Drama vs. Me: No Retreat, No Surrender
Last Friday marked the latest addition to the growing list of reasons why it was a bad idea to move a teenager in with a newly divorced twenty-something hedonist. This event, however, beat the hell out of all the other reasons and rocketed to the top of the list. So forget about all the nice furniture and electronics I used to have that were broken and replaced by crap. Forget about the nice clothes I haven't been able to buy. And forget that it only takes one session of video game playing to permanently coat my controllers in kid grease. Because nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever be worse than the mentally unstable teenage girlfriend.
"How could that be?" some of you might be asking. Well, for starters, you can't get rid of them. Some time ago, after many conversations involving me doing my best to bite back the meat of my highly biased opinions on dating, my brother decided to break up with his girlfriend. So what does she do? She starts hanging out with his friends. Not one day went by that he didn't see her after the breakup. So how does he remedy what was probably the most annoying situation anyone could have come up with even with the assistance of someone like Carrot Top? By getting back together with her. That's what I call totally fucking shrewd, baby.
Well, they're together for another few months until the words "Dude, you're sixteen! What is she doing for you now that you can't live without and what is she doing for you now that drives you fucking crazy?" finally start to sink in. So they break her curfew to talk about it.
As some of you may have gathered from my previous entry, last weekend wasn't entirely kind to me. So I was perfectly content with spending Friday night sitting around in my underwear playing Halo 2. At about midnight, I get a call. It's the girlfriend's Mom. The kid is a half an hour late and she wants to know if I've seen them. I tell her I'll call my brother and get back to her. I call him. When he picks up, I can tell that they're outside even though it's raining. Before he can even say one word, I've already generated a flawless mathematical formula that told me everything I needed to know:
Outside in the rain + Broken Curfew + Not answering Mom's calls - Romantic first date = fighting
I ask him where he is. He says right outside her apartment. I tell him his girlfriend's Mom called me and that he should give her a call back. Boom. My work is done and I go back to dishing out laser flavored justice. Half an hour goes by before the Mom calls me again. She still hadn't heard from them. Now, if you know me at all, you know there's nothing I hate more than talking on the phone*. Call me once, shame on you, call me twice, you're a clueless idiot. So I tell her what I know and promise her that I'll call them again. This time my brother doesn't answer at all. Nor does he answer the five times after that. If my mastery of Crazy Bitch Fighting is still up to par, I imagine that she gave him a stern look every time the phone rang, daring him to answer it. For future reference: if you're shooting for breakup style points, answering the phone during a fight yields incredibly high numbers. Anyway, I stop trying. I know where they are, she now knows where they are. So it's back to naked Halo. Ten minutes later she calls again. I was fully prepared to turn up the rude until this conversation took off from the launchpad of total insanity:
Her (Spanish accent): Zak?
Me: *sigh* Yeah?
Her: Zak, they are drunk!
Me: I...what?!
Her: They are drunk, Zak!
Me: What the fuck do you mean "they are drunk"? I just talked to them a few minutes ago and they sounded fine.
Her: I saw them in the attic, they were having sex!
Me: W...what do you mean "attic"? I thought you lived in an apartment building?
Her: I saw heem in the stairway! He was taking off a condom and peeing on the stairs! They are drunk, Zak!
Me: Holy shit! I'm starting to think that you are fucking drunk. So where are they now?
Her: I don't know!
Me: What do you mean? I thought you just saw them?
Her: I...I don't knoooooowwwwwww!
She then goes on to tell me that the girl just threatened to jump off of a 6th story ledge even though she still can't tell me where she is, thus stripping her story of any credibility that it may have had left. She then suggests calling the cops to look for her.
I call my brother and tell him in my best scary dad voice "get your ass the fuck home, now. He tries to explain to me what's going on, but I cut him off with a curt "I don't give a fuck. Tell me when you get home."
He gets home and runs through the whole story from his perspective, during which I fight off a series of I-told-you-that-bitch-was-crazy type comments that were welling up in my head at an alarming rate. The short version was he broke up with her, they fought about it, he tried to make her go home, she wouldn't, he tried to take her by the arm, she pulled out of her coat and ran away. After we get done talking, the Mom calls again, this time to tell me that the police want to speak to me. Apparently it's standard teenage-couple-drama procedure to check the boyfriend's house to make sure she isn't there. I begrudgingly agree to their terms and invite them over. They actually ended up being pretty cool guys, and one of them even let me put his empty gun into my new gun holster, because I'm a smooth fucking talker. They leave me with their numbers and split. A few minutes later, a friend of my brother calls and says the ex is on her way over. Bam. Cops are called, girl is caught, ordeal is over.
The cops took her to the hospital for suicide watch, and it turns out that it wasn't her first time. Because of this, the Mom has been under the watchful eye of social services for some time. This helped shed some light on the crazy shit she was trying to convince me of earlier. I decided she was trying to preemptively cover her ass by making up some insane story about my drunk brother getting her daughter drunk and peeing in her non-existent attic ten minutes before he came home and wasn't drunk. May I suggest removing a chunk of my brain the next time you try to convince me you're a better parent than I am, Commander Genius.
*Beloved drunk-dialers know themselves to be the exception.
