Category Archives: Ex Files

The Ex-Files – Fack You

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When my daughter was about 9 months old she developed an ear infection. She fought ear infections for the next 2 years. One month it would be the left ear, the next month it would be the right ear. Some months we were at the doctor’s office twice: one ear then the next. Sometimes it was both ears! Finally, her pediatrician gave her a low dose of an antibiotic which she had to take for an entire month. That knocked the ear infections out and she never had another. Thank goodness, because we didn’t have insurance and it was stressful as hell.

The problem with the ear infections, aside from the obvious, was that it was during the years that she was learning to speak and understand words and phrases. She wasn’t hearing things correctly so her words were incorrect. Some of her words were:

Piddle = cereal

Pupcake = cupcake

Puppard = cupboard

Wunny wun = another one

Pappow = Grampa

Toocoo = Cuckoo

There were so many but I can’t think of any more right now. It was hard for anyone to understand what SR was saying, except for me. I was with her every day. I learned from interaction with her what she was trying to say and sometimes hand gestures and other body language helped me to learn her ‘language.’ Her father was another story…

One day, after many, many weeks of me nagging at CP to fix the fucking leak under the bathroom sink, he finally did it. SR (about 4 or 5 at the time) was curious and wanted to help. CP let her help by handing him the tools he needed and he showed her what he was doing. He talked to her a little about plumbing as if he actually knew anything. She took it all in, and for once in a very long time, I was impressed by CP’s interaction with her.

When the job was done, SR picked up tools and such and handed them to CP. Then she stood up and exclaimed, “Fack you, Pop!” Of course, CP had no clue what she really said but to him it sounded like she said, “Fuck you, Pop!” I can understand that. Anyone would have thought the same thing.

What pissed me off was CP’s reaction. He blew a gasket. He yelled at her, “I don’t know where you got that from but I’d better not ever hear you say it again!” SR ran to me, crying big ol’ hurt feeling tears. I asked CP what had happened and he yelled at me for teaching her to say Fuck You. I said, “Excuse me?” and turned to SR. I asked her, “What did you say to Pop?” She told me what she said.

I turned to CP and told him, “She said no such thing. Don’t you dare accuse me of teaching her something that she has heard you say before, too! What she said was THANK you, and if you would have stopped to think a minute about her speech impediment, you might have been able to figure it out!” He walked away, pouting as usual, and I sat with SR and tried to explain to her that her Pop just didn’t hear her right and thought she said a bad word. “I dint mommy,” she said. “I know, baby girl.” She sat with me for a few minutes and then she jumped up to go play with her toys. CP never apologized to her, or to me.

SR had a speech impediment when she started school but thankfully, she was able to see a Speech Therapist during school hours and by the time she hit 3rd or 4th grade, she didn’t need to go anymore.

I’ll never forget how CP made her feel… Since she was so little, I doubt she remembers so that’s a good thing.

The Ex-Files – An 80mph Show

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Many moons ago, CP and I lived out in the country not too far from the town I grew up in. We were supposed to buy that house, owned by his uncle, but that’s another blog post.

We had been in town one evening, getting groceries. My grandmother was with us. She lived in the trailer behind the house. My daughter, just 2 at the time was strapped into her car seat, next to my grandmother in the back seat.

It was later in the evening, around 7pm or so. It was summer, so it was still light out. CP was driving. I always let him drive because he made me feel like a shitty driver, always nagging at me. I could pull into a parking lot and drive across an empty parking spot and he would be sure to tell me what could have happened had there been a car there. One time, being sick to death of his bullshit, I replied, “No shit. I wouldn’t have been able to drive over the spot if there had been a car there!” I mean, really? What the fuck? Another time, I made a left-hand turn and slightly clipped the right lane of the road I was turning onto. There were no cars on that road or anywhere else. CP had to tell me what would have happened if there had been a car there. I told him, “Do I really look so stupid that I would have turned like that if there HAD BEEN a car there?” But I digress. My point is that I let him drive because I didn’t want to hear his continual criticism.

