To Concert, or not to Concert…

Last night, the Squeeze mentioned that the ‘end of semester school concert’ is on tonight.

Oh the joy…  How could I live without another evening in a cold hall with a frosty ex-wife and a cacophony of brass; how can I contain my excitement?

I freely admit to the good sense that ensured I didn't breed when I was bordering on elderly; this means that the parenting school year is long gone for me.  Still, I can't see how can there be so many crappy instruments; and a requirement to turn up and clap so many times in a single year!   Firstly; how long does a semester last these days?  It seems like three seconds ago it was school holidays and the Harridan was suggesting Kid 3 come and plant himself in front of a flat screen for a week.   And here it is again.  More holidays!

Obviously, I have to weight up all the options.  I mean I could go to the concert and support the Squeeze while annoying the Harridan with my very presence; or alternatively, I could let the Squeeze go by himself (perhaps to sit with the “other parent” and not be “strange”) while I throw on sports gear and go boxing with my daughter.

Let’s see…  At the two concerts I’ve suffered through so far this year we had the Harridan manipulate after music conversation and drag the Squeeze off to introduce him, which enabled her to conveniently ensure that his back was to me for the rest of the evening.  This was followed by concert two that saw us sitting in another section away from her, but then suffering her texts on how “strange” he was that he couldn’t sit with the other parent – a thinly veiled jibe at me because I was obviously instigating this.  I guess she forgot the concert before that where we were already seated and she dragged the kids to sit on the other side of the hall.

So decisions, decisions. 

My muscles are already somewhat wounded due to our stint with the personal trainer on Monday night.  Then yesterday we rocked up for a little more torture.  Still, this torture has the benefit of muscle toning and weight loss…  Having to put up with the Harridan torture could only benefit me via appetite loss.

Boxing wins!

y d w y t

Like me, you are probably wondering just what the hell ‘y d w y t’ means.

Well… Let me enlighten you.

As a general rule, the Squeeze and I manage to exchange several “organisational” emails throughout the day. This is usually in regards to boxing or a discussion/decision on what we intend to cook for dinner, or the Kid/Harridan requirements/demands.

Firstly, I should mention that these emails have absolutely nothing to do with any new found Squeeze need for plans or spread sheets. He is an “on the fly” kind of guy; on the odd times I have presented him with a spread sheet, he has given me a derisive look and promptly deleted it; pausing only long enough to ridicule me to his “one the fly” kids.

Therefore, when he instigates these conversations, it must be because he understands me so well. He knows that I am without doubt, a ‘plans and spread sheets’ kind of girl; that I need planning and organisation like I need air, right..?

Today, my reply to his dinner question was answered with: y d w y t

Okay; I know him well and can often guess his rather cryptic messages, after all, I’ve been receiving them for years.  But this one stumped me, so I was forced to question him. The answer I received was a hilarious ‘y d w y t - you do what you're told’.

Given that he is a well-known Moodle, the absurdity of that answer is not what this blog entry is about.

You see it suddenly dawned on me why we have these little tête-à-têtes throughout the day. It isn’t about scheduling or preparation. It isn’t about understanding my need for organisation and planning. It certainly isn’t because he misses me and just sends one line, reaches out so that he knows I am there…

No. I suddenly knew that this is so he can have it sorted with as little stress, fuss or conversation as possible. Then, the evening is organised so he won’t even have to mutter “what’s for dinner” on his way to the sofa!

The Evil Queen

Yesterday the Squeeze and I went off to see Snow White and the Huntsman in Gold Class. 

I love Gold Class but the benefits of getting out and switching off in recliners for a while, are somewhat negated by the decadence of Gold Class.  I already have a glass of red in my hand while I’m being seated and then about midway through, another glass slides onto the table before us.  Yesterday, it slid into place to the accompaniment of a bowl of crispy wedges, sweet chilli sauce and sour cream which probably didn’t do the diet much good.

