Happy ValentiNe's Day

It's Sunday, I'm skipping church because my prayers have too many swear words, so instead I will give thanks here today.

First: It's above freezing!!! Time to remove the 17 layers of long johns and strut that ass! (please see photo). Of course with the thaw comes the odors which have been frozen into submission; it is hard to pick up after a dog when the warm nuggets melt a hole into the snowbank. Nobody really knows how much is piling up until the big thaw.

Also, there is no better way to find out if your roof is leaky than during a thaw occuring when there may be 2 feet of snow up top.

Next: The first Valentine's in recent memory sans Mr. Bunker! This is excellent news on a number of levels; most importantly of course that I don't have to listen to him say "Happy Valentimes". This tends to grate on the ears, maybe worse that a drunken crackhead having a yodeling contest with a pack of stray cats. Additionally, I don't have to swoon over a box of cheap chocolates and a gas station rose, nor do I have to even pretend that the leopard-print whatever in the wrong size that he usually picks up someplace off of a clearance table makes me want to do anything over than have a nice long vomit.

And: A few boxes of very fine chocolates which were given to me by a patient whose bit of asperity over a little amputation a few years ago seems to have faded. I also love the stupid little candy hearts with the stamped-on dumb sayings. I enjoy them almost as much as the fine chocolate; the kids will bring me a good supply of them which will spare me the embarrassment of having to buy them for myself.

No pestilence, rodent infestations, bedbugs, catastrophic events or eminent utility shut off due to non-payment of bills. Life is good!

except...one small problem that's hanging me up, preying upon my mind. Do leggings go in the hosiery drawer or do they go in the closet with the pants? I don't know, and I keep changing my mind. This issue is so draining.

Fairy Tale, True Love, etc.

Pay attention at the newsstand! The next issue of "Shit Parenting" magazine will contain a feature article about my soon to be ex lovah. The excitement about the forthcoming publication is nearly unbearable; I guess a little teaser is in order, so...
My shameless poor-excuse-for-a-hominid former mate has found the lowest-rent attorney in town; she's apparently hard-up for cash, and and even though they have about as much chemistry as Mr. Bunker and full time employment, they are gettin' ready to take this "rich doctor" down a notch. I'm sure they will continue to make a stunning pair until she figures out that he's got a major case of the crazies and that he is never ever going to pay her. He & this dollar tree advocate are really becoming about as irritating as a sandpaper thong during a long run on a hot day.

Here are a few things you might NOT want to do during a divorce as it may turn on you later in life when your sweet children morph into serial killers:

• Do not tell your children that mommy will probably be going to prison.
• Do not tell your 7 y/o son that his asthma meds are bad for him and are going to stunt his growth, just because your so fucking stupid you think steroids mean that he's going to sprout tits & menstruate.
• Do not bring your kids with you on your 10pm-on-a-school-night grocery store run because you ran out of beer.
• Do not tell your children that you're broke, and that Mommy has all the money when you call them during your European Vacation.
• If you wish to continue bragging about your daughter's stellar academic performance, try to understand that a science fair project takes more than an hour to complete (unless your hypothesis is that it takes your daddy roughly one hour to locate his ass after he is rotated 180 degrees in either direction).
• "Having a spare kidney" does not constitute a college savings plan.
  

I, of course, will continue to be polite, patient, and gracious as I do the stroll along the high road (high as in lofty elevation, not high as in stoned). I won't even make a crack about how retarded he sounds when he tells people that the "gloves are comin' on". See? Nary even a chuckle or smirk.

Pink-Slipping the Spouse

To summarize the last several months:

Mrs. Bunker and her chainsaw emporium have receded into the past. This not-so-sad demise was due to her ability to locate her long lost spine; this led to the abrupt dismissal of Mr. Archie Bunker, from whom the sad beat-down known Mrs. Edith Bunker drew her identity.

So then. After a 14 year relationship (married 11, 2 children) I finally yanked the stick out of my ass, packed up my clothes, and fled the family home with the kids as Mr. Bunker chased me down the street with a fistful of insanity. He soon came to his senses, and to my immense relief, it turned out he was going to be just fine with a divorce (I had been holding him back in so many ways) and he wanted to have an amicable spit; maybe we could even save on legal fees and use the same attorney...

The problem turns out to be that his idea of an amicable split involves him keeping everything and me getting out with my clothes (the other problem, of course is that he is an obsessive-compulsive, eating-the-paint-off-the-walls, sniffing-his-own-ass crazy person). This in some ways doesn't seem like that bad of a deal, being that it includes the vital provision of me no longer having to be married to his stupid ass, AND I got to take my shoes; shoes are important to me. Still, I was prepared to walk away holding my nose and my dignity until I discovered that you can't just walk away from a $2M house if you're on the deed and your spouse has taken $1.9M out in equity on said house. DRAT!

That was the first bit of bad news, followed-up quickly by his demonstration that he did not even pause for one nanosecond to decide whether or not throwing the kids into the middle of our dispute would be an appropriate strategy. Turns out, he does not find that sort of thing at all distasteful. The kids are old enough to understand that I am not actually out peddlin ' poon to the gals, but still. Their recent expansion in vocabulary is not going to be of any use to them in any academic sense; maybe if they have to to go to prison it'll be helpful but really not for a while; "carpet mucher" is just confusing to them, and personally I think it's a little out dated as far as slang is concerned; how about "dykenator" or "vagatarian"? much more interesting.


