Five

My son thinks I’m mean. This because his hulking, vampire-like presence wandering into the kitchen at 1 p.m.—just out of bed after I’ve been working my ass off for five hours already—pisses me off. I want to slap him upside the head and tell him to shape up. However, it didn’t work when he was 12 and I’m pretty sure it won’t work now. He assures me that he’s applying for jobs via the internet every day. I don’t believe him, and even if it is true, it isn’t enough. At one time, I had high hopes that he’d get a college degree or even a two-year certificate in something that would allow him to be, if not a mogul, at least self-sustaining. He went to college for one semester, declared it to be “not his thing” and took a part-time job. He ill-advisedly protested a manager’s insistence that a co-worker—a cute brunette—refrain from wearing her nose ring at work and inexplicably wound up “off the schedule.” Permanently.

Since I seem to be incapable of allowing my adult son to live on the street, and since his lack of skills and resources make that inevitable, I can’t really say or do anything that will lead to an ultimate show-down.

Oh, I have no problem provoking a screaming match with the useless little bast…uh…gamer. But if I do, then Joe will inevitably rouse from his internet golf stupor, be rudely reminded that he spawned a deadbeat and fly into a rage over some aspect of the argument. Then the testosterone in the house will rise to suffocating levels and either Joe will kick Dean out or Dean will make some grand stand, throw his computer in a backpack and walk out. Of course, this was more effective when he could drive his car. Since my son is unemployed and we’re squeaking by on one income, his car is both unregistered and uninsured. Somehow, storming away on his skateboard doesn’t have the same impact.

So, I’m limited to focusing my complaints, lowering my voice and hissing to Dean that I’m tired of asking him to empty the dishwasher and I’m tired of reminding him to check the dishes to make sure they’re really clean before putting them in the cabinets. Since this seems like such minor thing, Dean can’t believe I’m getting “in his face” before he’s really awake. Hence, he thinks I’m mean. He has no idea.