if anyone has ever wondered why. . . here . . . now you know.

Subtitled:  The depths to which some people will plummet before they realize they are responsible for their own grown-up-selves . . . their own incredibly stupid actions . . . 

may never cease to amaze me.

Over the Thanksgiving break Wasband took the girls out to his family's ranch for the holiday.  This is about an eleven-hour drive.  Approximately seven hours and at least one meal break into the drive (which began at around 10 a.m. on Wednesday, if anyone cares to do the blood alcohol calculations), Wasband was arrested for drunk driving.  

As I was, at the time that this particular asshatery occurred, some 20,000 miles in the air somewhere over Ohio, my girls acted with incredible maturity in solving the problem before them.  Eldest got the highway patrol to sign the truck over to her since she was 18, they called their grandparents who rented a hotel room for them in the nearest town, they used my credit card to buy themselves a yummy supper at Denny's, and waited for my plane to land so they could let me know where they were.

You know, stunningly, I keep hoping that Wasband will wake up and smell the vodka.  He is killing himself . . . or at least permanently pickling his liver . . . and destroying his relationship with his daughters in the offing.  

Drunk tank photo from here

He can now kiss driving his daughters anywhere good-bye.  He has destroyed the last bit of trust I had in him, he ruined the remaining shred of belief I had that he would act in the best interest of the children he helped bring into this world.  But I WILL NOT allow him to take them out of the world alongside his sorry ass.  

His story--the one he shared with his children--is that he got completely wasted the night before and this was just residual alcohol in his system.  (Yup.  Chew on that a bit, "Hey kids!  Guess what?  I got totally wasted last night!"  Isn't that a line you use with your kids everyday?  *facepalm*)  Oh, and the reason he stopped mid-trip and vomited is that his "medicine" makes him sick.  Will everyone that believes this story raise their hands?  Hmm.  Why isn't anyone raising their hands?  Do you dare believe he's not telling the truth?  Even IF he hadn't had anything to drink since, let's just say 3 a.m. the night before, for the alcohol to still be in his system at 6 p.m. means he had to have had at least 15 units--a/k/a 15 beers or glasses of wine or shots of hard liquor--in his system at 3 a.m. (the body processes about 1 unit of alcohol an hour).  Nice.

But the best bit of it is that instead of bailing him out on Wednesday night, the girls let him sit in jail overnight.  They got the joy of bailing their father out of jail on Thanksgiving morning and then driving him to his parents' farm.  I have no idea what his parents said to him as they had the good sense to keep that scene away from the girls, but I seriously hope he is sporting a new asshole.

As Younger told me the story, her father called her Wednesday evening and asked her to come bail him out.  She told him "no", that he could just stay where he was.  He said something like, "You're overreacting."  She responded with something like, "That's fine, I can just sit here and overreact.  And you can sit there in jail and under-react."  

Can I have a round of applause for what might be the finest kid-parenting-her-parent-line ever?

He apparently hung up on her but called again later that evening, reticent, as he discovered he'd left his debit card at home (it was probably with his current registration papers for the truck, which he apparently also did not have with him).  As he had the choice of rotting in jail over the Thanksgiving holiday or being nice, he needed his kids to get him out of jail.  They agreed to . . . in the morning.

They also passed on to me that his booking picture is on-line and he was in jail with real criminals.  Again . . . nice.  I was very tempted to link that picture here so you all could see a picture of pathetic, but I decided I wouldn't.  (Be grateful for that, Wasband, since I know you're reading this.)

So this Thanksgiving I got to be thankful that Wasband didn't injure or kill my kids with his self-indulgent idiocy.  I got to be thankful that I no longer have to live this situation in my home.  And I also got to be thankful for the many, many friends who have gotten me through this past year as I worked my way into freedom from the Drunk House.

P.S.  I won't be taking this rant down.  You deserve public shame on this one.

foggy, froggy...all those "f" words

Ooo boy...did I wake up in a mood today or what? Too bad I can't just climb back in bed and stay there. Society would be better for it, believe you me.

Really? I should be in a better mood. I had a good weekend with good friends. My good buddy T and I went to go see the Foo Fighters on Friday night. It was an awesome concert. (I miss you T...you should blog again...to keep me company. Think about it?) The wackos from Topeka came over to protest and FF went outside and serenaded them.  LOVE it.

Funniest part of Friday was Younger's reaction to T spending the night.  I no longer have a guest room.  So, I told T she could have the couch or crash with me.  We've known each other since we were 16, we were roommates in college, so it didn't seem odd to us that she slept in my bed.  But you would think I'd told Younger I had decided to roast worms for dinner.  She was positively skeeved out by the idea.  I just chuckled at her as I pointed out that I have known T since I was Younger's age.  It would be like her best-friend spending the night with her 30 years from now.  She seem unconvinced.  Slumber parties are apparently something mothers don't do.