As soon as I saw the shorts for this movie, I knew it was one for me.  It was dark enough to warrant my interest and the title indicated an exciting twist to the original fairy tale, in that the huntsman had a lot more of a role than the well-worn idea of some guy turning up in tights at the end and saving the day by doing no more than kissing some dead chick.  He didn’t even have to unsheathe a sword… In reality, the concept has a whole swag of ugly connotations… 

Having Charlize Theron in the role of the Evil Queen was a bonus…  She fits the role perfectly since the Queen has always been the more interesting character to me; far more so than some teenager, skipping about the forest like an animal magnet.  Yeah, joy, birds land on you every time you walk out the door… Not even close to exciting compared to a magic mirror and being Queen…

And sure, she may have gone overboard by having some guy drag the kid into the forest to cut out her ‘still beating heart’; but Hell; she was step mother to a teenager – I’m tipping she had her reasons!

So the diet was on shaky ground and the movie was a bit of a letdown.  The Queen lived up to expectations; as did Chris Hemsworth and a slew of dwarves that weren’t actually dwarves; but Kristen Stewart seriously has zip presence.  It was like Bella in chain mail.  I actually rolled my eyes when she gave a passionless speech to her father’s men so that they would ride into battle.  That wasn’t getting me to don a sword and ride up the beach only to have hot oil tipped on me; no way!  Bill Pullman in Independence Day – now that was a speech!  Mel Gibson – Braveheart; which was so damned good I almost painted my face blue while sitting on the sofa watching it.

So we actually got to go on  a date, except I had to pay for it and when I suggested that the Squeeze could pay for the food, he bristled and said it was a “snack free date”.   This from a person who I have to frisk and check on the chocolate levels in the supermarket basket prior to check out!

The Whining Clock

My once perfectly immaculate home has become untidy.

Things are getting away from me.  Let’s face it, even though I have attempted to put some subliminal training patterns in place with the Squeeze and his “use this… drop this… walk away…” penchant, he continues to revert to the slovenly man that is crouched inside him, just below the surface – ready and eager to jump out at will.   Guess I was never going to undo her years of piggery training quickly or easily.

When Slovenly Squeeze escapes, it is like some giant cogged clock, starts the “whining mechanism” within me, off and running…  I seriously need to Break Free!

For example, this morning, we are getting ready for work.  This is a somewhat practised routine by now; perfectly synchronised so that I’m making coffee while he showers, he is getting breakfast while I am.  What can I say?  I am a project manager; my life works better with military precision and spread sheets.  So, it sounds easy right..?  Ha! Nothing is ever easy when you have a neat freak and someone suffering from slovenly chaotic syndrome shoved inside one smallish 2BR apartment.

I can hear the shower while I get coffee and not too long afterwards, he is prowling the kitchen in a towel.  This signals “my time” in the bathroom so I slink off only to halt at the doorway and survey the obstacle course before me!

The Squeeze isn’t an overly hairy man so can get by with shaving only every other day.  Truth tell, I quite like it by about day three when he is moving into “devil may care” look; but he isn’t keen on that.  Today was shave day…

Bottom drawer houses Squeeze paraphernalia such as hair wax, shaving gel and razor.  This is left open, awaiting my shin.  The shaving gel (lid separate in a pool of gel) and razor take up all the bench room and what is left is covered in foamy water!  Overturned slippers in front of the mirror; dressing gown and t-shirt suffocate the mound of towels and the soggy bath mat lying in a pool of water.

Then I have to weigh it all up.  If I remind him that it is so much easier to just put things back where you got them, then it will sound like I’m whining.  And of course I’m whining!  How could I not when I’ve had to say the same thing twice a week for the past year!!!  I’ve said it so many times that his slippers could understand it by now!

So I’m basically doing Groundhog’s Day!  I say the same thing over and over again!  Although he likes to tell me that I am a goldfish in the memory department, who the hell is swimming through the bowl now???

