When Even the Monster Teen Thinks You Gone Too Far… My Un-PCness in the Home

I’m not politically correct on my good days. And on my bad days and medicated days I tend to let anything and everything fall out of my mouth. Especially to my son. Even without cursing, he says I’m the crudest person he knows. I don’t think I’m as bad as he feels…I’m sure other parents have these kind of conversations right?.

Monster Teen: *walks into living room after spending a day being a lazy teen. His afro that he recently started growing is completely flat and matted from where he’s been laying. Also, he’s wearing a grungy t-shirt and shorts and his skin is crying out “moisturize me!” (Doctor Who reference there 😉

Me: Sooooo, I take it your name is not Toby today. Looking more like Kunta Kinte (Roots reference here). *sips tea*

M-T: * looks at me appallingly* Are you serious? That’s just racist Mom!

I love this little guy. I think he’s hypnotizing me with his toothless screams…

Me: Not my fault you come out looking like a runaway slave.

I think I’m to the point of my son threatening to tell me I’m going to hell.

I’m more of the mindset that if I’m not crude and up front with my monster, who will be? So I tell him that not washing his long johns will give him a stank crotch. Or let him know that if he fails 9th grade and continues to have a gpa below at least a 2, I’m legally changing his name to Taekwondus Aloewicious Jones and then kicking him out my house.

Monster Teen: Taekwondus?

Me: Yeah, you’ll need a proper flipping burgers name.

MT: Mom…

Me: and you’re from Bah-more now. Forget that you’re from *******. You have to learn to talk like you’re from Merr-lin!

MT: *walks out of living room to my cackles.*

Well, I’m having some oral surgery this week, and I know he’s happy about not having to hear embarrass him while he’s on the phone about his room smelling of armpit and teenage spunk.

That’s ok. Nothing wrong with my hands and my access to his FB page.



Tales of Growing Up: The Wacky Tobacky Trials and Why I Can Never Smoke Even When Legal

Once upon a time I was a teenager. And like all teenagers I wanted to show I was bad, tough, all the retardedness of being a teen. So at 13 I started smoking cigarettes. Less than a year later my cousin was offering me marijuana while I stayed the summer in the hood.

Since I was in full on rebellion stage, I was super terrified, but willing to do stupid things. So we walked the hood to meet up with a friend who sold weed. As far as I remember, my tryout was free. And the guy was cute (my eyes were really bad then, or time has not been kind to the hood’s local weedman). And I wanted to impress my cousin. Exact opposite happens.

Right in some random neighborhood weeddude lights up. I’m as jittery as a guy about to see his first boobs at a strip club. We’re doing this in public?! Out on the street?! Where anyone could see us?! Egads!

I am not nerdy enough, nor was I that nerdy then to say Egads!

Embellishment. Ahem. To continue…

Egads! I cried in my head, as the weeddude to a puff puff and passed to my cousin. And she puffed and puffed and Wow she has great lung control.

And then its my turn. I’m sweating like a hooker in church, and its laughable but I’m actually praying right then and there that inhaling this mess doesn’t randomly kill me or make me crazy for LIFE.

I inhale. And try to hold it in as I was told to do, but this crap burns like tear gas that I’m less than 10 years away from experiencing when I join the military. Instead of exhaling all smoothly I hack it all out, and Oh My Sweet Baby Jesus lying in the manger with swaddling clothes this mess burns like the fires of Hell!!!

I swear I turned into a cartoon at that moment because I felt the burn and fire pouring from my ears! And while weeddude and the cuz are roaring laughter I feel my ear drums dying and my throat crying. I call to my cousin to ask the obvious. “It burns cuz! Why does it burn?!” Which sends her into another roll of laugh at my newbie pain.

I barely get a buzz that time, and of course, I have to redeem myself. Weeks later, back visiting, I try again, this time at weeddude’s house. I’ve learned my lesson and fight my throat not to cough. And I get totally weird and wrong. The first thing that starts to bother me is that my eyesight and started to go in and out of focus like a drunk video camera. The second is that I’m in one room sitting, but feel like I’m about to tip over and fall out the window… in the next room. And third, my natural paranoia went to “Warning Will Robinson” levels and I was sure everyone could read my thoughts and that the police were on their way from reading my thoughts.

Not to mention, weeddude’s eyes turned into demon eyes.

This. This is what I saw.

And it wasn’t just the one time. Each time I tried, things got weirder and weirder until I had to stop myself and ask “Is this really fun, or giving you nightmares and destroying your mental stability more than your normal crazy?” When cows begin to nod their head to the music that is only playing in your head. When green buildings begin to look like Emerald City, when you start to not know the difference between reality and what the drug is telling you is real… Well, you’ve entered the real life version of the movie “A Scanner Darkly” or you just have a bad reaction to the wacky tobacky.

