Hey hidey ho, Shippers! How in the hell are ya on this fine, fine Prudie Day? Here, it’s been really chilly for several weeks now. Like someone zapped the sun. I mean, it was right there, and then, Zapola! But, that’s not to say that it’s overly cold. I can still see it, the sun, up in the sky. And, I know that by summer, things will be sizzling again! Always forward, never back, right shippers? And that’s actually a good mantra to teach some of our letter writers for the day. So, without further ado, let’s get crackin’, shall we?
LW#1: Dear Prudie, I’m the oldest child of five siblings (born to four different fathers). Our mother abused us, both emotionally and physically. As the oldest, I was subjected to extra abuse, and for longer than the others. When I was 12, my mom gave up the youngest two children to adoption and I was placed in foster care. I have had very little contact with any of them since. In the interim, I’ve built a happy personal and professional life for myself, started a family of my own, and, through counseling and patience, have moved on. Recently the two youngest siblings have contacted me. They don’t remember their early childhood and have been in constant contact with our mom since finding her a couple of years back. One of them, my sister, now that she's found me, desperately wants us all to be one big happy family. It’s an emotional challenge even talking with her, Prudie, as I have no desire to even think about my past life. I’ve even avoided her phone calls and it’s wrecking my hard-earned inner peace. Especially because I feel guilty when I avoid her! What should I do, Prudie? Alright, I’m not going to sugar coat this: what in the hell are you doing protecting your mother?! Why are you hesitant to talk about your family’s past with your sister? She has a right to know how she was treated, and you have a right to tell her, in no uncertain terms, exactly why you will not be spending time with, or even talking to, your mother. You need to be 100% clear with her about that fact, but, you can’t expect her to just understand if you withhold all of the pertinent information as to why you feel the way you do! If she continues to harp on the ‘one big happy’ concept after you’ve been clear about the past (and your past treatment at your mother’s hands, too, if you want) and your current feelings about the topic, then follow Prudie’s advice and lock your sister out of your life. But, in the meantime, why not tell her what’s up? Why lock her out if she can comply with your wishes? You’ve withheld information from her and so her actions don’t seem particularly odd or out of bounds to me. Further, it seems to me that being forced to be the lone keeper of the nasty childhood knowledge that you’re bearing all by yourself is enough (all on its own) to upset your emotional peace. Your sister wants to be a sister to you, so share that burden with her. And then stick to your guns about your boundaries regarding your mom. If she can’t understand that after being told, then do the Prudie thing and cut her out of your life--just give her a chance first by giving her all of the info.
LW#2: Dear Prudie, my husband and I are, like, so totally in love! And he’s, like, totally cool and stuff! O.M.G.! The problem is that he’s pretty old, Prudie. I mean old, like, in his mid-40s-old! I know, right?! At the same time, I’m totally younger than him, by, like, twenty years or something (I’m not even sure by exactly how much I’m younger than him because math is hard and stuff), but, it’s a bunch. More fingers and toes than I have, that’s for sure! Anyway, that’s not even my problem. My problem is his crinkly old friends and their crinkly old wives. They totally don’t like me, Prudie, the wives. They aren’t, like, rude or anything. They’re just cold. Frigid. I hear that’s what happens when you get all old and stuff, and I hear sex gets that way, too, which might be why the wives don’t like me, ‘cause their husbands think I’m totally hot (at least according to my husband, who totally digs telling me how hot his friends think that I am). Which is just, eww, if you ask me! Anyway, as a result of this coldness, I spend my time taking care of the kids, refilling drinks, and washing dishes when we all get together. But I’m totally lonely. What should I do? Okay, I was hard on you in the recap of your letter, but, holy crap, woman! Listen, Prudie’s right. Your husband isn’t doing you any favors by encouraging his old man gang to ogle you. Second, you’re not doing yourself any favors by allowing this bullshit to occur. If your houseguests alienate you, they don’t need to be your freakin’ houseguests anymore. And your husband needs to make that happen, not you. Where is he when this is all going on, huzzah-ing over the latest Cuban cigar designs with his cronies? Listen, if he doesn’t get what’s going on, he needs to be educated. Turning that little wrench you have should do it. And you know good and well what wrench I mean, youngun’. Further, Prudie’s right on the issue of you spending time with other
