There’s an old saying “that which does not kill us only makes us stronger.” I believe that somewhere along the way, the real saying got lost… “that which does not kill us only makes us angrier and angrier.” Take today, for example. I wish someone had killed me – suffocation, shooting, stabbing. Anything would have done the job. You see, if I were dead, I would not be dealing with J-Fed -- that lying, lazy bastard.
Now, the last few weeks have been great between us. It’s almost as if our relationship has evolved since he’s moved out. You see he’s very polite. He eats dinner with the family every night. He even puts his plate in the sink. I no longer have to do his laundry. I no longer have to subject myself to a television twenty decibels too high. This is the best we’ve ever got along… and we’re not even together anymore! Oh, I guess that’s the point.
Although our marriage is irretrievably broken, J-Fed is still J-Fed and that means he’s still up to no good. Prince Charming knows where his bread is buttered, and he’s still lurking around, milking old Kiki for every thing he can. Just Saturday night he won me over with promises of a family fun day – early morning shopping at Target, a trip to the dog park, a peek at the furniture set he’d just purchased for our five year old. The very thought of it made me rush to bed with anticipation. Reunited, and it feels so good, I sang to myself while picking out my very best attitude for the next day. Was it morning yet?
Morning came fast as baby demanded the boob and five year old daughter demanded an M&M sandwich for breakfast. With my right eye still shut, I shuddered as I realized the clock read 6:15… as in a.m. As in it ain’t even light out. I thought of J-Fed down the block sound asleep. I had the urge to drive over to his apartment, leave the kids on the doorstep and haul ass to the beach for the day. Would he really know it had been me who left them there?
Regardless, I entertained the baby and daughter until J-Fed’s mother arrived to visit with the children. She mentioned she had called the Fedster this morning, but he didn’t answer. This made me angry on a number of fronts. #1 He had known his mother was coming over and yet he didn’t have the common courtesy to show up #2 He promised he’d be over early for a day of family fun. #3 There was no recourse for his irresponsible actions. Grrrrrrrr. I excused myself from his mother, got in my SUV and stopped by his apartment on the way to Target.
Both of his cars were in the parking lot of his complex. I marched my angry ass up to the second floor and knocked. Then I knocked again. And again. It was now 11 a.m., five hours since I was dragged from the bed by needy children. Realizing the symbolism, I now BANGED on the door HARD. AGAIN and AGAIN. I may have even put a small dent in it. But no response. I called his phone and heard it ringing inside the apartment over and over. He was definitely there. After all, J-Fed didn’t go anywhere without the harem hotline.
My anger started to dissipate as a series of scenarios played out in my head. He could have suffered a slip and fall accident in the shower that resulted in paralysis. I pictured him drowning in a small puddle of water lined with those tiny little pubic hairs that used to appear in our shower.
Or maybe it was a heart attack. I could see him hunched over, his last breath taken while reaching for a greasy fried pork rind. Then again, he could have accidentally taken one too many Ambien and put himself to sleep permanently.
He could be dead as a doornail in there, but there was nothing I could do to help him. Maybe if he had given me a key to his plush new bachelor pad, I could have been his saving grace. Well, it appeared it might be too late for “what ifs.”
Oh my gawd, the possibilities were endless, and with this in mind, I realized it was safe to go about my day as if I’d never made plans with J-Fed. After all, he could very well be dead. And when the body started to rot, I didn’t want to be anywhere around. At 6’4 and 200 pounds in the hot hot heat of March, it wasn’t going to be too pretty.
Sigh, I’d accepted that J-Fed must be dead. After all, what in God’s name could have been more important that the plans he had made for us last night? In my head, I picked out a dress for his funeral and started penning a fine-fitting eulogy.
I was about four paragraphs into the touching tribute when not-so-dead-J-Fed called back. He informed me he wasn’t dead – just dead tired. He was tired? Well, seeing that HE was TIRED. I could empathize since I had slept about four hours due to the crying of a teething baby… OUR TEETHING BABY.
Anyways, J-Fed had slept in, promised to stop by the house for an hour and then had a bunch of stuff he needed to do the rest of the day. In one breath Easter shopping, dog parking and furniture browsing went out the window. I guess there would be no family day after all.
I couldn’t help but call him on his crap, “So, you have things to do and that’s why you’re canceling our plans?”
“Man, I need some time for myself. Seriously,” he said with frustration.
Riddle me this boobman. You’ve probably worked 20 hours this week. You had neither of the kids yesterday, Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday or Monday. If that time wasn’t for yourself, who the hell was it for?
This whole “time to yourself” thing was starting to sound kind of good. I mean, right now, the “time to myself” was the five minutes I got to go the bathroom every eight hours and that was usually while accompanied by one or both kids. Imagine that!
By 11 a.m. Sunday morning, I realized J-Fed wasn’t dead, although I wished he was. And that which doesn’t kill us? Is sure to keep on trying.