Pretend I’m Not Here!

I live with three males. Two I birthed, the other I choose to live with on purpose. The males in my household aren’t the most organized. Actually, the two I birthed are downright dreadful, to my evaluation. The chosen one isn’t that bad, but I’ll bet it’s only due to all my haranguing, nagging, yelling and threatening over the last thirty years. He’s either sick and tired of listening to me, or terrified of stepping out of line.

My sons aren’t at all fearful and I don’t think they hear a word I say. You’d think after nineteen and fourteen years they’d have picked up something, or, at the very least, have a freaken smidge of my DNA. But no, I didn’t get even remotely blessed in that area. I carried them for over eight months each (they were both early) then pushed them out of MY hoo-ha, but I didn’t get to pick even ONE freaken trait (Mother Nature needs a talkin’ to, if you ask me).

Anyway, I’ve been teaching my boys, by example, how to be organized and how to handle situations, which come naturally to me, by the way, but apparently, they’re foreign concepts to them and extremely difficult—like balancing a triangle on the top of their heads while jogging at three miles per hour on an icy surface.

They can’t find their phones, iPods, ear buds, car keys, shoes, favorite jeans, school papers or food! They will go to the pantry and ask if we have such and such a food item and when I say it’s in there, they will ask where and I will say, second shelf on the left near the back, and they will say, no it isn’t. I then go to the pantry, to the second shelf, on the left, near the back and pull out such and such and hand it to them. They then say, Oh, I didn’t SEE it. Well, duh, open your eyes.

 They do this shit with the refrigerator and their closet or when I ask them to get ME something, too. It’s like they aren’t even LOOKING. I swear they have a Where Is It gene. Rather than looking for something the Where Is It gene kicks in and they immediately ask, Mom, where is it? And the dumb ass that I am, I actually TELL them because I know where every single item is in this house!

They also don’t think anything is important unless it pertains to THEIR cell phones, THEIR computers, THEIR emails, THEIR…well you get the idea. KIDS! What the hell was I thinking when I decided to have TWO!

 Just kidding, I love them to pieces, but sometimes I could pinch their heads off!

Like yesterday.

 Taxes are due Tuesday. Yeah, like in four days Tuesday. I’m leaving for my parents’ house tomorrow and I won’t be home until Sunday night. Why is this a big deal, you ask? Let me tell you.

My son was in Army Boot Camp last year. He got paid and the Army, bless their hearts, did everything electronically, including his W-2. I’ve been asking, begging, ordering, and threatening my son to get me his w-2 for almost two months now.

 Alas, I still don’t have it. I have the web-site. What I don’t have is his user ID and password—he forgot them (don’t listen to your mother and write this shit down).

 I told him to contact whomever he needed to in order to GET the info. He didn’t. So, yesterday I MADE him sit down and dial the eight hundred number. He began pushing buttons then hung up and said, “See, I can’t get it.”

I wanted to pinch his head right off.

I grabbed the phone and redialed the eight hundred number and listened to the menu options. I began pressing buttons—lo and behold I got to the one that said PRESS 0 for Operator. So, I did and then I handed HIM the phone and said, “You sit there on hold and wait for an operator. When one comes on, explain that you need a new user ID and password.”

Well, he did get to talk to an operator and he did get it handled. We had to scan his Army ID and email it over to them to prove his identity. But at least my son could SEE, once again, that it can be handled if you are willing to do the WORK.

 There are just some things I can’t do for him anymore. He’s technically an ADULT and he needs to do things on his own now. Besides, what would he, or his brother, do if I wasn’t around?

GO DO IT!

Pretend I’m not here and GO DO IT!

That’s my new motto. Well, I’m going to TRY to make it my new motto.

 I know, I know! I’ve permitted them to get away with this crap. It’s MY fault.

 Or can I blame it on the monkey?