A repeat - weather is taking toll
Two observations have floated within the orbit of the deep, dark, realm of my ranting region, as of late, so I must share.
I'm not really sure if these are violent rants, so to speak, so I shall label them pet peeves.
I have two, oh, I guess I mentioned that in my opening line but, I'm nothing if not redundant.
Here is pet peeve numero uno, which means number one, for all of our English speaking readers. Here goes. People who brag nonstop about their offspring. I cannot take this quality in a person and I refuse to go along with the madness any longer.
I will refrain from mentioning any names, as it would cause much discord and, you know me, I never like to rock the boat—OK, I tried to lie and just couldn't go through with it.
I adore rocking the boat, stirring the pot and performing all activities having to do with making liquid move. (Get it? Rocking a boat would displace the water near the water craft, and pot stirring moves liquid about in the pot.)
Honestly though, names have been either changed, or omitted, to protect the totally guilty party or parties.
This one person, with whom I recently spent time, drove me to the brink of insanity—stop that thought right now as I know I'm already there—no need to remind me of such.
Anyhow, the person either has a son, or a daughter, which I will not divulge. I shall call the child “OGO,” which stands for “Oh, Great One.
First of all, OGO is a very nice kid, as kids go, and has always been respectful of those in his path. Therefore, it would have been fine for the parent to say a word or two about OGO along the above-mentioned lines.
However, all I, and others, heard about, was what a fantastic, fabulous, delightful and simply amazing, to utilize a word I loathe, child he or she had in OGO.
Now, we all tend to brag about our curtain climbers at one time or another. That is totally natural and I have no beef with that at all. When kids deserve accolades then go for it but, there comes a time when enough is enough.
That would be when a child is elevated to the stature of a god, of some sort. In this particular case, the parental figure, (note, I'm not even saying if it was mom or a dad), went so far overboard that a life preserver should have been on hand.
I got so sick of hearing about what a terrific kid OGO was for performing the most basic of life's tasks. “Oh look, OGO went and took a shower without being asked. What a kid. How great is this child? Wow. I have produced some fine offspring.” That might give you an idea of the situation.
I was not the only person to learn of the unbelievable talents of OGO as everyone within range was treated to the absolutely phenomenal aspects of all things OGO.
Collective eyes rolled so much that I'm certain electricity was actually generated in the process.
Most people, on earth, or on the moon, do not care to hear about other people's children, in detail, without really being asked.
It's one thing if someone inquires as to how well a youngster is doing in school, or where his or her interests lie, etc., but, it is another to be subjected to big-time-boasting.
When Person A is slowly backing away, clinging to various items to keep his balance, as Person B blathers on incessantly about his, or her, OGO, then it's time to shut the &^%$ up about that darned kid. Don't you agree?
My father, the late great Blaine Houserman, was, how can I put this delicately....not a fan of children, period. He went into orbit when folks insisted on showing him the latest grandchild picture.
Dad had a great comeback for this scenario. He carried a picture of the cat, “Bubbles,” who was shown posing on the edge of an outdoor chair, with her head held high.
He would simply reach for his wallet, tell the grandparent before him to check out his kid, and would then thrust the Bubbles photo his/her way. I love this quality in my father, or loved it, as the man is dead.
Maybe the next time I'm cornered, like a caged animal, whilst being forced to listen to a parental unit bloviate about his/her marvelous son/daughter, I will either start ticking off the tremendous attributes of my own teen, or, I will thrust a picture of Joe the Pony, or one of our three cats, his/her way. (I would do this with total force, of course, and yes, I made a rhyme and digressed all at once.)
People: I beg of you, stop tooting the old horn wildly about your progeny. We don't give a flying fig if young Bruno has been winning croquet tournaments across the land. We care not if Breanna is an honor student at Yale, so kindly remove that bumper sticker pronto.
I'm going to print a bumper sticker that says: “Proudly refraining from living my dreams via my children.” What do you think of them apples?
Well, I got so carried away with the first pet peeve, that I haven't the room for number two. I shall bore you with that next time. Thanks for your understanding on this pressing issue.
I can feel the hate mail being generated as I type this. Remember, it's OK to talk about kids, grandchildren, etc., but please, keep in mind that not everyone wants to hear total details of their every move in life.
I'm now ducking and running, due to the tomatoes, dirty diapers and other charming items being tossed my way.
THE END.