Vituperous bile, Chapter one

There is someone that I like less than my husband, believe it or not. He is my former employer, we'll call him creepy creeperson. I really really hate him. I guess I can thank him because if not fueled by utter disgust, I probably would never have started practicing on my own. That's the only positive I can think of. I have not worked for him since 2005 but it may be appreciated that I still have a huge chip on my shoulder.


If your first day on the job is September 11 2001, and the office is located on the 13th floor of the 666 building, then you should know just to say "fuck it" and never go back again. That was my first day. I started that day because Creepy was having his front butt vacuumed out via liposuction. I must admit that it was a stunning & giant front butt. That's what I heard anyway, but he may have actually been aiding and abetting the terrorists on that date, because that's the kind of guy he is.

I ignored the glaring omen and kept working there right up through 2005 when he fired me because I demanded that he quit trying to climb on me and that he pay me the large amount of money that was due to me for several months work and about 20 surgeries. Maybe I should have presented my demands on separate days. Why do I bring this up now, 3 years later? because he's going to get sued by someone else, and I'm sooo damn happy about that that my mouth twitched a little like I was going to smile or something.

date night

Yes, happy couple that we are, we go out at least twice a year. This is to supply the "us" time prescribed by the marital counselor back before I gave up completely. It should be noted that the counselor involved was discovered by Nick one night when he was in a bar, complaining about me leaving him. After our meetings she was always trying to sell me these "all natural" supplements. Maybe if my bowels were healthier my tolerance of Nick would also increase. Nick thinks she was a smashing success. I think she was a stupid ninny, but here I still am.
So anyway date night:
Nick gets home & starts yelling about how its time to go where's the sitter we should be leaving right now! Since I'm ready and he's not I chat with the sitter while he takes a shower. Then (still shouting about how we need to go NOW) the looks for a shirt and starts bitching about how I've shrunk them all in the wash, because they are all too small.
Then we run out the door, get a cab, run to our seats and watch the performance. During intermission he drinks a beer and tells me who he's going to sue next, cuz they done him wrong. Then we watch the rest of the concert but not all the way to the end, because we have to be the first ones out so we don't have to wait for a cab. We go straight home.
Then we pay the sitter, and date night is over!!! wasn't that fun??

Maria

That dirty little skeezer Maria is back this year in kindergarten, and N. still seems to fancy her (please refer to "Preschool skank" post). I finally got to see her; no running sores or nits were evident upon visual inspection, but we all know that doesn't really mean anything.
N. actually made me promise not to tell his sister that he plays with her at school-- this is SERIOUS. She's coming to his birthday party, so today after nap I'll let her know that I don't want to see any nonsense with the hula-hoop. Maybe I'll mention his "special" relationship with little Paulie. Shit, bitch. spin up off my boy!

The big gay sleepover

Little N. has a best buddy, little Paulie. When they are together they typically break things, spill things, climb things and attempt to jump off of things. Behind their angelic little faces they are demonic agents of entropy. N. was invited to spend the night at Paulie's, and hysterical joy ensued; imagine the destruction that could be wrought in an entire evening.
Paulie has a nice mom that makes pancakes and allows them to trash the entire basement and even permits them to watch Sponge Bob. So what, you wonder, could Nick find to bitch about during this happy event?
Well, the sleeping arrangements, of course. He was half mad with worry that if they were to sleep too closely together, that sometime during the night, these two four year old boys might accidentally rub up against each other, bump uglies or something, then wake up Saturday morning humming show tunes and searching for nail polish. Oh, the horror.
He is still trying to cope with the fact that we have a family member who is gay, and absolutely convinced that if the young man in question would just try a woman, that an epiphany would occur. He is so convinced of this, that he has offered this sweet soul a thousand dollars if he would do it with a girl, just once.
He does not experince similar anxiety over H.'s sleeping arrengements with her little girlfriends. Hmmm.

