Saving Conversation

When I got home from work tonight, the Squeeze wanted to know what gossip/scandal happened at work today.

In fact, there wasn't any and I don't have time to look for any either.  Still, I said "none - I need to save the conversation for when we are at dinner!"

For if I walk in the door and give an overview of my day; he will go into 'silence' tonight!  And we rarely go out for dinner anymore!

If there is conversation, I'm going to make sure it doesn't centre around the Harridan who is of course, not answering the lawyers calls - ummm mental giants these two.  The lawyer is a friend, she knows the only reason he would be calling her - is for the divorce.

Meanwhile - I've been designing a different counter.  This one says 151 days until the Moodle is homeless.....

Merry Go Around Continues

Well the Squeeze has contacted his lawyer but in short, he says that he is better to get the Harridan to apply to reduce the cost.  Of course the Squeeze was never going to say ‘in a perfect world that would be fine, but I’m dealing with a psychopathic bitch who is liable to stab me!’ – and you guessed it, that isn’t the Harridan.

He explained that dealing with the mentally unstable is not as easy as one figures.  She actually is like the terminator.  There is no bargaining; or reasoning.  She’s so blind to all but spite that she holds to ransom things he has already given her.  And she is obviously too stupid to see how fantastic she has it.  He would get the kid morning, noon or night.  Has him all the time.  Pays for everything.  And for that – she feels it is her right to make sure she destroys any happiness he may have.

So the lawyer will call her and talk to her.  Ha!  There is no reasoning with her because she is delusional!  So I put zip stock in the fact that it will be happening any time soon.

So now it is “I’ll call him Monday and if he hasn’t heard from her by then… blah blah blah.  I'll tell him we'll do it ourself!"

As we approach the end of June, I see that time is slipping away for him.  Call me stupid.  Call me stubborn, but I made a promise to myself.   I didn’t keep it a secret.  He has known since before we moved in together that the divorce must be finalised before October 27.  Two years is long enough to wait.  And if he loved me, he would make sure it’s done.  

If he left it too late, then to be honest, he really did leave it too late.  Because I’m not changing my mind on that.

The Economic Planets

The Squeeze and I are at opposite ends of the Romantic spectrum.  

My middle name is romance.  I cry in movies…  Hell, as the Squeeze will point out while uproariously laughing his head off – I actually cry during the previews for romantic movies.  He, on the other hand, is romantically illiterate.   I was going to say dyslexic, but no…  He is actually a romantic retard.  That is not to denigrate the mentally challenged, for the Squeeze is on the ball for everything except:  A:  Romance.   &    B:  Neatness.  On those things, he is totally clueless.

Remembering here that we have been friends for a very long time, I am often astounded at the things we don’t know about one another.  Proving I guess, that we only surface sweep the workings of those people that we have no romantic attachment to.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always known he was a Moodle.  It was hard not to see that given the array of red neon signs above his head - flashing ‘moodle’ while circus music is playing in the background.  And if I had of missed that, then I’m tipping the 3^rd or 4^th time we caught up for coffee and he muttered he had dumped whomever he was seeing and had gone back the Harridan - well that would have given it away.  If not then, the next coffee where he was back, living in the garden shed would have clinched it.

The moodle part was kind of cute and bloody funny while we were friends.  And for the record, I had no trouble telling him he was a fool then either.  Strangely enough; now that we are partners, it’s not nearly as amusing; but at least it wasn’t totally unforeseen.  I had a rather rude awakening with his lack of neatness and romance, as I’ve documented quite well in this blog.

And now, we have discovered another conflicting variation in how we function.  Economics.

Today, I sent the Squeeze an email in regards to a purchase I had made.  He replied to say: ‘you operate on a different economic planet to me’.  This was in reference to a set of vintage copper saucepans I bought online, from France.  The saucepans themselves were a bargain, but as in all dealings with the rest of the world, postage sucks.  In fact it sucked to the tune of 46 pounds!  Which even I admit is extreme…

However, he didn’t understand why I would purchase them because they they seemed costly to him.  I pointed out that strategically positioned around our 2 bedroom home; are three guitars.  His guitars.  The electric one housed in the spare bedroom, I have seen him pick up maybe 5 times in the last two years.  Not to mention the fact that I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest it cost a little more than the $130 or so for my beautiful, vintage, copper saucepans.

