terror tactics

Obsessing about Paul makes me feel seventeen. Maybe that's why I do it. It can't be because I wish I was married to a man who frequently pees on his shirttails while urinating outdoors because he's too drunk to maintain his full upright status. It can't be because I'd rather spend my free time wondering if I have V.D..



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And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Yesterday C called to ask to speak to her daughter. I told her Little J doesn't want to talk to her (true) and told her that while I had her on the phone, I'd made a decision. She has two weeks to get her crap out of my garage. We've been storing all her worldly possessions for a bloody year now and parking on the driveway to accommodate her stuff. Well, I told her I'm not accommodating anything anymore. Nothing nada. Get it out yesterday. Two weeks and it all goes in the dumpster.

She called seven times today while I was out at my grade twelves' commencement ceremonies, leaving a variety of hilarious messages on the answering machine. The messages ranged from begging to guilt trips to stern lectures about the importance of open communication.

The good news is that it seems to have worked. It looks as though she's going to let Little J have her vacation in exchange for continuing to store her rubbish. The bad news is that the long deep hole I ordered for her to fall into and never return still hasn't arrived.



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