Disasterprone
I agree with some of your harsh endightment of the unemployed. Having been unemployed in the past for a while it is easy to become sucked into the 'government owes me attitude' and grab money where available for fripperies.

However, if you are earning £32 grand a year and can't afford satelite telly, then I suspect that you need to get thee to a financial advisor and sort your money out. It's only £21 pound a month and you can watch as much Spongebob squarepants as you like.

yipee!
( girlinthehole, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 11:13, Reply)

Disasterprone
What a brilliant point!

Having children is a priveledge, not a right. It should be ensured that people can afford to have a child and are responsible enough to bring them up correctly and not start a production line of criminals (all paid for by the hard working people of this sceptered isle!)
(TAZ220 Not giving a toss since, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 10:57, Reply)

A family of kids from my school
Parents were farmers from rural Lancashire; they called their kids: Caleb, Reuben, Amos, Ebony, Ivory and Amber. How very "Cold Comfort Farm".
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 10:18, Reply)

Not as bad as some on here, but bad for a 4 year old
When I was little, my twin sister and I wouldn't go to sleep. You know, normal kid stuff. So what does my mom do?
She makes up a scary detective.
Yep, that's right. She tells us about a detective named Dan who will come and arrest us if we don't go to sleep. If we refused still, she would pick up the phone and 'call' Dan. We would beg and plead for her to not call him. I remember being TERRIFIED of Detective Dan. I had even conjured up a picture of him. Big black sunglasses, a necklace, sandy blonde hair, a slight 5 o'clock shadow, and a tan detective coat. Everytime we made a fuss about going to sleep, she'd be like, "Dannnn?" and we would jet off to bed instantly. Dan kept on for a few years until we moved. DUN DUN DUNNNN. This is where it gets interesting. My sister and I both figured out that when we moved, Dan would stay where we were. That was the end of that nonsense! :)
Now, my dad. Around the Dan era, we had a waterbed. This said waterbed got a small hole and my dad had to patch it. To keep us away from the wet patch thing, my dad decides to tell us that if we touched it martians would come out and kill us. :( Result: Scared to go to bed and get killed by martians and scared to NOT go to bed for fear of being arrested.
Length? Ask Dan. Only he knows what was under the trenchcoat.
(NancyycnaN Wðñ'† ¥ðµ §hðw §ðmê ¢l姧?, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 9:56, Reply)

Thick people
should not be allowed to breed. Nor should people who live life primarily online.

And benefits should be given in goods, not cash.

I earn 32k a year, and after I've paid the mortgage and bills etc I can't afford Sky. Why the fuck should some dole cunt who can't be arsed to work (there are always jobs available) have satellite tv?

I'd get rid of Jobseekers (ha!) Allowance and make the cunts get a license before breeding; if they can't afford a kid they can't have one; I end up paying for the pikey little shits.

Oh, and they're shit parents too, hence all the crime and petty thuggery about at the moment (and yes, I'm aware of the irony in me calling other people criminal, although as I'm white and middle class the filth do like throwing the book at me).

Cunts.

(sorry, that was a bit of a rant)

(and involved many unfair generalisations)

(I'm so hungover and grouchy this morning)

(Gah)
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Tue 21 Aug 2007, 9:33, Reply)

My parents were great
But it didn't stop me from being a proper little shit.

I was aged about 5 and was fighting with my brother again, so they shut me in my room. As always I absolutely trashed the place, pulled all the books off the shelves, ripped the sheets off the bed and so on. But this one time I went one step further.

I had a dump n the middle of the floor and used my brothers favourite book to wipe my arse. Ha.
(Creamy Discharge Freeze Motherstickers, this is a fuck up, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 9:07, Reply)

