OUT OUT OUT!

The Toad moved out.

He didn't make it out of the yard.

He moved into the other side of the duplex we live in, that my mother owns. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! His landlord. Is. My. Mother.

In preparation for his big move, I made it clear to all parties that I will not be playing the Gator's flunky on anything. He doesn't pay his rent? I DON'T CARE. He doesn't do much housework? I DON'T HEAR ABOUT IT. She's unhappy because...oh, hell, why would she be happy? NOT MY PROBLEM!

He moved out just over a month ago. It's been great! I also don't have to answer questions about what he's doing, where he is...blah blah blah.

We see him more often. He's in a better mood. He's not here STINKING UP MY HOUSE.

His room is slowly being converted into a playroom/hang out room for the Howler. We're not going crazy here--we're not even going to any great expense to have it be livable. And it doesn't matter! Who's going to complain? The 10 year old OPK who are watching a movie in there? HAH!

Toad moved out. Life is good.

Toad Tripping

The Toad started a new job. Due to the real confidentiality laws, I can only say that he is working with certifiable crazy people.

The one he's been working with most likes to do community service at the local humane society. She helps walk the dogs and it relaxes her. Apparently, the Toad's participation in this is also acceptable, and he is now walking homeless dogs. (and that's not the funny part)

The local humane society can afford a shitload of gravel for a their parking lot/mud hole. This is not usually a problem for most people...but for the Toad, this is baaaaaad news. While walking a homeless dog, he tried to jump over one of the larger mud puddles in the parking lot. Did I mention that the Toad is a rather large, doofy guy? And reminding you that he habitually twisted his ankle in gym class by tripping over painted lines should make the picture a little clearer.

Large doofy Toad lands in puddle. Dog is happy to have helped the Toad learn the very important lesson: if you have trouble walking in normal situations, and you habitually twist your ankles on painted lines, do NOT attempting to JUMP for any reason whatsoever.

Ever.

Dinner with My Spawn

Tonight for dinner, the Toad said he'd be here. So, when dinner was ready, we called up to Ass Caverns for him.

We used snooty accents, rolling our r's and elongating our vowels. He was amused.

He entered the kitchen, looked at me, and said, "Could you BE more obnoxious? Really?"

I laughed. Still using the snooty accent, I tell him, "Why, yes, I could be."

Again, he said, "Really? COULD you?"

Still laughing, I tell him, "Why yes, actually I could." Then I asked him if he wanted to throw down that gauntlet with me.

The Howler adds her two cents worth with, "Trust me, dude, you don't want to throw down anything with this woman."

A New Song

for the Toad:

"The Toad got run over by a retard
Working full time and working hard
You can say that the Toad ain't never worked hard
But as for his grandma, she believes."

Yeah. And when he went to the ER to have the damage evaluated, he never told us. The Gator called him to invite him to eat dinner at her house, and he told her that he'd be there when he was released from the ER.

I'm trying not to laugh, even as I post this. I've had some really strange things happen to me, but even I have never been run over by a retard.

It's Proverbial

And Hell is, indeed, freezing over.

The Toad. Oh. Emm. Gee. The Toad.

Lately, he's actually been trying to be human. He's up to something. I just know he is.

Secret Squirrel has stopped calling for him. Because he's up to something. I just know he is.

Last night, he told off the Gator. Because, you know, she's a PITA. And he's up to something.

Today, My Sweetie and I left to go do a mission from God. Getting flowers for church, re doing the bulletin boards, moving the creche figures out to the stable he built. And stuff. When we got home, there was a mystery bag of garbage by the back door.

He's up to something.

He spent the day, with no prompting, begging, or threats, cleaning his pig-hole room.

We are astounded, and quite honestly, more than a little disturbed by this.

The room is clean, AND he's doing laundry. Lots and lots and lots of laundry. Some of it even got folded and put away.

He's up to something. I just know he is.

The Optimist

The Toad isn't always the sharpest crayon in the box.

Okay, mostly, he's not sharp at all. Unless he's talking to the parental units, I mean.

