I won’t be bullied into deleting the blog, or into shutting down my Flickr account. Even if someone goes into my Flickr and deletes photos. Even if she threatens “pursue a different approach with regards to custody.” If there was actual power behind her the custody threat, I would worry. After all, Little Man is everything to me, and she knows that. It’s her strongest weapon.

Obviously there’s a much bigger story (isn’t there always?), but I can’t go into it here.

I can say that through it all, I can’t stop wondering why I’m the one being attacked? I am not the person who left the marriage in exchange for the girl next door. Shouldn’t there be some guilt? Some apologies? Some walking on eggshells? Some sensitivity? Some compassion? Any shred of basic human decency?

I just want to end this senseless fighting. Even if we’re not fighting in front of Little Man, which we don’t, he must pick up on that energy. And he’s displaying tell-tale signs of stress, which his teachers are telling us about.

We must stop. We must try to be civil. We must cooperate. If we can’t, then we’re harming him. And that breaks my heart. I must protect my boy from the stress he’s experiencing.

Oh god Little Man, please stop hurting. It’s going to be okay. I’m trying so hard. I’m nearly biting my tongue off to keep the nastiness safely unspoken. I’m doing this for you, my little love. I know the fighting hurts you, so I’m trying to bite bite bite bite bite bite bite bite my tongue. Trying to be civil. This is so hard. But for you — anything. Anything. My sweet little love. For you, I will bite my tongue and try to stop this fighting. My boy. Oh, my sad little boy. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow and enclose you in my arms and rest my nose on your soft little curls.

With 16 hours until my closing and 40 hours until I officially start moving my boxes and bookcases into my new place, this is where I find myself:

Email
Today, 4:41pm
cc:ed to 1) our mediator/attorney-$$, 2) her paralegal-$, 3) my attorney-$$$, 4) her attorney-$$

I would request that [Mafia] refrain from going through personal items of mine on my dresser, my bed stand, or my closet, or anywhere else that contains personal items if mine. If she is looking for something specific, she can wait until I am present.
This is a reasonable request.
Thank you,
[Xifey]

Today, 4:56pm
cc:ed to 1) our mediator/attorney-$$, 2) her paralegal-$, 3) my attorney-$$$, 4) her attorney-$$

[Xifey] is referring to two love letters from her girlfriend that she left in plain view this morning on the top of her dresser, the dresser that she is in the process of emptying, as it will become [Little Man's] dresser in 24 hours. This morning I noticed two handwritten notes in plain sight, unfolded them, read them, and propped them up on her dresser, unfolded, so that was aware that I saw them. This is also reasonable behavior, since I’ve REPEATEDLY asked [Xifey] over the last 10 weeks to refrain from leaving her love letters in prominent places around the house (i.e. the dining room table!!!). This is a reasonable request. I don’t need to go through her personal items — she leaves things in plain sight. Basic human kindness is clearly in short supply. When she stops leaving her love letters around the house, I’ll stop unfolding and propping them up. Deal?

[Xifey] — are we really spending our attorney’s time and money on this matter???

[Mafia]

Today, 4:56pm
cc:ed to 1) our mediator/attorney-$$, 2) her paralegal-$, 3) my attorney-$$$, 4) her attorney-$$

Items that are folded and tucked in a basket on my dresser (still mine for 24 hours) are in my personal space. There was no reason for you to be in my personal space.

[Xifey]

Is this really my life? Really? Good god.

I’ve been sleeping on the spare twin bed in Little Man’s room for the past couple months, and by way of explanation, we told Little Man that Mommy and Mama are fighting a lot and that sleeping in separate bedrooms might help. But since Xifey got the refinance of Ms. 1890 and I bought a condo, we had to tell him that I’ll be moving out. For posterity, here’s his teary response: (for reference: Mama=Xifey, Mommy=Mafia)

“But I want Mommy to stay here. This is our house. Why can’t Mommy live here with us?”
“Mama, if you and Mommy stop fighting, can Mommy come back home?”
“Mama, if you and I fight, will I have to get another house?”
“Mama, when I’m an adult, I’m going to fight with you and get my own house.”

It was the worst moment of my life, and I’d rather saw off my right tit than experience that again.

Tonight sucked too, because I was gone for Thanksgiving, and while I was gone, Xifey moved everything around the house, making piles of my stuff and hers. Welcome home, honey.

Plus, Little Man was super needy tonight, bouncing around the house and refusing to settle down to sleep. So I resorted to an old trick — the stand and sway. He’s a lot heavier now, but a mama’s love knows no boundaries. Instead of folding his little infant legs into my chest, his long legs dangled with toes near my knees. He twisted my necklace in one hand and twirled my hair with the other, and eventually he snuggled his chin into the side of my neck and his body went slack. I laid him down; he moaned. I pulled a pile of quilts over him; he twitched. I kissed his forehead, said goodnight, and apologized:

“Little Man, I am so sorry that this is happening to you. It breaks my heart to see you so anxious and sad. But as of Friday, you and I will have a new home. And yes, my dear, of course I will paint your room green and buy you a huge dinosaur to put on your dresser. Whatever you want, my love, whatever you want.”

There was big drama over the blog & comments over the past two weeks, hence the absence, but I believe that drama has passed. Different drama arrived to replace it, but ’tis the nature of divorce.

