The Next Day....

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
A continuation of my fucking birthday

Submitted: July 08, 2015

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Submitted: July 08, 2015



The Next Day (My Fucking Birthday continues)

So my husband, it turns out, was responsible for my son cancelling my party. He decided ON HIS OWN that since my (divorced and remarried) daughter was going to be busy with her new husband, and since she felt offended that a party could go on without her and especially HIM, that it was more important not to hurt her feelings than mine.  How I would feel apparently wasn’t high on his list of concerns.

So, I think my husband is a douche-bag. I really do.  He thinks he is watching out for the family, and is maintaining peace, but that isn’t true.  All he did was step in with his clumsy boots, and now my son is furious at his sister and her husband; I am furious at everyone, but especially the idiot that put all this into motion, my moron of a husband with the sensitivity and social skills of a termite.

So here I am, the night before my party which my son cancelled because his father told him too, and anyhow the party was just a way for him to “show off his new deck,” and we pick my beloved granddaughter up from camp and take her to our house for a sleepover.  As I put her backpack down she tells me that she has lice and her mother wants me to follow up.  She has a special comb, and the night before my cancelled party I’m going to be combing lice nits out of my granddaughter’s hair.


I made myself reservations at a five star hotel, then cancelled them. Honestly, I don’t even feel like going.  Saturdays at a hotel are no fun for Sabbath observers.  They are so restricted. Can’t do this, or that or the other thing. Can’t go to the pool, or the beach, or use the elevator or turn the lights on and off…  I could put it off until after the weekend, but then we run into  the three week mourning period before the Ninth of Av.  Sunday is actually a fast day!  Great time to be in a five-star hotel.

But the idea of spending the week end with my husband is sickening.  I so loathe him right now.  So I guess it’s something to think about.  Pretty hard to be holed up with someone you  loathe at the moment.  I keep thinking of all kind of revenge scenarios.  The one popping up most frequently is to cancel this year’s Thanksgiving Dinner, which everyone loves, and to which my daughter insists on bringing all FIVE  of her (bored and sullen) stepchildren, an invasion of an intimate family tradition celebrating our anniversary and my husband’s birthday.  It’s an awful lot of work making three kinds of pies, a stuffed turkey, corn muffins, soup, freshly baked  homemade bread.  Yeah, I think this year I’ll just skip it.

I’m not sure anybody out there is actually going to read this blog at any point.  I’ve got five thousand facebook friends, but I can’t tell them about this because they’d know immediately it was me.  Publicizing this stuff under my real name would be like bungie jumping without a rope.  I’m angry, but I’m not insane.

My granddaughter, all lice-combed, is in her pajamas next door reading.  Being around her today was very healing.  I adore that little girl, and I will always make her birthday parties. 




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