Hot Fun In the Summertime
Mid-summer. Suburbiaville. There have been many home-related platitudes cross-stitched on decorative pillows throughout the years, but I am fairly certain that "Home Is Where the Central Air Is" has not been one of them.
But it should be. Oh yes, it should be.
Speaking of which, have any of you ever been an overnight guest in a residence where one of those dense little fuckers is the ONLY item of head-support proffered for the evening, and you're too shy to say, "Um, while I admire the craftsmanship and piety inherent in this 8'x8' piece of embroidered religious iconography, might I request something with a little more, um, substance? In the strictly physical sense, of course?", so you spend the entire night writhing around the fold-out couch in abject discomfort and "wake up", as it were, with searing neck pain and a picture of St. Francis feeding a chipmunk embossed on your cheek?
No? Um... okay, then.
We have no central air. We have several deeply shoddy window units which, when simultaneously cranked to 11, produce the overall cooling effect of an emphysemic blowing on an ice cube. Every time I walk past them, I am reminded of this unforgettable scene from the "MST3K" movie.
On-Screen Scientist: "Your camera will pick up nothing but black fog!"
Servo: "Oh, it's a GoldStar."
It's somehow not... quite... as funny now.
When we are alone in the home, J.Q. and I strip down to our underthingies, collapse in front of the nearest ineffective window unit and engage in Nurse-o-Rama '06. While having twenty-four pounds of sticky toddler clamber over one's chest like it's some kind of fleshy Gymboree feature isn't quite as refreshing as, say, diving nude into a bracing mountain stream, it beats actually parenting.
Unfortunately, we are no longer Alone in the Home. One of Mr. Thumbscrews' old friends and his girlfriend (the friends' girlfriend, not Mr. Thumbscrews', as evidenced by the fact that I am not writing this entry from a cramped cell with a lidless toilet) have colonized our home. I can no longer cavort topless. Strange toiletries have sprung up like mimosa-scented mushrooms on our bathroom sink. And the gaming... it has begun.
Both Mr. Thumbscrews and OldFriend are frighteningly intelligent. They each demolished the Navy's nuclear reactor technician training program, one of the service's most difficult tracks. Since then, they have each ripped through any and all learning required by life or institutions of higher education as though it were no more difficult than "Houghton-Mifflin Says YES I CAN! Read Boring-Ass Subject/Predicate Combinations All By Myself". Between their respective bulging craniums, they share an ENIAC's worth of computing ability.
However.
When placed in the same room, they do not use their powers for good, or even for constructive mischief, such as making the local mall's electronic billboard indicate that Pottery Barn is having a huge sale on Leather Crotches.
No. They play video games. Then they play some more video games. Then they play a few more video games. Then they stagger out into the daylight and drive to the local electronics retailer. There, they purchase some MORE video games. Then return home. And play them.
The entire process is accompanied by a chorus of incredulous laughter and highly-technical, oft-conflicting banter.
Mr. Thumbscrews: "No no no no no! Use the 30/30 incendiary-tipped rounds! Now now now!"
OldFriend: "No way, dipshit! That'll NEVER penetrate the sub-hull! Huh huh huh huh huh!"
Mr. Thumbscrews: "Huh huh huh huh huh! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST TRIED THAT! WITH A CONVENTIONAL ROUND!"
Both: "Huh huh huh huh huh!"
Now, not to get too vulgar here, but: I like dick. Do I ever! Dick is FANTASTIC. But by god, a few days of this is enough to make anyone want to join a commune devoted to hand-woven fabric production, hearty vegan one-dish meals and mutually-respectful Sapphic love.
J.Q. and I have gone into Emergency Gaming-Related Exile Mode. We are frequent visitors to the local mall, which features an extremely effective air-conditioning system as well as mango smoothies. J.Q. really, really enjoys mango smoothies. He sits in my lap, straw poking from his little rosebud mouth, clutching a cup which, to him, is about as big around as a telephone pole. "Dude, can I have a sip?", I ask. "NUH NUH! NUH NUH NUH NUH!", he succinctly replies, crouching protectively over his treasure. "Um... okay... can I go get a slice of pizza, then?" "NUH NUH NUH!"
