I know. Changes.

I confess I had fun making these changes.   J is working late and Jersey Shore isn't on til 10.  The Office isn't on til later and I'm afraid to watch Dexter alone.  Too lazy to clean or exercise.  Monkey is in bed.  All of this equals blog time.  

I always got poison ivy really bad as a child.  My stepdad also has a CRAZY family.  I'm not talking, "crazy bunch of fun people."  I'm talking certifiably insane.  His dad is the icing on the cake.  He's HUGE.  He looks like an ex-WWF wrestler.  He is like 6'5", about a million pounds and his shoes are like frankenstein's.  He uses 2 chairs to sit down.  He's f*cking large.  But this alone does not make a man crazy.  Not in the least.

His actions make him crazy.  This is the guy who used to bring home homeless drug addicts (ex-drug addicts? He didn't care) to live at this farm they lived on- one that he even brought to my mom's house to dinner without notice who subsequently sat on our recliner and wiped his boogers on the arm of the chair.   Not cool.  Regarding the family farm-  they didn't grow crops or conduct any money-making activity on this farm.  His mother (my step-dad's grandmother) was a very nice woman and she had a garden, but they didn't sell any of the food.  He didn't work.  The farm house was filled with like crazy rigged stuff.  So was he, come to think of it.  Like, instead of a belt, he would hold his pants up with a rope.  I remember the toilet seat had this white tape wrapped around it.  They used glass jars for a lot of stuff.  They had this old ice cream maker and would make homemade ice cream, but the ice cream maker looked used and dirty.  Their furniture had patches. 

He was not a nice guy.  He would do things like trick you into going in the old non-functioning outhouse and then lock you in there.  Or take out his false teeth and drop them on your lap.  Or stick you on a horse and laugh as the horse rode off with you, even though you were only 7 and the horse is enormous.  Or take you on a car ride that's really long and act like it'll be a short trip and hold you hostage at a flea market for over 7 hours as he bullsh*ts with strangers.  Then on the ride home tell you that your father was going to jail because he wasn't paying child support.  Even at the age of 7, I knew he was crazy and not to be taken seriously.  He has since stolen his ganddaughter's identity, opened credit cards in her name and racked up tens of thousands of debt.  She was 19 and paying her way through college by working at a gym.  As his wife was dying of lung cancer, he kicked out the hospice nurse screaming that his wife didn't need a g-dd-mn nurse and then turned around and threatened to kill his wife.  When the family recieved a large settlement after her death (an asbestos settlement), he gambled away the entire thing.   This guy is capable of much more than anyone thought possible. 

My mom is polite and trusting to a fault and clearly always has been.  Over my dead body would I drop Monkey off with this guy.  But we would regularly go and visit this farm.  My brothers and I sit around and reminisce for hours on end about this atrocity. 

 Back to the poison ivy. 

His dad had this fire pit.  It was like half of a horse trailer and then all of these bus seats surrounding this large fire.  It was the epitome of homemade.  This large fire was burning and there was probably some form of fake smores (like generic chocolate or no chocolate or some element that made the smores not normal).  I was 7, my little brother was 5 and my older brother was 10.   We went home.

In the middle of the night, I woke up in my mom's bed (we all used to climb in bed w her in the middle of the night).  I felt itchy and I looked at myself in the mirror of her huge bureau.  My face was swollen beyond recognition. I started screaming.   My mom woke up and her face was swollen with poison ivy as well.  Same with my brothers.

For the next few days, we were all immobile.  My step-dad's f*cked up family didn't have a single poison ivy bubble on their person.  DESPITE the fact that that night- in that huge fire- they were burning gobs and gobs of POISON IVY.

Despite this negligence, my mom continued to date the man who would be my step-dad.  We also kept visiting that d*mn farm.

Also, my mom's college roommate and her 3 boys came to visit.  His dad took one of the boys, placed him on a horse without a thought- or a saddle- or experience, come to think of it- and the horse bucked him off into a huge pile of wood.  I can't believe my mom wasn't furious about this, I can't believe her college roommate wasn't pissd, I can't believe my step-dad's dad is such a f*cking goon.   But this is his way.

I'm not saying you shouldn't marry someone because of their dad.  Of course not.  But I am saying that what I've learned is that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.  My step-dad is more and more like his dad every day.  Luckily, I learned my lesson the first time around.   I never ever get in the car with him (he'll kidnap you for hours) and, unlike my mother, I say "no" to him.  Or ignore his calls. 
As a result of this "happy" and wholesome childhood experience on the jolly ole farm, I am scarred.

I don't seek out horse rides.  I don't seek out farms or romanticize old farmhouses in any way.  When something at our house isn't fixed properly or is temporarily fixed in some way or looks too homemade, I have flashbacks.  And, d*mnit, if J ever holds his pants up with a belt, we're seeking counseling.