No longer having Mrs. Bunker to shoulder the brunt of my bitching has left a bit of a void in my life, but I have been advised to abandon her as she could cause me some divorce-type problems. So here I am, snowed into my cozy little apartment by the big blizzard of 2011, casting about for a new identity. All this while I have to spend time fending off charges of being the drug addicted, drunken, lesbian, child abusing, suicidal wreck being leveled by that baby daddy of mine.

The Big Day for Dr. P.A.

Grab your black-tie pasties and your top-hat, make sure everything's been waxed, plucked and bleached, and don't be late to the church! Today is the day!

That guy on the left who thought it was a clown/Elvis theme is feeling pretty awkward, I just know it. DUH. People can be so inappropriate.

Anyhow, this is the date upon which Dr. PA and her chosen purse-holder enter into the horror of joint checking. I still don't understand how she could decline my fine offer of a life partnership of collecting stray cats while wearing disco fab naphthalene scented designer clothes, but I tried. I put myself out there despite my heartbreak. I coulda been the one.

As a consolation prize, I am participating as a reader. Not just any reader either, HEAD reader. The boss of the readers, and mind you I will be keeping that other bitch in line.

Also, just kidding with that raunchy assemblage above, Dr. PA is far to refined and sophisticated to be hosting that tattooed gaggle of harlots. She is a petite little flower, not the more-to-love type picture above. So for real:

Status Changes

For Dr. P.A., "dressing up" involves wearing clean scrubs and her formal Crocs. It is therefore a stunning event to see her in shoes that look they should be paired with tassels and a thong accommodating bills of varying denomination.

And why all this glitter and glam? bitch is getting married, of course. I guess we have to maintain some cosmic balance in the universe regarding the misery index. I get unmarried, she gets married. Meanwhile Dr. Ginger's chosen one is preparing to birth the messiah. I'm nearly certain that they will be calling her/him Edith.

All these major occurrences within our office, and still people keep coming in to whine about their ridiculous aches and pains, as if we have time! so thoughtless.

But back to the wedding. Who thinks that having me as a reader of verse is a good idea? What if I throw back too much of the blue drank and start some kind on meandering soliloquy on my own experiences with the blessed nuptials?

Should I invite my lawyer to be my date? He is currently one of my favorite people, after all.

Naw. He'd charge me for the time, plus I've already got the outfit all picked out & pressed for Felix, the only man I'll ever love again. When I have him all dressed up & I'm bored and home alone, I'll make some sophisticated cocktails with White Zinfandel from a box mixed with 7up, then waltz around with him to some John Tesh tunes. Or Michael Bolten. No grinding though, that would be in poor taste.

No more "adult services"? Why Craigslist, Why??

Cripes, and just when I've found myself in need of some adult services! You know you can't count on those pathetic whippersnapper punk-ass kids if you're looking for something done well, such as, say, fine embroidery, quality typesetting, or refurbishment of the reliable old family sawed-off shotgun. These are services that absolutely must be provided by an adult.

But really. I'm no dummy. I do know that those aren't the services that were advertised in that section of Craigslist. That section was for peddlin' the poon, and I'm still upset, because as the current provider for ma bebbies, it only makes sense to have a back-up plan in place; a momma's gotta do what a momma's gotta do, those Xboxes aren't going to be buying themselves!

Clearly my life goes on as I continue to try to beat Mr. Bunker back into that giant Summer's Eve box from whence he lurched, knuckles dragging and so on. Who knew that when you peel back each layer of Mr. Bunker craziness, there's another layer of crazier? How can this be? How many layers are there anyway?? Isn't there some kind of reality show for him??? hello TLC, I'm talking to you. Or Bravo. PBS? Animal Planet??

I'm happy to relate that I now have all the basics that would be required for comfort in a college dorm room. I finally have a bed, and even wireless internet, (thank you Jacob) and a very fancy 22" flat screen TV. Soon I will have a dresser and my underthings will no longer be stored in milk crates.
It is ever so much more comfortable than my previous elegantly appointed domicile. So for all you cynics out there, behold, a happy ending.

Vomit, Curse, Hate

Because in real life that's what you do in a divorce. The Eat Pray Love blahblahblah is a very sweet concept, but sadly mere mortals cannot take a year off to go "find themselves" by visiting exotic locations and humping a few foreign hotties. Not to say it's necessarily a bad idea, it's just not terribly practical.

So.
To sum up the past couple of months: Mr. Bunker has officially been kicked to the curb.
At long last I took the kids and left him alone in the family castle with his busted up hoarders collection of old clocks, spittoons, and giant shitloads of other junk which he can sort through and rearrange to his heart's content as he continues to milk his "disability".

I am missing having things like, um, a bed, and a dresser and sheets and dishes and salt and pepper shakers, but it appears that I have excaped with my sanity and ma bebbies, so fuck you Mr. Bunker.

And that's MS. Bunker, thankyouverymuch.