Would More Home-Ec Mean Less Child Abuse?


Soooooo, CYS continues to be a lovely factor in my life, and now that I may or may not be moving–I am currently trying to get somebody to fix the window before the end of the month while also looking around for a place to stay.

It got me thinking—remember waaaaaaaaay back when, there used to be Home Economics and Flour Babies and all of that in school?  I hear that these programs are usually the first to go when the budget needs to be cut, which is apparently often in American Public Schools.  I remember disdainfully taking Home Ec (Home Eck! I thought, when I was sixteen) with Mrs. K. a million years ago, and there were no Flour Babies, as they had been done away with a generation before mine because some Stupid Assholes thought, “Well, we don’t want to encourage….you know……..that TYPE…….of BEHAVIOR.


The kind of behavior where people make babies.

‘Cuz THAT never happens.

Good Idea.

Sooooooooooooooo now THIS is why people like ME are being charged with CHILD ENDANGERMENT if saaaaaaaaay THIS scenario happens:

Mommy is running in and out of the house in a hurry one cool June evening, the 2nd, in fact, gathering all of the mess from the weekend getaway gone wrong, going to and from the car that she borrowed from a friend to be able to go on said getaway (because Mommy had just gotten the phone call from the car-loaning-friend that she needed her car back asap), when her 15-month old twin sons scoot outside onto the patio in their diapers (because Mommy was going to give them a bath before the phone call) to watch her.  Mommy is fine with this, because now they both are in plain view whether she is in the house or at the car—these twins happen to be developmentally delayed due to being premature and aren’t walking yet.  This little hullabaloo lasts about…….six minutes.

During this time, the twenty-six year old party-girl Trash Dump, duplex sharing neighbor took this opportunity to call her good friend CopperHead Collins, the town police officer on duty and tell him that Mommy was drunk (because one of the times she hurriedly went in and out of the house she tripped on a step) off her gourd, and also was letting the kids run around outside naked and unsupervised in the cold.

  1. HM.


This got me Child Endangerment Charges, Endangerment of Another Person Charges, and Stalking Charges.

The Stalking is because Mommy told Trash Dump to stop fucking leaning out of her window and videotaping illegally on her on her phone.

[This started out as a Harassment charge, but since Mommy had previously “Harassed” Trash Dump in the same manner when she decided that it would be a good idea to breed her Pit Bull Dogs and ended up with TEN OF THEM and so Mommy couldn’t let her children out of the house because it was covered in dog shit and also because the dogs were never leashed, chained, or contained in any way, and the adult male was Hair Standing Up, Stiff Legged, Barking And Growling At CHILDREN Aggressive.]


Now I’ll try to make these two things correlate for you now as they do in my mind–The Absence of Flour Babies Leading to Insanely Embellished CYS and Criminal Charges.

Here’s the thing:  We as a society are now in the midst of being surrounded by people who had NO IDEA how to raise children.

BECaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaause nobody taught them.

It wasn’t taught at home, if your house was anything like mine, because even if you had siblings, everything was run-run-run, work, work, work, school, daycare, babysitters, bla bla.  The Stay-At-Home Mom became a thing of the past—impossible for some due to financial reasons, and for others (like my mother) a ringing of the liberty bell—Hooray!!  If He Can Do It I Can Too!

This was called “Chasing The American Dream,” and it left a whole lot of kids at home with others “watching” them.

Not “Raising” them, mind you.

This, studies have shown, can only be done by the parental figures, or at least the most impressionable things that a person will ever learn, the ones that reverberate the most, like a voice in one’s head, the things that shape a character, a being, a person, have to come from the parental figures.

So the children of these people sort of raised themselves.  Their parents were very busy chasing their OWN dreams, and not necessarily “wanting a better life for their kids,” as was the mantra of the workers of the Industrial Revolution before this generation.

Or the television raised them.

Child molestation and even abduction became more common.

This created a culture of people who not only didn’t have the faintest idea of HOW to raise a child, but also were intensely critical and suspicious of how OTHERS were raising theirs.

“Keeping Up With The Jones’s,” it was called.

But what happens if there’s a lot of ill-will between the neighbors to begin with?

Well, my scenario.

Any thoughts?

Fatty Fatster = ME


God.  I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

When I look in the mirror, I see a fat, round, baby face with rosy cheeks and frizzy curly hair.

Like I’m a five-year old cherub or a lawn ornament or something.


And, oh!  The irony of it!!  I’ve realized that having a fat, round face actually makes you lookNICER!

Now I have this cute fat baby-face because I packed on a good forty pounds last year, stress-eating, finishing up what the (THREE!) kids didn’t eat, sittingsittingsittingsittingSITTING!!

Always sitting—sitting to blog, sitting to cuddle, sitting to be a jungle gym for the kids (I missed A LOT of Face Time with my boys last year, so we do a lot of reallllllllllly close up kisses and hugs and Butterfly kisses and Eskimo kisses and nose bonks and stuff like THAT.), sitting for writing all of that legal garbage, sitting in Courtrooms, sitting to watch movies and read books with the boys—which goes like this—

MOMMOY!!  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssseeeee…watch the ‘En-E-Fant’ Moobie Wif UTH?? 

(Ice Age—“The Elephant Mooobie”—which they are in love with.)

Sitting, sitting, sitting, sitting.  And EATING.