Last Friday marked the latest addition to the growing list of reasons why it was a bad idea to move a teenager in with a newly divorced twenty-something hedonist. This event, however, beat the hell out of all the other reasons and rocketed to the top of the list. So forget about all the nice furniture and electronics I used to have that were broken and replaced by crap. Forget about the nice clothes I haven't been able to buy. And forget that it only takes one session of video game playing to permanently coat my controllers in kid grease. Because nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever be worse than the mentally unstable teenage girlfriend.
"How could that be?" some of you might be asking. Well, for starters, you can't get rid of them. Some time ago, after many conversations involving me doing my best to bite back the meat of my highly biased opinions on dating, my brother decided to break up with his girlfriend. So what does she do? She starts hanging out with his friends. Not one day went by that he didn't see her after the breakup. So how does he remedy what was probably the most annoying situation anyone could have come up with even with the assistance of someone like Carrot Top? By getting back together with her. That's what I call totally fucking shrewd, baby.
Well, they're together for another few months until the words "Dude, you're sixteen! What is she doing for you now that you can't live without and what is she doing for you now that drives you fucking crazy?" finally start to sink in. So they break her curfew to talk about it.
As some of you may have gathered from my previous entry, last weekend wasn't entirely kind to me. So I was perfectly content with spending Friday night sitting around in my underwear playing Halo 2. At about midnight, I get a call. It's the girlfriend's Mom. The kid is a half an hour late and she wants to know if I've seen them. I tell her I'll call my brother and get back to her. I call him. When he picks up, I can tell that they're outside even though it's raining. Before he can even say one word, I've already generated a flawless mathematical formula that told me everything I needed to know:
Outside in the rain + Broken Curfew + Not answering Mom's calls - Romantic first date = fighting
I ask him where he is. He says right outside her apartment. I tell him his girlfriend's Mom called me and that he should give her a call back. Boom. My work is done and I go back to dishing out laser flavored justice. Half an hour goes by before the Mom calls me again. She still hadn't heard from them. Now, if you know me at all, you know there's nothing I hate more than talking on the phone*. Call me once, shame on you, call me twice, you're a clueless idiot. So I tell her what I know and promise her that I'll call them again. This time my brother doesn't answer at all. Nor does he answer the five times after that. If my mastery of Crazy Bitch Fighting is still up to par, I imagine that she gave him a stern look every time the phone rang, daring him to answer it. For future reference: if you're shooting for breakup style points, answering the phone during a fight yields incredibly high numbers. Anyway, I stop trying. I know where they are, she now knows where they are. So it's back to naked Halo. Ten minutes later she calls again. I was fully prepared to turn up the rude until this conversation took off from the launchpad of total insanity:
Her (Spanish accent): Zak?
Me: *sigh* Yeah?
Her: Zak, they are drunk!
Me: I...what?!
Her: They are drunk, Zak!
Me: What the fuck do you mean "they are drunk"? I just talked to them a few minutes ago and they sounded fine.
Her: I saw them in the attic, they were having sex!
Me: W...what do you mean "attic"? I thought you lived in an apartment building?
Her: I saw heem in the stairway! He was taking off a condom and peeing on the stairs! They are drunk, Zak!
Me: Holy shit! I'm starting to think that you are fucking drunk. So where are they now?
Her: I don't know!
Me: What do you mean? I thought you just saw them?
Her: I...I don't knoooooowwwwwww!
She then goes on to tell me that the girl just threatened to jump off of a 6th story ledge even though she still can't tell me where she is, thus stripping her story of any credibility that it may have had left. She then suggests calling the cops to look for her.
I call my brother and tell him in my best scary dad voice "get your ass the fuck home, now. He tries to explain to me what's going on, but I cut him off with a curt "I don't give a fuck. Tell me when you get home."
He gets home and runs through the whole story from his perspective, during which I fight off a series of I-told-you-that-bitch-was-crazy type comments that were welling up in my head at an alarming rate. The short version was he broke up with her, they fought about it, he tried to make her go home, she wouldn't, he tried to take her by the arm, she pulled out of her coat and ran away. After we get done talking, the Mom calls again, this time to tell me that the police want to speak to me. Apparently it's standard teenage-couple-drama procedure to check the boyfriend's house to make sure she isn't there. I begrudgingly agree to their terms and invite them over. They actually ended up being pretty cool guys, and one of them even let me put his empty gun into my new gun holster, because I'm a smooth fucking talker. They leave me with their numbers and split. A few minutes later, a friend of my brother calls and says the ex is on her way over. Bam. Cops are called, girl is caught, ordeal is over.
The cops took her to the hospital for suicide watch, and it turns out that it wasn't her first time. Because of this, the Mom has been under the watchful eye of social services for some time. This helped shed some light on the crazy shit she was trying to convince me of earlier. I decided she was trying to preemptively cover her ass by making up some insane story about my drunk brother getting her daughter drunk and peeing in her non-existent attic ten minutes before he came home and wasn't drunk. May I suggest removing a chunk of my brain the next time you try to convince me you're a better parent than I am, Commander Genius.
*Beloved drunk-dialers know themselves to be the exception.
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Thank you. You rule.