I'm sooooo going to Hell

While I may, indeed, earn myself a one way ticket straight to the hottest level of Hell, I'm forging ahead with this train of thought, because, as all good people know, when Revenge Arrives, it's best served cold. Ice cold.

A little backstory (ahhhh, foreshadowing...) : it's H's first tee-ball game today, and while I've navigated the shark infested waters of which parent was buying what, and how the glove already purchased was Not Good Enough For My Son, as well as adding cleats, and a whole host of other, uneccessary items, I arrive amid shouts of glee at the upcoming parade to lead us all over to the park. A glorious day to be a little boy! The flags held high, the wind, with a bit of a bite, whipping an already over-sugared crowd into a high froth, all 300 little leaguers paraded with at least one parent down the street, up the hill, into the ball fields.

B makes several completely inappropriate comments, revolving around H not needing to play T-ball, I should have gotten him to bend the rules....who's kid is the mongoloid? (I was surprised that a, he knew that word, b, could use it correctly in a sentence, and c, would have the balls to say that) That child?,......He would belong to our coach. He's a joy, by the way. Both coach and child. Ex-husband? Not so much.

Day goes from bad to worse...and then, to better....see, I find out from B's mother, that he's going in for back surgery. Hmmm. Suspicious, but would explain that rather sudden beer gut he's sporting, as well as the shuffling gate of the seriously injured...I had thought that would be for pity - I'm partially right. I suppose it's possible he's actually IN pain, and not just a pain in my ass. Either way, he goes in on Wednesday. (mark your calendars.....this would be the day to pull out those overweight voodoo dolls and gear up, light some black candles, and wonder if he'd really come back as something he should have been in this life: like a toad).

His mother, actually has the balls to tell me that Claire, his unlovely intended, cannot take him (did I mention, she has long hair, or, rather, a mane, as I call it, to go with her long horsey face, big teeth, and bosc pair body? no? well. she does. little on top, GINORMOUS on the bottom) and so she wondered, my Ex Monster In Law, if I could see my way to driving to the cape, and taking him.

IS SHE ON CRACK??????

Part of me wanted to say yes, only if he makes me his health care proxy, and I have the chance to pull the plug while he's under.

I'm supposed to fell sorry for him. Let me see if I can find my Tragically Upset Face..................................nope. I'm fresh out.

Good news is, even if he doesn't die (and damn, wouldn't that be great???? yes...this would be the Going To Hell Part) there is a serious chance he'll never recover enough function to...er.....get it up.

As he's not paying me, or his first ex, I KNOW he's not bringing in anything to assist in the Equine's home....so the only thing worth it to her to keep him around is that - and let me just say, he's not THAT good in bed.

I'm dying laughing!!!!!

And, hoping. I know. I know! So bad of me. But honestly, anyone who really knew what went on wouldn't hold it against me.

So....if you love me, gear up on Wednesday. Start wearing Mourning Black. Light some Knock Him Off candles.

If nothing else? Pray it'll be a hold up instead of a stick up, from now on.

There has to be some justice in this world. And he, in my opinion, sealed his fate by picking on the kid with down's this afternoon.

Oh No You Didn't

Apr. 5th, 2007 at 7:11 PM

Dear Mother Of That Bastard That Attacked My Kid,

After being summoned to the office today, to collect my sobbing (but unhurt, thank your lucky stars) child, I thought it best that you and I hash this out as rational, competent adults, who are both on a journey of slef-discovery while raising our boys.

Oh no you fucking did NOT try to tell me that MY child instigating the event on the playground - I don't care who is going to the hospital, my child, and get your overdone, fake, spikey green nails out of my face when you address me - my child did not, under any circumstances cause the removal of your child from this program permanately.

First, allow me to point on the numerous occassions you've been called in here, from your work as a total hack job at a salon, to pick up your child, Shit Kicker, from the elephants room. Now, I make the point about the room, as you clearly can see, my child, is in the GIRAFFE room you twit. Or twat, you choose.

Secondly, let me also point out, that my child was defending another child who is considerably smaller than your heathanistic, ill-mannered bastard of an alcoholic from being attacked by him. AGAIN. It is not my faut that in the course of his karate training, he's gained a far greater measure of control, intensity, and aim than your child could even hope to acheive. Thus, while I am sorry, to a certain extent that Watts (his real name? c'mon, really?) is going to the ER, to get his possibly bruised kidney checked out, I have to say, that may be the safest spot for him, as I'm ready to kick his fat, ugly little ass around the playground myself, and mine wasn't even the other child injured here.

Thirdly, and let me make this point as clear as possible, as I fear I've used words that are way too big for you to understand, you're not wanted here. Your smelly, obnoxious, tiring, foul-mouthed, bad-habited child deserves to wallow away in whatever backwoods, toothless county ya'all come from - he is not one to benefit from an excellent education, so spare teh rest of us his attitude, behavoir, and very presence.

Lastly, if you EVER, and I mean ever poke me again with those rat-trap nails of yours, I will bed you over my arm, dislocate your elbow in the process and knock out your last few remaining front teeth.

Have I made myself clear?

I have gotten fat.

Disgustingly I Cannot Believe Michael Still Wants To Have Sex With Me Fat.

Not, mind, that it stops ME from wanting to get laid - hardly! I'd say that whole influx of chocolatey goodness mixed in with whatever I have laying around in my makeshift bar puts me right in the mood. And NO, it's not as if he's turned me down, or passed on anything nakedee, it's simply that I am no longer okay watching my oversize spare tire jiggle while I'm on top.

Nor, really, how much the girls just sort of lay there, when I'm on the bottom.

Bottom? Did I say bottom? I have enough for four people these days.

I'd say it's all the damn driving; or maybe, the lack of constructive exercise, the trips through the drive thru that constitute dinner - only seriously? I kid you not....I've been working out, dammit! I eat seafood for dinner, with a side of someone's vegitable garden. I'm overloaded on Holy Fucking Healthiness, along with a kickass workout routine, only I'm finding the spare tire inflating, not deflating.

Therein, my friends, lies the rub. What in the fuck is the point of working out til one is so sweaty being showered with a garden hose would be drier, if one cannot see a difference? I'm not looking for a MAJOR difference right away...but I would like my pants sides to come within yelling distance of each other, or perhaps, be able to locate a hipbone without an xray.

Is it asking too much? Sure, I've turned ..... more than 30. A damn sight less than 40....but when they said my cup runneth over with joy, I don't think they meant the ones attached to the lining of my bra. I'd be psyched to buy new clothes...if the sizes were getting SMALLER. Or perhaps, that I didn't look like an overtall Umpa Loompa.

This whole rant however, has left me rather weak and peckish - and while there are indeed, plenty of green leafy things in the fridge, I think, perhaps, this one time, I"m going to go attack something more substantial.

Like the inside of my kid's easter basket