Here�s the dilemma, do you update the blog every day so your
So then you have to think up some thing that you can put up regularly as a backup filler type thing. Like - I have nothing interesting to say today, so here�s the up to date weather for Southern Iceland.
I know! I can rant about the boy. Up until now I have shielded you, gentle reader, from the satanic day to day torture that is the boy.
He comes home from school and before he even gets his coat off flops down on my bed and moans, I am bored. Of course he only does this if I am trying to write something or am doing just about anything that needs some sort of brain cell activity. I list off everything he could be doing but he is having none of it. There is no answer to his problem. Do not even try.
If I am reading, it is the exact time that he must speak with me, or he will, apparently explode. And it is usually something earth shattering like, he farted.
He never, ever, ever calls his own father. He will not call him to come and pick him up. He will however make my life a living hell until I call his father. I think it is because he knows how much I hate to do that, and because when his father says no, he can somehow make it my fault. And in a way it is my fault. I was the idiot that slept with that loser all those years ago.
Once every day I go completely horse from screaming. The boy has Chinese water torture down to a science.
I can never, ever, ever go shopping with him. Since he was a baby it has been the same. He would go on and on about a certain, specific toy that he just had to have. We would proceed to the store and look for it. But, and it�s a big but, if I was the first of us to lay hands on said toy, it made the toy null and void. �But this is the exact one you described?�
�I don�t want that one.�
�Is it just because I have touched it? CUZ I CAN STOP TOUCHING IT!� So instead of walking in the store, knowing what we want and walking out 10 minutes later, it becomes a day long affair.
He did this to me yesterday. �There are $10 hats at Cleves, can I get one?� We go into the store and for some reason I lose my mind and actually lay hands on the hat. What the hell was I thinking? Do you know how hard it is to find a ball hat in Canada, in the winter? I do now. TWO FUCKING DAYS AND THIRTY TWO FUCKING DOLLARS!
And what, pray tell, is my reward for this? He is, at this very moment, shooting golf balls against my closed bedroom door.
Drip, Drip, Drip!