I stopped. And learned later through my mother that my father had the same reactions. That he lost a whole weekend not knowing who he was and just wandered, making snow angels where there was no snow.

I believe marijuana should be legalized. I know many people with my medical condition (hidradenitus suppurative, see my previous post: http://dimensionthe5th.com/2012/12/06/god-is-an-alien-and-put-alien-babies-under-my-skin-rare-medical-condition-woes/) that are so severe pain that it’s all they can take. But for me, oh no. No thank you. Give me some percocet or something NORMAL for me.

Oh No, I’m Blinded! Dealing With Monster Teen’s Growing Body

I share this because after telling the story to friends, I realized that maybe other mother do not talk with their sons this way. And plus, in hindsight it is hilarious. But when it was happening I was just frustrated.

So my son is a musician, and plays in the school band. The other night he had a performance, and I found out only the night before that he needed to be dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Of course I have to buy this ish short notice!

So after work the next day, I run to the store, estimating my monster teen’s growing size. Pretty much holding things to me and picking a size slightly bigger. It works well for the shirt. For the pants, well, the last size I’d bought him was 32-32. And as a side note, stupid men’s sizes are stupid. Yes, I know they make more sense than a woman’s because you can have a tall skinny dude that needs a tiny waist and all, but it’s too confuzzling for me. So, I just bought his dress slacks in 32-32. I forgot about the one thing my genetics have cursed him with.

My son has a badonkadonk.

This is not a representation of my son. He has a huge butt, but that does not turn him into a monkey.

It is a ridiculously big behind for a male. He’s in denial. He thinks I’m making it up just how like I had him believing for some time that he was a clone after my first of him had an “unfortunate accident.”

But his butt is huge, and when I rushed home, gave him his new clothes to iron and throw on while I changed, I came back out to a visual dilemma.

From behind, his pants looked rather tight. It was showing off just how curvy those back cheeks were.

Me: You gotta go up a size in pants next time.

Monster Teen: Why? They fit.

Me: You look like you are smuggling cantaloupes back there.

Monster Teen: My butt is NOT big Mom!

And then… He turned around and I’m blinded.

Me: Oh no! You can’t go out like that!

MT: What?!

Me: All I see is crotch!


Me: Your junk is sitting up like a beacon right up front. No one will be able to see anything but that!

You remember in the movie Labyrinth, how we as children were introduced to David Bowie’s package? David Bowie has websites dedicated to his package.

My childhood… if it hadn’t already been sullied, that moment would be now.



I don’t want my son to have websites. *Shudders*

Monster Teen: What am I…

Me: Can you move it? Push it down the leg of your pants or something. Ugh. Just, just get it out of everyone’s face!

MT: grumble grumble grumble

Me: BIGGER PANTS. And boxer briefs.

If it wasn’t for having to leave out the door at that moment, I would have NEVER let my poor teen go out the door like that. I know he already catches the eye of many a young female. Well the other night he was serving them free teen on a platter with that get-up. Much to my “ew that’s my son” disgust.

How would a man handle this same situation with his son I wonder?

Son of Donkey! Why I Stopped Cursing Years Ago

So I have a few words/sayings that I say instead of cursing. My favorites are: son of a donkey, daggone, frack, frack a doodle, shittake mushroom, be-witch, heffa, and fudge bucket in hot sauce. The only times for over almost 10 years that I actually cursed is in extreme anger, and smexy time. The funny thing is, some actually look down on me for NOT cursing. So let lead you around the long version of why I USED to swear like a Sailor, and then quit.

Once upon a time the was a little black geek girl who attended many mostly peach crayon heavy schools in the suburbs. Her ghetto extended family constantly talked about she “talked white”, like it was such a horrible thing to be educated. The little BGG didn’t really care as long as she didn’t bullied too much at school (which didn’t happen too often as other kids learned soon enough that little BGG was crazy from the day she was born, and would always be a geek that fought back). But as she grew older and those dastardly hormones kicked in, well, she wanted to fit in. Especially as the life she knew began to fall apart as her parents separated. So… She turned to those that used to make fun of her, and tried to be like them.

Hi, my name is dimensionthe5th, and long ago I was a poser.

Before splitting up my parents raised me in a pretty middle class home. My mother was soft-spoken, polite, submissive and naïve. She didn’t drink, and didn’t curse. My father was a true soldier-turned-coastie that couldn’t have a clean mouth even with a soap wash. He was the Man of the House, and everything and everyone followed his rules. The women of the house dressed the way he felt right, even to hair styles. I was raised to be an independent woman, as long as I stayed within the rules of what He considered proper.

