Archive for the ‘Parents’ Category

Stephanie, not an Oprah fan, I’d take it

Was it really necessary to cry for three days when I shaved my head at age 17? Did you have to be all dramatic when every I expressed a teeny, tiny individual impulse? Well, screw that I guess. I learned how to hide my freak flag. It is a skill that serves me well.

And to this day, you still don’t understand me. You don’t know my hopes and dreams. Heck, you don’t even know my goddamn JOB! You truly suck because of this. And I know I should be all, ‘you did the best you could’ and all ‘Oprah vagina forgiveness’ about it. But, no. I still think it sucks when you can’t get your self past the tattoos to see the glory of me. Dumbass.

But lets try a tiny step here. I am NOT a physicians assistant. I am a PSYCHIATRIC NURSE PRACTITIONER.

Big difference between the two. Just like us.

I still love you though. Your grand-kids love you more. See you next week.

Rantasaurus Says: Steph, I get you. I get you. When Mr. Perfect Dumb Billasaurus was off stomping skulls and making Mamasaurus proud, I was reading in the corner, learning Milton, Thoreau. Who do you think got the Caveasaurus when Mama passed away?


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Oh hi there, Dearest Daddy and my darling step-mommy!

Remember how I’m putting myself through college? Like, that whole thing where I have scholarships and loans in my name? And I’m paying for my own car and insurance and cell bill and credit card and basically have been financially independent from anyone for the last three years?

Yeah, that’s pretty cool, huh. ? And I know you’re all proud of me and stuff. But, um, here’s the thing: yeah, when you promise to send me money because I have a business trip to NYC and would like a little extra doff to buy you presents and, y’know…eat? Or when I’m strapped for cash one semester and I’d like a simple hundy to get me through a month? Or, hey, when my *tooth breaks* and I’d like to go to a dentist to get it fixed, but I have no dental insurance and no money to take care of it and you’re all, “Why, of course we’ll send you money so that you can get through a simple meal without wondering if food is going to get stuck in your giant, chipped tooth hole and become abcessed, leading to having to have the tooth pulled and a root canal which we know you can’t afford!”

Yeah, when you promise me all the stuff and then you don’t follow through? Guess what that makes you: lying liars who lie. Do me a favor. Don’t promise it to me if you don’t have it. If you say “we don’t have the extra cash right now” for the love of God, I’ll understand (until you spend $700 for the step-kiddles to go to junior and sophomore prom, which is a rant of a different color).

In conclusion: don’t be surprised if I don’t come home for Christmas because I can’t afford gas.

All my love!


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BeTheBoy, primo heartbreaker.

I had wanted to go out with her for a long time but I was unable to because things just got in the way. Finally, when things were out of the way I asked her out and we made plans for dinner. When the night finally arrived we were sitting over a dinner that had been a long time coming and talking about why it had taken so long to get there when her phone rang and she was told that her father had suffered a heart attack. I paid the check and we left the food on the table. Damn it, the way things were going I was pretty sure this night was going to end with some booze and ass slapping and now I have to drive her to the hospital. Damn stupid heart attack having father ruining my chances to see his daughter nekkid.

So we get to the hospital where I meet her family, it was awkward but at least I didn’t have to meet her father who busy at the time. Having not eaten much in the way of dinner we finished our date over vending machine candy bars and sodas in the hospital waiting room while we waited for the doctor.

As it turns out her dad only THOUGHT he was having a heart attack and after some tests he was cleared to go home. By this time it was too late to pick up where we left off, but we had the next day and night.

Rantasaurus Says: At least you didn’t get to see Daddy nekkid… with a tag on his foot as they wheeled him downstairs.

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Dear Mister Finch,

I do remember with distinct clarity the day you appeared upon my window sill. It was the last hard rain of April, a brilliant full-arc rainbow materialized upon the verdant green hills surrounding my home, then, as if from some romantic line of poetry or sweet lyric from a song, you landed outside The Number Two Window (of Four) which lines my home office vista.

Beautiful and Poignant: a small brown and gray bird, sharing my space. Peering at me. Even Charming. So much so that when I told my father, he commented that you must be a Messenger of some kind, here to tell me some tale. A friend said that you appeared to mark a new path in my life, a true Harbinger.

That was the first day we were together: me pecking away at my keyboard, and you joining in, pecking away at the glass like something out of Mary Freakin’ Poppins.

It is now almost July.

Please go away.

Or for the love of God, stop your infernal rapping in the middle of my slumber! And tell me why and how you discovered the location of my bedroom window?! On the opposite side
of my house?!

The only one which I cannot open, for if I indeed could open it, i would lace bread crumbs with poison for you to mistakenly feed on!

Go away!

Do you migrate?

Please don’t tell me I must wait for winter.

Please don’t tell me that was you who did that on my windshield either.

I don’t want to get a cat.

I hate cats.

R. Dario

Rantasaurus Says: Our very talented graphic artist, ladies and gentlemen, has quite the poetic streak. Nice use of flowery language, Rob, to mislead us as to the true nature of your hatred for the finch. Good work. You get an English major stamp of approval.

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Dear BB-

Why must you share every detail of your life with me (and the rest of the office) on a day to day basis?

I understand you’re a 40-almost-50 something mother who is trying to desperately live vicariously through your bubbly 22 year old who just got out of college and got a great job making more money than you and me, but I REALLY don’t want to hear it.

If I have to hear the vibration of your phone on your desk ONE MORE TIME, I will very possibly grab it and flush it down the nearest toilet. It’s not that you spend nearly 6 of the 8 business hours on your cell phone or work phone on personal business; it’s that you make sure the entire office can hear. Your daughter got a bonus AND a promotion? WOW! Now she can spend more of that “hard-earned” money on the cute little outfits that made her marketable in the first place.

