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…

Oh. My. God. The. Mess.

You wouldn’t guess it, not for a single moment; but I have had the last 1.5 weeks off work.   Being a somewhat prolific story teller/exaggerator, you would figure that I’d have a list of blog entries a mile long.  In fact, I just haven’t found the ‘whatever’ to blog.

Let me guess; you are thinking that I’ve been too busy out socialising, or maybe I just haven’t had anything to blog about..? 

Wrong on both counts.  Well kind of.

I have been out and about a bit over the last week or so, more so than I’d have liked since days off work are supposed to go hand in hand with long sleep ins.  It never quite works out that way which is somewhat annoying.  Still, I could have dragged myself away from bed or the television for long enough to blog. 

But I didn’t.

So maybe I just didn’t have anything to say..?

Wrong there too.  In fact I intended to blog… Several times.  But I just didn’t get there. 

I wanted to blog about the preparations for the stupid half century party that I was pushed to have; and then left to organise.  I could have blogged about the Highland Fricking Dancers that I wasn’t going to be getting.  I could have blogged about my trip to the country or housework.  Could have blogged about the fear I am experiencing as the Harridan moves closer and the texts re the kid staying are coming a lot more regularly.  But none of them made the cut.

I especially wanted to run to the computer and somewhat gleefully blog about Kid 3 – who just happened to call me on the night of my birthday.  You are probably wondering what the hell he called me about; given that I’m such a witch; a bunhilda!  And to be honest, when the Squeeze handed me the phone I thought okay, he’s been brow beaten into giving a perfunctory ‘happy birthday’; and all the while he will be wishing me dead under his breath.  Maybe a little torture prior to death.  Maybe a lot of torture.

No.  Wrong again.  Instead, he wished me a happy birthday; asked me about my day and what I received and then continued on to apologise for being ‘a smart arse’ the weekend prior when he had been in Casa Oakleigh. 

Astounding.  So I’m not imagining that sulky ‘smart arse’ tone with the “are you finished..?”  Humph!  I told that idiot Squeeze this was the case, but he refused to see or acknowledge that this was the case.

To the kid; well I thanked him and said that although it may not seem like it; or he may figure it was so long ago I wouldn’t have a clue – but I was actually a kid too once – and left it at that.  And truth tell, our meeting this weekend was much more pleasant.

I still don’t want that damned Harridan upping the ante on kidsville; because firstly, I can’t stand the mess and secondly, he is no longer a little kid that needs babysitting.  I’m sure when she buggers off out, he skids through the house in his modern version of risky business!

Oh.  And as for the title – well suffice to say that I didn’t finish cleaning up after the party until last night.  2 days of living in hell.  The upside was my sister vomited on the way home (always the sign of a great party!) and at the conclusion of the night, I had 3 bottles of Moet in the fridge!  Yay!

You Don't Know Where We Live!

The Harridan moved house and once again, made sure the Squeeze didn’t know where they live.  My suggestion to fix her penchant for the ridiculous is to hence forth, post her maintenance as a cheque – to her house.  I’m pretty sure she won’t move without telling him after that…

So the weekend goes by and the kid remains alive; the Squeeze takes the kid home after his 12 hours straight of “in bed with television and computer” while we are working like dogs in the back yard. 

I slunk off and left them to go off and bond before home while I cleaned in preparation for a party next weekend.  Aside from the actual cleaning part sucking, the spring clean will look fantastic!

The Squeeze walked in the door late and grinning.  Late because the kid didn’t have a key to get into the new house that we are not to know about, so he had to await Kid 1’s return to take him off his hands.  Grinning as he recited the next saga that is the Harridan.

Kid: “you have to drop me at the corner.”

Squeeze:  “I’m not doing that; look at all the bags you’ve got!”

Kid: “I’ll get in trouble if you know where we live!”

Me:  How dumb is this ridiculous bitch..?

So while getting dinner ready, I encourage him to send her a text to say “the lounge is a little dark…” which somewhat surprisingly, he did.

We giggled like school girls; I can almost see her reading it and then choking on her spleen!

The Ugly Truth

Gone is that wonderful “stress free” feeling I attained at Daylesford.  The floatation bed; the massage and exfoliation followed by a mud cocoon.   We had dinners out that centred around talks of the magnitude that can only occur between two old friends that have known one another forever.

I came back to the reality of Melbourne yesterday and started cleaning.

The Squeeze had obviously hit the “no nagging zone” and had quite literally, skidded across the floor in his undies while I was away.  Anything used, was left out.  The bed was haphazard, but at least made.  I sighed as I unpacked my bag and began cleaning.

My real joy came at about 5pm when he mentioned that Boy 1 would be dropping Boy 3 off for a weekend of Squeezette Hell; I really tried not to let the dismay show on my face, but according to the Girl, I don’t think I achieved ‘calm face…’

So the weekend of King Kid begins.  Yay.

