February 2, 2012
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letting go
One of my kids called last night. He needed to know what setting he needed on the stove burner to boil water. He was making macaroni and cheese (bleah). I talked to him a little while. When I asked him about the size of the pan, he gave me an approximate diameter. I thought he was making a box of mac and cheese and told him to use a larger pan. None were clean. I told him that he’d have to wash one. No problem. “Wash the one you need, then you can tackle the rest of the dishes while you wait for the water to boil.”
Five minutes later H calls. He’s screaming, in a rage. I tell him that it’s no problem for the kids to call me with questions on using the stove. He’s pissed at my utter FUCKING AUDACITY to ASSUME that the pan was too small.
Apparently, this has to do with the kitchen sink which is overflowing with dirty dishes. He howls and screams and postures. So dramatic.
What. A. Princess.
Then he growls that he’s happy to be divorced from me (not as happy as I am), and announces dramatically (and so effeminitly) that he’s moved on (meaning he’s seeing a 25 year old). I tell him that I’m glad. He rages some more and dramatically hangs up.
What…a…..FUCKING…..girl.
I text a friend and unload on her. She can only say, “Wow. Are you sure he’s seeing a woman? Because it almost sounds like he’s become one.”
I tell her that I’m not impressed, “When I was 25, I didn’t have to date an old man. I was able to score a date with someone my age.”