All I did this winter was Sit.  And Eat.


This is new for me.  I’ve never actually been overweight.  I’ve been underweight, I’ve been pregnant fat, and then post-pregnant fat, but never just Fat For No Reason.  Huh!

It really does fuck with your mind—I mean, when I was very thin, I did the thing where you imagine what other people see of you….but then it was a good thing.

But when you’re self-conscious about how you look, it’s a whole ‘nother ball game.  You imagine the worst of the worst of the worst, and it never seems to end!  Ugh.  I’ve gott

A friend messaged me that somebody asked her if I was PREGNANT again!! (%#@#!@!!)  Oh man.

I remember the day that my Mother had the same thing happen to her.  She has always been slim and tall, with a sort of model figure.  She is a Teacher, and she had just come back to work following a Maternity Leave after giving birth to my younger brother.  She wore a dress, blue with a flowered pattern, long all the way to the floor, and it flattered her everywhere except the small post-partum bulge that just hadn’t flattened itself out yet.  She was talking to a family whose little girl was going to be in her class this year, and was asked how many children she had.

She replied that, “Well, I just had ‘Number Four’ a few weeks ago,” and smiled.

The little girl then immediately chirped, while pointing to my Mother’s small belly,

“Soooooooooo, THIS is number FIVE???!

She never wore that dress again.

I don’t blame her.

I find myself at war with my clothes these days too.  “Like—I used to look awesome in this!!”—is something I say to myself often while craning my neck to stare in disbelief at my ginormous ass in the mirror.

Okay okay, I’m done whining.  Time for some freaking Jillian Michaels.  Yoga mat—watch out.

I’m reclaiming this body.

This awesome, amazing, strong, and forgiving body has given me five children, has enduredELEVEN surgeries on its bones, on its organs, on its teeth and skin.  It has carried me through the best and the worst times in my life, it has been trustworthy and sound.  Time to take some care of it.

This year really kicked my ass.

I’ve never been the kinda’ girl that doesn’t kick back, and I’m not about to start now.

There–This is my fight song.

Back To Court…

Soooooooo…after Dubya screwed me out of mediation (but I did get a bill for it, of course), I still have to deal with the criminal bullshit from last June, which is coming up fast.  They (The previous Public Defender and District Attorney of this town) attempted to get me to plead guilty to Child Endangerment and Stalking, telling me that they would give me 6 months in the “Women’s Center,” which is apparently like a fucking vacation in Maui, according to Andy Watson.

“Listen!”  He hissed at me from across the giant table separating us, leaning forward and clutching the edge of the table.

“I’m trying to be NICE here, recommending the Women’s Center instead of jail!  And you making ‘Mean Eyes’ at me isn’t going to help any!”

‘Mean Eyes’????!!  I wanted to scream.  I felt like telling him he was lucky that I had two toddlers in my lap, or I would have told him EXACTLY what my eyes were saying.

In any case, jury selection is coming up for those charges on May 5th.

Wish me luck.

Is That All There Is?


I’ve fallen into a slump in the past few weeks, and it’s pretty bad.


I’ve been letting my parents have my boys whenever they want, feeding them processed food instead of cooking….still haven’t unpacked all of the boxes from the move.  I’ve been feeling like I could sleep at any point in the day or night, for, say….a week…giving in to “the easy” way of doing things, which is really just an excuse to be slovenly and sort of absent…

I know this is sort of called “Depression,” or if you want to get fancy, “Seasonal Affective Disorder.”

Or both. Or whatever.

My parents, of course, took the boys a’visitin’—met my step-brother from Buffalo and his wife and kids half-way over the Easter holiday, then when they returned the boys, they jetted off to Vermont to visit my kid half-brother…funny—they have never “visited” me, and I live in the same town as  them.

Even before the NightMare Last June, they only would stop by to peer into the apartment and then tell me how terribly I was doing as a housekeeper and mother, never to “visit,” and CERTAINLY never to lend a hand, which is something you do with people that you actually respect and like, and care about what they have to say and what is going on in their lives and how they feel…

My mother would send notes that said something like:


We’ve noticed that you are having a hard time keeping up with the housework and the children…..let us know if you ever want to go to rehab, we’ll take the kids.



They never offered to help out, to come over and have a chat, never called to check in…they do with their other children, at least the MALE children, but never with me.  They just assumed I was drunk and lazy and just didn’t FEEL like keeping up with the CONSTANT mess that three small children seem to require…

It’s always been that way too.

Funny how you never notice the reality of exactly how you were raised (and what your parent’s thought of you) until you’re older.

That reminds me of a conversation I had with my father a couple years ago, in which I was reminding him that I DID work all my life, very hard in fact, and that at 23 years old, I was teaching at a Private School that offered college degrees…his response was: “Yeah, Mom and I were really surprised when they gave you that job.”

I was stunned.  I couldn’t speak.  I just turned around and walked away….and I’m sure he never had two thoughts about it.


THAT’S what you think of me??!  I didn’t work hard my whole life and DESERVE it, they just made a bad judgment call and said–, “Eh, ok—she’ll do.”

Of course this reminds me of a rumor I heard about myself a couple days ago from MelDin—he told me that his boss (my landlord) had gotten a haircut the other day and that the Hairdresser told him a tale about me going door to door recently, drug-seeking, and had made up a story about my cats getting a bird and I needed pain meds for it.