Swim. Swim. Look a Castle.

Swim. Swim. Look a Castle!

Swim. Swim. Wow! Is that a Castle?

The Best Exotic Velvet Land Hotel

Since the move from Velvet  Land to the real world, the Harridan has spent an inordinate amount of time “cleaning” in preparation to rent the house out.

I suspected (hoped) that she had met someone; I mean no one on the planet lives in such squalor that it would warrant a month of cleaning for a house they have only occupied for six months.  I know they exist in what I term “clean freak hell”; but how can it get so bad in only six months..?

Today, the Squeeze went off to Velvet town to watch Kid 3 play soccer.  I like this time.  I get to enjoy the utter bliss of a sleep in before I potter around doing my style of cleaning.  By mid-afternoon, the beds are changed, washing is done, floors are gleaming and I can sit, let my eye survey the room and feel exceedingly pleased with myself and my surroundings.

Aside from the peace of soccer morning, there is the certainty that as the Squeeze stands on the sidelines, if there is any trouble on the horizon; it is here that the Harridan will pounce.  I was uncertain of what would come from denying her the chance to rule supreme over the birthday dinner, but if there was something to come, it is here he would hear of it.

Instead, the Squeeze came home and she had not spoken to him.  He thinks this means all is well in the world.  I see this as more “the calm before the storm…”

Over coffee, he did pause to tell me that the Kid had mentioned that she is ‘preparing’ the house as a bed and breakfast.  It took every ounce of will not to spray my coffee across the table.  I'd never heard anything so outlandish!

A bed and breakfast..?  He she for real..?  This person can’t even keep a school shirt white!  Strangely enough, people kind of prefer a clean weekend retreat!  With hygienic bathroom!  Not yellow sheets and pee floating in the loo!

Tongue in cheek, I suggested that we should rent it J

Nut Doctor Validation - Tick

Yesterday after work was the Squeeze’s regular Nut Doctor visit.  I’m feeling a lot better about those visits these days.  I mean let’s face it, it didn’t take him too long to work out that the Harridan is a ‘manipulator extraordinaire’ so he is well ahead of the condescending female nut doctor we were both seeing last year (who I suspect was a vitriolic ex-wife…)

It wasn’t easy in the beginning.  The Squeeze would bring home his stick figure drawings that always looked lopsided in what was important, at least to me, but surprisingly quite eloquent.  It was amazing really; just a few words and circles on a screwed up piece of paper and I could basically decipher his whole session.

These days, there are no stick figures and circles coming home so either they have progressed beyond describing our “blended family environment” or the Squeeze is dumping them on the way home.

Stick figures or not, we generally have lively discussion afterwards.  I try not to tell him what he should have said because let’s face it, it is supposed to be about him and how he views the world and I suspect the doctor has seen him enough times now to see the things that remain unsaid.

Yesterday, the session was around Kid 3’s 15^th birthday dinner and the Harridan’s demand suggestion that although she was having a celebratory dinner with the kids that we were not invited to, she should come to (ruin) ours. 

This magical dinner, which we would pay for of course, would be enough of a mirage that Kid 3 would live happily ever after secure in the knowledge that mummy and daddy are the best of friends.   Guess he won’t see every drop off where she sends a text to say “don’t come near my house!!!”  Or maybe he won’t hear her shouting down the phone about what a useless, selfish pathetic father he is.

Still, we all know that her desire to attend dinner was about control; shutting me down; manipulation… excluding me where possible and donning a hat with flashing neon sign that says ‘you don’t belong bunhilda!’

And what did the Nut Doctor think of what had transpired over a simple request to take the kid out for a dinner for his birthday..?  He thought she was a manipulative cow and that the Squeeze had handled it just right.

Validation is always nice.  Although I think I’m smart enough to work out her game play and attempt to veto it, its dicey when you have kids involved!  Every so often I need to make sure that I’m not making this about me, when it is about the kid.