If you scan to the bottom of the blog you will see photos of his place prior to moving in with me; and pictures of my home - the place where we now reside.  The saucepans are to hang on the hanger above the bench.  As you can see by the images, I’m tipping décor was never a strong suit for him (along with basic freaking hygiene) and this has been his entire adult life.  It’s a hard thing to correct. 

Funny really, because he isn’t tight fisted.  He has no problem paying out for things; it’s just a differing set of priorities.  Mine are around hearth and home.

His are around him.

800 Hours of Wrestling

When I have a day with nothing planned, I like to think about the things I’ll do.  You never actually get to do all those things you fantasize about…  Walk to the market.  Buy flowers.  Clean up out the back.  Make fresh coffee and sit in the sun to read the papers.  Maybe have an afternoon nap.  I’m sure you get my drift.

What does the fool I live with fantasize about when we are having a day off..?  Not markets or coffee or papers.  He just said to me that he plans on watching about 800 hours of wrestling.

I’m okay with that.  I can shut the door on him and do my own stuff, but I have to wonder if I should wonder about a 56 year old man who sits in a bedroom watching fat, greasy guys with bad hair and in weird speedo’s all groping each other.

Then I think as long it is contained, who cares!

He did go off to watch Kid 3 play soccer where upon the Harridan tried to give him another list of things he must give her before she will sign the divorce.  It’s weird really and I do have to question her iq, given that the very thing she tries to blackmail him on – is something he has already said he would give her..?

But instead of haggling, this time, (for a change) she was told to forget it.  He would get it done and she would get a bill for half.

Wish I could have been there to see that.

Look it's a Boulder…

Years ago, there was the phenomenon that was “men are from Mars; women from Venus”.  There were books, mugs, magazine articles.  Hell, there was a whole marketing campaign designed for the utterly stupid – because who on the planet didn’t already know that men and women think differently?

I like to think that women are the reasonable ones.  I may be wrong.  However, most of those generic mistakes made by men are easily understood.  We all know what the problem is.  They just have to learn to think smart; think about someone, other than themselves.  Men find that difficult.  But in reality - it's pretty damned easy!  Don’t lie.  Don’t cheat.   Put your partner first – at least some of the time.

Ignoring any of those basic rules is likely to get you stabbed.  Ignoring all three simultaneously is likely to get you stabbed quickly (and repeatedly) before your carcass is dragged into the back yard where there is a shovel and a bag of lime waiting...

I have been out with some total deadbeats over the years; hell, I’ve married some of them.  Dealing with a constant stream of morons that are incapable of giving the basic things a woman (me) requires to make a relationship work; is difficult.  Did I say it was difficult?  I actually mean it is an arduous, absolutely gruelling thing.  And the tiny little issue that it started as; well that becomes a bolder running down a hill – it is gaining momentum and size on the way down.  

Eventually, it whacks you in the face.  And it’s a bloody big rock by then.  It hurts, it flattens you.  And if you can get up, it’s only to stagger to the wine cabinet to pour another glass of red.

If you are sitting there thinking ‘wtf..?’  then I will explain.  As you may recall from the last entry, the Squeeze was on route 66 of “bring me something (money); I’ll give you the divorce papers” followed by him saying to me “if I don’t get them this time, I’ll do it myself.”

So, were the divorce papers signed and handed over today..?  

No actually.  They were not.  I know this has shocked Moodle world.

I was told this around mid morning, after finally sending a text question to him.  Yes… I know.  I also find that having to actually ask the question is strange.  I mean you would think that the fact I have a counter on my blog, counting down the days I've been awaiting the mythical divorce would be a red flag.  That most of our conversation is around “did you get the divorce papers..?  No..?  When are you doing it yourself this time?” would seem to be a pretty good indication that I’m hanging on to the edge of my seat here, just waiting to see if this really is a “cold day in hell”. 

And if all that didn’t give it away, then my “text me when you know…” should have been the clincher.

Ahhh but there is nothing simple in my life.  Nothing in this relationship is 'simple', except maybe the people I'm dealing with.  So rather than make it easy for everyone and just send a text with 'bitch didn't hand them over'; the Squeeze would rather sit and wait.  He will make me ask – even though he knows I’m sitting there wondering. 

Why?  Personally, I feel that this way, he feels as though he can take the moral high ground…  Hey - I didn't say it was a reasonable thought process.  It's stupid in the extreme - because it just adds a whole other layer of complexity - but at least for him, it is my complexity.  Because he can sit and think 'here she goes again.  Here she is...  Asking again.'   When in reality, we all know that if he just did what he promised 173 days ago – I wouldn't have to ask at all.  