We have attempted to entice OldFriend's Girlfriend away on one or two of our adventures, but she has thus far declined. She sits next to OldFriend on the couch, politely laughing at the patent absurdity of attempting to take down a G'ylaradryd warship with a non-heat-seeking missile. I feel like slipping her a note... "YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS. MEET ME AT THE CAR IN FIVE MINUTES. NOT SURE WHERE WE'RE GOING, BUT THERE WILL BE NO FORCE-FEEDBACK CONTROLLERS THERE, I PROMISE."
"But maybe she enjoys gaming!", you say. "Maybe she likes watching her guy conquer large sectors of the galaxy and crash exotic cars into dividing rails at 280 MPH!"
Right. And maybe the Canarsie Indians thought that a crate of shoehorns and candle-snuffers was one helluva good bargain for Manhattan Island. And maybe you really DO need the Klear-Kote and extended warranty!
I can see a look on her face which has been on my own entirely too often. "Maybe... after this race... once you finally install your upgraded turbocharger... see, I've been paying attention?... you might... maybe... possibly... pay attention... to me?"
I have faced it, a life wasted.
I'm never going back again.
The baby and I are moving in four weeks. It's a little walk-up with lots of windows and abundant local take-out. I think, in fact, it may be too little for a TV.
Yeah. I'm going to be one of THOSE people. I promise I'll only spend a week or two trying to work the fact that I don't own a TV into Every. Single. Conversation. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about your aunt's diagnosis. Well, at least she'll get to watch a lot of TV in intensive care! Not like ME, of course..."
I escaped it, a life wasted.
I'm never going back again.
I may leave the car in Suburbiaville, too. The market's only a mile away. The baby becomes uncontrollably excited over dogs and busses and planes. It may be hopelessly, disgustingly idealistic, but I can't shake this image of us strolling up the parkway, dinner in tow, pointing out hundred year-old buildings, enjoying the sights, the noises, that particular "Philly in summer" bouquet, sweetly decomposing trash, bus exhaust, a thousand freshly-made egg rolls, illegal fires smoking away. That particular orangey evening light which smolders down but never quite goes out.
Having tasted, a life wasted.
I'm never going back... again.
But it should be. Oh yes, it should be.
Speaking of which, have any of you ever been an overnight guest in a residence where one of those dense little fuckers is the ONLY item of head-support proffered for the evening, and you're too shy to say, "Um, while I admire the craftsmanship and piety inherent in this 8'x8' piece of embroidered religious iconography, might I request something with a little more, um, substance? In the strictly physical sense, of course?", so you spend the entire night writhing around the fold-out couch in abject discomfort and "wake up", as it were, with searing neck pain and a picture of St. Francis feeding a chipmunk embossed on your cheek?
No? Um... okay, then.
We have no central air. We have several deeply shoddy window units which, when simultaneously cranked to 11, produce the overall cooling effect of an emphysemic blowing on an ice cube. Every time I walk past them, I am reminded of this unforgettable scene from the "MST3K" movie.
On-Screen Scientist: "Your camera will pick up nothing but black fog!"
Servo: "Oh, it's a GoldStar."
It's somehow not... quite... as funny now.
When we are alone in the home, J.Q. and I strip down to our underthingies, collapse in front of the nearest ineffective window unit and engage in Nurse-o-Rama '06. While having twenty-four pounds of sticky toddler clamber over one's chest like it's some kind of fleshy Gymboree feature isn't quite as refreshing as, say, diving nude into a bracing mountain stream, it beats actually parenting.
