Alone at Last, a.k.a. The Absence of the Penis People

Well, sort of alone. Girl is still here, but sleeping. However, the boys are gone. Yay!! Spousehole took Boy and Bam-Bam (my sister's 6-yr-old) to Father-Child Camp this weekend. Spousehole's taking the nephew since he's basically fatherless. Yes, there's an asshole who provided DNA and pays court-ordered support every week, but since he hasn't seen Bam-Bam in 5 years (by his own choice – he still works at the same place as my sister and lives in the same town, he just doesn't care to see his beautiful, sweet boy), I do not consider him a father. We figured Bam-Bam needs to see some real Dads in action. My Dad is Bam-Bam's main male role model, but he's 71 and teaches the boy some odd things (bad words, that it's okay to pee on a tree if the park bathrooms are locked, etc.). You have to keep in mind that my Dad raised only girls and grew up in an orphanage himself. Being a father-figure to a boy is pretty new for him and, despite being one of the most active 71-year-olds you'll ever meet, he doesn't always have the energy to roughhouse with Bam-Bam like a boy really needs.

I really wonder what Spousehole will do if I ever leave or die or whatever. Last night we were discussing going to out to dinner to celebrate Boy's last day of school. Spousehole says to me, “If we go out, will you still have time to pack all our stuff for camp?” WTF?? I'm not going camping, what do I need to pack for? He expected me to choose and pack all their clothing and food. Seriously. The really sad part? I did it. His argument was that he would never remember all the stuff they need and would choose inappropriate clothes for Boy. True enough. Still, I didn't pack Spousehole any short pants, only full-length jeans. Let him roast. Idiot. I might not have been so cruel had he not sat there playing Starcraft while I packed all their shit.

Since my parents are leaving tomorrow for their annual anniversary trip-from-hell, my sister, the Girl, and I are having Girls Night In at the parental compound Saturday. Not quite the same as back in the day, since my sister doesn't drink anymore, we'll have a two-year-old with us, and cute boys won't be throwing rocks at our windows. We'll have steaks on the grill and watch chick-flick-type movies. At least as chick-flick-y as we can stand. We're not chick flick chicks, really. We'll at least be able to enjoy a complete absence of “The Penis People.” What the heck, you ask? I used to work at an agency that was often accused (by men) of favoring women over men. One male client wrote a hilarious letter saying that we all had a phallic phobia (even the guys) and therefore discriminated against “The Penis People.” He used that term over and over throughout the letter and signed it “John Doe, Penis Person.” It became legend and everyone I know who has worked there still refers to “The Penis People.”

Camp post-script: Both boys have thrown up at camp. Poor boys. Notice there's no pity for Spousehole.