I started typing and suddenly I was on page five of my Word doc. Fasten your seatbelts, bitches, or come back tomorrow. I am spilling it today.

1.

This weekend was pretty taxing, as Franny was on a rampage. It’s hard, because there’s the normal, four-year-old rampage, and then there’s the extra stuff that comes with having a child with two households. She seems to be regressing in a mighty way, because she’s with her dad a lot and not at delightful iron-fist her school. The first day she came, she had forgotten her manners to the point of forgetting to even say “please” or “thank you.” The way she demands things and talks back with such ease, it makes me think that’s the status quo over there. Her dad didn’t enforce manners, or even seem to notice when she’d smack her food or say “gimmie some water” when I lived with him, so I find it hard to believe he’s enforcing manners now.

I feel so fortunate that my companion is on board with the whole “children should be civilized” thing so you can stand to be around them. It’s a gift to them as well, helping them to make friends and fit in with polite society (is that an oxymoron at this point?). I hope that Strudel is going to be a pleasure to be around, like Franny was, until her dad and I split up. I am not blaming this all on lackadaisical parenting on his part; I’m sure a small portion is still fallout from the divorce. Poor kiddo; I think she could use some therapy, but he doesn’t believe in it. Seattle Federline is a head-in-the-sand type of guy, and when she comes over things come tumbling out of her, because she needs to talk.

There was also a lot of fear of the dark during her most recent visit. In a lot of ways, she seems more like the three-and-a-half year old she was a year ago than the confident girl she should be. Of course, if you asked Sea-Fed, he would say she’s “doing fine.” Because people in his family are always “doing fine.”

2.

A bright spot: we all went to the grocery store on Saturday night, like the weekend party animals that we are. Nothing says “partee hartee” like some hardcore melon thumping and lamb squeezing. Franny had eaten loads of good dinner, including her salad. I offered to buy her a little of anything off the bulk bin racks and she chose gummy worms. I pulled out a few and sealed them up in a bag and told her that we had to wait to eat them because they needed to be weighed to determine the price. She agreed to this, and I gave her the little bag after they had been paid for.

I turned around to the backseat on the way home and saw that Franny was still clutching the bag of worms.

“You can eat them now,” I said.

“I’m kind of hungry,” she replied.

“Do you need a snack?” I said.

“Yes, she said, “I need some protein before I eat all this sugar.”

I was stunned. Once I made sure I wasn’t in the middle of one of my deepest, most secret fantasies, where children not only obey but also see the wisdom in your words (also there is limitless chocolate and Jake “teh hott” Gyllenhaal), I snapped out of it and gave her a high five. If I have to make her a little neurotic to keep her from becoming hypoglycemic like me, then so be it.

3.

Then, sad news. But first a little backstory: you guys weren’t here for this in December, which I sorely regret because it was hilarious and I had it all blogged out later in my head and everything, but I had this crazy conversation with Sea-Fed in which he tried to extort money he was “owed” out of me. I will attempt to recall this as best I can.

Basically, when the accusations part of the court paperwork was all done, Sea-Fed had monkeywrenched things so badly with his wacky accusations that the judge ordered an investigation into matters. I didn’t know this at the time, but that meant spending upwards of ten grand on a parenting evaluator to see who was fit and who was fucked. SeaFed (well, his dad, anyway) put up the retainer for the parenting evaluator and we both went separately to the first consultation. My lawyer told me that SeaFed would pay the retainer and we would go halfsies on any investigating done after that. That sounded okay with me, if a little odd.

After I ran out of money and we dissolved the evaluation process, Sea-Fed wanted me to pay “my” half of the retainer that had been spent, which was about $800. My lawyer told me I didn’t have to pay it, which was great with me. Sea-Fed’s lawyer saw things differently, and wanted that $800 written into the final settlement.

Unfortunately, Sea-Fed and I had to meet to discuss kindergarten plans for Franny in December. I brought up the $800 and we argued about it for a while. Finally I conceded that I would pay it back if I could pay it directly to his dad, to whom it was owed and where it was actually more likely to be spent on Franny in a meaningful way, and not on cheap plastic crap or minidresses that she feels uncomfortable wearing to school because the boys see her underwear.

Man, I have a bee in my bonnet today. I mean extra bees. Or an extra-big bonnet. Whatever. Feel free to come back when I’m calm again.

Recommencing: I pushed him to let me give it to his dad, and he pushed back. I wanted to hear him say that he was going to spend it all on himself, and man, did I get what I asked for.

“I would feel more comfortable giving the money to your father,” I said.

“Well,” he finally snapped, “my father says I can have it all so I can get my vasectomy reversed, okay?”

Reversed, okay? Vasectomy reversed…OKAY? NO!

“Gross!” I said. Did that really just come out of my mouth? “That Woman must be pretty desperate.” Did that also? Was my ability to have any internal monologue whatsoever completely destroyed by this revelation? Apparently so. It’s like I have a special form of Tourette’s or something.

“I don’t even know if I want to have children with That Woman,” he generously said of his girlfriend of almost one year. I knew their anniversary was approaching, because she scraped him off the heel of my boot December 27, exactly one week after I left him.

Then it got worse. I tried to dial it down and re-civilize myself, and was fairly successful.

“If it doesn’t work you could always go in vitro or something,” I said, lamely.

“Well, I want to do it the old-fashioned way,” he said, smugly. And added he sees no reason to stop at one more child!