Unfortunately, we are no longer Alone in the Home. One of Mr. Thumbscrews' old friends and his girlfriend (the friends' girlfriend, not Mr. Thumbscrews', as evidenced by the fact that I am not writing this entry from a cramped cell with a lidless toilet) have colonized our home. I can no longer cavort topless. Strange toiletries have sprung up like mimosa-scented mushrooms on our bathroom sink. And the gaming... it has begun.
Both Mr. Thumbscrews and OldFriend are frighteningly intelligent. They each demolished the Navy's nuclear reactor technician training program, one of the service's most difficult tracks. Since then, they have each ripped through any and all learning required by life or institutions of higher education as though it were no more difficult than "Houghton-Mifflin Says YES I CAN! Read Boring-Ass Subject/Predicate Combinations All By Myself". Between their respective bulging craniums, they share an ENIAC's worth of computing ability.
However.
When placed in the same room, they do not use their powers for good, or even for constructive mischief, such as making the local mall's electronic billboard indicate that Pottery Barn is having a huge sale on Leather Crotches.
No. They play video games. Then they play some more video games. Then they play a few more video games. Then they stagger out into the daylight and drive to the local electronics retailer. There, they purchase some MORE video games. Then return home. And play them.
The entire process is accompanied by a chorus of incredulous laughter and highly-technical, oft-conflicting banter.
Mr. Thumbscrews: "No no no no no! Use the 30/30 incendiary-tipped rounds! Now now now!"
OldFriend: "No way, dipshit! That'll NEVER penetrate the sub-hull! Huh huh huh huh huh!"
Mr. Thumbscrews: "Huh huh huh huh huh! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST TRIED THAT! WITH A CONVENTIONAL ROUND!"
Both: "Huh huh huh huh huh!"
Now, not to get too vulgar here, but: I like dick. Do I ever! Dick is FANTASTIC. But by god, a few days of this is enough to make anyone want to join a commune devoted to hand-woven fabric production, hearty vegan one-dish meals and mutually-respectful Sapphic love.
J.Q. and I have gone into Emergency Gaming-Related Exile Mode. We are frequent visitors to the local mall, which features an extremely effective air-conditioning system as well as mango smoothies. J.Q. really, really enjoys mango smoothies. He sits in my lap, straw poking from his little rosebud mouth, clutching a cup which, to him, is about as big around as a telephone pole. "Dude, can I have a sip?", I ask. "NUH NUH! NUH NUH NUH NUH!", he succinctly replies, crouching protectively over his treasure. "Um... okay... can I go get a slice of pizza, then?" "NUH NUH NUH!"
We have attempted to entice OldFriend's Girlfriend away on one or two of our adventures, but she has thus far declined. She sits next to OldFriend on the couch, politely laughing at the patent absurdity of attempting to take down a G'ylaradryd warship with a non-heat-seeking missile. I feel like slipping her a note... "YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS. MEET ME AT THE CAR IN FIVE MINUTES. NOT SURE WHERE WE'RE GOING, BUT THERE WILL BE NO FORCE-FEEDBACK CONTROLLERS THERE, I PROMISE."
"But maybe she enjoys gaming!", you say. "Maybe she likes watching her guy conquer large sectors of the galaxy and crash exotic cars into dividing rails at 280 MPH!"
Right. And maybe the Canarsie Indians thought that a crate of shoehorns and candle-snuffers was one helluva good bargain for Manhattan Island. And maybe you really DO need the Klear-Kote and extended warranty!
I can see a look on her face which has been on my own entirely too often. "Maybe... after this race... once you finally install your upgraded turbocharger... see, I've been paying attention?... you might... maybe... possibly... pay attention... to me?"
I have faced it, a life wasted.
I'm never going back again.
The baby and I are moving in four weeks. It's a little walk-up with lots of windows and abundant local take-out. I think, in fact, it may be too little for a TV.
Yeah. I'm going to be one of THOSE people. I promise I'll only spend a week or two trying to work the fact that I don't own a TV into Every. Single. Conversation. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about your aunt's diagnosis. Well, at least she'll get to watch a lot of TV in intensive care! Not like ME, of course..."