So I called my landlord and asked him exactly who was spreading this rumor about me, because I needed it to STOP.


He told me who and I paid her a visit today.

I was imagining me stomping up to her and telling her to her face that this was her warning, her Cease And Desist Order, and the next one would come in the mail in the form of criminal charges for Slander and Libel…it didn’t go that way at all.

She told me that she was just making small talk with him, telling him that about a year ago, I had stopped by (because I was INVITED) a friend’s porch and she happened to be there, and I was telling a story about a bird that my cats got ahold of that day, and I happened to ask them if they had any simple antibiotics, like Amoxicillin, because I was going to try to save it.


And he (or MelDin—or both of them) twisted it into a stupid story about a drug-seeking garbage person, trying to score a high because of a hurt bird…Disgusting.

I don’t even know what else to say.


And I think I even have a picture of that bird—he or she lived for 3 days under my care—but then succumbed to his/her injuries—probably infection, which is what I was trying to prevent….. I just don’t have anything else to say.

Is this what we’ve become as a Society?

What’s With The Woman-Bashing?!


I found myself kid-less this weekend because of a horrible debacle involving Dr. Penny Miller, who told me (by calling me the Saturday night before at nearly nine o’clock—nice) that my scheduled mediation date with Dubya (Lilly’s father) was Thursday at 2pm, when it ACTUALLY was Tuesday at 10am.

So I, like an idiot, showed up (walked all the way there in heels, even—this is AFTER dragging my boys in a wagon all the way to the OTHER side of town to drop them at a friend’s house) on Thursday to be greeted with confused receptionist and NO Dr. Penny Miller, Attorneys, OR Mediation.  I had even texted Dubya that I might be a couple of minutes late—of course to which he did not respond, because HE knew that the mediation had already HAPPENED!!

HE had even dropped Lilly off the day before at my house without saying a word!!! 

So they had a grand old time, making changes to the custody order, taking MORE time away from me with Lilly—WITHOUT CONTACTING ME AT ALL!!!!!!!

WHAT THE FUCK??!!!  Oh, I’m breathing fire at this point.

So I’m screaming at Penny Miller on the phone, stomping my ass to the Courthouse now, livid and fuming, flames coming out of my eyes, while she’s telling me to set up another mediation date and she’ll try to get me in as soon as possible (WITHOUT even a NOTION of an APOLOGY!).

I couldn’t believe it!  The woman INSISTED that she had called me to see if I was coming—I got NOTHING on my phone, NO notification, and she had CALLED ME AND CONFIRMED THE WRONG DAY AND TIME A FEW DAYS BEFORE!!!!!

Oh, I could have just screamed bloody murder.  AND I DID!  And you know what THAT got me??  Somebody that saw me walking, screaming on a cell phone, (and probably gesturing and waving my arms about like I do when I’m furious) called CYS and said that I was a screaming, drunk (of course, they always throw that in) lunatic walking down the street and probably isn’t safe with children.

I couldn’t even believe it.

The caseworker that JUST CLOSED OUT MY CYS CASE that went on for almost a YEAR, called me and said that he needed to stop by.

I say:  UM.  What. The. Fuck. Is. It. Now, STEVE?

He says, “Jess, this is a funny one, and I really have better things to do, but we need to set up a time to stop over because somebody in your family called in that you were yelling and drunk on the phone.”

I’m like, “What the Fuck now??  IS YELLING ILLEGAL??!”

I didn’t even have the kids with me!!!

So, of course I have to run down the list: it’s either Justme, my stupid sister, or Dubya, the ex-husband, or my God (Fucking) Damned Parents again.

So I’m considering the sister,  God…still jobless of course, with her useless Master’s Degree, still sitting on her Pearly Pedestal, talking about marrying my parent’s lawyer (who she’s moved in with two hours away—Thank Heavens), never even mentioning her son…Jesus.

I call her.  She avoids me for days, then finally picks up and says that it wasn’t her when I ask.  We had spoken on the phone for the first time in MANY months just that week, and so I wondered if that had stirred up some sort of vicious need of hers to get in her kicks…..

So I moved on to Dubya and The Parents, all of course denying it right to the ground—I mean, why would they ever confess anyway?  They’ve ALL had trouble saying things to my face, but it’s funny—they don’t have any trouble spreading shit behind my back.

Eh.  Why would they?  It might cut into their “GrandParent’s Right’s Time,” I like to call it, since they fought so hard (and paid a lot of money) for their one weekend a month.

[God.  Why couldn’t they have just been civil and helped out when I needed it to begin with??]

So that leaves………..MelDin.  By the way, he is named that, because phonetically, that’s what my boys call him, and the Din part is especially fitting because the man NEVER SHUTS UP.  Anyway, I did get into a huge fight with him this week…….I bet that’s who it was.

Boy, when I split with Mr. Anderson, did he become a gem, offering to help me pack and move, and getting his boss (my landlord) even to lend his truck and trailer for the heavy stuff.  The problem was—I wasn’t much help, having to look after the boys and even when I gave them away for the weekend, I found myself depressed (this had a large part to do with the fact that three of the medications I take for psychiatric and other nervous system problems were stopped abruptly because I hadn’t realized that their prescriptions all expired at the same time and it was the weekend—yeah—it’s that rural.  When I called the hospital to ask if there was a physician on call for such situations, I got a call back from a pissy, rude PA that answered with: “So, you PAGED me for some reason??”), lethargic, and wholly unmotivated to move from one Crapartment to another, having had the house deal fall through.