Oh lawd.  30 years?  Shoot me.  Jeez, T, we must have been single-cell organisms when we met.

Then, Saturday night I went to the tackiest dance club on the face of the earth with a good friend whose birthday this week is a mere six weeks after she and her husband split.  So when she wanted to go to a tacky dance club, who was I to say no?  We had fun . . . even if my broken toe and I spent the evening playing pool and not dancing.  I have now decided that the most pathetic thing in the world is the 35+ woman trying too hard to pick-up a man in a tacky dance club.  There were several subjects I wanted to grab by the shoulders, shake repeatedly and shout, "Wake up, woman!  That man you are trying to get is a LOSER! Have some self-respect, remove some of the make-up, and the length of that skirt is doing you no favors.  Try knee length...those of us with some cottage cheese, can't wear those skirts, sweetheart."  Sigh.  Also, can I just say that a post-baby belly does not belong in a spandex dress?  Oy.  That's just nasty.

However, Sunday morning, Eldest and her car had a run-in with a cement pylon in the McDonald's drive-through.  Whatever she did to the car (which had to be towed), is NOT going to be cheap.  CRAP!

So this morning, I woke up after a fitful night's sleep and I'm just in a yucky mood.  Not to mention, I have the froggy, scratchy throat of ragweed season.  Plus, when I looked outside, this is what I saw.  By 8:30 this morning it's not any clearer.  *sigh*  I could really use some sunshine and puffy white clouds today.

A foggy house

giggles

Bwuahaha!

This makes me chuckle.

Actually, this had the power to make me feel happy.

Yes.  It's been a long grouchy week.  And I want it to be over, not just hump day.

That is all.

out, damned spot

If, one day, you should find yourself in your former home cleaning up your ex's blood...well, trust me, you're gonna go all thinky.

First, let me set something straight. No, I did not kill him. *insert wry smile* He's taking care of that day-by-day all by his big self. Killing his liver slowly.

The story Wasband tells me is different than what the evidence would indicate (yes...damn lawyers...we examine this stuff). However, the short and sweet of it is that last Friday or Saturday he fell down stairs, splitting open his forehead with a 4-5 inch gash through hi

s left eyebrow and shattering his right wrist. He was alone when this happened and lost consciousness. I'm not sure how long he was out. I assume alcohol played a role...I wouldn't have thought so because of the hour but because he's lied about how it happened, I figure drink tripped him up. He was out long enough they were worried about a brain bleed at the hospital and made him alert his family (which he decided was him daughters...he didn't bother to call his parents or sisters).

After he regained consciousness, he walked up the stairs to the master bath and dripped blood the whole way. This would be...of course...across light carpeting. We close on the sale of the house next week and I'm thinking they wouldn't be happy with blood crusted carpeting.

So yesterday, while my parents helped with the final packing of my things over at the house, I got down on my hands and knees to scrub up yet another of his messes. (Yes, I probably sound bitter, but believe me there is reason.)

It's hard for me to be in the house. There are plenty of good memories...mostly memories that revolve around sweet moments with my girls...but the end was startling and eye-opening...a carousel ride of monsters. That old fear knots my stomach when I am there. I am exhausted when I leave just from the strain of holding myself together.

But unlike Lady M., when I was uttering "out, damned spot," there was no guilt. No blood on my hands. It is more like I want this dark spot in my history gone. I know I will never be unconnected from him...the girls will always connect us...although he seems to continue doing an excellent job of making sure that connection will be tenuous, at best. Regardless of how badly I want that spot of history gone...it won't be.

But I also reflected on the dark shadow he cast on me...that cancerous spot on my soul...the one that was leeching the life out of me. It feels better. I am healing. So as I washed out that blood, it wasn't just getting rid of a damned spot...it was also a bit of ...

I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair.

Except I already have. So I might need to rewrite the lyrics.

The fact is...life is turning in a way that is darn good right now. Despite lots of difficulties, I'm happy. I love my new place. I love this life. A spot is really nothing but a drop. A small mess. And I cleaned up that mess. I've cleaned up earlier ones and I'm sure I'll

clean up future messes. But I can do that. It's not going to bog me down in regret or even anger. I'm just going to do what I need to do and keep moving in the direction of where I want to be.

I give you a South Pacific house. (Any musical theater geeks out there? Huh, Kell?)

the wrath

After spending an hour trapped in the stairwells at the office with the sirens going.  I decided to head home.  The skies are full of crazy and I turned off the freeway, down the main street that heads to my house, this picture above is what is hanging over my town.

This one was taken by one of the local news agencies.  And shows exactly what it was that had me trapped in the stairwell.