That’s not Venus vs Mars.  That is Woman vs Moron.

But Wait… There’s More…

Have you ever thought that you wanted something… That it was a really important ingredient to the life that you have – only to have it reneged on so many times that it begins not to matter anymore..?

And what does that mean?  When you give up?  Does that mean you have resigned yourself to never getting it?

If you are a regular reader of my blog and somewhat astute (or in fact, just not an absolute moron) you will know that I am talking about the divorce.

Saturday was about the fifteenth shot at “if I don’t get it then, I’ll do it myself”.

He didn’t get it.  He didn’t do it himself.  After moodling via phone today it will now be given to him on Thursday – and if she doesn’t give him the signed divorce; yes, yes, he will do it himself.  Of course we all know that it won’t be given to him; and nor will he do it himself because she’ll pull some reason out of her arse – and he’ll fold like a cheap suit.

Frankly, I think today I just moved on to a phase where I am starting to dot my I’s and cross my T’s.  I've got to ensure that this bitch isn’t entitled to anything of mine when he finally pop’s his clogs; or worse – I pop mine.  Because he has nothing and will have less on death; knowing my luck – I’ll be stuck with his damned funeral costs.

Not so with mine.  I'm organised.  Mine is organised.  Down to what I'm to wear and what music is playing.  The money is there (funeral insurance via the union).  I have super and life insurance for my kids (who would in fact be far better off financially with me dead).  And he won’t be getting it; or her via him and his weakness.  Because he sure as hell doesn’t intend to protect me in any way, shape or form.  The only way his lack of protection could be any more obvious, is if he painted it on his forehead.  

When all is said and done, she is an ugly, vitriolic person.  The only uglier and more spiteful - and they are on par (and in fact both teachers... go figure) - is my ex-sister in law - commonly known within my family as the "fat, brown toothed slut".  Either way, re the Harridan - I’d have no problems believing her trying to take half of my things – as the ‘wife’.  It doesn’t matter if she “doesn’t even like him”.

Of course I’m no moodle; and she’d find herself on the receiving end of a severe bashing with my ‘stolen’ Louisville Slugger… (with video on youtube)

As for him – I’m seriously beginning not to give a hoot re the divorce.  In short, I’m almost beginning to see why all he receives is her malice.  If you can do it repeatedly and there is zip consequences or retaliation – why stop..?  In fact, I suspect she keeps pushing the envelope to see just when he'll have the balls to stand up.

All I can say, is he better hope I don’t win lotto anytime soon – or I’ll be living in Spain.

The Inhumane Art of Clubbing Polyesters

I woke at 4am and realised that I’d forgotten to add one of the highlights of yesterday into my blog.

Given that we’d traipsed around the market, freezing our arses off; and had then been forced (I was forced, the Squeeze and Mini Squeeze loved it) to go into the city to watch Kid 1 play jazz; felt like it was just sucking out my day.   They are time vampires.  And of course my whole day was done for – thrown out of whack.  Our lamb shank tagine and home-made bread wasn’t ready until 7.30pm which meant I had this domino effect of cleaning late and sitting down when the night is almost done.

However, the highlight of the pausing in the cold sunlight to have to listen to jazz came after the music and before lunch at a fantastic Italian place that has great food, but I’m over the crammed in like sardines thing.

Kid 1 came bounding up from the back of the stage; black suit and socks (his shoe had broken) and the Squeeze reached out to rub his fingers on the sleeve of the jacket and said ‘nice suit; how many polyesters died to make that..?’  Kid 1 grinned, but then I pipped in with ‘they club them to death you know – they’re just babies’.  The grin almost crawled from his face and he said hesitantly ‘they’re not real are they..?  The polyesters..?’  We laughed and assured him that no, polyesters weren’t real.

The Squeeze and I grinned all the way while walking back to the car he said ‘you know he wasn’t kidding…’  I said ‘I know, God love him.  Lucky he can play piano because he’s never going to be a brain surgeon’.  And aint that the truth!  But there is something very charming about such an all-consuming desire to play – to the point that you shut out all else; including basic knowledge.  It is beguilingly innocent.

Fu Manchu’s Chinese F-ing Laundry

Given the past years’ worth of blogs, I’m going to think that the rest of the world would understand what the Harridan would appear to be incapable of.  If you are going to treat people like utter crap; then you can shove asking for favours - up your arse.  Sideways.  With a pogo stick.