Bike crashtastic
I've not lived properly at home now for 3 and a half years or more and rarely visit however I phone the rents and see them regularly when they visit my sister up here in edinburgh so its all good.
They are Both medics.
Mums a nurse turned healthvisitor
dads a Doctor etc.
Anyways I was heading to my sisters to meet her for a meal when I flipped my fixed wheel bike at 34mph going down a hill. I did a full roll and landed on my hip and head (luckily had a helmet on otherwise I'd be an EX-nostrabor) and got some gravel rash. I got up much to the suprise of the following cycklist who was on the phone to police and ambulance and cycled onwards despite pain in hip. Went for the meal with sister after taking some beer and pain killers but when I tried to stand up after the meal it was clear something was seriously wrong.
So I phoned the parents to get some parenty advice. The first thing my mother said when I asked her whether I should goto hospital was "I'm not paying for the bike" Bearing in mind I dont ever ask them for money.
My father however came out with a great line.
"What'd you do that for?"
I quickly hungup on them and rang NHS direct (excellent service)
Havent felt so upset and almost betrayed by their lack of any concern in all my life.
pretty fuming.
NHS cleared me so I went on a cycling holiday only for my leg to collapse 4 days and 357 miles later just south of paris. Mothers comment "you should probably have had it checked out properly"
cheers mum.
( Nostrebor can't be everything all the time., Tue 21 Aug 2007, 7:20, Reply)

I was a naughty lad
I was a naughty lad, and regularly used to lock myself in the bathroom when being chased by an angry parent.
Locking the door for a few minutes would allow enough time for my parents red mist to settle and at least reduce the severity of my beating.
This was until one particularly naughty incident (which I wont go in to), I did my usual and made it into the bathroom, locked the door, had my face pinned against it and let out a sigh of relief. My solace was short lived as I was forcibly flung across the room, followed by the bathroom door as my father kicked it off the frame.
I then received the beating of my life.
Good times.
(doylieboy, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 7:15, Reply)

Never Take Rides from Strangers
Was probably the only lesson my parents never taught me when I was really young.

When I was young (I'd say about ten) we went for a vacation to P.E.I. (wow!). Rented house and all. One day, we all took a long stroll down the road to the beach. Quite quickly after we got there, my brother managed to slice his foot open on a rock. Cue my mom and dad running back to the house with him leaving me and my older sister to walk back. Not a problem, even though I'm tired. I went there barefoot, but the road was rocky, so my dad gave me his oversized sandals before he went off running. Well with that and me being tired, I was extremely slow and my sister got tired of me lagging behind. Wasn't long before everyone was out of sight and I had no idea where I was.

Cue a strange man in a Jeep. I give him my story, that I'm there on vacation, the place we're staying is down the road somewhere, but I have no clue. He offers to give me a ride down the road, to try and find the house. Not knowing not to, I oblige. After a bit of driving, I see the house, I thank him, and he lets me out. Nice guy.

Of course my parents are happy to see that I actually made it home, though a little ticked off that I had taken this random ride from a random stranger. Guess they were a little late with the no rides from strangers thing. I Still didn't quite get it after that, clearly getting a ride from strangers can help in a predicament.
(KingScott, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 3:51, Reply)

Ahh, the mother
My mum, on the other hand, is different from my dad. My mum is a very strong person, and my dad, very weak. So when they married, it probably wasn't going to last. When she started having an affair with my primary school teachers husband, he turned a blind eye. When she became a raging alki, same thing. Mum beating the living arse off of me? Did he notice? Did he fcuk! He did what any chickenshit would do and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. At 7, I learned to cook, clean, lie and lob bottles over the railway line so no one found them.

I would wake my brother in the morning, get him dressed, washed and fed, make his lunch, then take him to school. I would then walk home, make sure mum hadn't choked to death on her own vomit and then clean the house. When she woke up, make her happy then collect brother, make his tea, sort him out for the night and then put him to bed. I would be awake as long as my mum, get my beating, clean up her shit, piss and vomit, put her to bed then sleep in my brothers bed with him, so that if she was prone to a night rage, she'd get me instead of him.

It took my grandmother to persuade my dad to rescue us. He took my brother and set up a home for them, leaving me with a highly Christian nana.

My mum cleaned her act up by being sectioned before entering rehab. I love her to pieces and she's my best friend but she's still a mental old bitch in her way!

When I did start living with my dad a few years later (around 11), I continued to raise my brother, ensuring he had food to eat, clean clothes and went to school as my dad had let things slip. The thing is, being a big sister is the best thing ever and I got (and still do) to be there for my brother in loads of ways. Bullies at school? No problem Little Bro, I'll get the lads and sort it out! Girlfriend cheated on you? Where's my crowbar, I'm breaking knees tonight! He's 17 now, a stay at home with no job but I honestly believe I've done the best I can in the circumstances, and I'm still trying today. Hear that dad? Now THAT is fucking parenting!! Not fucking off for weeks at a time to watch football, leaving no food, money or the lecky key. Not pissing off with your secret girlfriend. Not ignoring things and hoping they'll go away. Not letting him take drugs, or skive, or drink till he's comatose, and making me be the bad guy all the time.

