Why Mac is the way he is...

For some reason or another, this entirely true story I am about to regale ya'll with needs to be told with a Southern influence. So read it out loud in your best southern accent. I'm not sure why other than the fact I'm mentioning Mac's daddy, aka Sperm Donor, and he's just a dumb, fat, ol' Redneck not worth the air he breaths or the skin that covers his spreading hide. And I'm just adorin' the parenthesis today...

Mac is an only child. Get over it. I'm 37 and have been single and divorced for 13 years. He's gonna be 16 years old on Easter Sunday (I loved telling him he was delivered by an Easter Bunny outta an egg... yeah- that logic fails me as well) My uterus has cobwebs on it. He's an only child and unless some Biblical-like miracle happens like it did with Abe and Sarah of Holy Bible Fame, I will not begatting any more yung'uns. (Oh dear Goddess of all that is baby do NOT make me eat them words). That being said, because Mac is an only child, we are on a different wave length than other moms and kids, I think, and we communicate in altogether a different fashion than kids whose parents are former YUPPIES and have to SURVIVE in a NUCLEAR family. Either that or I've given up...

Take today, for example. Mac called me and wanted to know if I would please come and get him from his daddy's house because they were having macaroni and cheese and smoky links for dinner and he hates it today. This was at 3 pm in the afternoon. Now I let the "hatin' it today" thing just slide because I have learned in 16 years of trying to force veggies and healthy shit down his throat that I might as well give up and let him turn into an advertisement for Super Size Me because if he don't want to eat it, he ain't gonna! My comment to him instead was the ever high road about his Sperm Donor: "your daddy and stepmonster are eating dinner at 3pm in the afternoon?" (Hiz daddy is 9 years older than me and so close to bein' in a retirement village with a walker and a nurse and all that good stuff so I thought maybe they wuz practicing up for that dear day when he goes to Florida and never darkens the north again until it his time comes to return to his Redeemer since he's found G-O-D since we've divorced... via a plastic body bag, of course) Mac's response to them eatin' dinner in the middle of the afternoon: "They're fucking retarded."

Now as a good PC parent I shouldn't laugh there and I should well- okay, there are all sorts of things wrong with that and what I should do, but I did tell him to not say "retarded" and that I would call him back in an hour since I was driving on the interstate and since I was in the Midwest and it's near racing time, people around these parts were practicing for qualifyin' for a pole position at the Brickyard or the Indy 500 so I needed to stop talkin' on the Crackberry and actually focus on drivin' so I didn't get myself and Daddy-O killed. Daddy-O was riding shot gun.

So, I get home and I try to call Mac- I call his cell phone because I hate calling the house because I so don't like talking to the bitch Stepmonster who mumbles at me, or his Sperm Donor daddy who grunts when I call. And yes, Mac has a cell phone- some fancy pants fandagled thing like a Stormyitouchinstinctberry. Of course he doesn't answer because he's prolly planning a hook up with his homefrenchfrygirlfriend with beneies- that I will explain another day.

Shortly after I leave a message, Mac texts me back and what follows is our exact exchange, including the words and symbols:

Mac: sorry i didn't hear it ring.
me: no worries
Mac: whatzup?
me: Not much. What are you doing?
Mac: sittin here
me: Me too. Sam was supposed *call me 30 min ago so we could "talk" ie: break up but he's yet to call. Wish you had a job so u could take me 2 dinner.
Mac: I wish I had something good to eat
me: me too
Mac: you suck

*end of transmission- because what could I honestly say after that show of emotion?*

See, we can get away with talking like this because he's an only child. I don't have to worry about setting a good example for other brats. And you know what? I had one chance to get it right and I obviously blew that opportunity (I screw up my kid but I took the opportunity to wear parachute pants in the 80s.... priorities.... dang!) so we just talk like that. And it doesn't even bother me. Other than the fact that I do wish he had a job so he could take me out to eat since I am unemployed. And hungry.

Hey, at least I am giving the boy PLENTY of stuff to talk about when he decides to go for therapy.

Mamma Mia,
Mags


* Since my shitty Crackberry only gives me 160 characters in a text window, I have to resort to writing in "text" language which I despise with all that his Holy! I swear on Prada that I would never do it- and look at me....