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There’s a dually and a dick in my driveway.

Posted on Monday, April 6, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

WARNING: Explicit thoughts and words will follow.

My mom recently left her husband (hoorah, do a cart-wheel if you can) because he’s the king of Douchbag Island. And regardless of the fact that I know, and she knows, and everyone knows, that she will go back to him, I’m proud of her for standing up for herself for a minute. Here is how I feel about her husband: He is a tall, 61-year old baby with a smuggness I just want to rip off of his face with my fingernails (true, I keep them short–an old piano player habit – but they could still do some damage). I cannot remember a day of my 28-year old life that his ugly face hasn’t made an appearance. (Yes, he wrecked my parent’s marriage–not single handedly, I’ll admit, but he sure didn’t help keep our family together at all) He treats my mom like a slave, and doesn’t appreciate any of the things she does to take care of him. He invested all of their retirement money in a sour real estate deal (despite the fact that I shared my gut feelings about it long ago…), has known for a year that there is no money coming in, yet still sits on his flat ass playing a scintillating computer card game, Solitaire (anyone heard of it? It received the UGY award – Underacheiver’s Game of the Year). All the while, my mom, who has a reasonable head on her shoulders, decides to get a job so they can have some money and he can have his damn health insurance. This makes her day as such: 5:30 wake up, make Dink breakfast, take a bath, walk 1 mile through deep snow to highway where vehicle is parked (upon arriving she will discover that her work slacks are wet to her knees and she might as well have skipped deodorant and the curling iron), drive 25 minutes to town, work from 8:30 until 4:30 at a depressing place that smells, quite literally, like death, at 4:30, she will then drive to the grocery store to buy food for dinner, drive 25 more minutes home, walk through the snow, up the porch stairs with said groceries, only to walk in to fnd Dink at computer, with only his balding donut-head greeting her, breakfast dishes? still dirty. Dinner? Won’t be ready until she cooks it. Not only does she have to cook it, then she has to do the dishes to clean up afterward. (Go ahead mother, chime in: *But sometimes he does help me dry!!!!) I find this situation to be unacceptable. Mainly because I know that it’s not how she wants to live her life. If she could paint a picture of her ideal life, it would not resemble this situation one bit. And that makes me sad, because I know that while she taught me growing up that I should always be independant and rely on myself to get by, she can’t practice what she preaches and only stays with him because she is scared.

So, as I mentioned, she’s living with me and my fiance now (who, by the way, has been really wonderful about it all) but Dink is not out of the picture, oh no. She is dating him now–meets him for dinner here and there, goes up to take care of him, I’m surprised he doesn’t call her to wipe his ass every time he craps, honestly. This weekend, he had the nerve to pull his big dumpy truck into MY driveway and stand in MY front yard and act like a cocky fuck while my mom handed him the section of the newspaper where one might look to find a job – good luck you talantless shitstain. I want to tell her, so badly, that he’s not welcome within 1 mile of my home thanks much, but I know that it would hurt her, so I don’t. I guess I can’t be her backbone. But one thing I did learn from this: Blissfully, I can set boundaries in my OWN life that will not permit assholes like that to be in it, period. And that is sure a relief. I think I’ll start my list of people who won’t be invited for Christmas with:

Dink

Coincidentally, the list ends there. (for now)

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