LW#3: Dear Prudie, I’m writing to you about a huge tattoo of a weed-smoking tiger that my husband has on his back. He knows how to write (my husband, not the tiger), but, because I’m pregnant, I am in fucking control, and I will write for him so that he doesn’t dork up this letter, because, left to his own devices, he would. Just look at that damned tattoo if you want proof of that! So, trust me when I tell you that my husband agrees with every single word that I’m saying on this subject, Prudie! He’s sitting there, right now, rapidly nodding, so, I know what the hell I’m talking about! Capeche? Good. Fact is, we have a toddler, and a baby on the way, and my husband is concerned about the joint on the tattoo and afraid its influence might cause our children to fall into drugs, prostitution, and then eventual death by suicide. But probably not before contracting STDs and having multiple abortions prior to death. Sure, we did some wild things as kids, but we don’t want our kids to do the same, and this tattoo will cause evil, sure as I’m sitting here writing to you. The tattoo is huge and so it would be very expensive and time-consuming to have removed. I’ve offered to remove it myself using industrial grade hydrochloric acid and steel wool. My wimpy husband is in the military, though, and he’s afraid he’d get in trouble if he had such a large scar. I’m thinking of doing it anyway while he’s asleep. What say you? You know what lady? I think you better check your fucking hormones, over? You think a tattoo is going to have more influence over your kids than your own morals and the lessons that you teach them by the way that you live your lives? You think that your kids finding out that you made a few minor “mistakes” growing up is going to cause them to make ones that are ten times worse, and that, in contrast, by falsely convincing them that you’ve been good, upstanding, moral, non-joint-smoking people all your lives, they’ll grow up straight and strong and good? How’s that working out for preachers’ kids? Idiot. That’s all I have to say for you. You.are.an.idiot! You disgust me. The only saving grace that I’m willing to assign to you is that you have got to be under the influence of massive nesting instincts because otherwise your behavior and logic are so warped that I’m starting to hope your husband leaves with the kids and his tattoo, and that he leaves no forwarding address! Wake up, woman. As they grow up, treat your kids like actual people. Respect them enough to trust that they’ll know the difference between right and wrong and to know that sometimes they’ll fall down along their journey. And finally, respect them enough to know that they’re at least as capable as you were (I mean, at a freakin’ minimum), and that they’ll learn, just like you did, what’s in their best interest. What you don’t want to teach them is that they can’t come to you with mistakes without being judged (mistakes like, say, getting a stupid, cliché tattoo, or smoking too much ganja sometimes?). Life is hard and the best message you can send to your kids is that you’re there for them and that you want only good for them, and, too, that there are consequences for stupidity. Hide those consequences by magically erasing them and what have you taught them? Only that they can do whatever in the hell they want and that it can all be fixed with a little acid and steel wool and momma’s crazy eyes! Is that the message you want to send, dumbass? Good, I didn’t think so.
LW#4: Dear Prudie, I was in line at the super market the other day and I noticed that the zipper was down on the pants of the lady behind me in line. Because I’m an idiot, I hesitated to say anything, but, because I’m not a completely lost case, quietly and politely, I did eventually tell her. Amazingly, there was no drama. She simply thanked me and zipped up. It was such an incredible, amazing, life-changing event that I immediately went home and told my husband! I mean, think of it, Prudie! I almost saw someone’s panties out in the real world. That is incredible, right? Point is, my husband told me that I was wrong and that I embarrassed the woman and that I should have just ignored it, allowing her the illusion, upon discovering her open zipper, that no one had noticed. What say you on this, Prudie? That the only person more amazingly socially inept and ignorant in this situation than you is your husband. Thank god it was you at the super market and not him.
Well shippers, that about does it for this week’s version of “SmagBoy Is The Most Offensive Poster In The History Of The Fray!” Come back next week when I might use words even more naughtily than this week. Sigh. Smooth sailin’ to ya, shippers! Fair winds and following seas, and, with spring starting to bloom in the southern states, be careful that you don’t burn your fingers as you grill those burgers. And always use bacon! Cheers!