I'm not worried about ending up like my parents, because I raised myself, and my brother, and I did a pretty shithot job!
(missc, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 2:20, Reply)

My Dad's a Cunt
For many reasons, but one memory in particular sticks in the mind.

When I was 11 or 12, I had recently discovered the joys of the web, namely filthy pornsites. I would spend frequent hours on my Dad's computer familiarising myself with the female anatomy. Unfortunately, at that age I was unaware that he could simply check the history to see what I had been up to.

Which he did. Then he thrashed me. Hard. But that ain't the worst part...

My Gran had been taken ill with cancer at the time, so we went up to Monklands hospital in Glasgow to visit her. All the way up there he was doing his usual - berating me, making me feel small, chipping away at my self-esteem. We arrive at the hospital, find her ward, and approach the bed, which is surrounded by my aunts, uncles, and many cousins. My Uncle William asks me how I'm doing, and then my Dad announces, in his loudest voice, that I had mainly been looking at hardcore porn sites on the internet. In front of my dying Gran!

Cheers Dad.
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 1:36, Reply)

I'm currently at a Camp in america
No, not a detention camp, but a day camp somewhere in the USA.

I have worked with lots of kids, aged 5 - 25 (and all my fellows in various IT depts.) this poor kid takes the biscuit.

He is 7 and supposedly got bipolar disorder, apart from he has never had a recorded depressive phase. still the parents gleefully dope him up on lithium, consigning him to a lifetime of drug taking, as the withdrawal symptoms of lithium are roughly a 33% chance of suicide.

they also fail to tell him off when he does bad things for example: him running into a very busy car park next to a main road, the parents were more concerned with who will be my co councilor than the fate of her son, and the support assistant chasing him.

as far as we can tell every time he misbehaves he appears to get a hug. hence his supposed "mania" he also seems to exhibit autistic traits (unable to correctly partake in conversations, not understanding social order, unable to empatise, unable to calculate peoples moods.)

oh and he is ginger.
(KaiserPro captain arse rape, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 1:30, Reply)

I'll be 20 next year....
At home here along with my little sister and brother we are "the kids". I am a child. And am treated as such.

I get the calming baby voice for upset toddlers, they tell me it's "bed time" and not in the jokey way, I get ignored in only the way rambling tiny children can be, I get them making "mmhmm" noises as I talk then changing subject as they haven't been listening, and they are shocked or disbelieving when I say I'll be back late, that I want a take-away and so on.

It's pathetic. All their friends thus, treat us the same way. Even my boyfriend is treated as a child when he is up here, which he now dislikes to be as he feels like a child and a fool.

When I'm down at his, where his mum is much more relaxed and treats him and I as good friends than small babies, I have this great rush of freedom and it's exhilerating.

I've had a simply spiffing childhood compared to you guys though (which makes me realise no wonder you're all sarcy bastards as only b3tards can be). The only thing is, the 'rents don't seem to realise that my childhood has now stopped.

The only reason I happen to still be in the house is finance. I may not like it, but I'm not stupid when it comes to realising how much better it will be to get my degree done while living for free here and then fleeeeeeeeing into the deep end of grown-up land! Hurrah for futures!
( vix0r was not Matthew on, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 1:00, Reply)

I made it up!
Got to say it, my parents where great to me and my sisters, cant think of any bad stories about them at all, but this sordid story involves me and a "little" white lie i told my school..

When i was a wee lad of about 11-12 i would every week without fail find some excuse to miss PE (Gym for you americans), although one time the bastard teachers managed to get me to participate and so the lesson went well enough, the problem came afterwards when your meant to shower and get changed... well i refused to get in the showers as i was painfully shy of getting naked infront of everyone else, so the really nice teacher pulled me aside to ask why i refused to have a shower like everyone else.
So me in my pre-pubescent mind couldnt exactly say the real reason that i was way to shy as i had a small knob (at the time!) and hadnt quite hit puberty yet although it seemed to me everyone else had.. so whats the first thing that pops in my head, I bursted into tears and start pouring out this story of how im covered in bruises from where my mum and dad hit me constantly, so the teachers face just drops and he says "oh... ok.." and lets me off from having a shower. I never had to shower after PE again for the whole time i was at shool.
My god i felt like shit just after saying that to my teacher, but there was no way i could go back on it and say the real reason now could i.

