Saturday, March 27, 2010




I feel the need to write this stuff down. I want to tell someone, but since it is not quite 8:30 on a Saturday morning, I don't want to interrupt anyone, or wake anyone up, and I do want to say this!

A few days ago, my son Joe called and got permission to have Nick spend the night. That was the day -- remember? -- that I came home and found that my apartment had been turned upside down by two stoned teenagers who thought they were so funny and clever, but then immediately after each funny/clever incident, forgot it and wandered off to do something else funny and clever. And then when they decided to leave, they just left, without turning off any lights or closing any drawers or putting any of their funny and clever things back where they got them. So I came home and found the obviously post-dope-session apartment. As I was stalking around, fuming to myself, putting thing after thing back where it went, I noticed a large blank and empty space on the top shelf of the hall bookcase. Where the boxed set of hardbound Tolkien sits. I looked around for it, feeling quite certain that it had been used like the other books still out on the dining room table, as a jump for a tech deck, but could not find it. Anywhere. And this apartment is quite small, so there aren't any places to hide a boxed set of books.

When I next saw Joe, which was at least 48 hours later, I asked him where this boxed set was. He denied all knowledge of it. I asked if anyone else had been in the house, other than Nick. He denied that, too, vehemently. "Then Nick has it," I said. Joe denied the possibility of this. I pointed out, that with only himself and Nick in the house, then ONE of them, at least, must know. He just looked at me blankly, and said, "Nope -- neither of us do."

Nope -- neither of us do. As though this FACT was going to dissolve because he just shook his head. No understanding of A plus B equals C, just thinking, "If I don't admit it, she can't do anything about it."

Okay -- so then he sold his truck and went off with a handful of money, which he certainly needs to pay at least some part of his bills. I haven't seen him since. And this morning, I was tidying up the house, and decided to pick up some of the garbage in the computer room, where Joe sleeps. And found, squirreled away behind a box, and under his covers, and squished behind the bookcase, to wit:

1. One 2-pound bag of raisins, opened and eaten from -- the second one of these he has taken into his room
2. A bag of very moldy bread, half eaten
3. Three mostly-eaten bags of chips
4. TWO half-empty 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor.

In my house,in my house,IN MY HOUSE!

And we have had the conversation about why he cannot drink, that it is, simply, illegal, and so therefore he cannot -- end of story, just like he has to have car insurance if he is going to drive -- and you know how well that worked out, right? -- many times! And quite recently, too.

But still, he just took these two bottles out of his backpack and left them on the floor in my house, hidden behind a wadded-up blanket, but very findable.

So what does that say about his attitude toward me? That I am just the mother, the one who feeds and comforts, but not the one who punishes? The one who knows the answers to questions, but is too stupid to move a blanket? The one who pays for the house but has no right to say what happens there?

I'm really, really angry about this! Help!

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