My husband and I took my sister, her two children and her fiance's daughter (from another relationship), Ciara, roller skating this past weekend. My sister and I wobbled around the floor for the "adults only" segment so we could talk.
"Make sure she eats," Ciara's grandmother (who has custody) warned my sister, "She's been throwing her food on the floor."
Ciara,
age nine, is babied by her grandmother and aunts because they feel bad about her situation. Ciara's mother is a crackwhore in Miami- no shit. I figured it had something to do with frequent temper tantrums.
"No," my sister responded, "Her mother came up," for her own birthday mind you, "and after not seeing Ciara for two years, the first thing outta her mouth was 'God, you got FAT!'"
Yeah, that's what happens when you actually feed a child -you strung out nob gobbler! And believe you me, the kid is nowhere close to fat. She has some pre-adolescent chunk on her, but nothing teenage hormones won't eventually take care of. But again, the first seven years of the kid's life, she survived on Top Ramen and Wheat Puff cereal while her mother spent child support money on dope. Ciara's metabolism is all outta whack.
People never cease to amaze me.
In my father's retirement community, there is a recreation center with eight pool tables. After Thanksgiving dinner, we headed down there for a few games. Only our family was there, right, and this resident, Richie, comes in with his autistic thirty-seven year old son to watch. My father rolls his eyes. They sit for a few minutes, not saying anything, then leave.
"I hate that guy," my father disclosed the second Richie walked out the door. This struck me as odd since the last time we were there, Richie showed up and my father merely noted he was a jerk and left it at that. Now he elaborated, "I was here with three other guys and Richie played pool with one of his friends. The six of us are the only ones here. Richie decides to step out for a cigarette and says to his friend, fairly loudly, 'Louie, keep an eye on my stuff.' So I step up, 'What exactly do you mean by that?!' And he stutters, doesn't really answer and leaves. Next week, we're all in there again and he has to leave for his AA meeting. He says, 'I'm going to pray for everyone here, except him,' and points to me! So I say, 'Yeah? Fuck you, asshole!'
This guy must be out of his mind. My father works out three hours a day, every day and has numerous trophies for senior body building competitions. And obviously a hot-headed Italian (apple doesn't fall too far from the tree). He can kick the shit out of men half his age, nevermind that geriatric alcoholic prick.
