Can I even tell you how happy I am that Fall is on the horizon? Britney Spears’ giant vulgar tummy-sized happy, that’s how happy.
What comes with Autumn is two of my favorite things, one new and one old. The old thing I love is baking. This year, since my sister has moved out on her own, my mother has relinquished Thanksgiving, so I get to be the Thanksgiving despot cooktress. I told my mom I would go “traditional,” but frankly, we’re just going to have to see what mood I’m in that week. Do I want to clog up my oven with a giant crapping turkey for four adults, a boob nibbler, and a mermaid, when I could have five interesting side dishes going in there instead? We shall see.
The NEW thing I love is another year without my former in-laws, which I hereby dub, The Out-laws (TM Halo). No more Fangsgiving like this, and no more xmas like this, thank you Giant Gay Head of Tom Cruise. The other night my mom confided that she is still occasionally overcome by a surge of relief about having left my stepfather for good. “And it’s been eight years now,” she said.
She also said she still has nightmares, though. I am hoping that my marriage nightmares will subside eventually. Mostly they are variations on similar things that happened during my marriage. I dream I am trying to do everything without help. I dream that he is menacing me, like he used to when he was drunk. I dream that I am relying on him and he constantly forgets everything I tell him, or is not listening at all. I dream that he is ignoring or has forgotten Franny. I dream that I wake up and I am in bed with him, and my divorce and my companion and Strudel were all a dream, and there I am again, covering up for his heavy-drinking-non-working ass and acting like everything’s fine. And he’s there going “that other life was all a dream, didn’t you know?” I cry so hard in those dreams until I drown him out and everyone else who is trying to speak to me. All I can see is their lips moving. Sometimes I even wake up with tears on my face.
I hardly ever have nightmares about my stepfather anymore, and I’ve been out for ten years.
Another great thing about Fall is that Franny goes back to her school on the seventh. Her father, Seattle Federline, and I had to see each other a lot this summer to swap her. I get the wiggens every time that guy slimes up in his giant white Cadillac to take her away. Now that school is letting back in, we can go back to only exchanging her through school. We have gone to a new schedule of two weeks on and two weeks off. I think this will be a positive change, because last school year it seemed like we swapped her so often that she would just get mannerly and unferal again, and then I would have to give her back.
In related news, I talked to That Poor Woman (Sea-Fed’s new mark; I can actually see the chalk handprint on her back) on the phone yesterday. The last time Sea-Fed and I did a Franny-swap we agreed to meet at ten o’clock yesterday. He was a no-show and I had the feeling he had gotten the time wrong. I called him and got his voicemail, and so hung up and called That Poor Woman. She wasn’t answering, and called me back later. Her voicemail said, “I hope we didn’t get the pick-up time wrong.” I’m not sure what this “we” business is. It’s his responsibility and I don’t communicate with her about Frannie or exchange her with That Poor Woman. Presenting a united front, I suppose. I called her back and said, “What time did Sea-Fed think he was supposed to pick her up?” and she gave a different time. “The Federline memory is notoriously bad,” I replied, and she said, “Yes.” She said she would arrange it so that Sea-Fed would come later. She made some remark about being confused and stressed out lately, and I said, “Franny mentioned you were pregnant.” She said, “Yes.” (Pregnancy confirmed, people. Now she’s trapped.) She added, “I am two weeks away from being out of my first trimester and I am so sick. It gets better, right?” I couldn’t help it. “Well,” I said. “Some women are sick throughout their entire pregnancies.” Hope sprung eternal, as she responded, “But you got over it, right?” There were so many things I didn’t say that I wanted to, such as, “You know about his criminal history, then?” and “When’s your birthday, because I’d really love to buy for you The Sociopath Next Door, for no reason other than it’s a great book?” and “Have you read the court paperwork from our divorce, because you really should?” But I didn’t. Ah, me. I am the MF model of restraint. Poor little lambie.
When Seattle Federline came to pick her up I saw that he had shaved his head again. After we broke up, he let his hair get all scraggly. My sister saw him recently and told my mom he looked like a chimo. Well, now he looks like one of those fauxthugs you see on the bus with their perfectly measured two inches of DRAAWS hanging out. He looks like…wait a minute. There’s someone else I’m thinking of here, but who is it?
Oh, wait, I know. Kevin Federline, v.1. Pre-Britney ensnarement.
When Seattle Federline met me, all he had to say was, “I had six o’clock written down.” Oh, well then. If you had it written down, it must be true. I’m going to finish typing this, so I can open my day planner and write down that I have a million dollars in the bank. And then I am going to write down that I am the President. Because if I write that down in my planner, it must be true. Sweet!
