Somewhere in a past life, i must have tortured puppies. The cutest ones. Slowly. With dull, rusty implements….
In fact, i’ve done some pretty nasty things in this life, but nothing i’ve done has earned me the karmic punishment du jour.
Another “required training opportunity”. This time? It’s the ugly 10 day “systems engineering lip service” class that i’ve cleverly kicked down the road for about 7 years. It has sproinged into life and latched it’s rabid jaws firmly on to my professional ass. This is the last one required. At least i hope so – or i’ll end up on the evening news amidst a bloodbath.
The last one was painful, but only five days. The latest? Ten days. At the two day point, i’ve already chewed the insides of my cheeks bloody. My credo is simple…
Stay awake. Smile. Be respectful to the instructors and my classmates. Don’t shoot Bambi*. Remember the course is “pass/fail” – there are no bonus points for over-achievement. Do the minimum required/expected. Leave the room in an efficient manner. Don’t fuck over my team mates. Repeat all of the above as necessary.
Usually i can spot him by the third day. The crusty ‘elder professional’ who decides that the course will be significantly enhanced by endless contributions of war stories. Oh, no… we have an over-achiever this time. Rearing his head mid-day during the FIRSTFUCKINGDAY of a TENDAYCOURSE he regaled us with his vast knowledge of nothing anyone cared one micro-fraction of a nanofuck about….
On the first day? We were fifteen minutes late for lunch because he just couldn’t contain his excitement about a cost/schedule over-run from 1987. i could not make this shit up. 19-fucking-87.
On the bright side? The two tag-team instructors are with us. They have already promised us that if we behave, and stay on track, we can finish up the course requirements in a mere nine days, giving us all a magical three day weekend! Woo-diddly-hoo! Instructors who are just as interested in “checking the fucking box” as we are… this is a “win-win”!
If Mr. Elderfuckly Crustacean McYaptard doesn’t get with the program by tomorrow? He’s going to find himself encased in a body cast of Post-it Notes, and stuffed unceremoniously in the supply closet with a broom for a butt-buddy for the remainder of the course….
Trust me, motherfucker, you DO NOT want to know what i've apparently done in prior lives...
* “Bambi”. Standard callsign for the young, sweet and naieve engineers in attendance. If they want to pipe up with some inane but marginally relevant tidbit from their personal experience, i will not roll my eyes and start pantomiming a game of Russian Roulette with my dry erase marker… They are cute. They aren’t dangerously burnt out yet. Like me…
This year? The Girl won the “Over-Under” bet.
It’s become a bit of a tradition that we do a little friendly wagering as we travel south to spend our requisite “holiday time” in The Park. This year, the wager centered on my ridiculously self-absorbed sister, S: “How long – from the time she and i are in the room together – until she mentions the need for us to talk more?” Anything relating to “sisterly talks”, “more time together” or the like..
The Boy picked 20 minutes, with The Girl calling “Over”. Once i offered a prize to the winner – a Mom “ShutTheFuckUp” (STFU) card* – they reconsidered their positions, taking the competition much more seriously, yet held firm. His logic? S would launch into it from the very start, or wait until the late-afternoon “good byes”. About a 50/50 shot. But it wasn’t until we were all packing up to go that she descended into a drawn out, banal monologue about our need to “really talk more this year”…
The visit wasn’t all that bad. At first. It was at the home of my brother, T, and his wife, K. They’d generously offered to host us all on the 26th, to avoid the frenetic Christmas Day trooping from place to place that happens to folks who have many grandparents – not to mention multiple sets of parents – in the same town. i ate some cookies, and wandered off to play Wii cow racing with my 5 year old nephew, Little T**.
Other than my recent bout of verbal diarrhea, the drama this year was around my brother and his family. This was also the topic that set me off during the Thanksgiving event… T and his wife are happy. They are doing well. They live within their means. K is his third wife, and she just happens to be a little younger than his two daughters from his first marriage. And their son, Little T, is younger than Ts three grandchildren from those first daughters. Yeah, you kinda need a white board to diagram this, but hang with me, here… T also has three teenage boys from his second marriage. That’s six children, for those of you keeping score at home.
Mom, S, and my niece, DQ, like to rant about the fact that T and K rarely come around, call, or join in any drama games participate in family events. i’ve spent a bit of time with T and K, and it makes sense to me. They have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps financially – and have been frustrated seeing Mom and S repeatedly underwrite the financial irresponsibility of DQ and her clan… They have no use for the drama. Never mind that Mom is a complete buzzkill – has nothing positive or pleasant to say about anyone or anything. Whenever they do come around? All they hear is “You never come around”. Doesn’t really make for a good time… i completely understand why they are a bit scarce…
We haven’t seen T’s three boys for about 2 years. His second ex-wife became a born-again christian after she remarried, and home-schooled the boys. Recognizing the threat that our heathen family presented, she wasn’t particularly accommodating about holiday visits. This year, since the oldest boy has his drivers license, they were able to escape for the afternoon to visit with our family.
Awkwardness for the boys, for sure, but there were moments to chat, catch up, and reconnect a little. But as they were packing up to leave because the oldest son had to get to work? Mom started to lecture them. Informed them that she didn’t even recognize them when she arrived since it had been so long since she’d seen them***. Told them “you avoid us by choice. YOUR choice…”. S couldn’t resist the opportunity to pile on. Reminded A, the youngest of the three, that she’d seen him at a hair salon a few months ago, and said to him then that he looked just like one of her nephews she hadn’t seen in ages…
i was mortified. “Happy Fucking Holidays, Boys! Come back and see us real soon! We’ll make you squirm and twist…”
Immediately started packing up, giving my kids the signal “we’re outta here before i pop a cork”, and we made our escape – but not before S got in her unnecessarily long-winded “we’re going to spend more time together this year” speech… After about 10 minutes of that, with my brother echoing like a greek chorus “yes, we’re going to do it”, my sister-in-law, K, shut it down quite nicely with “Great! Enough talking about it. Let’s just do it…”.
i’ll show up. i’ll be nice. i’ll show up. i’ll be nice. i’ll bring jello shots. i’ll show up. i’ll be nice. i’ll keep my mouth shut. i’ll be nice. i’ll show up….
must. increase. medication.
* The winner of the coveted STFU award can throw it back at me in the future when i’m tearing their sorry asses apart providing motherly guidance without taking a breath. The STFU block only lasts for five minutes, but this is considered a nifty gift on occasion. Upon winning? The Girl asked if she could re-gift it to The Boy, as he seems to be the more frequent target of my tirades… He recommended that she hang onto it. With her return to the country, she was just as likely to need it…
** No, i certainly did not let him win. Makes ’em tough, and prepares them for the real world. “You gotta hit the scarecrows, or you’ll never score enough points to beat me!” He was cool about it…
*** Couldn’t have anything to do with her eyesight? Cataracts, macular degeneration? Naw…. couldn’t be that…
Trailer Park Refugee 