That Biach is Cuckoo!

I love receiving comments on my blog.  Admittedly, I get the odd “vitriolic ex-wife” who wants to waffle on about the Squeeze’s masculinity, or lack thereof due to my bitter tirades; but as a general rule of thumb, I get communiques’ from relatively normal, sane people, who question these documented moments of ‘Harridan unhinged’.

And let’s face it; although they have tapered off so that I no longer need to blog about them every day in an attempt to vent, they are still somewhat prevalent in any dealings we have with her; enough to keep my fingers busy.  In truth, you’d have figured that after a few years, I’d cease to be astounded by her insanity…  But this is not the case.

Prior to posting, I generally cast an eye over it to ensure I haven’t gone off the deep end (and I’m not always successful with that I have to say…) and yet I find that most of the time, there is no need to exaggerate either the Harridan’s obvious narcissism nor my flabbergasted, stunned, astounded, speechless reactions.  They are spot on; in your face real.

The delusional suggestion that she should come to dinner when we took Kid 2 out for his birthday was downright bizarre; and kind of indicates that she is living in a reality vacuum of her own making.   Any idea that this was about the kid, was totally undone by the veracity that she had already planned her own “family dinner”…

This was about her; her misguided theory that she is the matriarch of the family and will be forever.   A modern day Ma Barker!

Of course my favourite comment received re my last blog was:  “Read your blog – that biach is cuckoo!”

Ahhh  I couldn’t have put it better myself!

The Sleeping Bear

Be careful what you wish for…  That is what my mother used to say.

I believe the meaning of this adage was along the lines of discovering that if you got it, sometimes you realised it wasn’t what you wanted after all.  In my case, this isn’t true.  I wanted the Squeeze to just once; just one time – stand up for himself.  Bite the bullet.  Let her have it.  Tell her to mind her own damned business and keep her face out of our lives! 

Tonight, I saw it.  It was a thing of beauty really.  Actually, bitch slapping her off her chair would have been my first preference, but this will do!

Things had been silent since our email exchange, as is often the case with him.  I suppose he goes into thought mode, which I should be grateful for in reality.  But he came in the door and I was ready for boxing; determined to go with or without him and resolute not to make a scene if he intended to slink off for the “Brady Bunch Birthday Dinner”.  Instead, he came in singing and set about changing for boxing.

On the way, the kid called and asked about dinner, including the somewhat covertly 'was I coming…..'

So the Squeeze explained that going out for dinner… Just a cosy table of the four of us wasn’t going to work and even if I didn’t come, there is only history there now (and not pleasant history) and doing dinner as a happy little family just wasn’t an option.  Instead, we would go to boxing, he would go to dinner with his mother and then the Squeeze would collect him from dinner and take him to a movie.  Finally...  The truth!

The kid sounded fine.  I was fine.  Everyone was happy…

Well everyone except the Harridan who called as we got in from boxing; her raised tone echoed throughout the house (and it wasn’t even on speaker!)   He had ruined everything.  He had stuffed her around.  He had… blah blah.  The kid “wanted” a family dinner and he was too damned selfish.. blah blah.

Surprisingly, he let her have it with both barrels.  Truth tell, I've never seen him in such good form...

I believe the clincher for him was when he realised that she fully intended to have a “family” birthday dinner on Friday night with herself and the three boys (and we were certainly not invited); yet she would plant herself smack in the middle of our birthday dinner – like a freaking buda!

In other words, we needed her superior supervision…

Not in this lifetime.

A Dilettante

Once again, it is that difficult time of year; birthdays.  I hate it.  Maybe I should clarify that it is only Squeeze kid birthday’s that I hate for it provides more opportunity for the Harridan to twist those screws of torture just a little bit tighter.

Kid 3 turns fifteen today and Kid 1 had inadvertently mentioned on the weekend that they were planning on a Friday evening celebratory dinner.  Given that, the Squeeze decided to put a call in to the Harridan last night and ask if we could call past tonight, grab the kid and take him for dinner before dropping him home again.

