This is the face of a guy pretending to be happy as a clam, when in fact, I am sure he wishes I would drop dead right this second.
Get in line, fucker. 😂
Since returning from my glorious week in Colorado, I’ve caught a pretty nasty cold. I suppose it was gonna happen; two large airports and a 737 have to be extremely germy. The meds I have at home aren’t cutting it, so I knew I needed the big guns. I threw on clothes and a coat and made my way to the store, hoping that
A) the crisp air would do me some good and
B) they had Nyquil in stock.
I invited The Male Sibling Unit to accompany me, and off we traipsed. He was mostly good until checkout, when he said, “Get me some gum?” All while chewing away on a piece. Having just purchased sugar-free pudding, oatmeal, Manwich, and ingredients for a spiced apple cake per his “suggestions”, I was low on cash.
“Are you out?” I asked, eyeing the oyster crackers I’d picked up for some soup and thinking I didn’t need them. “No, I have some,” he replied as he made a movement to grab a pack. “Then no.” I answered. He stopped, looked at me and said, “Why NOT?” I took a deep breath, willing myself to not argue, and simply stated, “Because you still have some.”
The Male Sibling Unit’s compulsion to hoard gum goes back decades. When he moved in with me, he was carrying anywhere from five unopened packs and dozens of loose pieces in his pockets at any given time. I think he was just spitting it out the minute it lost taste. Despite having enough gum to provide a stick for every attendee of a jazz convention, he would still insist he needed to buy more. One pack is enough, and I’ll even submit to the necessity of having two, if you want some variety, but the entire gum shelf in a checkout aisle of a grocery store is excessive. Excessive and expensive, since .50 packs of gum have gone the way of dinosaurs and it isn’t odd to spend $2 on a single pack now. Fuck that! One pack at a time, Old Chap. One pack at a time.
The Male Sibling Unit was quiet for a while, as we began the trek home. But then, like a colon after a binge session at Taco Bell, he began to make noise.
“When, ” he asked, “am I done being grounded?” I rolled my eyes so hard I just have looked exactly like Marty Feldman. “This again?” I bleated, my voice hoarse from both my cold and my disbelief that we needed to have this conversation yet again, for the third time today.
Yes, The Male Sibling Unit is grounded. For a week and a day, exactly, for harassing and sending very mean texts to an individual after being warned not to. This is just the sort of drama he moans about others creating, and yet he creates much of it himself. I had simply had enough, so I confiscated his cell phone and logged him out of Facebook and changed his password. (This will be a bit of a problem when he gets back access, because I can’t remember what I changed it to.) He is restricted for a week with the understanding that he will get an extra day tacked on should he lie, heckle, or, quite simply, piss me off in any way.
Hence being at a week and a day. That’s right, jackass, I wasn’t kidding.
In the past, I would have caved by now. He’d be happily texting bullshit and posting his daily business on Facebook because, well…….he pushes my buttons and I just want a little peace. Not this time. Don’t ask me what’s different. Maybe I wanted to really test my heart medication; maybe there is not enough angst in my diet. Like fiber, it keeps the plumbing moving. Maybe I was overcome by the high altitudes and the lack of oxygen in the Rockies and I’ve truly lost my mind for good. It just seems to me that my making things easier for him, and not holding him completely accountable for his shitty behavior because he is disabled is a big cop-out on my part.
Very carefully, I tried being diplomatic instead of losing my temper yet again, because I’m convinced that a steady diet of me losing my shit has made me too predictable to The Male Sibling Unit, and he tends to feed off negativity.
“This will teach you,” I began, “that actions have consequences, and that you cannot fool me. In the end, I find out everything. People tell me when you fuck up. I have my spies.”
“WHO?” The Male Sibling Unit demanded, outraged that his friends could have betrayed him. This made me laugh, evilly; which might have sounded like Frau Farbissina from Austin Powers under normal circumstances, but given my cold, came out sounding more like a half-strangled Yoko Ono song. “I’m not going to tell you who, dumbass! I want you to be good because it’s the right thing to do, not because you’re afraid someone’s gonna rat you out!”
He was quiet for a moment, his brow knitted in serious contemplation. “Fine,” he responded haughtily. “I’m happy. I’m not gonna cause drama. I’m just fine.” Then he crouched and did a hop, stuck his tongue out at me, and pretended that his movements were perfectly normal when I stopped and asked him just “What the fuck was that?!?” Oh, he blew it off, replying, somewhat grittily, “Fosse! Fosse! Fosse! Madonna! Madonna!” but I knew and he knew. Oh, we knew. This was no lighthearted recap of The Birdcage. It was more like a dance of death, or of a guy who’s dancing on a grave. Mine, to be exact.
I am pretty sure the little fucker would be sticking pins into a voodoo doll of me if he had one. I am pretty sure that more than just my ears, nose, and throat would be aching if he had any clue of how to do magic. Yup. That’s the face of a pissed-off Unit.
Four more full days of grounding to go. If I never make another blog entry, it’s because I discovered that my heart meds do have limits, or they wouldn’t give me internet access in the institution.