Yesterday, the boy genius washed his wallet--again. He washed his previous wallet so many times it became impossible to get his driver's license out of it. And that, he discovered, is a real bummer when you're at the liquor store and they refuse to accept it as valid.

So he gets himself a replacement license and a replacement wallet. A new and improved wallet, if you will. It's new, and it's improved because it hold up better when you wash it repeatedly.

His cellphone--a new one he got just a few months ago--is not, however, improved because it does not hold up so well when washed. Not even once.

Duh.

Blast from the Past

Ages ago, before the Toad became the Toad, he was the lead member of The Long Haul Gang. The Long Hauls were a trio (think 3 Amigos, with all 3 of them being about as cool as Martin Short) of pre-teens. They would gather, most often, at our house. And we tolerated them.

The Toad has kept in sporadic touch with the other members, although the group itself has been disbanded in favor of things like KKKKKlarsys (the 2nd K is silent) and zombie wars, and the avoidance of Jerkwood.

Anyway, yesterday, one of the Original Long Hauls was here, and the Toad very graciously allowed him to crumble the Sour Cream & Onion Pringles into crumbs. Said guy has not had the money for a haircut in at least 4 years.

The Howler was not happy. Those Pringles were her sole reason for living, and now, not only were they slightly more than half missing, they were in crumbles. Bitterness, thy name is Howler.

She has been referring to said Long Haul guy as "That Hippy Dude." So, Mr A.L., you now have an official "Howler & Toad" designation: That Hippy Dude. Congratulations, and welcome to the family!

Newsflash!

The Toad FINALLY cleaned his room. This is great, because, since opening the window, the stench of Ass Caverns has been crawling down the hall.

This is great, because he actually did IT, not just said he did...or just did a quick pretend cleaning.

This is great, because we now know how long it has been since he did last clean (and My Sweetie did most of that) because he explained the detrius strata he discovered as loaded up garbage bags (about a dozen of them, I think--oh, now he's blathering while reading over my shoulder that "there was significantly LESS than a dozen." oops. Sorry. He, and the garbage bags, go 11. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) Go to work already, and stop reading over my shoulder. I hate that.

Anyway, the bestest part of the whole thing was, at 11:15pm last night, in the drizzling rain, he left the building...then came back, with a previously disposed of garbage bag. Of course, it was the bag on the bottom of the can...the first one he gave the ol' heave-ho to.

He cleared the crap and clutter off the card table that has been illegally ensconced in his room...and that bag now contained his uncashed paycheck.

Classic. Mumple Classic. (Seriously, My Sweetie, God love him, spent two hours one Christmas night cracking his ribs on a dumpster...to try to find a light switch cover that we believed had been swept up in the piles of wrapping paper and tossed. And he's done searches through bags for discarded birthday and Christmas money, too.)

He kept reminding the Toad, "At least you didn't have to crack a few ribs." And, as an after thought, at least it was a bag of PAPER, even if it was a large bag of paper, because every grown up has had to dig through bags of garbage that were very much NOT paper.

I'm headed up there now to crack open windows and fight back the stench with Febreeze.

Wish me luck.

Calling In Dead

The Toad's little friend, Jerkwood, has left the building. Apparently, Jerkwood (the nasty little troll) managed to piss off every friend he had. They all decided to have nothing to do with him, and stuck to it. Good for them! The Toad finally admitted that we were right all along (ahhhh, I guess we're hitting the part where we got A LOT smarter over the past few years.)

The Toad and his friends have been celebrating--not in an excessive, obnoxious way, but it's celebrating just the same. A collect sigh of relief, if you will.

The Toad also, several months ago, agreed to join a vocal group his former voice teacher was part of. Every night they meet for practice, she unfailingly calls to find out if he's going to be there (he's managed to attend about 50/50.)

Tonight, he announced, in front of the magpie like Howler, "if she calls, tell her I'm dead." When pressed for answers, he said, "I made plans with my friends and then I remembered...so I'm not going. If she calls, tell her I'm dead."

