Category Archives: Random Memories

The Ex-Files – Pay Day Pizza

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We had a ritual back in the day. On payday, we would either go out and eat pizza at our favorite place in town or I would call and order the pizza, then pick it up.

This particular payday, I ordered the pizza and planned to go pick it up 40 minutes later, when they said it would be ready. CP was home, sitting on his ass as per the norm. It was the only night of the work week he didn’t go to bed at 7:30 pm. If I’m being honest, I much preferred the nights he came home from work and went directly to bed.

My daughter was hungry and my son was just a baby, so I’m sure he had been fed already. My daughter (aged 3) always liked to go bye-bye with mommy, as most daughters do. I had no problem taking her with me because she was always a good girl. I thought, however, that my lazy, good-for-nothing partner (now ex, thank goodness) would at the very least offer to watch the baby while I went after the pizza. I wasn’t about to ask him because he always acted like I was inconveniencing him by asking him to do any freakin’ thing. Of course, he didn’t even bat an eye. No offers to pick up the pizza, no offers to watch the baby.

I got the kids ready and headed out the door. When I got to the pizza place, I got the kids out of the car. I carried my son in a carrier and held my daughter’s hand. I believe I used a fanny pack back then because I didn’t have enough hands to be carrying a purse! We went inside, and after a bit of a wait, paid for our pizza and headed out the door.

But before we got out the door, I realized I had a baby in one hand and the pizza in the other. How was I to hold my daughter’s hand? I was, at that very moment monumentally pissed at CP. I stopped just inside the door and asked my daughter to hang onto mommy’s shirt and to not let go for any reason until I told her to. I also explained why I couldn’t hold her hand. Thankfully, she was smart and understood.

We got to the car, and I strapped the kids back into the car. I was fuming mad but hiding it from the kids. Why the hell couldn’t CP have offered to watch the kids, or at least the baby? Well, the answer is simple. He was a thoughtless and inconsiderate SOB!

When we were almost home, I told my daughter how proud I was that she held my shirt like such a big girl, just like mommy asked her to. She said, “Thank you, Mommy,” and she smiled so big and bright it almost made me forget what an asshole her father was.

Almost…

When we got home, I helped my daughter out of the car, put my son in the carrier, and grabbed the pizza. My daughter was already in the house, holding the door open for me because she knew my hands were full. As I entered the door, CP was just sitting there with a look on his face that I was familiar with. That look indicated to me that he was irritated for some reason.

I thanked my big 3-year-old, thoughtful helper for holding the door. She said, “You hands are fulled up, mommy.” Even a 3-year-old can think! Why couldn’t her father? About that time, CP piped in and said something about how long it took. I don’t recall his exact words but it pissed me off, whatever they were.

I said, “For your information, it was a bit crowded there tonight because of a boy’s baseball team celebrating their win. And to top that off, I was struggling with full hands -baby in one hand, pizza in the other – all while trying to keep your daughter safe because I couldn’t hold her hand in the busy parking lot!”

CP’s face changed to a more angry look and he started to speak – but stopped, thought about what he was about to say – and said, “All you had to do was ask and I would have gone for the pizza or watched the kids.” To that, I replied, “I shouldn’t have to ask you to do things to help me or to watch your own children so don’t even give me that crap!”

CP grabbed a few pieces of pizza and went outside to sulk. When he came in, he went to bed without a word. I felt like I was raising 3 kids, instead of 2! He must have scarfed that pizza down like a starving dog because my daughter and I were still eating, and enjoying every bite! Of course, hers were tiny and mine a bit bigger.

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The Ex-Files – I Don’t Do Pockets!

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In the very beginning stages of my relationship with CP, not too long after I let him move into my apartment with me, I had to make a few small requests/suggestions/rules, whatever you want to call them.

  1. No dirty, smelly car parts in the house! He thought he should be able to store his smelly car parts in the house and/or in the closet. No way. This isn’t a garage.
  2. No dirty, smelly car engines in my closet! He seriously wanted to store an old car engine in my closet! As if he was doing me a favor by not putting it on the carpet in the living room, which was his first choice for storage.
  3. If you leave dirt, grime, grease, hair and other gross shit on the soap bar, please wash it off! He really thought it was ridiculous that he should have to wash off the soap bar. He said he’d never heard of such a thing. BUT I shouldn’t have to wash my hands with someone else’s greasy, grimy yuck and it looks like shit.
  4. When your alarm goes off playing music in the morning at 4am, please turn it OFF because I don’t have to get up until 7am! The alarm going off, playing music at 4am was fine but to leave it on was inconsiderate. I didn’t have to get up that early and I couldn’t sleep with music blaring mere feet away from my head!
  5. Empty your pockets when you put your clothes in the laundry because I don’t do pockets! I had asked him to check his pockets before putting his clothes in the laundry. That is unless he wanted his wallet washed. It’s really not that hard.

