What’s With The Woman-Bashing?!

3/20/16

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.

Cool.

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.

DUH.

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