Yesterday, she sat there and told the Squeeze that she had no problem signing the divorce.  Hell, she doesn’t even like him!  Yeah, well that would have been more effective if she had actually signed the divorce (that I’m sure won’t be dragged out and slapped on the table tomorrow)

Anyway; we get home today from a quick trip to the market to grab stuff to make lamb shanks in the tagine and African holiday bread – and then it spiralled from great, dropping to the depths of having to go see Kid 1 play Jazz in Federation Square.

Hell.  I like to see Kid 1, but snap.  Jazz.  Frankly, I’d rather be dead.

Anyhow, I’m sure you can imagine my utter fury when the Squeeze brings the stuff in from the car – and with the rest of the stuff on the table, is a large bag of kid 3’s dirty laundry.

WFT?  Is she out of her ever living mind?  Yes.  I know - she lives in a shoe box (and I wouldn't be surprised if the house was made of ginger; witch that she is).  But hell!  She is a bitch!  She goes out of her way to make the Squeeze’s – and therefore by default mine – make our lives hell!  And yet some cockroach running around in her empty freaking head told her that we might do the washing for her?

Aside from the fact that we both work; that we have our own bloody housework and washing to do – I’d rather put them in the back yard, smother with petrol and set them on fire!

There is not a snowball’s chance in hell that I will be washing them.   

Nor will the Squeeze - if he knows what is good for him.

Groundhog’s Day

Well it’s Saturday night.  I had a really good day.  I went to Mount Martha to see a friend’s new house and had a lovely brunch with two girlfriends and a mentor – which meant champagne at about 11am.  In short, a weekend just doesn’t start better than that.

I came home and breathed a tiny sigh of relief that I had some ‘me’ time.  The Squeeze had gone to pick up kid 3 and had text me to say they were doing a movie – which meant in true ‘Risky Business’ style (minus Tom Cruise's white underies); I had the house to myself…

I did a little cleaning; poured a glass of red.  Did a little washing; poured a glass of red.  By the time the Squeeze and his ‘mini me’ got home; I was knee deep in home-made jam donuts (did I say we were on diets…?) and half shot.

Okay.  I’m going out on a limb here to say that although I made them about 3 hours ago – I’m yet to even touch one (not that I won’t because they look fantastic); but as I finished them and kid 3 had retired to the TV (now there is a change) without dinner (he didn’t like my risotto) – the Squeeze had replied to my sarcastic question of ‘get the divorce..?’

Well, she managed to have the talk they had to have.  Kid 2 got $1000 worth of fines on one night.  Ummm yeah.  Does she even know about the rest of them..?  And at the end of the day – big deal.  What the hell does she want him to do about it?  Pay them?  Not one for teaching them a little bit of responsibility… You know – consequences for the decisions we make…  Then it was other mindless crap that has nothing to do with a divorce.  And I'm still trying to work out why the hell this stopped the divorce papers getting signed...

However – she has no problem signing the papers (wtf? – and the last 3 freaking months were about…?  Of course she does!)  She doesn’t have a problem; in fact, she doesn’t even like him! (no freaking kidding).  We will get the papers on Monday.

 

And – wait for it…. Drum roll…  If we don’t get them Monday - you guessed it...

He will do it himself.

What the…?

Sometimes I’m difficult.  Sometimes… it’s hard.  I admit that.  Hell, one of the guys at work told me I made a mistake.  I’m not a little bit mad – I’m definitely psychotic.  I figure as long as I’m not burying people in the back yard under the lilies, that just makes me interesting – but hey, what do I know?

Still, I realise that the Squeeze and I are not singing from the same hymn book.  We are not speaking the same language – I doubt we are from the same freaking planet.  I realised today that the reason I feel as though I am talking at him; am tired of talking at him – why I ask a million questions; is quite simply because there is no input!

Empty!  Zilch!  Nothing there.  No body home!  We are talking echoing inside his empty skull!  Like dice rattling around in a yahtzee cup!

I asked him about something tonight on our walk and he said “we already discussed and agreed to this.”  When we got home, he went out for a night of jazz with son one and to be honest, I just breathed a sigh of relief; because he is hard work.  It meant I could pour a glass of red, put on music and just not have to think for a while.

And then it hit me.  He thinks we discuss things, thinks there is some sort of dialogue… Input.  But in fact, I talk at him.  He says okay – but it is a hollow word, it’s not real.  It’s the ‘ok’ you give when you are not really listening, just to get them to shut the hell up.  It’s like a Simpson’s episode.  I am Homer and he is Santa’s Little Helper – and all he is hearing as I open my mouth is blah blah blah!