You would think that my parents would suddenly have had a visit from social services, police or something, but nothing, to this day they still dont know!!
And this school is supposed to be rated as one of the top in the country and to think they left me to my misery of daily beatings (as they thought), bunch of bastards.

Edit: There goes my B3ta cherry!
(casca Cracked one out on, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 0:37, Reply)

lies / subterfuge
As a child (all through primary school), I could never understand why i kept being sent to "play" with a lad called Simon that i REALLY didn't like.
Simon was an only child - spoilt, arrogant and generally a twat. (plus his mother couldn't cook for shite - malt viniger on salad!?!)

looking back on it now, seems it was always my dad's idea to go round there. (cue suspicion)

Turns out, that the dirty fucker had been having an affair with said mother of Simon (lets call her Denise - for that is her name)
and against all sense of decency, put me smack bang in the middle of it. (apparently my mum knew about the affair, but was told it had ended BEFORE i started school!)

what a bastard eh?

but wait, it gets better/worse...

**Denise is pregnant**
Turns out she has a husband who, for some reason he was never there when we would visit... (i wonder why)
(cue more suspicion - do i now have a half brother???)

Roll forward 15/20 years. Unaware of any suspicion, my dad still (unprompted) mentions Denise and Simon occationally. It's quite funny really, the sad fucker is using her name as a password for his e-mail...

I don't hate him for having an affair,
I do for the way he used me as a decoy.

/end of therapy sesion.
( Coventry, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 0:12, Reply)

Thank fuck
The rents are grandmasters of raising children compared to some of yours, true my dad and i often have personality clashes, the worst of which have led to near violence and truley vulgar arguements and i could tell you about the time i feel he may have heightened one of my bougie problems but at the end of the day its all extremely tame in comparison to a lot of people, i defiantly got quite a hefty straw as far as that's concerned. However

I recently found out that when i was a small child not concious of my surroundings my dad nearly killed me. Apparently i was bathing and he was carrying an appliance ( i can't remember what) that was plugged in at the mains and on, the dozy twat then slipped the object flying out his hands still plugged in and banging on top of the edge of our tub. Fortuneately for me and him when it bounced it dropped to the side minus water and little baby. Apparently he was in tears after, so at least he cares.
(Joey Stall, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 23:51, Reply)

I got a Mars Bar for my stepmother - bloody good swap, that!
I wish!

Let's see...
Stepmother from hell - check.
Useless dad always away at work - check
Three bitchy older sisters - check.

I had a great time as a kid. A stepmother who belted crap out of me daily, not for things I'd done but for what I hadn't done but should have! I have plenty of scars from various implements, and would get more beltings if I tried to avoid the first one.

Dad was a university lecturer, and always away. She was luverley when he was at home, but hell-spawn when he was away. If I complained, she'd smack me around when he left. Iron bar, cricket bat, all fair game.

Long story short - I left home at 12, and came back at 17 when I had grown up and filled out. Scared her that much that she pissed herself quite literally. That gave me a warm inner glow and I got on with life. Aaaaaah!

She's got cancer now, and is a withered pathetic husk of a person. I giggle when I see her. Tee hee hee. Oh yes, tee hee hee!

(back away slowly and don't make eye contact)
(magentacock is spunking like it's nineteen ninety-nine..., Mon 20 Aug 2007, 23:48, Reply)

But Dad I was bluffing!!
During my teenage years I'm amazed my old chap and I never killed eachother.

One day I threatened to report him to Childline..

The bastard shrugged and handed me the phone.

I think even jail for him at this point was a more appealing option than living with a teenage me.
(Peek_a_Boo forgot how fun B3ta was until, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 23:03, Reply)

ahhh...the 'rents.
As you all know when you're a little bit younger, but not old enough I suppose (aka: 17ish?), between Xmas and Hogmanay - you are a mess. My parent's are publicans. 'nuff said? not quite.

Year 2000. Hogmanay. 11am I wake up bleary eyed (as I had done for the past week). The dog is yowling at the garden door. Shame. Cuppa tea. Back to bed or some such. 1pm. Dog was taken to emergency vets. Been spasmining and yowling for a couple of hours. Got some pills. 3pm. Back at vets (me this time). Dog got put down.

