Playing Chicken

As I was preparing a batch of chicken and dumplings this evening, I thought of J-Fed. Maybe it was the way the chicken’s ass was up in the air after having its head cut off and its feathers plucked out. I felt for the chicken. It seemed almost tragic that this is how he ended up.

I’m sure he never did anything in his life to deserve such treatment, but I know someone who most certainly did. His named started with a J and ended with a Fed. Now, I had been in an unusually good mood today, and I thought lady luck was smiling upon me. J-Fed was coming to collect daughter and we had been getting along smashingly as of late. He strolled through the door with a smile on his face and gently squeezed my shoulder in a gesture of endearment.

Once I finished rolling out the dumplings, he even volunteered to drop them in while I stirred the pot. Little did I know, J-Fed was stirring a pot of his own. It started out as small talk. How’s the weather? What detergent are you using these days? Piss in any armoires lately? And then suddenly it all took a turn for the worst.

I’m not sure how the whole conversation started because once I was overcome with anger I found myself staring into the pot, picturing J-Fed’s stupid ass spinning around in a rolling boil. The image made me feel warm and tingly. How awful Kiki. That’s a sick, sick thing to say. But it’s marginally true.

“What are you going to do when I started dating? Are you going to be okay with that?” he asked me out of the blue. Apparently Brad wasn't the only one missing a sensitivity chip.

I stared at him deadpan as if he had just asked me if the earth was really round. There are certain things you discuss once you split up – daughter’s report card, lawn maintenance, health insurance. And then, there are those topics that you avoid at all costs. Why? Because they are painful and it is way inconsiderate to the other party involved, you know the one who you promised til death do us part?

If my memory serves me right, when I walked out on J-Fed two years ago because of our marital problems I was much kinder. J-Fed likes to tell me that I was cruel and unusual but I beg to differ. Regardless, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that most of what comes out of his mouth these days is payback from something that happened between us eons ago. It’s as if he wants me to feel the same pain that he felt when I walked out on him. Now, I’m not sure really sure, but I think most marriage counselors would say that kind of thinking is toxic and unhealthy.

Anyway, I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to J-Fed’s preposterous question. Should I smack the piss out of him? Should I tell him to put me down as a reference to any potential date? Or maybe, just maybe, I should accidentally knock the pot of boiling water all over him causing second degree burns at minimal. Instead I took the high road.

“You’re a stupid a-hole. Why would you say something like that?” I stammered, feeling a wee bit flustered in my cold dark empty heart. If his plan was to get to me, he was succeeding. Of course, even I knew that J-Fed could only get to me if I let him. Perhaps it was the fact that my head was congested from a nasty sinus infection, but I let him do just that.

“Well, I wouldn’t be upset if you dated. I wouldn’t say a word. I would appreciate the same respect,” he said matter-of-factly. J-Fed, if you want the same respect you’ve given me over the years brace yourself buddy because it ain’t much.

“I don’t intend on dating,” I said as I gently nudged the steaming pot of chicken stock toward the birdbrain. You know, accidents do happen.

“Oh, so don’t tell me you’re going to be one of those bitter women who spend the rest of their life making me miserable,” he sighed. No J-Fed. You have it backwards. You are the one who will probably spend eternity making me miserable just for your own personal pleasure. I’m sure the notion of me pining for him for the rest of my life was a real ego boost. It almost seemed as if he were floating on cloud 666 based on my knee jerk reaction. So it was time to bring the airhead back down to Earth.

“J-Fed, get the hell out of my house. It’s time for you to go. If you think I need a constant reminder that we’re no longer together, that our marriage is over, you’re wrong. Now leave,” I said backing him out the garage door.

Poor J-Fed huffed and puffed all the way to his truck.

“You have it all wrong. You’re blowing everything out of proportion as always. You took what I said the wrong way,” he tried unsuccessfully to defend himself. For a moment I felt bad as he drove away…

I had the perfect opportunity to burn him the way he burned me, and I let it pass. Of course, I knew plain well violence never solved anything.

Of course, my evening chock full of J-head was far from over. I had to tricky trot on over to his bachelor pad to drop off daughter. I was quiet and the silence must have been unnerving to him. He wasn’t accustomed to me keeping my big mouth shut. Maybe he was afraid if he wasn’t careful he’d end up like the chicken.

“You know. You need to chill out. If you’d just be cool, I’d be single for a long time, single longer than you’ll be,” he said, making a weak apology.

I looked at him and thought hard. I knew it was his way of saying he was nowhere near ready to date, and I appreciated the notion. However, that didn’t stop me from wondering if it would be humanly possible to find a pot big enough to stuff his sorry ass in, all 220 pounds of it.