Restrain Yourself

And the beat goes on…

I’m so proud of J-Fed. Since our divorce he’s expanded his vocabulary and is introducing me to new phrases I never expected in a million years to come out of his big mouth. This weekend, I learned about the term “restraining order.”

WHAT?!? I know, stop the presses. But he even used it in a sentence for me.

“Kiki, if you come within 500 yards of my apartment, I will have a restraining order slapped on you,” he exclaimed.

And here I thought all of those hours he lounged around on the couch watching Cops had been a total waste of time. Boy was I wrong. It had apparently been an eye-opening learning experience for the Fedster. Ah, my little sponge. I had no idea he had such a vast ability to retain information. Too bad it didn’t work when I used to tell him to take out the garbage and stop leaving the milk out overnight.

As I looked at the mental midget otherwise known as my ex-husband, the first thing I struggled with was figuring out exactly how far away 500 yards was. I mean, was that a mile? If so, that would mean that I couldn’t live in my own house, and that would be a problem. It’s not like my house was on wheels and I could just pack it up and drive it 501 yards away from that rathole he calls an apartment. Ok, so there’s nothing at all wrong with the apartment except for the fact that he’s a big fat rat and he lives in it, making it a rathole. That alone should make the property value go down.

So you must be wondering what exactly crazy Kiki did to get threatened with a restraining order? Did I hit him? Did I set his car on fire? Did I assault the other woman? Did I stalk him in the grocery store? Oh no, I did something FAR worse. I launched a verbal assault that obviously wounded his pint-sized soul. It appears that J-Fed believes that name-calling actually warrants a restraining order. I, on the other hand, don’t really think that’s the case. I guess we’ll have to consult the police department to determine who’s right and who’s wrong. I’m leaning toward me.