Right now I should be scrambling to pack up the last of the kidlet beach-going business that we'd need to spend a whole week south of LA. But I'm not. The Manny decided that the children are not allowed to join me on this trip, see their maternal grandmother, or enjoy a week of fun in the sun. Why? He's mad at me.
Not gonna lie, damn near kicked a puppy down the street after he threatened to haul me in front of a judge claiming contempt of court for violating a 6-month-old custody agreement that doesn't say shit about me leaving the state with the kids. That was the last thing filed with the court (in JUNE!!!) and restricts my access to the kids severely, but has been out of force for months and months and months. But go ahead, issue Amber alerts and trump up some charges -- best served cold, no?
Dirty dealings. Punishing innocents for the sins of their father.
Time will surely take care of those things.
But in the meantime, The Manny is a bad, bad man.
Apparently, there is also no vacation from this for me. I'll be right here, basking in the sunshine of my spotless little minds, wishing we were poolside just north of the border, cursing The Manny's filthy name and wishing ill upon him. I do have a nice hot lump of coal to cram up his posterior Christmas cavern. It's a little present from Jesus himself by way of that oversized red and white striped fictitious asshole that you've convinced my little Jewish babies exists solely to bring them presents. Bollocks!
(I hate Christmas.)
Mid-Christmas day, a day that has only ever been spent by our nuclear family sitting poolside somewhere with my mother in an expensive locale far from home ignoring Santa and Jesus and wrongfully felled trees, the babies will go back to The Manny's for a little more benign neglect whilst he works and facebooks all day ("daddy's always too busy working," says Bub). I will be spending the evening on a non-romantic date with an attractive, brilliant doctor -- an internist, no less -- in a bougie restaurant downtown discussing the merits of medicinal marijuana and rebranding the local chong movement.
Two-thousand-holy-fuck-this-was-the-worst-year-of-my-life-and-nine needs to end tout de suite. Another fortnight of it might just kill me dead.
But 2010? Oh yeah, baby. That's my jam.
It's not sunny in Portland.