As grown ups, we did not agree to say this. The Howler, as the Howler, said nothing for a change.

Shortly after supper, the phone rang, and neither My Sweetie nor I answered it immediately. Upon climbing the basement steps (smoke break, if you must know) we hear the Howler on the phone.

"He said that if you called, we're supposed to tell you he's dead."

"Well, that's what he said, anyway."

"He's doing stuff, with people, at places." (another Toadism)

My Sweetie and I are now almost in pain from not laughing out loud. No, it's not very mature of us, and it certainly encourages the Howler at her most annoying...and most funny.

"No, I don't think he's coming to practice."

"Okay. Bye then."

My Sweetie tells me that I should call her back and explain. I maintain that, at 21 years old, I am not responsible for his idiocy any longer, I did not sign him up for that gig, he knew she would call, and he knew where he should be tonight.

I did not call her back, but I did call the Toad. He, of course, didn't answer. But when he did call back, I informed him of the most amusing turn of events, and encouraged him to be more responsible, mature, and careful about what he said within earshot of his magpie Howler sister.

Mostly, I just laughed.

Dinnertime Conversation Starters

The Toad came home from McWork tonight, grabbed a plate and began to eat dinner. He reached into his pocket (God alone knows why) and says,

"Why is there a french fry in my pocket?"

I should have named him Napolean.

Because She Hates Us

A few weekends ago, the Howler and Missy discovered an evil so perverse, I have to blog about it: a 550 piece Christmas puzzle.

It was a gift from my sister, several years ago. We had managed, until recently, to NOT have it opened. With good reason. Do you know how evil a 550 piece puzzle is? And do you know the chances of keeping all 550 pieces of that puzzle findable in Mumpleland are slim and none?

Well, Missy & the Howler found it. They opened it. On the kitchen table, 45 minutes before suppertime.

Kill me. Kill me now.

They kept asking, "where did this puzzle come from?" and while my answer, "from Hell" probably wasn't appropriate for real-life, it is, somehow, very appropriate in Mumpleland.

The rest of the puzzle based conversation went like this:

M&H: Who gave you this puzzle?

me: My sister.

M&H: Why did she give it to you?

me: Because she hates me.

On Day #1 of Puzzle Hell, the Toad disagreed that my sister hates me.

Then he tried to help put it together.

He announced, "She does hate us."

It took 3 days, two adults, one Toad, and two little sqwacking beasts to put the thing together. And it will NEVER EVER need to be put together again.

I Am NOT His Secretary

As we all know, the Gator is obsessed with the Toad. And she holds the belief that I do not love him. Please remember that the Toad will be 21 next month. Old enough to vote, buy cigarettes, be drafted, drive a vehicle, and drink himself into a stupor.

He is NOT, however, rich enough or important enough to have a secretary. Or an aide, or an assisant.

And, even if he were, he could not afford ME to be his secretary. I do not make appointments, take messages, keep track of him...and the Gator is now, officially, 28 days before the Toad is legally legal, being put on notice:

If you want to know his schedule, call HIM.

If you want to know where he is, where he plans to be, what he was doing, or whether he plans to show up for any given event or activity, call HIM.

Leave me the F* out the loop and talk to HIM directly. I am not his secretary.

The Mumple Mitten

I worked today. 5:45am comes awful early, and even when the day goes quickly, it's still very tiring to deal with Black Friday shoppers, regardless of which side of the retail hell you're on.

But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.

Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.

Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"

Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"

Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"

Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.

The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.

Toad's Story

So we all know that the Toad works in a fast food joint. The latest and greatest taste sensation from this Joint is a new burger (big shocker there, I know.)

He was in the drive thru two nights ago and this new burger was requested:

"I'd like one of the new anus burgers, please."

Now he truly knows the joys of working with the public.

News Flash

Ringling Bros. is having Clown College rehearsals in Philadelphia, and I have a few questions.

1) How much is a bus ticket to Philly and what would it take to get the Toad on that bus?

2) Do you pay for Clown College with Funny Munny? (boo hiss boo, couldn't be helped.)