I escaped it, a life wasted.
I'm never going back again.
I may leave the car in Suburbiaville, too. The market's only a mile away. The baby becomes uncontrollably excited over dogs and busses and planes. It may be hopelessly, disgustingly idealistic, but I can't shake this image of us strolling up the parkway, dinner in tow, pointing out hundred year-old buildings, enjoying the sights, the noises, that particular "Philly in summer" bouquet, sweetly decomposing trash, bus exhaust, a thousand freshly-made egg rolls, illegal fires smoking away. That particular orangey evening light which smolders down but never quite goes out.
Having tasted, a life wasted.
I'm never going back... again.
Labels: Divorce Song, The Compleat Thumbscrew
posted by thumbscre.ws at
7/03/2006
16 Comments:
Ooooo! Thanks for this one, sweetie! Keep an eye on Miss Girlfriend...she's gonna go critical mass any time now.
I must stongly disagree with, "Since then, they have each ripped through any and all learning required by life... ." No--no they haven't. Not even close. But enough time spent on video games should dispel any dawning realization they might experience as to the waste apparent to everyone around them. Waste of mind, waste of time, waste of opportunity. Just a total waste.
Is there a video game out there called "Responsible Adult Male?" No? Because no one would buy it?
But keep the car! Please! We have a LOT of shopping to do for the new pad!
Shop first, then ditch the car. Do it! Sounds like fun!
I'm starting to think that moving in as JQ's au pair is a good idea. I'm so excited for you!
And it was a terrific entry.
This is an incredible entry. I don't know why it made me so sad, except...no. I don't know. You slay me with your strength and humor, and I wish I could write better so I could express that properly but ah well, it is what it is.
I must disagree with the same part of your entry as Mom did; Mr. Thumbscrews hasn't slayed shit in many a year. Guitar: bought? Check. Admired? Check. Polished? Check? Learned? Too much effort. Motorcycle: Bought? Check. Polished? Check. Read up on? Check. Ridden? Meh... maybe later... after all, he's got an enormous TV. Woodworking: Books? Check. Small project? Check. Extended collection of increasingly large projects on which to practice and perfect craft? But DarkThwart III: The Slaughtering just came out!!!
You can try to shuck and/or jive Junket, but you'll fail.
I loved this entry. It's so exciting. I'll be over to not watch TV with you, expound on the many benefits of not watching TV with you, pass by electronics outlets with you to scoff at the TV-slaves therein, and bake a cake shaped like a TV and demolish (eat) it with you! I think that you actually have the grit to do what you say on the TV front; a certain Ex of Doom's MySpace says in response to the Favorite TV query: "Tv is the enemy of the human brain." The man goes to sleep watching TV. Most people who say they hate TV do, but they just need something "cool" to say about their utterly predictable lives...
(this is going somewhere, I swear)
... Your new life should be full enough of interesting things so that you won't have to make things up. I know that doesn't seem like much of a compliment, but believe me. On this planet, surrounded by people like these, it's one of the biggest compliments I can give you.
No TV? Well there goes my housewarming gift for you! A hand knitted TV cozy! Or something from where I work. Oh well.
I will have to think of something else.
I don't get the video games either, my husband also likes to play for hours and hours and hours at night and I.Just.Do.Not.Get.It.
But then again, I watch a lot of TV!
I don't have a TV, it's great. At first, there wasn't space in the car when we were moving, then we just couldn't be bothered to either transport a tv 300 miles or buy a new one, and now we actively don't want one (mainly because I'd sit at home all day watching TV if we did have one). Good move!
(And I agree caerlivesound - shop, then ditch the car, especially if it's hot out there!)
dude, I work for the contractor that runs the training program. And we employ a bunch of people that graduated and are out of the service. And what do the guys at work talk about each morning? You guessed it, video games.
the minds that could be saving our world are working hard at leveling up their undead dwarf so they can use a cloak of invisibility. Please.
