10 Things I Hate About You

I hate my ex-husband.

Blah blah blah loser blah blah blah hate him blah blah blah die blah blah blah fiery death blah blah blah waste blah blah fucker blah.

And I hate that I’m the bigger person (hee. No really. I AM!) and invite him to shindigs of his childrens’ that he hasn’t ever earned the privilege of being invited to and I hate that he jumps at these opportunities to play daddy when other people are there to see it but fucking ignores them when no one is observing and I hate that the kids don’t ever say “Don’t invite him, Mom, cuz I hate him, too” cuz they don’t hate him even though they should.

AND. I hate that my husband, the one who makes it possible to even HAVE these shindigs, the one who pays for it all, can’t come because HE has to WORK, a concept that is entirely foreign to the Loser who will be sitting there soaking up the glory and I hate hate hate him so bad that it makes my mouth taste sour.

And I hate that I have to sit there and smile and can’t tell him what a fucking joke of a human he is because I love my kids more than I hate him and I won’t ruin their time just to make myself feel better even though I want to with almost every cell in my being. I’d like to scream it in front of all those people who believe the lies he spreads about paying child support and how I’m the one who keeps his kids from him and cashes the checks that he doesn’t send and won’t answer the phone that never rings and that doesn’t tell him about school functions that he doesn’t care about.

I want to. And I won’t. I’ll smile and make small talk and be polite to his family who all hate me now and I’ll talk to him about the weather and it’ll be a grand old time.

All the while that I’m 8 hours away from Master. Because he has to work. And I’ll miss him. And I’ll think of him and I’ll tell myself that he’d be proud and he’d tell me to hold my head high and behave myself- and I will.

But I hate my ex-husband. Blah blah fucking-blah.

~cunt

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“Only me and God have all the facts about myself…”

- But you can have seven.

Chloe and Lexi tagged me so here goes:

Rules:
1. Link to your original tagger and list these rules in your post
2. Share 7 facts about yourself in the post
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post, leave their names & links to their blogs
4. Let them know they’ve been tagged

1. When I was a young teen, like that awkward age of 14/15 when you’re trying to fit in as a freshman in high school, I had the summer job of detassling corn- the worst job ever, I might add- along with 90% of the rest of my fellow high schooler’s. (We lived in corn country. We ALL detassled.)

One particular stretch of days in July brought high temps and high humidity and people were “dropping like flies” (to quote the crew leader on that day) from heat exhaustion. One of those “flies” was me.

I semi-fainted in the middle of the corn field and was scooped up and hauled out by the high school football star. Not only did my shirt ride up as he carried me, revealing my ugly sweat stained support bra and half of one tit, he laid me down in the ditch in front of *everybody*, bare tit and all, where a cricket hopped right into my mouth. So I promptly rolled over and puked down his shirt- essence of cricket and orange gatorade.

He was the gorgeous senior class football hero. I was the geeky, pimpled, glasses-wearing loser freshman.

It was the single most mortifying experience of all of my high school years.

(Years and years later, when my kids were smaller, I ran into him again when he signed on to be my kid’s T-ball coach. He was about 60lbs overweight and balding. I was still a bar-hopping hottie. Silly as it is, I felt better.)

(He remembered me. I was mortified all over again.)

(That wasn’t a fact so much as a memory but whatever. It’s my blog and I can do what I want! :P )

2. I am afraid of the dark. When Master is away, I leave the bedroom light on. And I hop onto the bed from a few feet away because the under-the-bed boogey man might grab my feets.

But all monsters are gone when he is home. :)

3. I’m a fast reader. Probably not a speed reader, but close. I don’t read like I used to though. I’m less enamored with fantasy I think.

4. I came very very close to falling over the edge into alcoholism. Almost everyone else in my family IS an alcoholic and they have serious life-affecting problems due to drinking. When I was in my early 20′s, I drank like they do and I found comfort in being drunk. I had a drunk driving charge when I was 21. Entire bottles of liquor to myself, puking blood, going to work still drunk/hungover, losing jobs because I couldn’t go to work, too sick to take care of my kids.. etc. etc.

There was one night sitting in a bar with my friends, talking with one friend very matter of factly about “if I go home with that guy (whom I didn’t know), will you pick me up in the morning and take me home?” and I thought to myself “this just isnt fun anymore. I’m better than this.”

I didn’t quit just like that, but I started cutting back and watching other people (family, friends) getting drunk more than joining them- and I realized how fucking stupid they are. Soon enough I wasn’t drinking at all, found some stability in my job and in my life, enjoyed my kids more.

I think I could have gone to the other side pretty easily though. I think I may have already been there.

5. I love romantic comedies. They make me cry. Like, bawl-cry, but happy tears. I couldn’t wacth them before Master though. I was so miserable in my private life that to watch other people, even actors in a fake setting, being so happy made me angry. Now, I’m on a “twat twitcher” movie kick. I want to watch all of them because, for a change, I can identify with the feelings. I walk away from watching those movies feeling lucky and happy and very much in love with mah man.

6. I carry a stupid amount of pride for having gone through two natural childbirths without so much as a Tylenol, by my choice. And not a single scream. I know, it’s silly and it proves nothing, except, yes it does! I am woman, hear me roar! Check out my massive pain tolerance. I can shove a watermelon out of my vagina with nary a tear. Grrs!

With the third though, I was just tired. So I opted for an epidural and, omg, it was heavenly. There was no pain whatsoever. In fact, I was actually birthing him (head crowning) while chit chatting idly with my mother when the nurse came in to do a check. She squealed and ran out to find a doctor. “Your baby is coming!” Hee.

But then I had my tubes tied right after and I came out of the anesthesia crying. That fucking hurt. Boo.

7. For years and years I resented that my parents were too poor to afford to let me join band and learn how to play an instrument. I love music and was terribly jealous of my friends when they carried around their instrument cases and when they had to practice at home. I can’t read music or play anything now and I consider that to be a tragedy. I always wanted to learn how to play the piano. ~wistful sigh~

So that two of my three kids can play instruments makes me insanely happy. Jes is moderately decent on the flute and B-man is picking up the guitar pretty quickly. Am started the violin several years ago but lost interest in a short time. (What she should do is sing but she’s too shy. She’d be good though.)

I’m tagging:

1. You.
2. Yes you.
3. You! The one reading this right now.
4. And you over there in the corner!
5. Oh, yes, you guessed it. You!
6. You too.
7. No I don’t care if you’re shy or don’t have a blog. I’m tagging you anyway! Deal!

Do eeeet!

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