Appetite for Dysfunction

It wasn’t too long ago, maybe four or five years, when my stepson’s dad hated me. Yeah, we’re told from an early age not to use the word ‘hate’ because it’s such a strong word; but trust me when I say it could certainly be used in this case.

I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.

And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.

It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.

Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.

Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.

That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.

One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.

I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.

And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.

But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.

And a little more about dysfunction:

Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.

I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.

“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?

I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:

Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”

Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”

Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.

One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:

“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”

The response, which went out to the entire group:

“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”

Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!

Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:

“I apologize for nothing.”

I love my freaking family.