Seems it wasn't just me that neglected the poor mutt. Bladder burst.

6 years later. The dog is in a cardboard urn underneath the telephone in the kitchen/dining room. Everytime time either me or my siblings visit the 'rents with a friend who's never been there or a new interest - they get introduced to the dog. Under the telephone. Customary to pet.

Reason: Not bought a tree to bury her under.

Length? She was howling for hours.
(allywilson, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 22:56, Reply)

don't know if it's funny but....
Quite simply, my dad lost me at a funeral when i was about 5 years old!!! i think it was partly lost and partly forgot though, it was in the cemetary too, so you can imagine how much i pooed my little pants! luckily when he got home my mum asked were i was. :O

length? not 6 feet under like a certain toddler *ahem* (eeeep)
(Squid83, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 22:53, Reply)

golf clubs and batman...
when i was four, my old man was showing my 18 year old cousin how to swing a golf club in our garden, standing behind him and swinging it with him... then just as my father stands back and says something to him about swinging it alone, i come running up the lawn right into the 7 iron's trajectory.
It knocked me out, i woke up in the ambulance, i still have a 4 cm scar on the side my chin, i can feel the dent in the bone and sometimes i make a clicking sound when i'm chewing.

(but the scar is in the same place as action man's, so at school that was pretty cool)

oh and when i was seven, i was obsessed with batman (the corny tv show, this being 1979), and the way he could seemingly jump from building to building so i tried jumping out of my bedroom window onto the lawn, my bedroom being upstairs, obviously.
I dented the lawn a couple of inches deep, my old man first started yelling at me as i lay on the ground, then took me to hospital, and they sort of asked questions along the lines of "erm, did he jump or was he pushed", so i guess they couldn't believe i'd be stupid enough to jump out of a window. I wasn't really damaged though, surprisingly.

as for really bad parenting, thanks to years of being underappreciated, unsupported, never really listened to or trusted, i've inherited shitloads of neurosis, repressed anger which seeps out at inappropriate times and an unhealthy taste for getting smashed off my nut. So THANKS for all of those!

(the sad thing is, i'm 35, i've just got back from a weekend at my parents and they STILL manage to make me feel like i'm 12!)

(woo! in a group therapy session stylee or what?)
(Alaning, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 22:37, Reply)

My Dad.
Brought us all into the pub.
At 10pm at night.
On Christmas Day.
He managed to find the one place that was giving out drinks.
(Lil' Alan, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 22:07, Reply)

My Dad was a bit shit. See he was part of this freaky cult and had a little tiff with his mate Ben.
Anyways 20 or so years later he took it out on me (I didn't know he was my Dad at this point) we had a massive fight resulting in him cutting my hand off. He then revealed the secret that he was my father. You can't blame me for crying like a baby because to be honest not only did I think my Dad was dead - but this guy was the most evil wanker in the galaxy.

I ran away and a couple of years later I hacked him up with a lightsaber. We kissed and made up but he died shortly afterwards (I cremated him myself on a homemade bonfire : )).
( St. Defenestration The REAL one, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 21:46, Reply)

Not my parents...
..but my parents parents. Sort of reverse-bad parenting.

My grandparents were married for some 70-odd years (seriously, they were married at 20 or so and lived until their 90s) and when one died, the other went soon after. It seems to be the way these things work.

Now, my parents both work in law enforcement or in medicine (a copper and a nurse) and are so a little blase about death. When my grandparents died, they were about to go on holiday, and being the practical and forthright people they are, weren't going to let this stop them.

So, they put the urns containing the ashes in the loft, planning to spread them when they got back.

A few months later, I ask in passing when they were planning to spread the ashes.

'Ah' says my mum. 'The thing is, er, we seem to have lost them.'

'Wha...?'

'Well, not lost them, we know they're in the loft somewhere, but we can't find them..although we've got a horrible feeling we gave them to charity when we had a clearout.'

This was a couple of years ago, and they still havn't turned up - they're probably spending eternity in the backroom of the local Oxfam.
(inflateable, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 21:37, Reply)

Not so 'bad' as 'awkward'.
My friend's parents would bet him money to do stupid things, such as tazer himself or drink bottles of hot sauce.