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None of the things I asked of him were that difficult and it was pretty much just a matter of common courtesy. I was pretty easy going back then and not too hard to live with. I was a people-pleaser and bent over backward for that man. The least he could do is to be considerate. Right? Was I being too harsh? Pffttt….

Ok, so this post is about the emptying of pockets. I had actually checked a couple of times before throwing his clothes in the washer and another time I just happened to feel the weight of something and it caught my attention. All saves. Each time, I reminded him that I don’t do pockets and he needs to remember to empty them.

One time, (it was the LAST freakin’ time) he didn’t empty his pockets and I didn’t check because… umm… well, I forgot to check. I didn’t think anything of it and I threw his clothes in the washer. Oops! Haha! His wallet was in one pocket and a couple receipts in another. Not to mention all the important things you might find in one’s wallet! It contained his driver’s license, cash, phone numbers, business cards, photos, social security card, membership cards, etc. There was shredded paper everywhere!

When he came home I told him. He was pissed. I reminded him, “I told you. I don’t do pockets!” He responded with something like, “I don’t know why you can’t check the damn pockets!” Seriously? I told him, “It’s simple. I’m not your mother and you’re an adult!”

His response to that was, “You are kinda like my mother. You cook for me, clean for me, do my laundry. You take care of me.” Are you freakin’ kidding me? I asked myself. Wow. I told him, “I am not your mother. You are responsible for your own shit. I didn’t move out of my parents’ home to have to be mommy to a grown ass man!”

He had to replace everything. Serves him right. He should have listened. He never left shit in his pockets again.

The Ex-Files – Milk & The Kitchen Floor

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I ran a daycare in my home for several years when my kids were small. I had to do something to bring in money to pay the rent, keep the lights on, and feed my kids. CP wasn’t doing much working during that time. Mostly he just sat on his ass in the middle of my business, cramping my style, and playing solitaire with a deck of cards that I would have loved to shove down his throat.

One day, I had 7 kids counting my two, for the entire day. I was extremely busy and a bit stressed, mostly because of CP. I always tried to sweep and mop the kitchen floor at least every other day because when you’re feeding a bunch of kids at least 2 meals a day, it gets rather messy. CP was naturally sitting at the kitchen table, playing with his stupid cards and in my way, as usual. I thought, Dammit, I wish you’d go sit in someone else’s way for a change. He did finally leave. He probably went to his cousin’s house.

It was mid-afternoon and the kids were either doing puzzles, napping, or watching PBS. It was calm for the time being so I figured I’d have time to sweep and mop the floor. I swept first, obviously. I had most of the floor mopped when the toddler woke up from his nap. I quickly finished and went to get the little whipper-snapper.

The house was still semi-calm. I sat down to rest and do puzzles with 2 of the boys who were ages 6 and 7. Then I read a funny story about a rabbit who got lost. The day was coming to an end. I helped the kids get ready for their moms to pick them up. When they had all been picked up, I went to the kitchen to start dinner. About the same time, CP came home.

CP decided he was going to finish off the coffee left in the pot. He liked milk in his coffee, so he grabbed the gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. It was virtually a full jug. I don’t know how he did it, but he dropped the entire jug and it hit the floor with a big crash and milk splattered everywhere. I said to CP, “Good grief. I just mopped the floor!” He laughed and apologized. He said he would clean it up.

He did clean up the mess, mopped the floor again and everything. The problem was that he had to show me how much dirt came off the floor when he mopped. I probably rolled my eyes, thinking here we go again. I knew what was coming and I was right.

He proceeded to tell me how he would mop the floor. He went through the entire process in great detail while I stood there completely disgusted and ready to stick that mop up his ass so far he could taste it.