The OTHER problem was: He thought that my split from Mister Anderson meant that he and I were going to be together.

He started with the over-staying, but not for any good reason…..not being helpful, just saying he was lonely and wanted to hang out…..I put up with it for a short time because with the huge and sudden drain on my energy (and will to live—kidding, but, ya know) because of the medication shift…but then it became too much.  I was finding myself thinking that I had to entertain him instead of being productive (writing, unpacking, sorting out all of the shit paperwork that never ends these days), and it occurred to me at one point that this looked a lot more like Dating than Helpful Friend.

It was confirmed finally when he got drunk at “Pool Club” or whatever it is when they have tournaments at bars around town and such—anyway, he had lots of nasty things to say to me, about how I’m a terrible person, and I’m not such a good mother after all (after he testified in court the opposite—nice), and every ridiculous thing I had ever done over the past two-ish years that we’ve known each other.


Well that did it for me—I don’t need more Fakers in my life—the ones who manage to look you straight in the face and lie through their teeth, making up story after story until they could have the Pope convinced of whatever it was that they didn’t do……….but get’em around “friends” and fill’em with booze and the truth spills out like puke from a reflux baby.

Anyway, speaking of people thinking that they’re better than others, and so then need to harass and pick on them for some sort of vicious gratification, I went to a live music show with a bestie—June—this weekend since I got fucked out of having Lilly and she was having a house-warming party.  I also had a memorial service to go to on the way.

This is in another state entirely from where I live, and so there’s almost no possible way that anyone knows me, so I figure this is the way to go to have a nice time—maybe people will leave me be for once—NOPE.  June and I got all dolled up after her very successful and classy housewarming party, and I already had plans to spend the night, so when her son’s girlfriend said that her father was playing in a band in town, we decided to head over for a bit.  Wouldn’t you know that as soon as I walk in, some middle-aged, overweight blonde (which I feel like I can say because I too, am a middle-aged, overweight blonde) decides to look me up and down and start trash talking about me right off the bat.  I, unconcerned, and knowing that I certainly had never done anything to her personally to deserve it, went about my way watching the band and meeting new people.

But every time I got anywhere near this woman—which was pretty hard to avoid, the place was tiny and packed from wall to wall—she would look me up and down and give me dirty looks and then lean over and whisper to her girlfriend and what not.  I mean, she didn’t even have a man near her for the excuse that I was scamming on her hubby or something.

I mean, why on earth, in this culture, and in this day and age, are women still evil to other women whom they perceive as threats?  It’s so freakin’ stupid—as if men are some big prize to be won anyway??  I mean, if we would knock it off with the slut-shaming and the jealousy rage, maybe we would all realize that if we did, the men would be all slobbering at our feet, because in reality, WE’RE the prize.




I’m still tying up loose ends in this moving process—we’re going on two solid weeks now what with the stomach flu flattening all four of us for days at a time—and I had a surprisingly delightful phone conversation with a tele-com worker while I was getting my electric switched over to the new place.  It was in the middle of the day, so the boys were running all over the place, screaming and yelling and what not, and she said that she understood if I needed to pause the conversation, because she knew what it was like to have two little ones in diapers.  I laughed and asked her if she had twins too.  She replied that no, but hers were only fifteen months apart, both set to be due right around Valentine’s Day, somehow.  (?)

Anyway, her job was to try to get me to bundle cable and internet and what-not, and tell me about all of the discounts I qualified for and so and so, so we chatted about that, and when I answered her that my first three were born at thirty-nine weeks to the day, she shrieked, “You have THREE MORE?!!!!  I bow down to you, woman!”, in her nice, friendly, very Southern accent.  I didn’t tell her that the first two lived only in memories and pictures now, because we were laughing and it didn’t seem right, but I appreciated the acknowledgment and respect anyway, especially at this time of the year, with Kaylee’s death in March and Ethan’s in April.

We talked and laughed through the rest of the questions she had to ask me, and at the end of it, she told me that I had brightened her day.  Surprised and humbled, I told her I felt the same.  She added that she takes calls from all over the country, but Pennsylvanian’s take the cake for rudeness and nastiness in her experience, so this was a nice surprise for her.  I told her I wasn’t surprised, it has been my experience too—mean and dumb!  We got off the phone laughing, and I made sure to ask her name because this was certainly a conversation to remember, and she even gave me her middle name to boot.

Amy Jo From Kentucky and you don’t get more Southern than THAT.


Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut……Was It Worth It?


Just as of late, I find myself wanting to ask several others the question:

Was It Worth It?

One, for instance, is the Infamous Mr. Anderson.

Is it really worth the high?

To juggle several women’s feelings, personalities, wants and needs all at the same time just so you can tell yourself at the end of the day that you did it?

Does it make you feel Big?

Or Strong and Superior in some way?

The irony of that situation is that in the first go-around, I had pushed and pushed and finally shoved for what some might call an “open” relationship, which was why he deemed me untrustworthy.  In reality, I was being as honest as I could—these days I am committed wholly to no one but my children—I try very hard to keep the rest of it separate in order to protect them.  This led to the demise of the relationship.

He became convinced and INSISTENT that I was cheating on him.

I wasn’t.

