With the Lights Out, It's Less Dangerous

Pet Peeve of the Morning:

Technically, this is the pet peeve of dinner last night. I tried to post about it from the restaurant via email using my cell phone (because, y'all, I am like that), but then I went to backspace over a word, held the stupid button down too long and lost the entire freaking thing.

Y'all. I am like that, too.

We went to Mel's for dinner after some discussion as to how I am still Mr. Pickle'd out and not even kind of interested in going there.

They sat us in a booth, which had an added bonus feature - the ass of one of the children in the adjoining booth planted firmly on my daughter's head (or the seat back. whatever).

Even after we sat down, the parents did not see anything wrong with allowing the rodent their daughter to sit on the shared seat back. We actually had to ask the server to ask them to have their daughter sit down.

The exact phrasing of this request was (and I quote paraphrase): Is it possible for us to get a booth where there's not an ass on our daughter's head?

Our lovely server (actually, the gal that seated us and got our drinks) brought it up to the manager, who advised the parents that it was inappropriate for their daughter to be seated there, and that we were not paying for the pleasure of having her ass next to our heads.

Yes way.

So they put the younger daughter on our side and the older daughter on the other side, which had no adjoining booth. Which was good, I guess, because she sat on the seat back throughout dinner. Meanwhile, the little rodent girl was standing on the seat and facing us through most of our dinner.

If it had been a different situation, SweetPea would have proceeded to spend the meal making faces at and entertaining the rodent wee one. Because that's how she is.

However, given that they had already set a precedent for being oblivious to the inappropriateness of their rodent's daughter's behavior, instead, we spent the meal repressing the urge to ask the parents just what the hell was wrong with them that they thought it was ok to allow their children to behave in this manner in a public eatery around perfect strangers.

After they were gone, I asked SweetPea what their problem was. She was facing their booth, so she had a view of what was happening at their table.

"Bohemian parenting."

"So they want to be their kids' buddies?"

"Yup."

Y'all.

That creature you squirted out from between your legs is

NOT

YOUR

FRIEND.

That is your child. You are responsible for housing it, feeding it, clothing it, teaching it and (this one is important, so pay attention) disciplining it.

You are responsible for instructing your child on how to behave in public, which does, I swear, include consideration for others. Children need discipline. They need limits, they need consequences, and they need to understand where they fit in with the larger picture. I'm not (just) saying this from the viewpoint of someone who doesn't want to put up with crap from other people's kids. Ask a child psychologist, this is what they will tell you.

Parenting in such a manner where you're trying to be their friend is doing them no favors.

You are not their friend.

You are their parent. Protector. Guardian. Teacher. Provider. Disciplinarian.

I'm sorry if you had them with the intention of having a built-in buddy, but that's not how it works. Your children do not become anything remotely resembling "friends" until they're grown.

If you're lucky.

And you don't screw up now.

Pet Peeve of the Night:

Really less of a pet peeve and more of a complete and total freak out. I'll begin with a little back info.

Our dog is a good dog. She's an outdoor dog (and, yes, I know that makes us horrible, and I'm working on it, but the clutterfuck that is our house is just not prepared for her giant ass), and she's not a barker. She will literally and seriously only bark if there's something wrong.

A few months ago, she woke me up at three-some-odd in the morning on a weekend. Barking. I got up, went to the bathroom window and called her, let her know it was ok, I hear her. That totally shuts her up. Every time. She's letting us know, now we know, so her job is done. Then I sat down on the potty and had a think. I was debating calling the cops and asking for a neighborhood buzz-through, because our dog just does not bark like that. After I was done having my think, I went to the front door, to see if I could peep anything untoward going on the neighborhood.

You mean like the five cop cars parked out front of my house?

Yeah.

Like that.

So I thought to myself "Huh. I guess they're on it," and went back to bed.

< /back story>

At three-some-odd this morning, I get drug out of a dead sleep by my barking dog. I am laying on my side and SuperFat is laying on top of me. I try to get up but he won't move. So I drop his ass and get up. I head to the bathroom window and look out into the yard. I make the kissy noise. I call her name. I call her name again and tell her to come here. Now, I'm parched as fuck, so I'm probably not being very loud with any of this. But she's still barking. And then I notice it.

She's hoarse.

My good dog that doesn't bark unless something is wrong has barked herself hoarse at three-some-odd in the morning.

Between that and the stories we've heard about theiving and attempted break-ins on the street behind us, I fly into full alert mode. I'm fumbling around in the dark trying to figure out where I left my clothes, where the hell my sandals are, where the fuck is my phone.

Then I realize that I've actually watched a horror movie in my life. Once or twice. I know that there is no way in hell I should be flying out into the pitch black backyard in the dead of night with nobody the wiser as to where I am.

So I get SweetPea up.

Now we're both up and dressed and we've each got a cell phone and a flashlight and we head into the yard. Tatiana charges at us like she's just won the Super Bowl and now she's going to Disneyland. We check things out and everything appears ok in our world, but dogs on the street behind us are going nuts, too.

Mind you, the main house with the issues backs up to our next door neighbor's house.

SweetPea locks me in the house with both sets of keys, the flashlight and the dog and takes off in the car to cruise the neighborhood. She cruises up the street behind us and notices that the house in question is pitch dark. Except for the garage, which is not only lit up, but the garage door is open about a foot.

She calls me up on the phone and tells me this and that she's seen some guy walking up the street.

It's now four-some-odd in the morning, and, probably, some guy shouldn't be walking up the street.

I tell her to call Emergency, and to call Emergency now.

When she gets off the phone, she comes home and we both go stand out front.

Picture if you will:

Two fat dykes standing in the front yard of a pitch dark house in the middle of the pitch dark night with a big ass Akita, a bat, and a pack of cloves. On the plus side, we're both clothed, so that's a bonus.

After a while, the cops came cruising through and declared the all-clear, and told us we'd be better off in the house.

Which is all well and good, except now we're both strung out on nerves.

SweetPea is finally asleep again, but - Hi! Here I am because, y'all, I may not be sleeping any day real soon.

Further... Clutterfuck or not, that dog is sleeping in the house from here on in. If SweetPea's real lucky, Tatiana will be sleeping on the floor, instead of in the bed.

The sky is finally getting brighter, and hopefully Neighbor will be up soon so that I can go down and have a(nother) smoke. Because I've been forbade going outside until it's full bright, and only if Neighbor goes with me.