OOG EEG WHY GOD WHY? My poor brain! I flashed on him “doing it” the “old-fashioned way” which was mercifully brief, as it never went on for much longer than three minutes in real life anyway. Then my mental picture screen broke all together and was replaced by Technicolor bars with the ag report piped in. Ach, you asked for that.

Sooo, this weekend Franny tells me that That Poor Woman is knocked up. If Franny is not confused, and the baby comes to term, etc, then HOLY SHIT. My one consolation when I walked away from our marriage was that he could not reproduce again. But thank you, modern technology!

This is good news for him for a few reasons:

1) According his allegations in court, I “forced” him to get a vasectomy after having Franny. (You should have seen it; I held him down and everything.) So now that Sea-Fed is out from under the crushing weight of my evil influences, he can spread joy over many future broken homes as well.

2) Also, he is coming dangerously close to finishing his Bachelor’s degree, which means he might have to get a job. You know, like a job he actually has to go to every day, unlike taxi driving, which is optional. That possibility is unacceptable. He just moved in with That Poor Woman, so a real job would seriously impede his ability to lie around next to her pool all day.

3) One of last times I had a civil conversation with him recently, he told me he was not looking to get married anytime soon, as he didn’t want to “end up back in court again.” I think he must’ve slept through our entire court battle, because the actual dissolution part took about five minutes, while the whole rest of the year-and-a-half was about settling things regarding Franny. Once you knock someone up, you are as good as married, Homes. All marriage does at that point is neatly bundle a bunch of legal rights, such as power of attorney, etc.

This is what I know about That Poor Woman. Sea-Fed was hanging out with my mom when we first split up because she wasn’t thoroughly disgusted with him yet. The scoop she passed on to me was this: That Woman was as much of a partier as he was, and boy do they get wasted when Franny is with her mom. But, lo, poor Sea-Fed, That Woman is boring and not nearly as exciting as Franny’s mom. (Well, it takes a bore to know a bore. Only my companion can harness this much excitement, and sometimes the excitement jumps off the track and even he gets gored.)

My mom also told me he was trying to get into the pants of another single her school mom at the same time all this was happening. He told my mom he was ready to “play the field.” Franny witnessed a scene during a playdate with the Hot her school mom and her kiddo that I would have given my eyeteeth to see. The way Franny describes it, Sea-Fed and the mom had words at Greenlake, and he grabbed her arm and she jerked away and was saying, “No!” I can just imagine the dialogue that prompted that.

“But I’ve been practicing, I can last longer than three minutes now!”

Apparently the mother was quite perturbed and scooped up her kid and left without saying goodbye. And there were no more playdates after that.

And then, shortly before I officially filed for divorce, he told me he broke up with That Woman because she had a “drinking problem.” At first I wondered if that meant she could stop drinking before she falls down, but no, “She’s just like my dad,” he said. “She comes home from work and immediately has a drink in her hand.” Maybe that’s so she can deal with your fucking ass? No? My bad.

Also before I filed, he was trying to get me to reproduce with him again. He thought he could bargain his way back into the relationship by getting the vasectomy reversed for me. Because surely I will overlook his shortcomings as a husband and neglect towards our daughter so I could have the prize of…more of his progeny? Brain-damaged-say-WHAT?

And then there was the Swingin’ Bachelor Sea-Fed stage. Just when I thought it could not get any skeevier…I was sitting peacefully in my academic office, on a short break before another student showed up for writing tutelage, when the phone rang.

“Writing Center,” I said, as I picked up.

“Hi, it’s Sea-Fed,” he smarmed. We talked about some Franny stuff for a few minutes, when he swung the conversation over to sex and his relationship with That Woman. This exchange will forever be burned upon my brain:

“I would be willing to see you, you know, on a sexual basis only,” he altruistically offered.

“But what about That Woman?”

“That Woman doesn’t have to know,” he oozed. “And neither does your companion.”

“….”

I had NOTHING, which is rare for me.

So That Woman is, in his words this weekend, “my Number-One go-to” for watching Franny. Needless to say I don’t have a very good impression of her. She seems nice, but so do a lot of people. I think she is either a) a doormat; b) oblivious; c) unaware of the characteristics of a sociopath; or d) has baby fever so bad that she’s convinced himself he’s an adequate catch. Maybe it’s all of the above, or maybe he is on his best behavior until he’s thoroughly ensnared her by knocking her up. He was certainly on his best behavior with me until we got married.

Some sociopaths diabolically pursue money or power, pushing every obstacle out of their way. Others merely wish to be comfortable and expend as little energy as possible. My mother holds out hope that he will learn from his mistakes and change his ways, but I know that when people like this lose whatever situation that ensures they don’t have to work/discipline their kids/maintain a healthy relationship they will slide away and into another situation that is exactly the same. Because people like that have no conscience or basis for judging mistakes; there are only obstacles.

That Poor Woman is probably going to be forced to hand That Poor Baby over to him and go back to work. I think stay-at-home dads rule, especially when they (this is KEY) ACTUALLY WATCH THEIR CHILDREN. Oops, I’ve gotten all shouty again. Deep breaths.

When and if things fall apart for them (it seems that Sea-Fed’s maternal grandfather was a sociopath as well, and managed to obtain a second wife and stay married for years), I’m sure he will try to prove That Poor Woman unfit too, if she makes any attempt at exposing his true character and getting her child to safety. And then he will leave behind another “crazy ex-wife,” just like all the “crazy ex-girlfriends” who came before me.

My companion suggested that I could act as a material witness when and if this happens. Yes, yes, yes. I don’t want to see another woman go through this. It’s ugly and she’s in for a bad enough education as it is. I hope the baby’s worth the cost.