He tried over and over and OVER again to prove it.

He couldn’t.

And then I guess HE tried it on for size—The Cheater Hat.  It’s big and full of bling and sparkles, but when it comes down to it, it’s really just an obnoxious plaything that would better belong in a child’s pretend box than a grown man’s closet….

In any case, the other people I’ve been wanting to ask if it was worth it are my parents.

And my ex-husband, father to my daughter.

And speaking of Assholes, the father of my twins too.

To my parents, Who Believed that my boys were in danger because I was on some kind of drugs and so kept them from me for four months:

Was it worth it?

The tears, from them and me every time you took them away?

The pain, at night, when they couldn’t sleep because you ripped apart everything that was normal and stable to them?

All of the nastiness, the accusations, the name-calling that you kept up even though you NEVER caught me in a lie?  Or high?  Or drunk?

All the court proceedings, all the money you spent trying to prove what was never there in the first place, was it worth it?

And to Dubya, father to my Lilly, who jumped right on my parent’s bandwagon and ripped my custody of my daughter right out from under me (that I had fought Tooth And Nail for THREE YEARS to get).

Was it worth her tears?

Her questions?

Her trouble in school, her behavior problems, her mental instability and insecure feelings?

She’s six and you’ve set her up to fail.

Last week Lilly had to go to the ER in the middle of the night for intractable vomiting, and so I called Dubya so that he could be there if he wanted.  He accused me of being over-reactive and drunk and demanded a drug test of me.

Which I did.  Because he’s allowed to do that.  Once per month.  It’s in our custody agreement.

It was negative.

Is it all worth it to you people?  When you look into my children’s eyes and seen what you’ve done to them, was it worth it?

To try SO HARD to prove something of someone that just isn’t true just because you’ve lied about it for so long that you have to keep up the lie?

When I told the Judge that he didn’t understand, that this would never end, he scoffed and said that if I passed all of the drug tests and complied with all of the recommendations of the Court, then it Would Be The End, Because He Said So.

Not so, as my father would say.  Not so.

And lastly, Prynot, the father of my twins.  I had the unfortunate necessity of speaking to him recently regarding child support.  He has never paid a penny, and I’ve not asked, for fear that he and his family would go after custody of my boys.

However, the Potter County Assistance Office has required it of me in order to receive the menial ninety-ish dollars per week that I am entitled to in Cash Assistance.  So I called him to inquire if he had gotten a job yet and what his living situation was like and such.  Of course he told me that the dog and three cats we had together had all “disappeared,” which was not surprising, but horrible to hear.  He told me that he was still working with his father under the table (and collecting benefits from the state, I presume), and still barely surviving, and same old, same old, basically.

I asked if he wanted to come to Coudersport to see his boys.  At first he said no, that he had no way to get here, and when I pointed out that his father had a perfectly good vehicle (or two) at his disposal, he changed his story and said that he “couldn’t just be running to Coudersport any time I wanted him to.”  I could hear his father’s voice in the background, guiding him in what to say…the man hates women and says that kids were the worst thing that ever happened to him…but Prynot still tags after him like an abused puppy, and adopts his every thought as his own.

I knew that he wouldn’t take me up on it.  I only invited him because I know what it’s like to have an absent biological father, and the story that I always got (from both sides) was that my mother kept him from us on purpose, not letting us have the chance to choose whether or not we wanted him in our lives.

When my boys are grown enough to ask about their father, I at least want to be able to look them in the face and tell them that I gave him every opportunity to be a part of their lives, and it was his choice, not mine, that was the reason that he was absent.

So, once a year, I give him the opportunity.

I’ll offer again next year, although I know as well as you do what the answer will be.

But having been on the other end of the spectrum—I won’t be the one who keeps a parent from their child who wants to be there.

That, to me, is the lowest, most vile, vicious, punitive, and unjust thing one can do to another, and I know how that feels.



So, I thought I had bid adieu (and good riddance!) to Mr. Anderson, but then, out of the blue at 3am one morning (on the 21st, I believe), I had the Extremely bad fortune to be up with my phone near me when I got a text from him that said, “Please don’t call me, message me, or knock on my door.”

I, pissed off [and knowing he was just drunk and baiting me for a conversation because I hadn’t called him, messaged him, or knocked on his door in over a week], replied, “NO PROBLEM, Buddy—I’m Truly Sorry that I EVER cared about YOU at ALL.”

He replied that my caring about him was only “An Illusion”, so he wasn’t worried about that.

Now I’m going from Pissed off to FUCKED off.

I reply that NO (!!), it WASN’T, and that I had loved him very Much, and SO had my KIDSAND that my freakin’ CATS even fell for him!!


[I don’t have the time for that shit.  You only live once.]

I DID make sure to put the “love” part in the past tense, and the reason that I said it at all was because I get super sick of Asshole Guys (after the fact) convincing themselves and everyone around them that really, women are just a Cancerous Blight that viciously somehow TRICK these Poor, Innocent boys with Golden Hearts and Nothing But The Best Intentions into falling for them, when the TRUTH is that it’s YOUUUUUUSUALLY THE OTHER WAY AROUND.