Wait a second, your daughter has found an apartment with a fireplace in a good neighborhood? Wowie! Do you even understand how pitiful you sound when you say “We were going to look at this last one, but we made it there too late” as if your daughter has you tagging along to look at apartments because you’re going to be her cool new roomie!

When I come in excited that my fiancé of nearly two years has finally gotten off his ass and agreed to get a place to live before we get married, I don’t want to hear you butt in and sabotage the conversation and suddenly make it about your awesome, beautiful, blonde, buxom daughter who is out on her own without a man, which you obviously couldn’t do at her age. I also don’t want to hear about your friend’s Mom who passed away two weeks ago when I come in grieving that my Grandfather JUST passed away.

STOP TRYING TO RELATE TO ME. Just because I’m the same age as your daughter but am better than you at the job we perform doesn’t mean that you can try to one-up me every time I have exciting or important news. Get over the fact that you’re almost 50, your daughter is living your life, and if there was suddenly a reason that one of us had to be let go for company financial reasons, your senority won’t save you- because I’m better at my job and a hell of a lot more efficient.

GROW UP. And for Christ’s sake, pick your goddamn feet up when you walk, you sound like a goddamn elephant.

Your frustrated neighbor to the right.


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Jen F, truth front and center

When it comes to troubled kids, gang members, absenteeism, and other juvenile delinquent activities I don’t believe a mother’s age today is either an excuse or the problem. It also makes no difference if the mother is single or not. Troubled kids have parents of all ages, married or not.

It is easy to look at somebody else’s life and see how they are doing things wrong, but in a single Mom’s effort to get through school, obtain an education, and secure a career – versus the McDonalds drive thru/welfare route – is it so hard to see she’s trying to do something right – provide her family financial security, model life as a student – showing that hard work and home work lead to tangible rewards and personal accomplishments, all while reinforcing the struggles and difficulties you go through as a young mother, left on her own, trying to get ahead in life?

If you stay home then you’re a welfare mom, probably on drugs with a ton of men in and out, the bane of society, sucking up all the working people’s taxes and depriving them of expected benefits, but if you work full time and return to school – then you’re abandoning your kids and neglecting your parental duties. It’s a Catch-22. Now you’re a bad mother because you make them catch a bus instead of driving, you’re not the chaperone for field trips or dances, you’re not there when school lets out, driving car pool and baking cookies timed so they’ve cooled just enough for the chocolate to still be warm when they walk through the front door, and you don’t follow it up with a gourmet dinner from scratch.

Any young woman who fully understood the consequences of her actions, would not consciously choose to become a teen mother. The fact that I was a pregnant teenager is not a reflection on who I am today, but more a reflection that during my teen years, I was a teenager, and as can be expected of teenagers, was irresponsible, did not fully think things through or understand consequences. Immaturity and irresponsibility while a teen can be expected, that is not a reflection in any way of the mature adult and responsible parent I am today.

So if you won’t even let me look at your rental because I’m a young looking mother -even though I’m offering a year in advance plus double security; if you want to use me as a face to face example of a smart girl who failed to meet her potential for your college bound daughter; if you want to treat my child as a leper since only one parent lives at home; if you want to cut us off in the grocery line and give me dirty looks while muttering “shameful”, if you want to refuse to allow your child to associate with mine outside of school because you saw me out with my best male friend, then my brother, and then my cousin (HOT! Check out joeclopton.com) and assumed I was a whore…

If you want to flat out refuse to accept my housing application and tell me it’s because you don’t want to be associated with “all that stuff” – which you explained to be code for: drugs, broken walls, police calls, missed rent, and men in and out at all hours, etc – while I stand in front of you with my straight A student, my new car, my credit app, my law school books, long-term employment history, personal recommendations from previous landlords, and in my coaching gear as I was on the way to a game – if you want to be an ignorant, narrow minded, hate-filled waste of molecules – well go ahead.

I’m not gonna stand in your way. I’m just gonna tell my Mom. Wait – Mom already knows. I’m gonna tell the WWW instead you big meanie! Ummbaaa! You’re in trouble now!!!

Rantasaurus Says: Jen, you are one kick-ass lady. Thanks for the rant… and giving us all something to think about.

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Family Woes

Emily G, inheriting a pain in the ass

Any time I spend with my family, holiday or not, is the worst time of my life. One time in particular, though, takes the cake. We happen to be on vacation, and we’re out to dinner at a nice restaurant. As it goes with my family, everybody is sitting, not talking, steely cold and silent.

Course after course arrives and the tension is palpable. Nothing new. Finally, out of nowhere, my dad tries to eat something off of my mother’s plate and she starts screaming. Not speaking politely, not mildly yelling, but screaming. “You motherfucker.” “Get out of my life.” “I should’ve killed myself years ago!”

Remember, we’re in a restaurant. She starts sobbing hysterically, throws her glass of wine and then, without further ado, stands up and yanks the tablecloth off the table. It’s not one of those parlor tricks where everything stays put. There is food all over my father, which I believe was the desired effect, but there is also everything else all over the floor.

Then she walks out of the restaurant. We are in Europe. We do not hear from her for two days. When she finally calls, she is in Belgium, which isn’t even the same country, and wants us to come get her because she’s been sleeping under a bridge, which is just fine, but finally, the straw that broke the camel’s back, a common grey pigeon “looked at me funny.”

Rantasaurus Says: For a vacation like that, the travel agent should be paying you.

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