Anyway, my parents splitting up, depression, hormones, and starting high school at an age slightly younger than average (nerd power!) made me begin to act out in the ways that went against my parents way of raising me. That meant that at 13, I started stealing my dad’s cigarettes that he left everywhere. And started smoking weed and drinking whenever I visited the bad bunch of cousins. I also began changing my mode of dress, from quirky girly (since my mom is a borderline little person I could fit her clothes by 11 and liked wearing her older pieces), and started cursing and speaking like my family members. That meant a lot of slang and cursing. And my lovely hobby of reading like a speed demon, I put it away.

I sucked at the beginning of the ghetto fabulous transformation. My cursing was off and school friends and the bad-influence-cousins made fun. But I watched, and learned, so I could fit in. Even after my son was born, I kept up with the “hood” attitude, although many could easily see right through it. Even after joining the military I wore doo-rags over my hair, baggy jeans, and always had a black n mild in hand. I drank loads of beer that first year to get used to the taste. And every sentence either had a curse word or the word “n*gga”.

The funny thing is… I never felt comfortable cursing, no many how many years I did it before I stopped. The same goes with the whole hood tough chick style. I grew up loving dresses and reading the dictionary for fun. To limit myself to a stereotype that I was not born to, well, I said before that it should always be about being true to yourself.

After evil ex boyfriends and mental health appointments, by my mid twenties I started to come back to myself. That I don’t need to dress in “Lady Thug” or “Hoochie Iz Us” brand clothing to fit in. That I could be myself and still scare the baby Jesus out of the young enlisted troops without ever uttering a curse word. That I should be proud of the way I talk, because at least I sound intelligent, and as an adult, its looked at as a good thing unlike the stupid childhood/teen years.

So when someone asks me why I do not curse, I say nicely as possible that I’d rather sound intelligent than like a common hood rat.

Also, it’s just more all around fun to make up your own curses 😉

Crazy must be genetic

So I’m writing in BEFORE thoughts in anticipation of taking Monster Teen to the doc tomorrow. To the head doc. I’ve avoided this for years but I think its starting to really hinder him. Both his teachers and I believe he may have ADHD.

This is not the only time its come up. Back when he was just a Monster elementary schooler, the teachers pushed for him to be medicated. I took him to a counselor that noted the bigger problem at the time was that he had a reading disability that only I had noticed and repeatedly tried to bring to his teacher’s attention. So he got his own IEP (individual education plan-I think it’s called) and received extra help in reading. And things got mucho better.

Until the last 2 years. There’s not a  reading problem (well, he’s still not at OMG the greatest level, but passing). But he just can’t seem to focus. I want to write this off as teenage boy hormones, but he, the Monster Teen himself, is actually concerned. He doesn’t like that he can’t focus, and is so forgetful. Heck, I’d be pissed too if I actually did the homework and then failed because I forgot to turn it in. So, I decided to have him tested. I’ve long thought that probably even I qualify, because oh look shiny happens more than I’d like to admit. It’s why I live off of 3 separate day planners and a chore list to keep me on track.

So, I’ve never wanted to label my child, well other than pet names, but we’ll see what happens with the doc tomorrow.

The next day…

So its official. Monster Teen will start on ADHD medicine. And continue to see the behavioral health specialist for ways to keep his short-term memory working and tricks for keeping focus. He asked very good questions, wanting to know about side effects and such. He was adamant in only wanting to take meds if it did not mess with his health or personality in an extreme way. And he’s like “I know that this isn’t a crutch, but I want to be able to focus like other people do and remember things the way I’m supposed to. Aww, I’m proud of the snot rag.

I also apologize to him, which trust me, doesn’t happen often. I told him that I was afraid of him being labeled so much that I wanted to ignore signs that were there. Bad mother. -30 points. But hey, we’ve got time to get him on track  to a good high school start. I’m excited to see what the changes will be like when he doesn’t misplace 20 bucks in less than 5 minutes. Heck I may want to get myself tested. Nah… I can handle my crazy. No need to add anything else to the long list of my nuttiness.

You sound like a tuba farting in the bathroom… and Ninja Airlines

Seriously it just happened

Monster Teen decided to use the upstairs bathroom just a while ago, and it (the odious back-blast from his badonk) shook the first floor of our apartment.

Since Monster Teen is almost off his “Super Grounding Z” (patent pending), we’ve been slightly having fun with each other. Which means we get to have cool convos with each other again. Yay! My son was actually reading my poetry and giving his own interpretation for each. Which is cool, because since he plans to be the best percussionist EVAR, and write his own songs for his fantasy band, if my writing skills did some slimy leaking into his genetics – well I’m ecstatic!