My parents regularly warn me against associating with people who have 'lesser' education, a different skin color, or are gay/lesbian/bisexual, yet claim not to be biased.

For a while I've been working on a sort of small business with some guys I know. When my mum found out, she made me drive her to our 'meeting' and stood and yelled on the doorstep for an hour.

During the first few years of school, I had stellar marks. A+'s all around. In the third grade, I missed a homework assignment and my dad's been going ballistic over it ever since, bellowing at anyone who would listen that I needed counseling, since I was clearly shirking my important duties, being irresponsible, and wasn't mature enough.

They try, but they're a little out of touch with contemporary reality, I think.

Edit: Forgot the only really 'terrible parenting' one of the lot -- was in Vegas once, being dragged around by mum who would occasionally stop to drop a couple of quarters in a machine. Finally she got sick of not being able to sit and play, so put me in the bathroom and went off to the slots. She only remembered I was there when they made an announcement over the intercoms that some pudgy crying kid had been abandoned in the ladies'.
(Rem Sir, why are you thrashing about on the floor?, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 21:19, Reply)

Have posted this before
but it is quite apt. My sister-in-law, whom I love and is one 0f the kid's fave aunties, told her children if they didn't go to bed early on Christmas Eve (and leave her alone) the Christmas Owl would fly in the window and scratch their eyes out. Later it was the Christmas Clown with long, sharp, dirty fingernails who would claw their eyes out if he saw them open on Christmas Eve.

She denies it now, but I remember.
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 21:18, Reply)

Oh God
I'm clicking "I like this" on every single one. Is something wrong with me?
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 20:51, Reply)

Alcohol fueled attempted murder
My mother is a little...erratic, to say the least. I was very priviledged as a child (went to a private school, went on nice foreign vacations, got pretty much whatever I wanted, had a nice house, etc.) so I can't complain about material stuff. However, my Mum had a bit of a problem with alcohol. Actually, it was a lot of a problem with alcohol.

I was aware she had a problem pretty early on, probably from the age of about 6 or 7. When I was around 9, she wanted to go to a baseball game in Toronto, which she was planning on attending with a friend. She asked me if I wanted to go, and I said no. I told her it was because I didn't feel like it, but it was really because I was afraid of driving home from the city with her after she'd been drinking. This led to a Spanish-Inquisition-style-impromptu-court martial about why I didn't want to go, which lasted for several hours. I was too timid at the time to confront her about her alcohol abuse, so I just repeated and repeated that I didn't feel like going. Finally, she went out to get some more alcohol (in her car, naturally), but told me not to go anywhere. Well, fuck that: I'd had enough, I cut and run. When she got home, she found I wasn't home, and decided to come looking for me in her car. I was walking along the road into town (we lived in a semi-rural area) and she almost hit me with her car as she stopped at the side of the road (I had to jump out of the way into a ditch). She told me to get in the car: I refused. She screamed and cursed at me some more, but finally gave up. When I knew my dad was at home, I finally had the courage to go home again, and found her throwing every plate in the house against the front door. Needless to say, I didn't even try to get in: instead, I went and hid at the next door neighbours' house. When I finally came home, the fact that there were no plates in the house was obviously my fault. But on the plus side, I didn't go to the baseball game.

I did have the courage to confront her about her drinking, finally. When I was about 11, we had a full-blown intervention, which was the single most difficult thing I'd had to do up until that point, and still rates as one of the most difficult things I've ever done, period. And it did no good whatsoever. In fact, the intervention itself led to an incident similar to the one described above. She's still got a drink problem now, but after years of therapy (mine, not hers) and silence, I do talk to her regularly and have a relationship with her, although we're not super close. I think the relationship's been improved greatly by the fact that I can go home now if she's too drunk and/or annoying, and she knows it.

