Hold The Fries, Bitch

You can run, but you cannot hide.

When I moved out of my house in February, I did so under the impression that I would never have to see The Other Woman  (T.O.W.) again. Living two doors down from her was bad on my mental health. Maybe it was all self-created drama. But the reality of it was there were only so many nights I could spend standing on a chair on my back porch, peeking over the fence to play "is she over at my ex-husband's place tonight?"I mean, eventually I'd fall off the chair and break my neck and for what? To confirm something I already knew.

Thank God T.O.W. didn't have a bunny or I might have been tempted to boil it.

I was teetering on the brink of insanity. You see, J-Fed had repeatedly tried to convince me "it wasn't like that" between them. Yet all signs pointed in the direction of complete and utter deceit.

Truth be told, if he had moved out and a week later met someone at church, the library or while volunteering at a soup kitchen, it would have been much easier to cope with. Of course, he'd sooner be caught dead than in any of those places. However, this "woman" was someone who I had been friends with and who I felt had played a role in putting the final nail in our marital coffin.

It sounds like I've made peace with the situation and the anger is gone when I attempt to speak about it rationally, but it's not. My rage is alive and kicking. In fact, anger and bitterness course through my veins whenever I think about her. A strong moral code is the only thing that stands between me and the purchase of a voodoo doll from a Santaria priestess I found in the yellow pages under Revenge. I kid. I kid.

But seriously, there's is no amount of therapy, meditation, medication or anything else that can alleviate the hatred. I think I'm handling it better than most. I've only confronted her on two occasions in the last year and a half. One time was in a drive-by where I deemed her a home-wrecking bitch as she pulled out of my husband's apartment complex. And the other was when  we went head to head after I caught that inconsiderate ass doing yardwork for her. This from the man who likely didn't even know we had a lawnmower, a weedwhacker or an edger when we were married. To him, the definition of lawncare was having me write a $50 check to the lawn service every month.