By the way, totally loved the emphysemic/ice cube metaphor!!
Y'know, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: if I didn't like you so very much I would hate your guts. You're two years younger, twice as smart/funny, handling the whole separation/divorce thing MUCH better, and outblogging me to DEATH. Hmph. I have better hair, though. That is what I cling to. It keeps us friends.
This post rocked, as have all of your post-separation-decision posts. You just keep getting better. Dammit. I think you're going to love living "alone." If you ever decide you want an au pair who comes with three screaming children of her own, let me know and I'll blow Caer out of the water with my mad childcare skills. I'm even prepared to relactate and function as a wetnurse if that's what it takes.
That was a joke unless the idea appealed to you.
Dont get rid of the car for one simple reason: winter. Will you even be able to walk that one mile WITH A TODDLER in the snow? As in, will ALL of the walks be de-iced? Yeah, didnt think so.
DH and I have 2 tvs that are only hooked up to video games/dvd players. No channels whatsoever. Tougher than explaining that you dont have *a* tv is saying that you dont have TV, as in cable or rabbit ears. We do watch movies and shows through Netflix, but we dont want current TV for us or our future kids. So, yeah, we have a tv, we just dont have TV *sigh*
For the record, I suppose: video gamers are not limited to the "irresponsible male" population. Many responsible men and women also enjoy the hobby. Motherhood has limited the kinds of games I can play (must have a pause button or can easily be saved for when they wake up from a nap, for example) and the amount of time I have to play, but I still do play.
As to those who profess to enjoy watching their significant others play? I don't know about that one. Some of my male gamer friends claim their wives enjoy it, but I have not ever spoken to them. I suppose when one is in one's own home, where they could find distractions other than watching their spouse play a game, if they choose to do so they may actually enjoy it. I know I am more of a player than a watcher, though I have been known to watch my husband play games that I enjoy playing myself when my hands and arms are otherwise occupied by nursing a baby. We discuss the story, the tactics, etc, and it isn't much different from watching television.
If you want to talk about gaming as being irresponsible, I have this to say. Any hobby where one is obssessed can be unhealthy. And when one is looking to escape from a bad family or work situation, or are just generally unhappy, excessive gaming is seductive. But escapism can be found in many other hobbies.
Good luck with your little, downtown apartment.
I hope I didn't sound mean in that last post. It bothers me sometimes when people act like gaming is somehow different from other hobbies. When I said "good luck" I really meant it, but when I read it over again it sounded like I was being sarcastic. So I'm sorry about that.
Oh, so you think you're one up on Caer because you've lactated? I'll get you, and your little Grub, too!
P.S. I believe that you would do that.
I agree with the anon. above. Probably assvice, but I'd keep some sort of TV/DVDs around, especially since JQ's going to have access to TV and videogames at Mr. Thumbscrew's house. You don't want to unfavorably become "the house with no TV." It may not really matter now, as he's still such a little guy, but as he gets older it might.
I really loved this post. Just wanted to let you know.
I like your breastfeeding posts... I can't tell you how many summer days I've spent saying "okay you can nurse but please try not to touch me...try not to touch me...don't touch me...nipples only please..." I used to put a dry receiving blanket in the freezer and then use it as a buffer when nursing.
TV - do you need it? absolutely bloody not. Car - do you need it? You can save a crapload of money taking cabs when you need to. Do you know how many cab rides you can take for the cost of insurance, parking, and gas?
As to being the house with no TV, JQ is a toddler, not a 14 year old boy, and the TV is unlikely to be a serious issue for years, if ever. Children like places where they are loved, guided, and paid attention to - and he's much more likely to get that attention and guidance in a TV-free atmosphere.
I could rant about providing a constant stream of consumerism to children already disadvantaged by being raised in a nation choked with selfish, obese greed-mongers, but that might be over the top.
Not to mention, he'll sleep better without the frenetic stimulation.
Just 2 monts back I get married ..I think in feature It will help me
http://herbalcare06.blogspot.com
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