So I ask again, because as far as I’m concerned, I’ve offered a suggestion.  There has been no discussion, no feedback, and no agreement.  So I ask!  And I get “we already discussed and agreed to this.”  

So we have no dialect or discussion.  Yet apparently, agreement is magical.  I just have to have an idea and state it – and it’s an agreement!  Wonder if that will work with rose gold… or diamonds!

Anyway, he buggers off to the sound of my sigh and I decide it’s shower, undies and a glass of red and then I settle to watch a show I only half watched while sick the other week.  I open his laptop, throw in the stick – it lights up and there on screen… Is an email from the Harridan.

Of course I read it, hoping it was dialogue about the “talk we need to have” – but no… Nothing so simple.  No mention of the ‘talk’ or the divorce.  Not a breath about the texts or emails asking for an agenda that she has deemed fit not to reply to.

Instead, there is a task list.  Call the doctor and make and appointment for this time and you can have kid 3 tomorrow after work and take the day off Friday and blah blah, orders, orders – jump you moodle faced prick, jump.

And in gmail, you get each email and reply.  All neat; together.  So easy to actually just flow on from there.  So here the moodle replies with the doctors appointment – WFT?  This bitch has robbed you blind!  Has ignored every text/email requesting an agenda and divorce for 3 freaking months!

If I’d have replied, it’s not fit for a blog what I’d say.  What does he say..?

Why he grabs his heels and a nice little skirt, throws a pencil behind the ear and takes dictation – like he is her freaking secretary!

And then they have several replies – to and fro.  Planning the weekend and him being told what he is doing and where to go.    Funny; I thought this was my home..?

And then I realised…  In his head, he is still there.  That is still the relationship.  That is why there is no divorce; because I’m the third wheel.  I don’t get the discussion about the kid or the weekend or what goes where – because he still bows and scrapes to wife.

And after 1.5 years…  After living together…   
It just makes me wonder why the hell I am wasting my time...

At the Beginning…

I originally started this blog because I can prattle on forever and a day (in case you missed that).  Something would wound me and I’d end up sending a 3000 word missive about what upset me; why it upset me; what he could have done differently.  Most times, it was not dissimilar to the “get a divorce and get your controlling wife out of our lives!” - I felt as though I’d explained it so many times his chair could understand it.  Yet he always struggled.

The blog was a way for me to have my say.  He could choose to read it, or not.  But he could not castigate me for what I wrote.  It wasn’t to him.  It wasn’t his words.  They were mine.

That has worked well.  I don’t think he has receive an email other than our usual “get milk on the way home” or discussions regarding writing or nights out.

Today, he was not so lucky.  I resurrected the 3000 word communiqué.  In triplicate.

Why?  Because last night the fool dared to say “do we have to talk about it again?  I’m sick of hearing about it…”  when I asked about what had been planned for Thursday night and the “I’ll get the divorce or do it myself night.”

Lucky for him, I was in bed lying down.  Standing; well, suffice to say he may have sported a black eye today.  Damned stupid moodle!  So what did my 3000 word essay say?

'Had you got a divorce 165 days ago when you said you would, I wouldn’t have had to bring it to your attention that you are still married.  And if you don’t move it; you will lose it!  Idiot!!"

That was basically it, but with all the right explanations…  You just about have to paint with numbers.  And if love is red, this fool is colour blind.  

The Stupid Gene

Today started out pretty good.  We got to sleep in late, have breakfast.  I got to float around while the Squeeze read the paper.  Then we showered, got dressed and went out for a Squeeze family lunch.  

It was nice, although as per usual, I feel like I’ve been dropped onto the set of “Land of the Giants” – and I’m playing the giant.  I can almost imagine, if annoyed, letting fly with ‘get out of my way, Munchkins!’  Yes; they really are that short, except maybe the Squeeze, who has a magic mirror where he is actually 5’9”.  And yes, he truly does believe this...

It was a lively lunch where mostly the conversation centred around illness and/or medication.  After all, the Squeeze has a dicky heart.  I have a dicky brain.  His brother has cancer and a dicky heart and his wife has cancer.  Guess there is no escaping the overtone of the conversation!  