Even as he raised the phone to his ear, it was obvious that he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the kid on his birthday.  It didn’t matter what was going on; he wasn’t getting him.  After a short and sharp conversation, he hung up mentioning that the Harridan was awaiting Kid 2 confirmation about a dinner tonight and she would let him know when that eventuated.

It seemed unlikely that there would be two dinners so I suggested the Squeeze shoot off an email to Kid 2 and ask what was going on; the reply basically came in the form of “wtf..?”  In other words, there was no dinner organised for tonight; she was just being her.

Fine by me; I’m dieting because there are six pairs of bathers in my beach bag; none of which I will be able to squeeze my ass into for Greece – unless I get drastic.  Let me tell you; I’ve been sticking to the diet like glue and have managed to lose 5.1 kilos in 3.5 weeks.  A start yes… I could probably fit into most of them now, but I’d still look a shocker!  So dinners out are not easy; no alcohol is killing me and I positively couldn’t do it if I was out some place; let alone that vampire sitting opposite me!

Then, this morning… The shoe fell.  The bell of fate and doom rang.

I received a single sentenced email from the Squeeze suggesting that Kid 3 was concerned about the “under the surface” tension and that we should all go to dinner to celebrate his birthday; that given the circumstances we should be able to suck it up for a couple of hours as the kid wanted me to be there.

Roll me over and call me the freaking Brady Bunch – except there are no happy blended families here.  What he meant of course, was that “I” should suck it up… There was no “we”.

With that one sentence, my stomach churned; I actually felt the moment my headache crouched and crawled forward so I replied and said “not a chance in hell… sorry.”

Then he made the sublimely stupid mistake of replying and attempting to manipulate me.  I should probably mention at this point that the Squeeze is a manipulation dilettante…  He is an amateur; an apprentice!   All he ended up doing was insulting me (dumb arse) which certainly didn’t inspire me to “suck it up” any more, that’s for sure.

Okay, I’m not great at manipulation either…  I’m too candid and just say it like it is rather than cajole, which is why I don’t attempt it.  I suggested that perhaps he should take a leaf and bypass the art of manipulation also.  The Harridan is playing games; she is an expert in it.   And he may wish to just prance down the road towards it like a lamb to the slaughter; but I have no desire to play.

Maybe he should spend a moment to look at the facts…

1. The kid seriously couldn’t give a rat’s arse if I was there or not.  Due to the Harridan’s obvious condemnation of me, his children would ignore me out of some misguided sense of loyalty to their mother.  He knows this is true, yet seem incapable of accepting it.

2. Where is the “under the surface tension”..?   On what planet within his mind does he exist..?   It is not “under the surface”; there is nothing hidden about it; it is screaming on the edge of a cliff, in your face tension!   And given that it is “in your face tension”, I seriously doubt that parading a lie to the kid would ease anything; he is not retarded so why would a couple of hours over dinner give him a rosy glow and let him think that mummy and daddy are best friends; we are all one big happy family?

It’s all good in theory, but I suspect we will have to live like the rest of the divorced population - where we “suck it up” to go to 21st’s and Weddings.

Over my dead body!

After being in Kid 3 land all week, it was decided that some off-site bonding would be in order (I decided); so the Squeeze and Kid 3 loaded up the car and headed to the coast for the weekend.

This enabled some quality girl time for me which included going blonde (after 20 years of being a brunette, but I’m in a funk and need a makeover); having a girlfriend over for the weekend where we set about cooking and proceeded to knock off four bottles of champagne, gossiped and watched movies.  It was heaven.  Even more so, good champagne means no hangover!

So the weekend allowed for some much needed ‘space’ between the kid and I.  Lately, it feels as though every time I turn around, he is there.  If he isn’t there, then the Squeeze and I are arguing or stressing because the Harridan is attempting to make sure he is there.  Generally, this comes under the guise of cleaning six months of scum from the house in Velvet Land as she prepares for it to be rented out.