The giant Petri dish, K-8

Nick, the proud civic worker and owner of approximately 200 sick and personal days, has squandered most of them on hangovers. This leaves me to deal with the actual event of illness, H. this time. She can puke with outstanding precision and has such explosive diarrhea that if aimed properly she could probably knock the hat off of the doorman across the street.
The emergency back-up fell through and here I am, as my staff shops online and I stay home. The nice thing is that I can't get canned, the bad thing is that I could go belly up. Going back to school (aka giant Petri dish) is always a mixed blessing.
My options for the day: 1. Catch up on some laundry/housework, toss some of Nick's broken lamp collection.
2. Watch season 6 of "The Sopranos", feel Carmella's pain.
3. Do some journal reading.
4. Do some fun reading
5. Search for the elusive Higgs boson particle in the couch cushions while "The Sopranos" are on.
6. Wash my hair

Dr. Meany

Every time I have a sick kid I have to see the asshole Dr. because the 2 good ones are booked. My kids hate him, even though he wears ties with cartoon characters. When they play, they have the "Nice Lady Doctor" and they use Darth Vader in the place of the Mean Dr. Man. Every time I leave after seeing him I feel like an idiot, an inept parent and ever so pissed-off. I get enough of that shit right here at home. Really.
The 2 times that I've called the office because of N.'s acute asthma, Dr. Vader said go to the ER and follow-up in the office. In the ER he gets a little steroid and is all better. I follow-up as instructed and see asswipe who tells me my kid's fine, no treatment, he's fine! am I sure that his RR was really that high? Can I count past 20 with my shoes on? So yesterday after a few days of wheezing, crying, & coughing unresolved with albuterol I drag him in so he can see him when is symptomatic so the ER is not managing his chronic condition.
N. is wheezing like a diesel engine on it's last legs and Dr. shithead agreed that there was some kind of problem but decided that it's probably me administering the albuterol incorrectly. "He should be breathing deeply and holding for a count of five" kind of like a bong hit (I saw it on TV once). If he can get a crying 4 year old to do that, my hat's off. So maybe he could have rx'd a neb?? or suggested evaluation? nope, just gave me a long lecture about me being an idiot, him being a genius, stick to my own specialty (if I'm not then why am I in YOUR office? dickhead?). Then charged me for a level 4 visit. Never going back there.

My Manhuntin' Profile

In the course of fantasizing about Nick running off to Vegas with an update who makes mean pasta fagolio, I considered my prospects.

My match.com "woman seeks whipping boy" profile would be something like this:

So much baggage I need a Sherpa! Crazy ex who's a big man with a bad temper and major jealousy/control/abandonment issues; but it's all under control. Really.

All about me:

• I don't like lingerie unless it's flannel
• My lifetime maximum for receiving criticism has been met and exceeded.
• I have great Whopping Shitloads of SEXY student loan debt!
• Business owner, almost any day getting ready to start getting close to breaking even.
• I do not like jazz or poetry
• I'm almost sure that I never want to have sex again.
• Blonde/blue. Skinny, only thing big things are my feet.
• I enjoy reading, running, pretzels & jelly beans.
• I do not like sharing my popcorn at the movies.
• Good cook & gardener
• 2 great kids that you will never have to be bothered to meet! if you try, I'll chase you away with an axe!

Seeking:
a nice neat gay man-- we could admire each others wardrobes.
or
about 10 kitty cats.

oh, and meet the family:

sorry Dad, but you KNOW that's their backyard. Looks like someone shut off the satellite service!! what the hell!!

mutton done up as lamb

This is pretty much what most of the ladies at our neighborhood block party look like. The more seasoned glamor girls are cruising for a man, any man. The men in their age group are usually paired up with the chippies represented in image #2. These grandpappy men have brand new babies provided by their sparkling and perky chippies. The surly teenagers from a previous marriage are babysitting for the newborns. The unattached men are eyeballing the surly teenagers and the Polish nannies. As the evening progresses the old gals get buzzed on expensive champagne and totter around on their stilettos, a pair of which costs more that my first car (used dodge colt). The chippies resist the urge to top off everyone's drink because they were all cocktail waitresses at some point (not in any way suggesting that cocktailing is not a noble profession). Then there are a few of us that are kinda bitter because we spent all that time in school and ended up with some asshole that would have preferred a cocktail waitress.
It is probably one of the few block parties that can boast of more people in sequins than bluejeans. There was a 7 piece band and several separate little groupings who had hired caterers in case they didn't want the organic tofu pretend hotdogs and soy ice cream which was the main fare.
For the kids there was a scary ass clown who made all the little ones cry and gave all the bigger ones bad dreams.
As the evening wore on, one of the old gals tipped right off her Jimmy Choo's into the neighbor's boxwoods. I thoughtfully rescued her and allowed her to vomit into the bag intended to pick up the little fuckers poopoo. I sure hope I get into to heaven. Why do we have to work so hard to please men that look pretty much like this?