Toad Not On Road

Last night, I came home to find my Sweetie under the Beast.

It seems that when you have a car that is upwards of 10 years old, things start to wear out on it. Toad is oblivious to the obvious, of course, and spent his hard earned income tax refund on a new DS412, the latest and greatest expensive game system.

Because, you know, having a new video game system is WAAAAYYYYY more important than having money in the bank (or in your pocket) to pay for necessary things, like, oh, I don't know...brake linings on your 10 year old car.

Of course, the money's spent and this is when the Beast decides to blow an artery.

Apparently, Toadwort was driving home from work (or somewhere) and gets to make the choice between on-coming traffic, running a red light --again with the oncoming traffic, or go curbside. He did make "the right choice" in going curbside. And he made it home in time to change his pants.

But now, we're faced with hauling his no-clue-what-his-own-work-schedule-is-self to his place of employment for at least a few days. On top of whatever the hell else it is we claim we do.

Door#1 cannot get to this until next week. Door #2 can get to it possibly this afternoon, but definitely tomorrow. The best part of this entire scene is that in order to get to Door #2, the Brakeless Beast must be driven through a replace-the-thousand-year-old-bridge construction zone (other option: drive all over town to go the 'round-about way to get there. With, did I mention, No Brakes)

I love that in all the years I've had spawn, no one ever ever ever mentioned that it does not not not get easier when they get older.

My Lips, God's Ears

Or so the Toad tells me.

Just a few short weeks ago, I mentioned to him, in an encouraging sort of way (oh, yes, it was!) that he should get involved with the local theatre. The Reitz does some pretty good work--considering that a scant dozen or so years ago, it was an old church, with scary old Avenue theatre seats.

The seats have since been refurbished, and the place actually looks like a theatre these days. They have a marquee out front and everything. The local non-profit organization that runs it has done a fantastic job in bringing outside travelling groups, as well as promoting local talent, and is even used by the local private (Catholic) school for their productions.

And the Toad isn't involved. Talented as he is, he's also talented at coming up with excuses. (It doesn't help that the current prima donna running the thing doesn't like my boy--although, I'm guessing it has more to do with the fact that he has more talent than she and her spawn put together do--and she has subtly made him unwelcome. She looks like an aging Rita Moreno on crack. And she thinks she's some sex bomb....when just a not-in-a-good-way bomb about covers it.)

Anyway, my Toadly was working the drive-thru the other night, and his old Middle School music teacher rolls through. She's heading up "The King and I" at the Reitz, and needs more male voices...she basically wouldn't leave until he agreed to do it.

She slapped a schedule on him and tonight, he's off to music practice.

He came home that night and told me he hated me. I had him narrow that down, and this is what it was.

My lips, God's ears.

THANK YOU, GOD!

What's Up With That?

Today was Steeler Day at the Howler's school. (Yes, we're in Steeler Country, but we're not Pittsburghers.)

Last Friday was also Steeler Day, so Thursday night after the dreaded (and talked-to-death) PTA meeting, we ran to WalMart to buy a Steeler something-to-wear.

She told me it was Steeler Day every day this week, including yesterday. Do you think that, when deciding what to wear last night, she reminded me then? No. It's like she's trying to set me up so she can tell me off.

I remember this AM, after I got to work. Thankfully, it was early enough that I could call home and tell My Sweetie where the thing was so she could wear it today.

He didn't answer right away, so I left 1/2 a message before he picked up. I did tell him, and she did get to participate in Steeler Day. No telling-off for me today (at least, not for that reason.)

Now for the "What's Up With That?" part:

A little while later, a get a phone call at work. It's the Toad, calling to be sure My Sweetie got the message. Toad got the message, and called me to be sure whatever-it-was got taken care of.

I was rather dumbfounded at first and had to actually think about what he was asking me.

So, What Is Up With That?

A Kinder, Gentler Toad

Okay, not really.

He's still who he is. BUT we have adjusted ourselves to it, and life if better. Or at least, less stressful.