[An aside—that reminds me—Mr. A—I know you’ll be reading this at some point, Soooooooooooo this Gem’s for you, HONEY:

While I was looking around for my Pearl Rabbit one day at your house, I came across your Diary—I read how you likened me to a “Malignant Tumor” that just needed to be “cut out of your life”, and went so far as to say that it didn’t hurt even one little bit when you did it, as if I had meant less than nothing to you.  Snip-Snap.  All Done.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTTTT…………………AFTER THAT, there was the Super-Intense, Ultra-Passionate, Hours-Long, Wild Animal SEX that you had with me the very next WEEK that left marks on both of us (no apologies if any of them Scar, hon), while YOU were calling out my name (In Soprano, I might add) when you ORGASM’D (Yup—I’m making that one Caps and Plural).

I’d like to remind you that you also Earnestly Professed Your Deepest Love (and Apologies!) to me with all of the Fake Sincerity your Teeny-Weeny Little Black Heart could Muster.

What Fucking Bullshit!

But You’re Right, Hunny-Bunny—I’m the Sick, Twisted One who “cares about nobody but herself.”

Boo-Hoo  And UnTrustWorthy Too.]

So, in any case, I’ll cut to the chase because we all know where this is going:

He said all the right things, I made “Terms and Conditions (NO INVOLVEMENT WITH THE KIDS),” and we decided to have another go at it—albeit cautiously.  He said that he had “trust issues”, I said that I had “patience issues (like Grow The Fuck Up already, decide what it is that you want, and stop jerking me [and my kids] around).”

We called a truce and agree to meet the following night when he got off work—after my kids were in bed—I had told him I didn’t want him around the kids until we saw how this panned out, so absolutely NO overnights.

As far as I can tell, this was Sunday night, Feb. 21st.

I point it out cuz’ you’re gonna love this timeline.  Gawd.

Mon 2/22/16 11:30pm

He comes over, we talk and laugh and of course, end up having sex.  He goes home.  We make plans for the following night.

Tues 2/23/16

Late night sex, laughter, and bonding.  He goes home, reminding me over and over again about how MUCH he had MISSED me.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaand how Strikingly Beautiful I am and bla-de-bla-de-bla…..

Wed 2/24/16

He tells me he loves me in a text message, but doesn’t know “when or if” he’ll be free tonight.

[I learn later that this is because Ex-girlfriend is coming over—they have plans to catch up and drink Jack Daniels together—they had spent Valentine’s Day together and rekindled THEIR relationship as well!]

During this time, I text him that it doesn’t matter how late it is, I’ll be up (I am moving soon, and have a lot of work to do after the kids go to sleep).  He leaves The Ex at his house, comes over to mine for a quickie (That wasn’t all that quick—we’re talkin’ approaching a couple hours.  That was spent NOT talking.), then goes back to her, telling her it was “a work thing.”


Thurs 2/25/16

He comes over late, same deal.

Fri 2/26/16

I am kid-less for the weekend (happens once a month), and we decide to spend the weekend together—me at his place.  When I question the Jack Daniel’s bottle (he’s usually more of a vodka drinker), he tells me that it’s his work buddy’s and asks me if I want any.  I basically stay there until the 29th.

Mon 2/29/16

We are getting dressed after even more sex sometime in the mid-morning into afternoon and there is a jolly knock at the door.  He freaks out, runs to the door and then back into the bedroom and tells me to “SSSSSHHHHHH!!!  Be Quiet (!!),” because The Ex is at the door.

I respond that I don’t really give a crap, and if he wants me to get rid of her, I’ll be happy to answer it, but either way, I have an appointment to get to.

After considering that, he finally answers it himself, and upon returning, tells me that he has, “Gotten rid of her,” as if she is nothing more than nuisance vermin.  He continues that he can’t believe she is even at his door, saying that all he had done was have “one conversation” with her following our break-up.

What really happened is that they had spent Valentine’s Day together, and she was coming to surprise him and pick up her bottle of Jack Daniels….

He tells me to smoke inside so that she doesn’t see me and even goes so far as to ask me to lay down in the back seat while he drives me to the appointment that I have to go to imminently.

I, appalled at the notion of feeding into this nonsense, tell him that, NO, I will not be doing Anything Of The Sort, and that I’d be MORE than happy to WALK to my appointment if he can’t get his panties untwisted enough to drive me.

He apologizes profusely and tells me that he can’t even believe that he had said that, it’s just that he has a lot of anxiety when it comes to The Ex.  I scoff and say that I can’t believe that he had said that either, and we don’t speak for the rest of the day, which it turns out worked out well for him because then:

He is propositioned by a certain Judge in this town’s daughter, who is an attorney (and probably was in his graduating class) and decides to take her up on it.  I wonder how her family and clients would feel about her shagging the pizza delivery boy “on the quiet,” behind his (several) girlfriend’s backs.  (I hope she’s not married!!)  I don’t hear from him at all, but don’t care because of our last exchange.

Tues 3/1/2016

(The 8th Anniversary of my first daughter, Kaylee’s, Death.  Her ‘Angelversary,’ my friend Sparkles would call it.)  I don’t tell him in advance.  He shows up late, we start talking and are in deep personal, memory-sharing conversation until wee hours.  I start to believe that maybe he is sincere in his efforts at being a Whole Adult Person.  (WHUPS.)

Wed 3/2/16

He comes over after the kids are in bed, we have Marathon Sex until almost morning and both oversleep.  [He had told me that he had to be to work early, and I had an annoying court thing at 9am.]  The boys wake up before he leaves, I fight with myself over whether or not to let them see him…….I do.

