June 13, 2009
serves me right - get it? *sigh*

Last night I had a plan. I would go home, get Blake ready for his weekend, and once he was safely dispatched I would run up to the bar near work, pick up Mason, and go to Drunken Knitting. This plan was fraught with small perils. First, that I had to go help do a dry run of DDR in the school caf to get ready for the Fun Fair on Monday. (Sigh. This – and telling 15 year olds who just consumed a box of Popeye's chicken in the 5 minutes it took to introduce today's lesson that I don't have napkins because I'm not a full-service eatery - is my life.) Second, that during the pick up, I would be seeing my mom for the first time since she bad-temperedly asked if I would be losing my job for co-habiting with Mason. Two days is a long time to build up invective, and I was spooked. Third, Blake's clothes were washed but not packed, leading to a frantic run-around that I've just about perfected at this point. Fourth, I had to ask for Blake an hour early on Sunday so I could help Jessamyn produce nudie photos (of her, natch.) But after that, I looked forward to smooth sailing all the way to a yarny harbour.

It was after I'd navigated all of these petty problems that the Boy pulled out a wad of papers to "serve me." The husband whose only decision in the past two years has been to leave half his crap behind has initiated a divorce. And just last week I was assuring Effie that he would never have the motivation to do this, as I was the one who had spent almost three thousand dollars on the separation agreement and mortgage re-titling. He was so passive that he didn't even get council for any of that. Ha ha ha, joke's on me.

So after I told my parents, called my lawyer, cried explosively for a few minutes, and ripped up one of his pictures while screaming invective, there was little left to do but go find a beer. Thank heaven for Drunken Knitting and my sympathetic ladies Soho, Mad Hattress and Needle Addict. Still, it would have been much better if I wasn't driving home. Then we'd truly see the meaning of the phrase "drunk and disorderly." (Usually when I drink we just see the meaning of "if she can't hold her liquor, you'll have to take her home sir." Sorry, Dav's wedding night.)

Last night and this morning I've been sleepily pondering the last thing the Boy said to me, a vague, "I'm sorry." The part of me that is truly the Queen of the Harpies is more than ready to compose a vicious list of all the things for which I am sorry, of which the mildest would have been, "that I assured you you were an adequate lover." But that's not really productive for either of us, and he wouldn't care anyway. I mean, that's why he moved out, right? So he didn't have to listen to my jive.

The following is a list of things for which I am truly sorry, not just because I'm mad.

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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*