and clear?  Stop calling me!

As long as we’re on the subject of telephones, another thing that mashes my potatoes is when people call my home, get my voicemail, and speak as if I can hear them:  Are you there?  Pick up.  Pick up the phone.  It’s me … Rudy.  I’ve got to ask you something.  C’mon, pick up the phone.  I’ve explained to the people who leave me messages of this type that I do not have an answering machine (does anyone have an answering machine anymore?) and that once the call goes to VOICEMAIL I cannot hear them.   Doesn’t matter.  The next message they leave is, wait, is this your voicemail or your machine?  Hello?  Is this the voicemail?  Did you just pick up?  I thought I heard the phone pick up.

Pop, are you listening?