More specifically, other people's drama is my life. Recently, it's come to my attention that I am, in fact, the most boring person on earth. It's an epic level of wowness, because my family? Is The Drama. Or kind of is. It's really sad. I should be The Drama, but my title was taken and stomped upon.
We get a call while on the way to work Monday morning.
The Phone Call
Sister: Get me Mom.
Me: And hi to you. *hands over phone*
Mom: Is he still there?
Mom: What happened? Where are you? Are you okay?
Mom: Do you need me to go with you?
Me: Is this twenty questions?
So. My brother in law got arrested Sunday night for disorderly conduct in a club. He managed, all on his lonesome, to get beat up by two bouncers, arrested, pepper-sprayed, and then nearly tazered, then spent the night in jail. My sister, that pillar of dignity and common sense, screamed threats at the police from the sidelines until they threatened to arrest her. Then she drove her husband's stardard home to sleep off her hangover. They want to sue the city for police brutality and the club for assault.
I have no good stories. I have *none* that I can share at cocktail parties like this. I mean, if I went to cocktail parties.
I've mentioned my youngest sister is going through a modified Goth-esque phase. It's kind of interesting, in a car crash sort of way. I mean, I'm not sure of the philosophical statement she's making here, but wow, is she creative with turning things that should never be worn into fashion statements. She and Boyfriend are now employed, and they also have a terrify doll hanging by its neck on their door.
This doll has a history.
We were coming home late from work. It was, well, dark. There is one tree in the front yard. Looking out, we spied something (or someone!) leaning against it. That did not move. It glowed white in the darkness.
Let's just say that Jenn the Brave's ass didn't leave the jeep until it was confirmed it was a doll. A doll that also wasn't out to kill her.
Okay, in my defense, it's a creepy doll. It's one of those plastic standing up things that have scared me since I saw the advertisements for Child's Play on TV in my really boring youth. It looks like something that should be invaded by evil forces and snet to kill us all. And she hangs the thing by the neck on her *bedroom door*, naked. That is asking for a tv movie at least, or maybe even a feature.
Of course, keep in mind I couldn't sleep in the same room as Teddy Ruxpin either.
Okay, but anyway. Their drama is more of the daily variety. About twice a week, give or take a few hours, there is a massive, world-ending shouting match, leading to Boyfriendguy playing Insaniquarium for hours on end in teh living room and my sister cutting up things. Paper things, I mean. Slamming doors. Sometimes, he packs up and leaves, bag in hand. And then he comes back. They fall in love all over again, with the kind of noises that I own headphones to avoid. And it circles around again. Twice a week.
My son asked me the other day why I didn't date anymore, since the last time he saw Mommy in male company, he wasn't forming any permanent memories, having just gotten to the running stage of development, which says embarrassing things about my social life. While I changed the channel, Boyfriendguy wandered out, bag in hand, threatening never to return. Or something. In the kitchen, my mother talked to Sister's Husband about their recent squabble over infidelity and who picks up their daughter from daycare. I considered the fact that both my grandmothers, my aunt, and my step-grandfather were mutliply married, and in my aunt's case, we can't prove husband #3 is actually dead. I pondered the fact that I don't know anyone who has a stable marriage that doesn't scare me into chastity and then looked at Child.
"I think I'll wait on that."
But man, one more remark on how I'm going to marry Vannezsa since I can't keep a boyfriend, I may just do it. She promised me a Kitchen-Aid mixer. She also promised not to require fidelity, since this would be on paper for tax purposes only. We could afford a condo. Hmm.
I'm getting pressure to declare paternity on Child in a more public manner than the one statement I made when I announced my pregnancy. I mean, not real pressure, not *yet*, but it's being brought up with increasing frequency. More sideline comments, of 'he'll want to know who his father is' and 'you can't keep him from knowing', which translates to 'he should have a father figure, and I can't think of anyone better than someone who wasn't interested in being a father at the time and hasn't been chewing at the bit to discover what's happened with his sperm since.' I can. I mean, I won't keep him from knowing, but his random inquiries have been pretty much of the curiosity and forget it variety. It's my stubborn side showing, I think. Or maybe my less-than-nice side. I just don't see the point. I mean, I read the literature on single parents and children, and mathematically, my chances of raising a serial killer are about equal with that of raising a president, apparently. Or a herpetologist, if the fact that the house overfloweth with snake books is any indication. Serial killer is starting to look vaguely comforting. I mean, at least then, I won't wake up one day with a snake slithering across the floor at me and Child's shining face while he explains he found it outside. I love my fellow man and all, but that snake head still scares the bejeezus out of me at random intervals when he moves it around, specifically, I think, to see me jump and scream.
I had another interesting experience, as I was walking through Old Navy a few weeks ago, trying to find clothes that fit my portly little gentleman. Yes. He is portly. The child is not suffering for food. The child is not suffering from anything *resembling* lack of food. This is a problem. I come from, on the maternal side, some seriously high-metabolism people, and on the other side, the more fleshily inclined. My sisters and I all burned off everything once the babyfat stage at four years was passed. So I really can't tell if this is a normal child thing. On the other hand, I limited his intake from snack foods to things that have some vague resemblance to healthy, so all the fat is *healthy* fat. Something like that.
Anyway. Old Navy.
Child: Jenn! JENN
Child: Jenn! Jennjennjennjennjenn! *MOMMMY*!
Me: *sighs* Coming!
Salesperson gives me the oddest look. And it occurs to me, as it often does at random intervals, that *Mom* is last resort for Child. It's what he uses when he's in distress or he wants a new snake book, to suck up. For any and all occasions, it's Jenn. And we get these looks. This is compounded by Niece, who calls me Mom to piss off Child when she's grumpy, which means at any given moment, I can be considered the mother of two children or no children at all. This becomes especially confusing when confronted with New People who don't understand that Jennworld is kind of topsy-turvy. It only gets cuter when Niece, in the shoe store, absconds with a pair of heels, puts them on, and parades aorund calling herself Jenn, and refuses to be called by her own name.
She also keeps making off with my boots, and if you've never seen a three year old wiht boots up to her pantyline tumbling arond the living room wearing nothing but a half-slip around her like a strapless dress, trust me, you have missed out on comic gold. the only thing more interesting is Child in a black half-slip and running shoes, no socks, running around outside without underwear because, in his estimation, it cools off his boyparts and is more comfortable. The best thing, of course, is when both slip into sister's room, in slip, and start playing with the mascara, lipstick, and blush.
That's when I know I'm doing just *fine*. And it must be stated, both of them are creative with the blue eyeshadow in ways that the seventies would envy.
*girns* Welcome to my insomnia.