They jump around and show off for him for a bit, he leaves, saying he has to go to work, telling them he will see them later.

After I was done in court, I decide to walk the boys across the street to his work so we can say hello.  He isn’t there.

Thurs 3/3/16

We don’t have plans because I have my daughter overnight.  He makes plans with another woman, but tells me he is at work late and then has more work stuff to do later.  My daughter gets sick enough to need to go to the ER around 12am (stomach bug—couldn’t stop vomiting), and I don’t want to wake up the boys and have to take all three of them, so Meldin babysits while I call Mr. A and inquire if he can give us a ride—he does.  He also brings me back home at around 3am, but makes up see-through excuses not to stay and acts sketchy and nervous.

I, distracted because of all that has gone on that night, don’t pick up on the cues.

My phone is shut off because I need internet to keep it on with a pre-paid card once monthly, and before he leaves, I manage to make a plan with him that he will at least stop by in the morning so that I can make phone calls regarding rearranging and checking on kids and plans for the weekend—I am in the middle of moving, so Lilly went home from the hospital with her dad.  He acts flustered, but says that he will stop by before work around 8am (I’m pretty sure the place doesn’t even open till noon) and leave the door open so that I can use his internet while he’s at work because, “You’re worth it.”

He accidentally leaves his phone behind.

I, elated that I can maybe get online, pick it up, wondering if he needs it and maybe there’s a way to get the message to him that I have it.  I know that he and his work pals are pretty tight, and so it would make sense that they would be at the top of his messages list, so I push on the icon for text messages.

The first two things that caught my eye were TWO messages where the last thing that was said was, “I love you,” sent by two women that are definitely not me.  One in Arizona (who he’s never met, but tells her that he has plans to move there and loves her—she is job searching for him), and the other The Ex that he always refers to in an annoyed and disdainful manner, making it seem as if she was some sort of cross between an abused puppy that just wouldn’t quit asking for it and a crazy lunatic out of Fatal Attraction.

Intrigued, I scan through some other messages and see the planning of the interlude with the Judge’s daughter.

I roll my eyes, throw the phone in a DG bag, and hang it on the mail box with a note that says, “Mr. Anderson—You’re NOT WORTH IT.” and go to bed, assuming he’ll pick up the phone before I wake up—it’s now 4-ish in the morning, and I’m Beyond Exhausted.

In the morning, the boys and I get up and go about packing more stuff to move—the phone remains.

I, finally getting pissed off that it’s still there—(UM, thought you had to work, HON.) decide to pay The Ex a phone call to at least give her a heads up on what’s been going on.

We talk for almost an hour, comparing notes on what had happened and when, and disbelievingly reminiscing about all the times he had said to both of us, “I’ve never said this before to another woman, but….bla bla.”

I guess along with being one of the Biggest Asshole Narcissist Womanizers on the Planet, he also has Relationship Amnesia.

Jesus Gawd.

I’m thinking my next post will be something along the lines of an All Points Bulletin to Women Everywhere about his personal characteristics.

Ya’ know, like a Public Service Announcement.  Just doin’ my duty as a Responsible Citizen and all.  😉



Stage-Right—Re-Enter Mr. Anderson?



Welp, guess I’d better pick up where I left off—the past two weeks have been kind of a whirlwind.  Finding myself unattached, I had a Truly Lovely Valentine’s Day visit with a good friend of mine from way back that I hadn’t seen in a while—Mr. Steely (I call him that because it seems as if his entire body is made of steel—the man is rock-hard– EverywhereYummy).  The visit was short because we both have kids young enough to need a sitter when we’re out and so are sort of on the very Unforgiving Kid Time Clock whenever we’re away from them, but long enough to catch up, talk, laugh, and get some Lovin’ in It was SOOOOOOOOOOOO Worth It.

Feeling revitalized and hopeful that things seemed to be looking up following Mr. Anderson’s Abrupt and Rude Departure, I shook it off and prepared for moving into a new place—the big house with 4 bedrooms didn’t work out…it turns out that the very “Christian” neighbors who were asked about what kind of person I am by the very “Christian” LandLady didn’t seem to think that me and my three kids Deserved a Big house with a Big yard that was close to the Elementary School.


I knew that the neighbors were going to be implored of regarding me, and had apprehensions about what they would say, so I even stopped briefly with my boys during a walk one day to give them a heads-up and sort of pleadingly asked for a good word to be put in for me.

No Such Luck.

The LandLady never spoke to me again, and didn’t even have the decency to get on the phone with me to let me know what her decision was when I called and left messages for three days afterward.

Good God, will people EVER stop being so freaking JudgMentaL????!



I knew it was too good to be true from the get-go.  Luckily, I had another place lined up anyway—still only two-bedroom, but with MUCH more space.  Also, no stairs [my Rheumatoid-Arthritic Knees Yell YAY!!], and lots of windows—score!!  And a small yard.

It’ll do.

So, anyway, I’ve been moving (and moving and moving and mooooooooooving—it takes ForEver when you don’t have a big vehicle at your disposal) slowly for the past two weeks…or I should have been, that is.

There was a small hiccup in this process, because Loooooooo and Behooooold, Mister Freakin’ An-Der-Son reared his silver-tongued [literally—the guy has his tongue pierced] head for a little bit in there and stalled my forward progression for a bit—and BOY, Is There A Story There.

