So, tonight’s dinner discussion with my teenager and tween was so horrific, it gets it’s own NSFW blog post. (Mom, that means, “Not Safe for Work.” As in, don’t click on or read it on your work computer. So you’re fine.) For anyone with delicate sensibilities, or who thinks maybe their children are perfect and/or living in a bubble, you should stop here.
First of all, in my head, when I was driving to eat at our local restaurant/bar, I realized I was wearing the shirt I was lounging around in today. My Chunklet Trump Sucks shirt.
Maybe not the best shirt to wear in a very purple neighborhood. So, in my head, we might get looks because I had the word “dick” on my shirt. Some drunk redneck might want to discuss it. I have had this happen one time before and have a prepared rebuttal sure to make angry white men more angry.
But we got to dinner and the UNC/KY game was on (sorry Jason, congrats Dana), so it was unusually crowded and we got seated pretty quickly, but our food took awhile, so you know, that means Quality Family Time.
We discussed upcoming spring break plans, going to the beach, packing lists, games to take, R. going to Disney for his band trip, etc. It was super all-american and white bread. And then. Then, R. started pushing buttons.
Things like, “you don’t get to tell me whether I can take my phone to Disney or not, because Dad paid for it.”
[Needle scratches across record.]
Todd and I both work. Todd did indeed write the check and deliver it to the band teacher. But my head seriously exploded.
I said, “Buddy, you realize that your father and I both work long hours and what we make is both of ours. Daddy did not pay for your trip. Your father and I both paid for your trip.”
So, then I turn to Tiller, in a classic example of attempting to ignore bad behavior, while educating, and say,
“Tiller, did you now that in America, when a man and a woman do the same EXACT job, on average, the woman makes 75% of what the man makes?”
Tiller: “What?”
Me: “For every dollar a man makes, a woman, doing the same exact job, possibly as well, and likely, better, will make 75 cents for her work, while a man will make a dollar.”
And bless his heart, the boy child, he doubled down.
“Mom, why do you have to take everything so seriously? You’re so uptight. I was just joking, and you had to turn it into some kind of Feminist rant, like you always do.”
This was the point where I said, in the exorcist mom voice,
“Rollie, you need to leave the table now and go to the bathroom, because if you stay here, I will make a scene. When you come back, you better have dropped it, because you are treading on seriously thin ice.”
He goes to the bathroom, and Tiller and I discuss wage equality a bit more, and he comes back to the table. He seems to realize he has stepped over the line and is actually able to be quiet for about five minutes.
Then, i think he realizes by my stone cold stare and cold shoulder that I am actually very angry with him. So, he starts trying to make me laugh.
He begins by saying,
“I’m gonna go play something on the jukebox.”
Me: “Okay, no dubstep.”
Him: “Okay, I will play one of your favorites.”
Yeah, I’m not dumb, my guard is up.
He proceeds to play a song that he knows I loathe: Europe’s “The Final Countdown.”
Waiter comes by and smirks at me.
And I don’t let R. completely get to me. I point out that the song was not a terrible choice in light of the ending of the basketball game, but everyone probably thinks he’s a Tarheel now.
So, he again pushes the envelope, coming up with terrible-sounding music choices, that i didn’t recognize. And for every one, I said,
“Oh, that one is so good. I love that one.”
And he seemed to become frustrated, but at the same time, saw right through me.
And Tiller says,
“Can I play one?”
And I say,
“Honestly, if there is any song one might play in here that would baffle, astound, or annoy the clientele, it is most certainly from the Hamilton soundtrack. What song is most popular and recognizable from Hamilton, Tills?”
And she ponders it for a split second, then says,
“‘Alexander Hamilton,’ of course.”
And so that is how it came to be that my son ended up playing a track from Hamilton to a bar full of oblivious basketball fans in Tucker, Georgia. It must be noted that Tiller sang along, proudly, word for word.
And then, we were all laughing at the absurdity and seemingly getting along. But my teenager? He could not stop there. And so he drops the bomb.
Mom, what’s a ‘rim job?’
I am pretty sure I both turned red and spluttered. I don’t know that I have ever spluttered at any other time in my entire life. The waiter came by, took one look at my face, and asked if I’d like another glass of wine? (They are good people there, at Local 7 in Tucker.)
I compose myself and say,
“Where on earth did you hear that?”
R: “Why? What is it?”
Me: We’ll talk about it when we get home, okay?”
R: “Why? I want to know now.”Me: “It’s like the blowjob discussion; You do not want to discuss this with your sister here, and I don’t think it’s polite dinner table discussion.”
R: [smirking] “That’s okay. It was in a movie Dad and I watched, and he already explained it to me.”
Me: [violent, bloody murder in my head, knowing I had been played, because he just knew it would get a reaction out of me.]
And then I did the only thing i could do. I laughed so hard I almost cried, because he absolutely had me on the ropes.
The waiter comes by to stand at the table:
“Check please,” I say.
R: “Also, what is a dildo?”
Waiter: “That last glass is on me.”
We finally get to the car and they are both jabbering and I say,
“Please, can we leave this conversation be until tomorrow? I really need a break and then I will be glad to answer any and all questions, just as I always do.”
And my sweet firstborn says,
R: “Okay. but I have one more question: What are anal beads?”
Me: “Where in the hell did you hear that!? I’m looking at your history on the computer tonight when we get home.”
And he actually seemed shocked that I might think he had googled it.
“Mom, I heard most of that in the locker room.”
Oh, well, that seems. . . wholesome and old school, I guess.
On another note, what songs would be the absolute worst to play in a bar full of people? Also, I am setting up a GoFundMe to cover my wine costs for the next five years.
Friday night is usually movie and pizza night for the family, unless T. and I have plans. This week, we were supposed to go out to dinner with friends for my birthday. (44. My God. But that is a post for another day.) Instead, the weather interfered and we stayed home and watched documentaries (