So, we’re driving home that night after shopping in town. CP was driving normal speeds in town but when we hit the country roads he wasn’t going 55mph, the posted speed limit. He wasn’t going 45mph. He wasn’t even going 35mph! I was exhausted after grocery shopping, taking care of my daughter, the cleaning, the yard, cooking, laundry and every damn thing else and I just wanted to get home. I kept asking myself, Why the fuck is he going 25mph? I kept looking at the speedometer, thinking I was misreading it. I wasn’t. He was really going that slow. I was getting more and more freakin’ aggravated! I just wanted to get home, unload the groceries and put them away, bathe my daughter and get her to bed, finish folding laundry and putting it away…all without his help, of course. It was always ‘without his help.’ I asked CP, “Why are you going so slow?” His response was something about the nice summer drive in the country…yadda, yadda, yadda. I didn’t give a fuck about that at this point because I was tired and still had shit to do.

I told him, “That’s all good and a nice thought but I have a lot of things to do when we get home and I’m really tired.” Did he speed up? Nope. After what seemed like forever, I finally snapped and said, “Good God, you drive like an old lady!” I guess he didn’t like being criticized for his driving so what did he do? He hit the accelerator and kicked the speed up to 35…45…55…I thought to myself, it’s about damn time. But he didn’t stop at 55. His speed went up to 65, then 70. What a fucking crybaby, I thought. Then at his top speed, he was going 80mph, slowing only to make the required turns to get us home. I was gripping the door handle for dear life. My Granny’s eyes got huge and she was hanging on as well. My daughter, thankfully, had no clue. Thank God for seatbelts and car seats.

When we got home, I was pissed. I felt like cutting his fucking throat with a jagged knife. He was in one of his moods now, in his mind obviously my fault. He said absolutely nothing, most likely because he knew I had a fucking temper; he had seen it before. I quickly put all the fridge and freezer foods away, leaving the rest until later. CP was fumbling around the house and then got ready for bed. I got my daughter to bed, no bath. I was exhausted…emotionally and physically.

I wanted to lay into CP so badly, but I knew it was a fruitless effort because inevitably, it was always my fault. Even though I expressed nicely that I just wanted to get home because I was tired. He ignored what I wanted, as usual. I made a comment he didn’t like, so it was all my fault.

Eventually, we had a discussion…about a lot of things. His 80mph show of masculinity was not one of them. He wanted to talk about my 1962 Cougar, sitting idle on the property. It had sat idle for years; first at the house in town and now on the property at the country house. His uncle wanted to show the property but wanted the old cars removed.

The discussion turned to the fact that MY car had been sitting for 6 months while I was left without my own transportation. The car needed ONE part, for the carburetor I believe, and my grandmother paid for that. CP installed the part, after weeks of the car being out of order. Finally, I thought I would have my wheels back but…NO. CP wanted to fucking paint the parts under the hood so they wouldn’t rust!! Weeks and weeks pass, and now 6 months later I was still without wheels. I told him, “I think you like the fact that I’m stuck at home with no transportation. I think you like knowing that I can’t go anywhere without you taking me.” He said that wasn’t the case, but I knew better. He didn’t know that I was NOT home as he thought I was a couple times a week, thanks to friends and family. I’m thankful we didn’t have cell phones back then with GPS, because you bet your ass he would have been tracking me!

Honestly, thinking back about all the shit this man put me through, I’m surprised I didn’t eventually snap and cut his throat. I’m not a bad person, but I sure understand why women kill their husbands or boyfriends! A woman can only take so much! Emotional and mental abuse is just as bad if not worse than physical abuse. One time I told him, “Sometimes, I wish you’d just hit me because at least I then I could defend myself.” But he knew better than that…

The Ex-Files – Cleaning It Won’t Make It Work Better

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Have you ever known someone who didn’t like it when you cleaned something? For some odd reason, CP couldn’t stand it when I cleaned certain things. It could be just about anything and I suppose it was probably all based on the mood he was in.

