Tag Archives: Texas Rangers

No Joy in Mudville

agony of defeat

Yesterday was a mopey kind of day for Mr. Husband and me. Our beloved Texas Rangers lost to the Cardinals in the last game of the World Series. I’m glad it’s over. At the end of it all I declared that I hate baseball. It’s 99% boredom and 1% terror. It’s too much emotional stress over a game.

So we hung around the house doing not much of anything. I didn’t even get out of my pajamas until after lunch. But I also had that vague feeling that something was hanging over my head. That waiting for the other shoe to drop kind of feeling.

Well the other shoe, a great big ole mud covered boot, fell on my head. The grandson who was staying with us until a month ago to get clean sent a string of text messages. He didn’t have the stones to call me on the phone. My suspicion was that he was afraid that I would hear in voice that he was drunk or worse.

“I need money or I’m going to be evicted tomorrow.” Always the drama queen or King in his case. I didn’t respond. Maybe being homeless will be the wake up call he needs, or even jail. I’ve been down that road many times with his mother. It’s a dead-end road with dragons and demons waiting. I’m not pouring any more money down that black hole.

A few minutes later, before I even had time to respond, “Well I take that as a no…”

Then, “Well I shouldn’t even ask you, I knew you what you would say.” He plays the pity and guilt card. Slick, but I’ve lost that round so many times that I know not to play the game. Mr. Husband’s response was “well sweetie, he learned at the feet of the master.” He was referring to my daughter. True, so true.

About an hour later, “Well keep an eye on the news, Gram.” Say what?

He also texted me a picture. A picture designed to curdle my blood and hoping to get a rise out of me, obviously. He was shirtless, displaying all his tough guy tattoos, sporting some weird-looking rapper beard, and a pimp chain around his neck, and expensive shades. He has the whole gangsta look down pat. I have to hand him that. A picture speaks a thousand words. This picture said “look at me, Gram. Give me money or I’m gonna be a dealer or an all around scum bag, take your pick.”

That picture was a kick in the gut. It made me mad. No, that’s an understatement. I got white-hot, bitch slapping, bunker busting, dish breaking, furniture kicking furious. I calmed down and Mr. Husband took me to a nice Japanese restaurant to cheer us both up.

Later that I had an epiphany, or one of many epiphanies. I am sick and tired of getting tortured and bullied. If I had a dollar for every time someone in my extended family and their significant others called me in the middle of the night claiming that if I didn’t “help them out” by giving them money, they would kill themselves, or worse, I would be rich.

Or richer maybe. Mr. Husband and I are not suffering financially. I’m fortunate in that cutting back, for me, means, buying 1 new pair of shoes instead of 3. But somewhere along the way it seems that people think that “hey, I have no money. I’m able-bodied and can provide for myself. BUT, you have more so instead… give me yours. If you are not willing to fork it over, I’m not above extortion and yanking on your heart-strings. I’m not going to be satisfied until you come down here to the bottom of the well and be miserable with me!”

What has happened here? A sense of entitlement seems a much to bland way to describe what is going on. I never in my 56 years asked a family member or anyone else for a loan. I used to think I had too much pride to do that. But, maybe pride is a good thing. I’ve always thought that if was my job, not anyone else’s, to take care of me. All of me, all my needs, all my wants, are my responsibility. I’m completely kaflemped and befuzzled. I just don’t get it.

Go Texas Rangers – and 15 Seconds of Fame

Mr. Husband in Red Hat & Friend With Unknown Chicks

The only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys. Mr. Husband’s friend proved this by purchasing 2 tickets to front row seats behind the Cardinal’s dugout. I won’t quote dollars here, but he could have bought half a car.

So away they go to game 4 of the 2011 World Series. Hubman had been really sick the day before and I was afraid he would back out. But he made it. How many times in your life do you get to see your baseball team playing in the series at home field? Seriously. The way he screams when watching games I was sure that he would yell so loud that his vocal cords took flight and landed somewhere in center field.

I had the game on TV last night but spent most of my time playing World of Warcraft on the computer in my office. I didn’t see him but he and his friend ended up on national TV. He saw it this morning on an ESPN show about the fans and the noise from the game last night. A friend of the blond lady in the picture, watching from home sent this to her. She texted it to Hubman during the game. If I was the jealous type I would want to know why a blond chick is texting him pictures?? But it’s pretty obvious why in this case.

What fun, Mr. Husband has his 15 seconds of fame. All while doing what he loves best, praying and cursing for his team. Go team go.

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