First, he's paying that rent, and a little extra for savings. He gets a receipt, and I have a ledger to keep track. Good boy.

Second, his room is still the Caverns, but we're doing better at ignoring it. He still only does his laundry on an absolute need basis. But we're ignoring it.

Third, starting on January 1st, instead of complaining about what he's not doing that he should be responsible for, we're making it more inconvenient for him to not do it. Case in point: he has a tire on his vehicle that has a slow leak. He needs, especially during the current Ice Age, to check it weekly--if not more often. My Sweetie checked it a week ago, and it was a hair shy of actually being flat. Instead of putting air in it, then complaining for hours about doing it, My Sweetie remembered the New Year's Resolution I made for him, and he made the Toad go out in the cold--not to do it, but to watch someone else do it. No complaining. When the Toad tried, he was simply informed that if someone else hadn't done it, it would be FLAT. While he's out some where, and that the guy who made him go out in the cold would NOT be the guy coming to rescue him from the dreaded flat tire.

We've been meal-planning. Nothing fancy, just a plan for the week so that there are no "What's for dinner?" "I don't know" 4:30pm conversations, followed by frustration and tasteless meals. Toad made his lunch at home, and in something like 3 days, annihilate one day's meal plan. So he was told what the plan had been, and how he was going to fix it. Of course, being the Mumples, the plan was adjusted that night, and he wasn't informed of the change.

He came home from work that next night, and while I'm at the stove, making supper, he asks the obvious--"What for dinner?" while looking at what was for dinner. He stomps off, muttering, and next thing I know, he's headed out the door to inconveniently fix the problem he thought he'd have another 24 hours to fix.

No, I did not let him go. The plan changed, and we didn't tell him, so he was off the hook.

Yesterday, I asked him early in the day if he was going to go out and shovel some evidence of Hell freezing over. He simply left, without a word, anyway. Not that I really expected him to actually do any shovelling.

A few hours later, I hear the sound of shovel to pavement, and, expecting My Sweetie, look out the window. Yeppers, it's the Toad. He'd been shovelling for about 20 minutes at that point. (The stuff was heavy, with a crust of ice, and My Sweetie had said he'd be home early to use the blower and the plow.) So I opened up the door and told him he didn't have to do that.

He looked at me like I was speaking another language. "What?!" So I repeated: "You don't have to do that. My Sweetie will be home soon to use the blower and the plow."

Toad trudged inside.

In revealing the 2nd story to my mother, she said, "You should have let him do it."

Now, other than the rudeness of knowing that he didn't need to do it, and the back breaking efforts he would need to exert to do it, AND knowing that if I let him do and he learned that he didn't need to do it would lead to a pissing-contest of bad attitudes, I stopped him.

What I did, though, was to wait until we sat down to eat dinner, then announce "The dishes in the dishwasher are clean...and the first person to get up from the table will be the one to put them away." Toad is ALWAYS the first done. Mostly because the two parental units spend the first half of the meal getting stuff from the fridge and making sure the Howler has a spoon, and is pushed up to the table.

That little trick accomplished two things: Toad sat at the table and participated in conversation with the parental units, AND the clean dishes got put away. Yes, by the Toad. During which time, there was more friendly conversation.

Go figure. Teaching him responsibility through inconvenience and getting him to participate in normal family conversation by work aversion. Less stress as a fringe benefit.

Thank God for New Year's Resolutions.

There is NO Joy in Mudville

On this, his 20th birthday.

As God is my witness, he thought he was going to get out of paying rent.

Birthday or not, it IS payday, and therefore, it's Rent Day.

He desperately does NOT want me to see his paycheck. FINE. I don't need to see it, but I'm getting my $25 every two weeks, AND he's putting money back for savings. Whether he wants to or not.

His new cellphone bill and his car insurance will be due at the same time--roughly, if there are no surprises, $190. He claims he got $250 this pay, and has *plans* for his birthday.

He gave me $50 without speaking to me as he trudged off to work.

He's got such a hard, hard life, the poor thing.