When he finished this detailed explanation of the process, as if I’m stupid and never mopped a floor before in my life, I told him, “I didn’t do a thorough clean because I had 7 kids here all day, as you well know.” He started to say something and I cut him off, “I don’t have time when the house is full of kids. I have meals to fix, and activities to do, diapers to change, kids to take to the potty. I also take the kids outside to play, read to them, play with them, take them to the park and other various places, all while trying to fit in the household chores that won’t get done unless I do them myself. So, I guess if you’re not satisfied with the way I mop the floor or anything else around here, then maybe you can get off your ass and do it yourself from now on.” I walked away… He grumbled something under his breath and went out to the garage to pout and drink beer… I guess this is how I ‘drove him to drink.’ Ha.

Finally, now I can fix dinner. Geesh!

He did this kind of thing all the time… He always had to tell me how he would do something, how his uncles used to do something, or how his mother did something. Quite frankly I didn’t give a shit how anyone else did anything. I did things my way and I still do.

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The Ex-Files – The Fight

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I’ve just not had it in me to write about the ex for quite some time. I found myself thinking too damn much about him and the things he put me through. Seems like once I start thinking or writing about it, it gets stuck in my brain and won’t let go! I hate that.

I can’t believe it’s been since April 2018 that I last wrote about my ex! If you haven’t read the previous installments, you’ll find links to each one at the end of this post.

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It was a very long 2 months. Dad left in May with our belongings – not CP’s things or bigger furniture because CP was supposed to move those things when he followed us out in August. I knew deep down that he wasn’t going to move out there with us. And I was right.

June rolled around and things were tense. My baby sister was staying with us with her first-born, just a baby at the time. I’m so thankful I had her there to keep me sane. Plus, she was witness to what transpired the week of CP’s birthday.

The kids were so excited about their father’s birthday. They called him “Pop.” They wanted to bake Pop a cake. I thought it was a great idea. On the day of CP’s birthday, while he was at work, the kids and I baked him a chocolate sheet pan cake. It was nothing fancy because I didn’t have the extra money for candles or cake decor. The kids didn’t care. They were excited anyway.

When CP came home from work, the kids greeted him with “Happy Birthday, Pop!” and “We baked you a cake, Pop!” I don’t remember his response. It wasn’t very enthusiastic and he went off to take a shower. When he finished, I reminded him that the kids had baked him a cake for his birthday and he said, “That was nice,” and “I’m tired. Going to bed.” You worthless piece of crap, I thought. The kids were so disappointed and on the verge of tears. I told them, “Let’s have cake!” “Yay!” they yelled. I figured it was their idea to make a cake, they helped (ages 2 and 5 at the time) and why the hell shouldn’t they enjoy the damn cake? Just because their father was inconsiderate and didn’t care that he hurt their feelings doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have some cake!

Three days passed. Each night, CP passed on the cake and went to bed. Each night, the kids, my sister, and I had cake. On the fourth night, he came home drunk, with an attitude and ready to start a fight.

He skipped dinner, but he had cake. He grabbed a big piece of cake – it was at least 5 or 6 inches squared. He put it on a napkin. He walked into the living room and sat down in his chair and ate that piece of cake with NO fork and with a pissy look on his face. I knew shit was going to hit the fan, just by the look on his face. I didn’t like that he was eating like this in front of the kids. What kind of example does that set? No fork, no plate. Seriously. I became more irate as the minutes ticked by…

“Where’s your fork?” I asked, but I didn’t think it was with a snotty tone. He responded angrily, “I don’t need a fucking fork.” I was livid. I said, “So, you’re just going to eat like an animal?” I don’t remember how it went from two big attitudes to a huge fucking fight so quickly. It ended up with him saying something like, “I suppose I’m no longer welcome to go to Missouri?” It was clear at that very moment that he was looking for a fight and a reason to blame ME for him not moving to Missouri with us. I told him, “You got that right, asshole.”

Then, it escalated even more. He just blasted me with hatefulness and things he had never said to me before. I know he was drunk but I firmly believe a drunk person does not say things he doesn’t mean.

He told me that I was a bitch, just like my mother.

He said that I spent all of his money.

He blamed me for his drinking.

He said that I neglected our son because he was a boy. 

He told me I was spiteful.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He had always told me I was nothing like my mother. He always said it was our money, not his money. He said I was a good mother. I couldn’t believe this crap! How could I be to blame for his drinking? Did I twist his arm and pour fucking beer down his throat? No! He says I’m spiteful?? Holy crap. Pot calling the kettle black, I’d say.

