Today I am wearing fall-type clothes (crazy-ass Seattle), as opposed to Saturday, when I was wearing a tank-top and skirt to the wading pool. On Saturday, My Companion and I were watching Frannie splash around as Strudel wobbled upright in her strolly.
“Gotta pee,” I said.
“Okay,” said my Companion, and I made my way to the bathrooms at the park.
I walked by a big birthday party going on at a picnic table in the middle of a field. Most people were standing around eating cake, but a couple broke away with baseball mitts and prepared to play catch. I got the feeling they weren’t attached to each other in any significant way; perhaps she was his cousin’s sister-in-law or something.
The woman looked a little younger than me, and was one of those auburn-redheads who had hair in such an abundant quantity that she looked like she could really wang someone with her ponytail, if she felt like it, and seemed enthusiastically delighted at the prospect of playing catch. Maybe it was just the day, which was sunny and perfect in the way that Seattle is only capable of being one month out of twelve. She was skipping and grinning and prancing around as she stretched the glove over her hand.
The man was slightly older, maybe early thirties, and in many ways, her opposite. He seemed to be taking the prospect of playing catch deadly seriously. He screwed on his baseball cap tighter, and jostled his khaki cargo shorts around, and looked somewhat uncomfortable in that bloated, twitchy way that aged frat boys manage best.
They were still at it when I was coming down the hill from the bathrooms. She had a good arm and was throwing reasonably. The man was whipping each throw back at her, and I could hear each one smack into her glove, hard. As I neared them, he spoke as he returned her last throw.
“You throw like a girl,” he sneered.
“What’s wrong with that?” she replied, and threw again. I could tell his remark caught her off guard, and her return was unsteady. The ball dropped early, bounced, and nailed the aged frat boy in the shins. He winced slightly, and looked up at me as I passed.
“Karma’s a bitch,” I said to him so that only he could hear me.
“Hur hur hur,” was his clever retort, which meant, “Fuck you, lady.”
I hate bullies.
In Other News: I Sit in Judgment, As Usual
This weekend Frannie informed us that her father’s new unborn spawn is now “this big” (snack-sized) and that That Poor Woman is giving up sugar to grow a healthy baby in spite of her last fifteen years of cigarette-smoking, which ended as recently a couple of months ago. Oh, wait, I think I said that last part, not Frannie. I almost snorfled my tonsil-nubs out of my nose when I heard this.
My Companion and I have many muted conversations after Frannie goes to bed.
Me: Did you hear what Frannie said about That Poor Woman giving up sugar?
Companion: Oh yeah. That was pretty funny.
Me: Giving up sugar…
C: …Is the least of her worries.
Me: I know!
Exhibit A: Sing it with me: “She’ll be a SLAAAAVE to him!”
Once he has his hooks into her good and proper, and he can stop pretending to be “caring” and “interested” and “human” he will just become an albatross around her neck. Then she will have a baby, a half-time stepdaughter, and a no-job-having, beer-swilling doorstop sponging off her when she is forced to go back to work in three months. Frannie says they are thinking of getting a puppy as well. Would you like a HAIRSHIRT with that, ma’am? Jesus fuck, have all the sugar in the fucking world, because you are going to need it, lady.
I would like to do a study in which I ask women who were the “other woman” or “rebound-that-turned-into-an-unholy-alliance” at what point they snapped awake and thought to themselves, “Jesus, now I know why his first wife left him.” I’m guessing it’s two years or a child, whichever comes first.
Compensation for participating in my study will be in the form of genuine sympathy.
Over here, at Rancho Halfway-Sane, we had a nice weekend involving what Frannie calls “Lady Beauter Shop” (toenail painting) and lots of four-year-old sassiness. Because you can’t spell “four years-old” without “histrionics.”
Exhibit B: SASSY!
Man I loves ya, Frannie. In spite of EVERYTHING.