Yes, they do mess you up, your mum and dad, but I wouldn't be the same person I am today if it weren't for what happened to me in the past, and I think that would be a shame (even if I'm the only one who thinks that :) ).
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 20:47, Reply)

My former stepmother...
...did the following after my Dad's not entirely unexpected death just over 18 months ago:

* Expressly forbade my mother from attending the funeral, threatening also to disallow the attendance of me and my brother if we 'carried on making such a big thing of it'. My mother acquiesced for our sakes.
* Put a guest list in force at the chapel of rest where my Dad's body was beforehand, with again the express intention of excluding my mother.
* Invited about half the people to the funeral that should have been there, only actually informing the local community in which he was very well known of his death after it.
* Chose Peter Kay's rendition of that Amarillo song as the theme music to his cremation, and dancing - MOTHER-FUCKING DANCING - as the curtain went down on the coffin. Fair to add at this point that she was half-sloshed by this time but that's so far from an excuse as my brain can't comprehend the distance.
* Shed a tear with me whilst I was looking at some photos a few weeks later, then was observed boogie-ing away once again mere minutes later whilst redecorating the bedroom they had shared. We were alone in the house - I almost just went for it and killed her right then.
* Refused to scatter the ashes after a reasonable period despite his entire family's insistence and then pretending to change the date she eventually chose at the last minute, which turned out to be a lie. We were waiting for her on the original date and she arrived bang-on-time with the urn. Upon seeing us there, she refused to do it and after rearranging the date with the clerks for real this time, she instructed them that we were not to be informed of the arrangements, despite that the assembled included two sons and the only sister to have attended his funeral. She forgot to deny us knowledge of the scattered ashes' location though, so we know where they are at least - I've no doubt she would have if she'd thought quick enough.
* Kept the urn until that point at the back of the sofa in what was now her living room. Didn't even fucking dust it, her or her witless kids.
* Said all of these actions were my Dad's wishes when my Dad had visited us all a few times in the couple of years preceding* to let us know how he felt while he still could and make peace where he needed to - even his severely black sheep sister got a visit. Suffice to say, stepmo's description of his wishes didn't match his own. I try to imagine his face if he'd been told that it was going to happen the way it did - I can't seem to imagine a happy face.

In a nutshell, she used my Dad's memory to show me and mine what she thought of us AND my Dad, because she knew it would be her last chance to do it where those with sense to care could see. In doing so, she broke my family's heart and bred hate in me for the first time in my adult life. For all of these things and more, I can't forgive her - she truly doesn't deserve it.

But what gets me more than anything is that she did these things in plain sight - these unforgivable insults to us and him, there for all to see. But only a handful including us objected (for all the good it did), or even appeared to notice. What the fuck is wrong with these people?

So not exactly bad parenting** because I'm 34 and haven't lived under the same roof as the bitch for more than 25 years, but now you understand that she's my former stepmother more than just because my Dad's gone.

Apologies for length - I have lots of material on this specific topic. I try not to think about it much though - it makes me want to do some pretty terrible things :/

EDIT: I should add something more current - this needs an epilogue. More recently I've made peace with my Dad's memory and mostly compartmentalised my outrage his widow's actions, so things are good again. The only thing of his that I took aside from some photos was an unopened box of 25 cigars. One's been smoked already, but for the next 24 years at least, wherever I call home at the time, I'll still be where his ashes are every xmas day with a cigar in one hand and a flask of single malt in the other, sharing both with my Brother. For Dad.

* Basically because he knew he couldn't talk freely where she was. She had a temper - see below.
** But here's an example for the sake of staying on-topic. When I was about 6 or so and still living with our Dad, self-same cunt had her feet firmly under the table and used to wash mine and my brother's hair in the kitchen sink before packing us off on the weekly trip to see our Mum. This one time, she had a 'fork-in-the-knife-drawer' moment and went away to take care of whatever it was, telling me to stay where I was. There I was, a not especially mischievous 6-year-old boy, twiddling my thumbs whist stood on a stool in front of the kitchen sink, so I picked up the shampoo and was reading the back - it was Vosene, I distinctly recall. When she walked back into the kitchen I immediately put the bottle back down, knowing that I had done something wrong, but these days I haven't a fucking clue why that was. But I had done though, because she dragged me upstairs and slapped me. Hard. A lot. And then she sent me off to my Mum in hysterics and carrying angry welts all over my legs and arse. My Mum naturally went bananas - she involved the police and came around the next weekend threatening to beat her to death if she ever laid another hand on her kids. I wasn't allowed to go see my Mum for weeks after. Did I say 'bitch'? That said, she didn't touch either us after that even though we couldn't bear living with her even for the sake of my Dad for more than another couple of years after and transferred to my Mum.
(thatblokeoverthere not quite as much an arsehole as I thought, Mon 20 Aug 2007, 19:53, Reply)