First, he arrived over an hour late which I’d anticipated so although I had saved food, I hadn’t bothered to hold dinner until his arrival.  Having two to feed I hadn’t counted on so the Squeeze had to rush out to get them take away.  I can suck that up every so often but there was a small shiver of fear that sidled up my spine – did them moving closer mean Kid 1 was going to take the opportunity to land on us to get away from the Harridan..?  And how often is that going to happen?  I didn’t blame him for wanting to escape the spider that she is, but hey, he chose to move in with mummy so I sure as hell don’t intend to suffer the consequences of his action…

Then Kid 1 and ‘The Little King’ arrive with enough bags to make my fear level spiral and my heart leap into action.  Ummm what is this about?  What the hell are all those bags for..?  It took all of my will not to scream it out loud.

Strangely enough, probably in anticipation to my freak out, the Squeeze makes comment on the numerous bags; almost like a camel train as it headed in through the door and out to the dining room.  Little King tosses the off handed remark that they are school bags and I have a glimmer of hope that he has homework to do.

Three seconds in the house and immediately on the computer, I hear the hacking, chesty, mucus filled lungs wheezing in and out of his chest cavity and with a brief interrogation, discover that he has been home sick that day.

Thanks you miserable bitch.  Ummm yeah, don’t worry about sending a virus infected kid to my home so that I and my children get sick.  I mention to the Squeeze that if I get sick this week – on my week off – I will skin him alive.

Then interrupting our sleep in, the Harridan texts to ask how the flu is and if Little King told us he was going to school Monday from our house.

WTF?  She really is an ignorant bitch; totally bereft of manners or consideration for another person.  I guess she forgot that this is my place; I live here and we make plans as opposed to sit here, baited breath, awaiting Harridan orders.

It didn’t matter what we were doing Sunday night, I was not having the Little King.  The Harridan can learn manners or it is her problem to deal with.

Of course since we don’t know where he lives, I wonder what the Squeeze will do if she just decides to say “too bad, you are having him”…

Then we went to breakfast.  It is always an effort to get the kid out of the door; so I switched off the television after the fifteenth time the Squeeze asked him to shower.  Personally, I think the ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ adage has an element of truth; and this kid could certainly have benefited from it.

It is time to admit the ugly truth.  The kid doesn’t like me; not one little bit.  And I'm not fond of him either.  How do we get around this?  How do I live in my house and shut my face while this kid is rude to me?  How do I make the Squeeze see that if he can't fix it, we have a serious relationship problem our hands because I can't hack this every second weekend for years on end.  I don't want to.

We go to a very nice Greek restaurant that I have decided I won’t be frequenting again with the kid in tow; where he proceeded to eat sourdough smothered in avocado, tomato and balsamic with bacon on the side – with his hands; complete with dirt encrusted fingernails.  The Squeeze, perhaps noting my shiver of revulsion, did ask him to use his cutlery, but this went unheeded.

Bacon, eggs, sauce, avocado - all with fingers!

At the conclusion of breakfast, I suggested that maybe washing his hands would be a good idea which received a look and then a blatant ignore.  My temper seethed higher.

Then we went next door to the chemist to get some chesty cough medicine, which is kind of like treating cancer with mint leaves if you ask me.  Even the chemist notes that it is on the verge of a full blown chest infection.  In the car, on the way home, while my nails are digging into my hands and my teeth are on my lip; the kid mentions around another bout of phlegm filled coughing:  ‘the best thing for a chest infection is time!”

Amazing.  She must be a ventriloquist.  And an excellent one!  She slipped her hand up his arse and moved his mouth and I didn’t even see her lips move!

The Land Of Bliss

In another 22 minutes or so, I’m out of the door at work and off to a funeral.  Weirdly, this is the same funeral I was off to the other week; which got cancelled.  Yes; I couldn’t work out how you cancelled a funeral either but this one has turned into a circus.  Messy affairs when there is a wife on one side of the coffin, his kids on the other.

So no, the funeral isn’t the ‘land of bliss’ part; that will come when I get home from the funeral and start packing for my 2 nights in a spa at Hepburn Springs with one my longest serving best friend.

We are getting seaweed body packs and head/hair treatments and massages and cocoons and a million other weirdo named stuff all because I am in the unenviable position of turning 50 next week.  And she is already there so figures this is what 50 year olds should do (and I do believe she is right!)

So we have two days of relaxation and beautification and nonstop conversation.  Sounds just about perfect to me.  Even better; we are staying at the spa so there is no real requirement of glam up; just a whole lot of swanning around in their robe and slippers.

Yesterday, my boss gave me Waterford Crystal for crying out loud!  My family purchased me a gorgeous rose gold and ruby ring!  The squeeze, a Chanel necklace!

Hell.  I’m beginning to think turning 50 is a.o.k!  I’m even starting to look forward to the stupid party!