Sigh
Ah, Friday. Friday, Friday, Friday. The weekend stretches ahead like a shimmering vision of loveliness, full of promises of glorious things to come.
*sound of needle scraping off the edge of one of those old-fashioned vinyl record things (ask your dad)*
What a pity then that, before the Other Half and I can plunge headlong into the cool refreshing waters of Nothing Much To Do, I have to visit the Ex. I received a plaintive text at midnight last night asking me to call round this evening. He even said please, which is always a worry. Repeated enquiries yielded no information whatsoever, save that whatever it is can't be discussed on the phone. Knowing the Ex as I do, this has something to do with money. I am fully expecting a lengthy, incoherent monologue, probably with tears, explaining that he is poverty-stricken and laying the blame entirely at my door for having had the audacity to leave him and to expect him to pay maintenance towards his daughter's upbringing. I'm not going to justify my leaving, nor will I feel guilt regarding the payments he makes. These payments, in addition to supporting our child (to the extent that I provide toothpaste, vitamins and shampoo for her visits to him as he won't on the grounds that "that's what he pays me for"), are also by way of compensation for me not forcing him to sell the house. And before all the angry jilted fathers get up on their soapboxes and rant about an unfair society that allows women to recklessly have children and expect everything in return when the relationship falls apart, I'd just like to state clearly for the record that I couldn't give a fuck. This is my situation, and given that the Ex in question has just returned from a lengthy sojourn to New Zealand, owns a house that is worth a hundred grand more than when we bought it and earns considerably more than me (there are children in Filipino sweatshops earning considerably more than me, but I get more tea breaks so ner), I'm damn well going to have a rant at the impending Poor Me You Ruined My Life that I'm going to have to sit through this evening.
Either that or he's planning to stab me to death and leave me out for the dustmen. Still, at least it's pizza* for tea.
Carry on.
* This is not just a pizza. This is a fat-free, taste-free, cardboardy parody of a pizza designed to make you feel both bloated and hungry within fifteen minutes of eating it. Fucking diet. And fucking Marks and Spencer with their wish-fulfillment bollocks. Gah.
*sound of needle scraping off the edge of one of those old-fashioned vinyl record things (ask your dad)*
What a pity then that, before the Other Half and I can plunge headlong into the cool refreshing waters of Nothing Much To Do, I have to visit the Ex. I received a plaintive text at midnight last night asking me to call round this evening. He even said please, which is always a worry. Repeated enquiries yielded no information whatsoever, save that whatever it is can't be discussed on the phone. Knowing the Ex as I do, this has something to do with money. I am fully expecting a lengthy, incoherent monologue, probably with tears, explaining that he is poverty-stricken and laying the blame entirely at my door for having had the audacity to leave him and to expect him to pay maintenance towards his daughter's upbringing. I'm not going to justify my leaving, nor will I feel guilt regarding the payments he makes. These payments, in addition to supporting our child (to the extent that I provide toothpaste, vitamins and shampoo for her visits to him as he won't on the grounds that "that's what he pays me for"), are also by way of compensation for me not forcing him to sell the house. And before all the angry jilted fathers get up on their soapboxes and rant about an unfair society that allows women to recklessly have children and expect everything in return when the relationship falls apart, I'd just like to state clearly for the record that I couldn't give a fuck. This is my situation, and given that the Ex in question has just returned from a lengthy sojourn to New Zealand, owns a house that is worth a hundred grand more than when we bought it and earns considerably more than me (there are children in Filipino sweatshops earning considerably more than me, but I get more tea breaks so ner), I'm damn well going to have a rant at the impending Poor Me You Ruined My Life that I'm going to have to sit through this evening.
Either that or he's planning to stab me to death and leave me out for the dustmen. Still, at least it's pizza* for tea.
Carry on.
* This is not just a pizza. This is a fat-free, taste-free, cardboardy parody of a pizza designed to make you feel both bloated and hungry within fifteen minutes of eating it. Fucking diet. And fucking Marks and Spencer with their wish-fulfillment bollocks. Gah.
posted by surly girl at 3:01 pm
20 Comments:
If you're going to put out for the binmen my love can I at least have my sweatshirt back that I lent you this morning ?
He could sell his motorbike. Multiple problems solved in one stroke. I'm clever, me.
Take OH with you if you think he's going to be truly foul.
the de-tox is still making you a bit crabby then?
*passes sg a bottle of virtual beer*
Your ex is a twat (I like saying that). Good luck tonight.
p.s. I agree with GSE. Can you bring OH? I worry ....
And it's not like he's spending his money on high fashion and grooming is it?
My bet is he's going to play the "I've-got-a-terminal-illness-so-you-have-to-get-back-with-me-out-of-guilt" card.
I don't know if there are worse words than, "We need to talk."
Bleh. Best of luck.
*there are children in Filipino sweatshops earning considerably more than me, but I get more tea breaks so ner*
Heehee! I don't really get teabreaks... I get people shouting at me cos I can't decide if I want tea or not then am forced to drink it at my desk where I almost always spill it. My wristrest was once a lovely shade of royal blue. It's not any more...
what an arse (i enjoyed saying that too)
hope it went ok and that you are now contemplating frozen yoghurt to satisfy your post-pizza hunger pangs
Just take the money and run.
Be safe. Take a baseball bat (or cricket bat) and stay out of reach. I don't trust him, and I don't even know him.
Stop whinging woman and get your daughter a crash helmet, it's what I pay you for!
you aren't going to make us wait all the way 'til Monday to find out what happenend are you.
Please?
Sell the house.
If he's not looking after Small Person then he can buy somewhere samller and you can claim your part of the equity. Cut as many ties as you can, matey.
He can keep the bike and weep.
Grrrrrr.
Soooooo ... what's the scoop??? What did the the sob story turn out to be?
I hope you're ok after the visit. Surely now you deserve a proper pizza?
I couldn't think of anything to say about the awfulness of an impending whinge from horrible ex so I've ben holding my breath waiting to hear the results.
Well I did breathe once or twice.
????????????
I'll leave SG to fill you in on the details suffice to say all is well and no-one came to any harm.
massive outburst of held breath from assembled multitude.
But we are re-holding for the denoument.
thank you other half, for putting us out of our misery. I was wondering all weekend.
Can'y wait to hear if you took a handheld grand piano with you to drop on the hopeless bastards head.
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