oh for sure...

I didn't get my usual Sunday dinner material last night, because I didn't go over to the crackheads' house.  "Crackheads" is the nickname I give to in-law's residence.  It sounds harsh, but it's actually sugar coated quite heavily.  On any given Sunday evening, there's enough mental disorders in that home to keep a dozen psycho-therapists busy for a year (that doesn't including sleeping, bathroom breaks, and mealtime).  Surely any therapist would appreciate the value, but would inevitably leave the place dizzy and disoriented.  Unfortunately, the English language does not provide a means whereby I could properly describe the fray.  I would need a stage (at least 600 sqft), a microphone (with about 20 different distortion modes), 200mg of adderall and 10 interpreters to give it mediocre small town type of justice.  Don't harp on me, this isn't me on a soap box pointing a finger.  I have contemplated the possibility that I may be a contributor to the brain stew, but I prefer to think of myself as a mediator.  I try to maintain order and encourage bad behavior, in order to help the wandering sheep see their mistakes before they make them.  It almost always results in encouragement to actually live the mistake.  Either way it serves as priceless entertainment and valuable conversational points when my wife and I argue why our children act the way they do.  Let me some it up- if they do something awesome, it's because of me; if they do something that makes you cringe, pick a crackhead (any crackhead).

Instead, this week, we went to my family's house for din din.  This not only gave me little to no material, but it led to talks of censorship.  This is opportunity time for wifey, sure is.  I'm out searching for material and I'm sitting on one side of the table with my eyeballs rolling in a steady constant circle.  You can't censor this.  All I can do is try hard to convince my Mom that she somehow blew it with me, and that's why I'm so messed up.  Even then, she doesn't get defensive, she just turns her brain to auto-pilot and starts repeating- "sure Lee, we messed you up".  That women is certainly vulnerable to guilt, but she's too smart to take credit for any of my lack of accomplishments.  She also stands a little taller, with wifey by her side, egging her on.

So here you have it, not much new material.