Frankly, this is utterly astounding and quite frankly appalling to me.  I have lived where I am for going on six years and if I had to move out next week, I could clean it in a day.  I seriously cannot imagine any house on the planet could be so disgusting that it warrants three weeks’ worth of cleaning, so instead, I believe that she is finally seeing someone (my guess would be a woman but that is still up for interpretation…)

I’m all for her having a life, but hey...  Whoever you are dating, get them used to kids and house already!  Having someone else in my space is difficult at the best of times, more so given the gulf between hygiene view’s.   Since my birthday and the Kid’s apology for being loathsome (my terminology, not his J ) things have been a little easier.  I no longer feel the escalation of stress and resentment building as we count down to a kid weekend however, the reality of life says that it will never be ‘easy’. 

When they got home from the coast, we went to a movie and dropped the kid off at the house we are not allowed to know about.  It is the same instruction every time; the Squeeze is not allowed to go anywhere near her house.  The kids would be too scared to let him in the door if she wasn’t home, because she would blow a gasket.  Why, is anyone’s guess.  Maybe she is ashamed of her lack of the cleaning gene but I think it is just to be contrary in reality.

When the Squeeze came out to the car he mentioned that they hadn’t been able to get the set top box working and Kid 1 asked him to go have a look at it.

Ummm yeah.  Over my dead body!  If you can’t stand up for your dad; if said dad isn’t allowed anywhere near the property… Then you can get a freaking TV repair man!!!!

White. Snowy. Bleached. White.

Okay… I’m not Mrs Marsh.  I am not an expert in washing or anything; but I have to wonder why a woman with a kid has never heard of Napisan…  If she has, she’s obviously too tight or too retarded to try it.

The kid arrives and without fail, with clothes that I have to soak, wash and resoak.

The whites are not white.  They are instead, a murky grey.  And they are not school yard dirty, no…  Not scuffed from sport or play – they are plain and simple ‘not washed regularly’ grey.

As you can see by my pathetic night iPhone shot on a washing machine, the difference between this kid’s “whites” and our standard “whites” are poles apart!  (His are on the left!)

Then I have to go to war with myself...

Send them back to the witch as hideously grey as they came…?   Or whiten them so the kid doesn’t look neglected!

Of course the soaking wins out time after time even though she is probably too damned lazy to drag them out of his bag to notice they are actually white.

Hell.  It doesn’t take a mental giant to work out how to wash a fricking shirt!

Having said that, we have the kid this week as the Harridan continues to clean the house she moved from.  It has now taken approximately three weeks to clean a house that she and one teenager have lived in for less than six months.

Guess that explains why the kid is a lazy non hygienic bugger! 

I shudder to think what this place looks like – and good luck renting it!

The Art of Compromise

Blending of families can be bloody difficult.  There are all these different personalities waging war with one another; not to mention the mile long list of complexities that dictate who this kid becomes when it walks out the door.

And sure, you love your kid… Your kid is brilliant!  Look how fantastic he is on the sax?  Or at ballet…  Football…  Art!  Why they could be an actor!  A musician!  A director!  

And they really do believe it; I’ve seen that belief etched on their faces the whole way through being a parent with a kid at school!  It’s like there is some parent switch in their head that doesn’t allow them to see what the rest of the world sees.  Umm lady… he’s not gorgeous, he is a pimply brat with a lurchy walk!  Or hey, are you mad?  That kid only stood on the stage wearing a sack cloth, looking at the audience like a stunned mullet – I’m not seeing ‘actor’ there!  More often than not, the ugly truth of it is they get some nerdy job, if they are lucky, and slave away like the rest of us.