One time, I had some free time for cleaning because my Day Care kids were on Spring vacation with their families. I was sick and tired of looking at the pile of pennies on the top of CP’s dresser so I decided to put them in a big green vase that was sitting there empty serving no purpose. I dusted the dresser top and put his stupid little knick-knacks (a key, a carabiner, a rusty bolt, a button) back where they were. His brush and comb were put back in exactly the same spot they were, as well. But those blasted pennies – a huge mound of them – were in the big green vase. CP practically had a freakin’ meltdown. “What’s wrong with where they were?” he asked. “What’s wrong with them being in the vase?” I retorted. “I just don’t understand why it was necessary,” he complained. I said, “And I don’t understand what your aversion to things being clean is.” He didn’t speak to me for hours. He pouted and sat outside drinking beer like a big ol’ cry baby.

It was always something. He could have a problem with how I cleaned something or when I cleaned something. It could be the laundry or the kitchen floor. It could be just about anything! One of the things he used to say was, “Why clean it? It’s just going to get dirtied up again.” Really. I guess I should have never cleaned the toilet since it was just going to get dirtied up again. Dumb ass.

Another time, I decided to take the fans apart and clean the blades. He came home from wherever the hell he was before I had finished. You’d think I was doing something wrong by the way he acted. “What are you doing?” he asked. I said, “I’m cleaning the blades.” What I wanted to say was, “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” I didn’t because that would have made it an even bigger issue. He asked, “Why are you cleaning the blades?” I said, “Because they’re dirty!” “Cleaning them isn’t going to make them work any better,” he insisted. I said, “Yes, they will. The weight of all the crud stuck on the blades has to have an effect on how well they work,” I explained. I was always having to explain myself to him. I went on, “And they look better if they’re clean!” He just grinned at me, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “They aren’t going to work better, Deb.” I was pissed now because he was patronizing me. I asked him, “Do you have something against things being clean?” He started to speak but I was angry so I cut him off. “If you do then I won’t clean anything in this house ever again and if you don’t then I’d advise you to just let me do whatever the hell I want because it’s not hurting you one damn bit!” By then I had the last fan put back together and I left the room to put it back in the bedroom.

Too bad we didn’t have the internet and Google back then. I would have gladly looked it up and shown him that, according to Bob Vila, “the fan grill and blades can suck in and amass a fair amount of dirt and dust, making your fan work less efficiently. Regular cleaning of your oscillating fan with inexpensive supplies is the best way to keep microscopic intruders at bay and keep your fan operating in peak condition.” But isn’t it just common sense??

gray round floor fan

Photo by Public Domain Pictures on Pexels.com

The Ex-Files – A Frugal Meal & No Cast-Iron Skillet!

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I’ve always been good about stretching the dollar. When times got tough, I got tougher! (My kids grew up telling me I was cheap but I prefer the word frugal.) I knew how to get as many meals out of $40 as I possibly could, which is about all we seemed to have each payday when my kids were small. In fact, that $40 had to stretch for 2 weeks! Sometimes, after bills were paid, that’s all we had. Having 2 kids, I had to make sure I had food in the house even if it meant a bill didn’t get paid. That’s just how it was. I’m not going to make a $40 credit card payment (that belonged to CP) if we had no food. I had to feed my kids!

Food on my grocery list included milk and cereal, hot dogs, bread, peanut butter, ramen noodles, sliced cheese, chicken, and anything on sale. Back then our grocery store usually had chicken quarters for .29 cents a pound and they were packaged in 10-pound bags. That was a good deal! Sometimes they had beef on sale that couldn’t be passed up. I knew how to stretch a dollar so we could all eat!

