Herban Sprawl

Yesterday’s post was probably a mystery to most of you. As it happens, The Big, Hairy Galoot was living in a trashed out room that reeked. I could smell it every time I went down the hall to use the bathroom. It doesn’t have a door because TBHG lost door privileges a long time ago. He hangs a sheet over the doorway.

One day the sheet was down and I made the mistake of looking in. My mother would have been rolling in her grave! I was telling The House Goddess about this and she did what The House Goddess does. She declared in no uncertain terms that if he thought he could pull that in her house, he’d soon find out what was what. As we talked, I began to reflect on the different things parents have done over the years to get the attention of their wayward teens.

I was feeling really bad for the others in that house, but I was feeling even worse for the slob that claimed that space for his own. That kind of reeking disorder is indicative of what is going on within that person. It gives pause, if you know what I mean.

Armed with three contractor sized trash bags and a pair of latex gloves, I invaded Galoot’s space. I didn’t tell his parental unit, and I made his sister go outside so she couldn’t be accused of being a party to the event. I scooped up every item of clothing that was out and not on a hanger. I filled all three bags. It was a nasty business. That room needs to be fumigated!

I actually found an uneaten sub sandwich, wrapped in foil, buried in a laundry basket of dirty clothes!

After loading it all, I left him a note, pinned to the curtain, explaining that if he wanted to know what had happened, to go to my blog. Pops and his intern came home to help his daughter with her bathroom needs and we all had lunch. I wouldn’t comment on what I had done, since the point was to alleviate that parent of any responsibility in the matter. It was a matter of perjury. I didn’t want him involved because this had become my battle. I was the one who decided to act.

Once home, I dumped the contents onto my front yard, and with yet another pair of latex gloves, fished through the mess to sort laundry.  If there was anything in the pockets that needed to be saved, however trivial, it got saved, but other than that, the trash was trashed and the clothes were carefully sorted. Then I began laundering. The dirty socks are still outside. We’re talking teen-aged boys, here. If any of you saw Zits when Jeremy stuck out his foot and a plant wilted, you understand why they’ll stay outside until it’s time for their load. For now, they are getting a good airing. My basement, however has nonetheless taken on a disgusting odor!

I was in the process of putting dinner on the table when TBHG called, fuming and carrying on. The excuses were stellar. His time is limited, he has dinner out on Thursday night for a friend’s birthday, etc. etc. It was all designed for what he thought would be an inevitable and easy negotiation. Oops. Auntie doesn’t negotiate. Ask Kody, John, Troy or Jessica. Auntie says what the deal is and that’s the deal. Either follow the program or suffer the consequences.

We ignored the constant ringing of the phone, and not until I had finished dinner did I pick up. That’s when I told him for the second time to quit wasting time; just get started. He wanted to negotiate but I didn’t give him a chance. Then he committed the fatal error. Do. Not. Tell. Auntie. To. Shut. Up. I hung up.

Interestingly enough, he had time to throw all the wrought iron patio furniture around the back yard, but no time to clean the pigsty. He had time to go to a friend’s to cook up a lie about some of the filthy clothes that were stuffed hither and yon in that pigsty. (They belonged to someone else who got them from someone else who died and he’s gonna press charges. “I’m gonna press charges, too,” he told me in his phone message.) But no time to clean up the pigsty.

This battle probably raged in that house all night, and all because he’s lived in that mess for 18 years and won’t accept that no one else in that house wants it around anymore. He’s also not understanding that at 18, and considering the unnecessary grief he’s caused, that his parental unit can very easily tell him to pack it all up and vamoose. I would, but that’s me. His parental unit isn’t mean. Tricky and sneaky, yeah, you betcha. Mean? No. Emphatically no.

On one level I feel sorry for the kid. He’s had some sad things to have to deal with, but it’s time for him to quit making excuses and start acting his age. “You want this stuff?  Then you’ll need to manage your time very, very carefully. You might have to forego dinner out with your girlfriend. Meanwhile, don’t skip out on work because you owe Auntie $50 in laundry charges!”

I pointed out to him: he had two piles of laundry in front of the washer, so if he was desperate enough for something to wear, he could have done some laundry and that would have been that. My holding his other clothing (the pile on my lawn was about two feet high and five feet in diameter) had nothing to do with the fact that he just didn’t want to be responsible and he was determined to show me what a badass he could be. In the time it took for him to demonstrate his own stupidity in managing a situation, he could have had the room cleaned - before I had finished the last load, which as of this morning is still on the front lawn (I wonder if the grass is dead).

It was more important for him to maintain his persona of mean little kid than it was to show the maturity of an eighteen year old. It’s easy for me to shake my head. I don’t live with the little snot and it wasn’t my patio furniture he flung to the winds last night. But as Big Kitty and I discussed it over dinner last night, given our dispositions and given the fact that our families had cursed us with the vow of the frustrated (I hope you have one just like you one day!), we really don’t think we would have allowed a kid to gain the upper hand in our household. We subscribe to the House Goddess’s way of doing business. We probably would have gone in the other extreme of strict, just to be on the safe side! (We were holy terrors – both of us!)

For someone who doesn’t even know if the folder he receives on graduation will actually contain a diploma (or a letter saying, see you in summer school, sucka), he’s got a lot of nerve tossing the wrought iron patio furniture hither and yon. Like I said, his parental unit is very, very patient. I’m starting to wonder if he doesn’t have a few more surprises he’s waiting to spring on that brat. I sure hope so. I could use the gold brick he excretes if Dad actually parlays my antics into some real sh**! (Come on, Guy, I KNOW you can do it! You are one of the smartest people I know…have some fun. Empty the rest of the smelly mess into the driveway today. I’ll even help! I’ve got more latex gloves!)

As to The Big, Hairy Galoot, the final auntly words, “Kid, I told you I don’t play. It’s time to grow up, face your responsibilities and learn how to deal. Your way doesn’t work. When you destroyed your dad’s property, you sealed the deal with me and there will be hell to pay. If it doesn’t come directly from me, it’ll be the very next time you pull something stupid. Landlords don’t much like holes their walls.”