So in a blended house, you are forced to spend time with children that are the product of how they were raised; which generally comes with a goodly whack of ‘mother’ traits.  For mine, they all got a very healthy dose of sarcasm and humour; plus a tad of loudness… A bit of emotional and last, but not least, the girl got the clean gene.

The Squeeze’s kid got a paranoid aversion to antibiotics; which is somewhat dangerous when combined with a lack of hygiene in the not washing your hands after leaving your yellow sea complete with several splash drops twenty centimetres from the toilet bowl.

And this is where our troubles lie.  The kid has been raised with zippo table manners, zilch hygiene traits, with the belief that he doesn’t have to do lift a finger and that he knows everything .  I on the other hand, I am a clean freak, demand respect, can’t abide laziness and actually do know everything!

So I sent the Squeeze a list of options because I was putting my foot down.  There was no way the kid was coming for a week or two.  I die first...  He'd die first...
I figured compromise was our only option.

1.  We could go our separate ways. 

2.  Tell the Harridan our place is too small, we will do weekends and school holidays when we can go away, but short of that – shove it…

3.  We could move to a bigger house, with “escape” rooms and two bathrooms (and I would be paying the same as I am now) or,

4.  We would have the kid next Wednesday and Thursday eve but that was my limit.  Come Friday at the conclusion of school, they were off down to a friend’s beach house until Sunday.

He picked option 4, so I suggested he give notice to his other two boys and have a Squeeze man/boy weekend of bonding.

As for me...  I’ll be skidding across the floorboards in my sox – am home alone… And I’ve still got 2 bottles of Moet in the fridge left over from my birthday!

is yr son!

Is yr son!  This was the rather difficult to decipher text message that accompanied a “ding” the other day.

Amazing really!  I’ve noticed that the only time kid 3 is “yr son” is when it involves finances or a sitter.  Strangely enough, there is no “yr son” when she decides to up and move houses without a word, or when she decides to change schools without any form of consultation or discussion.

And given our rather precarious teetering on the edge last week due to the kid’s insolence when he decides to speak to me at all; the Squeeze’s inability to discipline, and the Harridan’s desire to extend days left right and centre, I couldn’t have cared less if he was Satan’s son – this kid was not spending this week or next with us!

We have argued quite vigorously of late.  Let’s face it, in the weeks since the Harridan packed and moved on a whim to a house that we are not allowed to see, be in, go near, or know where it is – she has for one reason or another required the kid to be here as often as possible.  That one weekend a fortnight that I had planned on, is blowing out – and getting worse.

Before anyone drags out their soap box and points it out, yes… I understand that the kid is the Squeeze’s son; but it isn’t as cut and dried as that.  For one, life has changed; dramatically.  I am in the picture; and I actually drag a life with me too.  Even more difficult, he moved into my environment.  We are in a ‘couples’ apartment; with a guest bedroom.  It is not large; not large enough to escape… Be free. 

I’m not even going to talk about the bathroom or the unfortunate incident of walking in on the kid as naked and twisted as a pretzel as he heard the door slide open - a la Mr Burns style in the Marge painting episode.  To be honest, the horror on my face was probably worse than his.  And I was... Horrified.

It started with:

Harridan:  can kid stay eithr this week or nxt week with u  [strangely enough, her English was better than usual]

Squeeze:  No – had a hard enough time getting Sunday  [Hmm well why don’t we just wave a red flag and shout at her to keep throwing the kid at my head…]

Harridan:  Wat mean getting time???? This is yr son u have to try to get time for [Yes, but the world doesn’t stop because you have something on.  All plans don’t clang and change like the clock works on the beginning of an episode of Game of Thrones!]

And I waited and waited but the Squeeze didn’t mention it… I was almost lulled into a false sense of security; right up until we went to bed.  Then I assume he figured the flow would be along the lines of: I would shout, he would roll over and shove his head in a pillow and it wouldn’t matter what I said anyhow, it would happen because it is ‘their kid’, she has ordered it and that is more important than me and my world.

Hmmm not this time…