Of course, then we had to go weird and think up Ninja Airlines.

So here was how it started. So I was talking about how chilly it’s getting and him needing some long johns. But I called them ninja pajamas. I call them ninja pajamas because the military issues long johns. and at one point they were black and silky. And they had little thumb-hooks. So cool. And so, if you were just running around in your long johns for spits n giggles, you’d feel all ninja-like.

Ahem. Anyway, so I’m explaining that all to the Monster T because he asked why I called them ninja PJs. And then he pointed out that our long johns are now tan-colored. So I explained that it’s for desert ninjas.

Monster Teen: But why would ninjas be in the desert?

Me: Ninjas are needed everywhere, and need to be able to blend.

M.T.: But how we they get there?

Me (with complete sincerity): Ninja Airlines, of course.

M.T. (pretending to be an airline attendant): Welcome to Ninja Airlines… I’m not sure if you are actually here, so I hope you enjoy your flight.

Me: Please remember that there is no jutsu while the plane is in the air. Only before take-off and after landing.

M.T.: No summons allowed in the seats. Yes, I know that they aren’t really pets and can talk and have awesome powers, but they must be left in pet carriers.

Me: Please no trying to jump out of the plane to run at ninja speed through the trees. We are NOT turning around to pick you back up.

Monster Teen: And please, do not try to hypnotize the pilot. We may crash.

I love my spawn. Giggle-snort.


Children are Evil – My monster just fracked up my awesome mom track record

So no matter how great a job you are doing as a parent (or how well you THINK you are doing as a parent), your idiotic teenager can just frack up your track record.

You didn’t know this was a contest? OF COURSE IT IS!!!

And now I’m behind in the race like a fat kid trying to win carrots. Shut up. It DOES TOO MAKE SENSE! Ahem, yes, my mind is wandering, I can’t sleep (Clowns will eat me… not in a good way).

My MonsterTeen (patent pending), now has a juvenile record. And not for doing something cool that he can tell stories about when he’s my age. Oh no, he will have a lame “I was a follower that didn’t want to be looked at like a punk” story.

Let me set the scene for you: The other night, I’m chilling on my couch, half out of uniform, flexing my online shopping muscles while buying Christmas presents for the MT. As soon as I pressed the “place order” on my favorite site (really, I’m not sure if I love Amazon.com or bacon more) there’s a knock on my door. A policeman. A cop. A cute cop, but a cop nonetheless. And I think cutecop maybe got the wrong address until he asks if I am MonsterTeen’s mother.  Oh sweet baby Hay-soos. What is going on.

Under the threat of going to jail this is the story that came out: He was hanging over in his “girlfriend’s” neighborhood with her and another dude. We’re just going call her Shanaynay, because that’s just as ghetto as her real name. The other dude is going to be called Oomfoofoo Jr. So, they are all on the stairs and Oomfoofoo Jr. asks to borrow a pen from my son. My son gives it to him and then he an Shanaynay proceed to just stand there and watch as Oomfoofoo Jr draws male and female body parts in health class detail, writes that he’s fracked the wife of whoever lives there, and many other crude and violent things – ending with “and this was written by to black guys, you better be scared!”

Are you frackin kidding me. -_-

So MonsterTeen now has a record, because he was a punk, and didn’t tell on the little bustard, or just walk away. He is lucky as heck that cutecop didn’t take him to the station as he threatened. He is lucky that the man who’s door was defaced only wanted an apology. He is lucky that the housing complex isn’t pressing extra charges, fees, or kicking us out of our home. And he is lucky that I didn’t murder him.

Instead I took away all electronics: TV, cell phone, PSP, PS2, PS3, Wii, Nintendo DS, laptop, ipod (yes, the little bustard is spoiled). No TV, no going outside, no sodas, no desserts, and no candy even though we’ve got a lot leftover from Halloween. He’s grounded until Christmas… unless he fails any classes on his report card.

Meanwhile back at the ranch… in my brain that is… I’m starting to go into somewhat of a depression. I don’t want my son to ever turn out like his biological genetics donor. I was stupid, but my son should not pay for it. He has all the tools to be better than the both of us. So I may sip a little more wine than usual this weekend. And I may shed a tear or two where he can’t see. I already have. And I’ve also had friends that have been very supportive by understanding that I don’t just take this as “oh, boys will be boys, he got in trouble, and it’ll be cool.” My real friends have been either talking to the Monster Teen, or taking him out for some male bonding. Because mom just might lock him in a closet somewhere.

So Monster Teen has ruined dimensionthe5th’s mom track record of awesomesauce. Back to training. And torturing. Maybe I should reinforce the story that he’s cloned and tell a new story of what happened to the first version of him.