[Sheezus-God, you’re gonna LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE This One.]


So—I didn’t even tell you the end of The Anderson Saga, so I’d better do that before I get into this little, um, episode [or, rather….Serious Lapse In Judgment, my Inner Voice says], I’ll at least tell you how it ended.  Or I thought it had ended anyway…

After not hearing from Mister A in two weeks, even after trying to get ahold of him to return his stuff—the guy wouldn’t even answer his phone or door when I dropped (or, rather, dumped) it off,  [Ha!  What a Coward!! A ++ for Maturity–NOT.], I was going to the grocery store one day (which necessitates passing his apartment), so I took along one of his stray shirts that had gotten lost in the laundry to return it.  I figured that I would at least be mature enough to give him back everything that was his—(UMstill missing the only gift he ever gave me in our short, uh, Escapade—a Sixty-Dollar Deluxe Sixteen-Function (–Yeah.  SIXTEEN—  Awesomesauce.) Pearl Rabbit VIBRATOR!! 

I Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaannnn…if the guy was gonna Fuck Off and Fall Off The Face Of The Earth or whatever, he COULDA left it behind……..ya know?

(Insert Enormous Sigh And Accompanying Eye Roll)

ANYWAY, I stuck the shirt in a plastic bag and shoved it in the bottom of the wagon with the boys in it, and was relieved when I saw that his car was missing in front of his apartment, so there was no chance of the boys seeing him.


I just wanted to get it over with, and so was sort of stomping hurriedly down his street, wagon plus Two Toddlers in Tow, I was disgusted, but also relieved to get the one remaining reminder of him out of my possession.

When we got to the front door of the apartment, I stopped and began searching for the bag, telling the boys that I just had to throw this bag over to this porch over here and no biggie and no, we’re not getting out and finally here it is—Uh……WHUPS.

Here’s the bag, dripping with mud from the boys’ boots.  I think to myself, “Oh well, whatever, he can deal with a little dirt.”

But…Wait…..That’s…..Is That?…That’s Not Mud.

It’s Dog Shit.

Oh My God.

I briefly considered feeling bad about returning a nice shirt in a bag covered in dog shit to Mr. Anderson, and then thought,……WELLLLLLLLLLLLLL…..The Truth Is…..

Karma’s A Bitch, And So Am I.


I burst into laughter and swung the bag at the porch, not minding at all that it probably got some poop on his door and porch railing.

Oh Man! 

I had to bend over and put my hand on my knee because I was laughing so hard, but I was also trying to stifle it a bit so I wouldn’t confuse Henry and Jaxon.


So I giggled a little bit about it all the way to the store and back.

We cheerily went on our way, my day brightened a little at the notion that maybe The Universe humorously had smiled and winked at me.



But THEN….. TBC as soon as I get a chance to write it all down!  You’re Gonna LOVE this one!!

Faith and Generosity

Wow, have a great many good things happened to me lately!  I’m sort of in shock!

First, one of my friends saw my post about my dire money/diaper situation and went right online and bought some for me from Target.com!!  What a windfall!!  I couldn’t be more grateful or happy!

THEN, guess what ELSE happened??

I got a free couch from a friend of a friend!!  AND a recliner!!  Awesomesauce!  It smells a little doggy, but that can be helped.  I have not heard about the house yet, but I am waiting with bated breath!!  FOUR BEDROOMS!!!!!!!!!!!!  It would be a dream come true!

THEN, guess what ELSE happened??

MelDin was nice enough to take me and my three shopping the other day, and we went to Dollar General first, like I always do, to get some things for less money, and the kids were kind of cranky and not really minding very well, and so I hurriedly went through the store, buying about $100.00 worth of food, new socks and undies for Lil and the boys, and shampoo and what-not.  When I got to the register, Jaxon was trying to leave without us, Lilly had disappeared into the toy aisle, and Henry was standing in the cart whining, “UPPPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYY,” and I was searching, and searching, and searching……and then seeeeeeeeeeeeaaarching every nook and cranny of my purse for my Damn card to pay, and slowly realize…..that…..I………………………………………..just don’t the fuck have it.  I close my eyes and whisper, “Shhhhhhhhhhit.”

I ask the teenager at the register if she can hold the order for ten minutes while MelDin goes back to the apartment to look for it.  I am sure it is probably sitting in plain sight on the kitchen table, like it usually is when the boys get the opportunity to rearrange my purse.  The girl behind the register starts to get anxious and looks around for help.  There are at least three people in line behind me.  A senior employee notices what is going on and starts squawking about how, “Ya Kant undo it once it’s been dun, aaaand EveryThing Will Have To Be Voided In-Di-Vi-Juhl-Ley And Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen Rung Up UH-GAIN!

I am staring at her in disbelief, MelDin is already out the door, off to find my stupid card, and all of a sudden this woman that I’m sure I’ve never seen before swiftly flies in between me and Henry in the cart, where the card-swiper machine lies, and says quietly, “No.  I’m just going to pay for this.”

All I got out of my mouth was, “Oh, you don-,” but it was already done.  Just like that.  A freakin’ hundred and nineteen dollars worth of stuff.  I was as shocked as I was grateful, and I tearfully told her thank you as many times as I could before leaving….

I guess this is what it feels like to have your Faith In Humanity Restored.

It’s pretty nice.