Well, that was the end. The ABSOLUTE END. There would be no second chance. I would not accept an apology ever. It would be wasted on deaf ears. I will not be disrespected like that! Up until that night, it was always subtle manipulation and an attitude of superiority – he never said he was better, smarter, etc., but he sure as hell made comments to make me feel that I was stupid. My mother made me feel the same way and now, I realize people don’t do that unless they’re the ones lacking somehow.

I had had enough over the years but was too stubborn to put an end to it before. I say stubborn because I don’t like to fail. I will bust my ass to make something work, to get something right so I won’t have to admit failure. It’s not like I didn’t have feelings for this man. I wouldn’t have stayed at all if I didn’t love him. I wouldn’t have had children with the man if I didn’t love him. He killed all of those feelings in one freakin’ night.

The kids and I got on the airplane in July and I’ve never regretted it once. He regretted it. He regretted ever saying any of those things to me. I know this because of a conversation I had with his mother. I’m sure he put her up to it. She asked me if I would take him back. I laughed and said, “Absolutely not.”

Stay tuned for the next installment…..

This is the seventh installment of a series. If you missed the first six installments, you can find them here: The Break-Up & The Concert, Finding My Own Place, Financial Burden, Spite, Accusations, and Planning The Move.

Spiders, Ick!

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I have a (possibly irrational) fear of spiders. Any kind of spider. ALL spiders! They give me the heebie-jeebies. My son used to tease me by touching them, knowing it would not only make my skin crawl but it would also make me feel nauseated. Just the sight of the above photo makes me shiver! Weird, right?

I check my bed every night before I go to bed. I check the sides of the bed. I check the walls and the floor in my bedroom. I shake my clothes and bang my shoes on the floor before I put them on. If I feel a tickle on my skin, the first thing that comes to mind is that a spider is crawling on me. IF a spider really is crawling on me, you would see me doing the “OMFG get it off me” dance and I would be freaked out for the rest of the day!

If I see a spider right before going to bed at night, all I can think about as I lay in the dark is that there’s a spider coming down the wall, or there’s one crawling up the side of my bed. I know it sounds absolutely nuts, but I can’t help it!

I was bitten by a Brown Recluse several years ago, not once. Not twice, but 3 damn times! I made the mistake of not checking my sweater before I put it on and it took 3 times before I realized I was being bitten. It felt like a “nerve tickle” and didn’t hurt. I was freaked out for weeks after that! Thankfully, I didn’t suffer any adverse effects from the bites. They say some folks are immune to the venom of the Brown Recluse. (Yes, I went to the doctor!)

I was up until 3 am one time a few years ago, just trying to get a spider. I saw him in the kitchen on my way through. He scampered across the floor and went right into my bedroom, and under my dresser! That fucker had to go! No way could I go to bed with him in there. Now, just so you know this was NOT a small spider! This creepy bastard was the size of the palm of my hand. If I let him get away, there’s no telling where he might turn up! I grabbed my broom and my handy spider spray. I had to move the dresser and I managed to spray him, which slowed him down considerably. It took hours, but I finally got him and still didn’t get any sleep that night!

When I was working as a Medication Technician at a nursing home in the 90’s, a huge spider came running out from under the snack machine in the hall. Someone had placed a plastic cup over it and called the charge nurse to get rid of it. Since this was late at night, the maintenance crew was gone. They normally took care of the icky stuff for us. The charge nurse picked up the plastic cup, thinking she was going to smash it or something but that spider took off running so fast she couldn’t get it. What did it do? It came right towards me! I let out a blood-curdling scream that woke several residents from their slumber and I ran like hell!

I know, I’m such a baby!

When I wonder why I’m so terrified of spiders, my mind always goes to the story my mother told me many years ago. She said that one day when I was small, I was playing outside on our driveway, just outside the kitchen. Mom told me that she caught me trying to pull a black widow spider out of a crack in the cement and she hollered at me to stop. She said I had been afraid of spiders ever since. I don’t remember the incident so I don’t know what she yelled, but I often wonder what she actually said to get me to leave the spider alone? Could that be the reason I’m ready to crawl out of my skin upon seeing a spider?

Give me snakes, cicadas, grasshoppers, beetles, rats, mice….cockroaches even! Just keep the damn spiders away from me!

What are you afraid of? Do you feel that it’s irrational? Do people laugh at you? I know a guy who is afraid of butterflies and moths. Go figure. Too bad I couldn’t trade fears with him.