Friday at Last

Yeah, I know--I'm a blog slacker this week. I'm tired. And I'm busy.

Got back from Dallas Sunday afternoon. It was a good time, but I was glad to get home. Funny how you really don't know what you've got til it's gone and not sitting in front of you demanding more Gatorade or tracking in mud or leaving its dirty socks on the floor. Anyway, I was exceptionally happy to see my two favorite dudes. Even happier to see that Dude #2 had cleaned the house in anticipation of my arrival. He's learning, kids, he's learning.

This week has been suckage as far as work is concerned. Junkie client who can't stop moving to different states and seeing doctors in all of them for more pain meds. It's been a serious fucking mess.

And speaking of serious fucking messes, Bob has been a royal pain in the ass this week. I noticed a difference in his overall demeanor when I got back Sunday, so it could be my pending departure was taking a toll on him last week, but this week hasn't been a helluva lot better. He's done better at school, but at home, it's been nothing but At-Ti-Tude. Shitty, nasty, rude behavior. Outright defiance. Just plain nasty. And I've about had my fucking fill of it.

Then yesterday I emailed db about t-ball. There are two Saturday games that fall on his weekends. Two. Two fucking games. And the first one is Team Photo Day. Pictures at 8:40, game at 9:00. A.m. So I suggested I either deliver Bob to him the first Saturday late and pick him up later the next day, or he come to the game and take Bob home afterwards. Oh, no. Not gonna happen, sister. "You will deliver (Bob) to me at 9:00 no exceptions." Whatever, fuckstain. Then he starts emailing me out the ass demanding all this information about "this t-ball" (like it's something sordid) and wanting all the information about when and where practices and games are. And accusing me of making the decision to involve Bob in "this t-ball" without discussing it with him first. I reminded him that the emails of record will demonstrate I did, in fact, attempt to discuss it with him first, but he wanted no part of it.

As I was responding to his 7th annoying whiny-ass email this morning, I got the call to come get Bob from school. He'd hit and kicked a teacher. It was only 9 fucking a.m. So, since I never tell db anything, I added this tidbit to my email and hit send. He responded by asking where Bob was since he wasn't at school, and since this is his weekend, would I consider letting him pick Bob up early "so that I can spend more time with him?"

Are you fucking retarded?

Nevermind that the kid is IN TROUBLE and spending the day with Fun Daddy when you get kicked out of school is, oh, counterproductive. Nevermind that the two times I've asked him to adjust the schedule by 8 hours or less, he's refused to bend period. Nevermind that there's a damn good reason (or several) why he's only allowed to spend 72 hours a month with his kid.

But of course, this is only further evidence of my "refusing to cooperated," according to his last (hopefully) email.

Fuck. You. Buddy.

I am so ready to go home. I am so ready for this week to be over. I am so ready to spend a kid-free weekend at home with my husband.

In other news...

I don't know what triggered it, but for some reason, Nancy Spungen popped into my head some time this week. You know--of the infamous Sid and Nancy? Sid Vicious, former pseudo-bass player for the Sex Pistols and raging junkie, who allegedly stuck a knife in his junkie girlfriend's gut back in 1978 and OD'd before his high-priced lawyer (Johnnie Cochran, believe it or not) got a chance to defend him? Yeah, them.

Anyway--Nancy's mother wrote a book about what it was like to raise Nancy, and I picked up that book when I was a senior in high school. I don't know why, but the story fascinated me. In a way, it still kind of does. (I've always had some kind of intellectual fascination with serial killers and other social deviants. I guess crazy people interest me. Go figure, I ended up breeding with their king.) I went so far as to do a project on the book for my English class.

Back then, I regarded Nancy's life with a sort of warped interest. Today, I regard it with a sense of dread.

Am I the next generation of Debbie Spungen?

It's been almost 30 years since that fateful day at the Chelsea. Debbie Spungen is about 70 years old now and probably just wants to be left alone. But I find myself really wanting to talk to her. To ask her about the little girl who left her shaking her head, dumbfounded. To look for similarities. Or differences.

I don't know why. It's not like she'd be able to tell me, "don't worry, honey, it'll all turn out okay."

Maybe it will be, though. We had our first t-ball practice experience this week, and it wasn't completely awful. Bob did really well for about the first 35 minutes, then he got bored with fielding drills and decided to lay down in the grass. When he was told to get up, he refused. When I told him to get up, he threatened to explode. I walked away and in fact told Ben "I'll be back" and walked around the park for the remaining 10 minutes of practice. I guess after I walked away, Bob got himself together for the most part.

I just don't know. His sperm donor is 46 years old and still completely fucked in the head. I don't want Bob to end up like that. But I don't know how to prevent it. I don't know that it's not already too late.