We did go off track long enough to lecture one brother on his inability to understand the basic female psyche.  He is one of those easy to find fools that rather than thinks “the truth will set you free”, goes along the path of: “this will make her yell; so I’ll lie”.  And no amount of argument was going to sway the idiot from his belief.  Even worse, he sat arguing about it and his wife’s face was getting colder by the second.  I was almost shivering by the end.

I was impressed with the Squeeze.  In fact I said to him later in the day that I was impressed that he not only seemed to grasp our argument on lying (and you just know you are going to get caught – because you have to remember everything to get away with lying) but he convincingly argued for the non-lie route.   It isn’t often he is willing talk about relationships or even worse… gulp… feelings.  Yet here he is, debating and even reiterating the why’s on why lying to your partner is in the no go zone.

So after a fine lunch that I am sure expanded us even further, we came home where upon I decided a walk would be a good idea.  So we make a list, grab a bag and set off to do shopping on foot.  That was how I existed until he came into my world.  There were times I would walk out the front door on a Monday to get in the car to go to work and realise that the car was exactly where I parked it on Friday after work.  I walked everywhere.

We shop, walk home and get to feel mildly good about ourselves.  Yes, we may have had lunch out, but at least we've done some exercise!

I happen to mention that my brain feels full and my eyes feel weird.  A bad sign for someone with fluid on the brain; but pause to mention that I’ve halted my anti-inflammatory tablets which have been a constant for the last six months due to an issue with my neck and shoulder muscles.  So I reason it out that the medication drains fluid out, so maybe my body needs to get used to having that additional fluid again.

And then he did it.  Moron.  Idiot.  Fool.

He turned to me and said: “then they must be diet tablets too; you should start taking them again.”

I’m pretty sure I don’t need to even write my reaction to that.
So much for his understanding the female psyche.

Are We There Yet..?

The journey has been so long and arduous that I am beginning to not even really care anymore!  If that is the ploy, it worked.  Only spanner in those works is I know exactly how long she is pausing before pulling the plug, should his dicky heart give up the ghost and she is summoned to the bedside - he's toast. 

And he has to add to that the I’m not exactly the “love forever” kind of gal.  Three ex-husbands would indicate that to any relatively sane individual, surely!  I’m already not getting a whole lot of what I consider an absolute requirement for a relationship to last.  You have to give romance; and every so often, you have to put the other person first.  I’m still awaiting the day for that!

Anyhow, he came home with nothing more than a car load of children.  Kid 2 with girlfriend and Kid 3 and we embarked on a coffee expedition with me wondering if I got dates wrong and how we suddenly scored Kid 3.  As it turns out, the Harridan is worried about his barren social life and so decreed her pet Moodle should drop him off at her sisters.  Yes... Let’s completely stifle that glimmer of friendship ability!

This is not an outing with a likeminded kid; this is suffering the company of a rather intelligent, yet mean (and therefore ugly) child.  One other time he had been over to clean freak hell and while hanging out the washing, I listened to his conversation with Kid 3.  It was basically a derisive ‘you are a kid and wouldn’t know…’ comment followed by ‘ignore’.  I immediately hated him.  I can say what I like about me and mine; someone else cannot.  I seriously hate the artists way of not slapping the little creep down and letting him speak however he chooses to. 

I got the short end of the morning while unlocking the door; in that it will now be done Thursday night.  If not.  He will do it himself.

Yes.  Of course he will.

Hands up who actually believes that crock?

Amazing

The Squeeze woke up this morning and skipped off to the happy family day of soccer and didn’t understand my raised eyebrow and voice of sarcasm when I said “really..?”

This was in reply to his “if I don’t get it today, I’m doing it myself!”

Yes.  I think I’ve heard that before.  In fact I could probably go back through blogs to see just how many times I have heard it; but that would be pointless and only serve to annoy me all the more.

He won’t be coming home with divorce papers.  If he comes home with anything at all it will be my twenty dollars – that was the bet I had that her discussion is some weird form of bedding down his superannuation/life insurance to ensure that it goes to her - so that she can ensure the kids get it.

Hell.  I’m hardly the wicked step mother but I do have to say, I’d set it on fire in the back yard before allowing her to get it.  

Still, we changed all his supers (stupidity to pay fees on more than one super but hey, I can only point this out…) so that the kids are beneficiaries ages ago; but it remains none of her damned business what we do.

Which is the answer I’d prefer him give; but suspect he will Moodle; roll over and confess/promise all.  I’m tired of that stupid bow tie and circus ball; I’m astounded that he isn’t exhausted from it.