One weekend, my Dad was coming down for a visit. He worked in San Fransisco at the time and he liked to come see his grandkids when he was off. He would be there about dinner time but all I had in the house was rice, 3 thin steaks, and frozen broccoli. I made a big bowl of seasoned rice, with thin-sliced steak strips and broccoli. It was the only way to stretch the steaks for 5 people. It was like stir-fry but not as good. There was more than enough for everyone, including CP, and he was a huge PIG.

We sat down to eat and all was going well until Dad reached for the bowl for seconds. CP had seconds, and the kids were still eating their first serving. CP watched my Dad serve himself another helping and CP got this look on his face which I recognized and knew all too well. He had something stuck up his ass and I couldn’t figure out what the hell it was! Then it dawned on me. Dad doesn’t care much for rice, so he was trying to get a little more meat and broccoli without too much more rice. I just knew in my gut that CP had a problem with this.

He was still in a pissy mood later so I asked him what the hell was wrong because I noticed his attitude change during dinner. Sure enough!  He said he didn’t like how my Dad was picking through the dish for meat and broccoli. He said, “Someone else might want more and he was picking all the meat out.” I explained to him how Dad doesn’t care much for rice. I also told him, “You already had seconds and you were done eating. You were just finishing your beer. You were DONE. I was DONE. The kids weren’t going to eat anymore. I DON’T SEE A FUCKING PROBLEM!” He changed his tune. He knew he was being an asshole, plain and simple.

What irritated me the most I think, was the fact that Dad always helped us with groceries when he came down and he helped with other things, too. Dad even brought the beer that CP was guzzling at dinner and afterward, so for him to have such an attitude just made me want to smack him with a cast-iron skillet. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t have one back then!

The Ex-Files – The Day My Mom Passed

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It was 6 am on a warm August morning in 1992. I was still in bed. The phone rang and since CP was up, I didn’t rush to answer. After maybe 2 minutes had gone by, CP came in the bedroom and said, “Hey, wake up.” I rolled over and sat up. “Phone call for you,” he says. “It’s bad news about your mom.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact way I didn’t think it was that bad. I rolled out of bed and went to the phone. CP reached for the receiver and handed it to me with absolutely no concern at all. I really didn’t think it was going to be devastatingly bad news because of the way he was acting.

It was my mother’s step-mom, Freda. She had called to tell me the unfortunate news about my mom’s accident. She had fallen asleep at the wheel and wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from her truck, through the front windshield, and died on impact. I was shaken and devastated. I cried as anyone would receiving such horrific news. I thanked Freda for the call.

When I got off the phone I went into the bathroom to be alone with my grief. I had to prepare myself for a few phone calls. I had to call my sisters, then my Dad. Telling my Granny is what I dreaded the most. My uncle had killed himself just a couple of years prior to this and I was the one who had to tell her. That was hard enough but now her only other child was gone. I would wait for my Dad to come home so we could tell her together. It wasn’t going to be easy. I was upset, crying uncontrollably. I was completely not ready for this. I guess no one ever is.

When I came out of the bathroom, CP said to me, “I didn’t think you’d react like this.” I just glared at him, and after a few seconds, I snapped at him. “How am I supposed to react? We may not have had the best relationship, especially in the last few years but she was still my mother!” He said nothing.

When he left for work, I was sitting in the living room in a bit of a daze. The kids were playing, unaware that anything was wrong. CP leaned down, kissed me on the cheek and said, “Gotta go to work,” and he was out the door. He never once tried to console me, not that morning and not in the weeks to follow. He never said a fucking thing.

CP was the worst human being! He had no sympathy, no empathy what so ever. When he lost members of his family, I was always there for him. He was so crass. Why couldn’t he just help me through this? Instead, it was my Dad that I could count on to understand what I was going through. Even though he and my mother had divorced and weren’t on good terms most of the time, Dad understood how difficult it was to lose a parent because he lost his own mother some 20 years prior.

I don’t know how CP could be the way he was. I can’t even imagine not being there for someone I cared about in a time of grief. There’s no way I could just turn it off and “go to work.”