On a positive note — Little Man and I spent last weekend in Philadelphia for a pre-birthday visit with the BFF&exGF#2 and her Dearest, during which we were pampered by two of the most generous people on earth. Since the BFF has cable, I caught up on my trashy television: Tila Tequila. Dani = yelp, pant, pant, beg. Lesbian readers, pay attention - you can watch the entire series online for FREE. Trust me. Go meet Dani. You won’t regret the investment in trashy TV. And yes, I mean you Cate. Go now. She’s totally your type. Plus, there’s a major treat in Ep. 5. Go.

Ahem.

Anyway … I believe the rest of you are waiting for a decision and a prize. Right?

First of all, let me say this: Blogless Pi Grrrl was correct. I was only asking folks to share their dastardly deeds so I could engage in some therapeutic fantasizing. I didn’t intend to do anything. Really, I didn’t. But I was pushed too far. Again. And regarding being pushed too far, let us never discuss my birthday. Fun times at Chez Mafia. But I digress.

So the prize goes to …

Martha

… who not only frightened me with her insanity and used some excellent curse words. But she guessed the real deal — burning the note in a pot. Martha, you know the protocol. Email your address and I’ll send you something soon(ish).

Honorable mention goes to:

Beth S. for being super passive aggressive and snarky

Blogless Brandy for suggesting blonde nubile house guests, despite the fact that I’d trade them for salt-&-pepper pant-suit-&- heels-wearing powerful 30-something house guests with a soft curve or two. Just sayin’

Blogless Erin for suggesting the use of an evidence bag

FemiKnitter for being truly gross (love it!)

Jenn for a suggestion that’s crossed my mind a number of times over the past couple weeks

Lucia, for beginning the Alternate Mix Tape thread, which makes me think that I need to compile all these suggestions and make one. “Hello, iTunes? Can I get a credit line?”

Blogless Marisa for making me LOLcat

Mary for suggesting Skunk Essence and Red Fox Urine (where in the world can you procure those anyway?)

Melanie for her mind-fuckery idea involving bengay and STD accusations

Mote for a suggestion that involves tools. The Mafia loves tools

PumpkinMama for a simultaneous passive aggression & reality check

Rabbitch for combining a song list, Addis, blood, camel/tussah, and cocktails in the same idea

Suzanne for a scientifically educational idea involving the smell of semen (eeeeww yuck yuck)

Terry, for introducing me to my new favorite song: Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood

Thorny for an idea involving Taco Bell, shit, lighter fluid and the word “fuckwaddery”

Now pardon me while I go drop a wad on iTunes.

Sorry everyone, but my immunities are fighting off laryngitis right now, and my mouth is trying to accept the “be quiet” dictate.  It’s taking all of my energy to be quiet, which leaves zero energy for blogging.  Hrumpf.  I have chosen a winner, but I must leave you in suspense for the time being.

Lastly, everyone say Hi to Xifey [raises hand and waves].  She’s reading again, and called me at work this morning to tell me how much she enjoyed your well wishes in the Mix Tape comments.

Despite my intention to live vicariously through your fantastic suggestions for the Mix Tape note but not do anything, there was an unexpected resolution to the matter last Tuesday night.

10pm: I come home from class, after babbling at Terry for the entire trip from Boston (thanks Terry!), to find Xifey sitting at the dining room table playing on her laptop. And right in the middle of the table is the Mix Tape#4 note.

STILL on my dining room table! A full 15 hours after I found it, and 13 hours after I asked Xifey to hide her love letters (a small request, me thinks). So I …

Put my bag down
Walk calmly into the kitchen
Grab the wok
Walk back into the dining room
Place the wok on the table
Pick up the note
Stick the corner of note into the candle flame
Watch carefully as it ignites, and
Drop it in the wok.

Xifey: “Are you f*@^ing crazy?”
Mafia: “Nah. It’s a piece of paper, safely burning away in a wok. It’s not like I set the house on fire.”
Xifey: “I’m outta here!”

Stay tuned for a prize announcement on Monday. There are so many good ones that I’m having a really hard time making a decision!

Here’s a choose your own adventure for a lovely Tuesday morning.

The situation: you wake up, shower, help your Little Man brush his teeth & select seasonably appropriate attire, starch a stripey button down, slip into your dykey-est shoes, and bounce down the stairs, feeling pretty sexy. You glance at the dining room table and see only two items: your Xifey’s laptop and a yellow piece of notepad paper, folded once. You pick up the note and immediately recognize the hand-writing, which is not your Xifey’s.

What do you do?

All answers in the comments will be judged based on humor, sass, plausibility, implausibility, insanity, righteous indignation, use of curse words, and the nastiness of said curse words. The favorite comment, as judged by a panel of distinguished bloggers, will get sock yarn from the stash, and if there’s nothing in the stash that I’m willing to part with, I’ll buy you something.

ETA:

1) Oh my god, I love you guys. I walk away from the computer for a couple hours (to submit a deposit on a condo!!!), and I get 53 comments? I like totally seriously love you guys, and if my mom ever gives me 5 freakin’ minutes on the computer, I’ll make you a dope mix tape.

2) I’m in a quiet little Borders cafe right now and I’m quiet-laughing so hard that my chest muscles are sore. I don’t know how I’ll choose just one comment for a prize.

3) Comments to this post & the contest will remain open until Friday morning at 9am. Good luck!

The mitten-in-progress learned some Economics tonight

What mitten, you ask? Flying under the blogdar, it’s Austermann Step (the yarn with Aloe Vera and JoJoBo Oil in it) that was intended to be a sock for those first couple inches of ribbing, and suddenly screamed out to be a mitten. What can I say? I do what the yarn tells me.

How’s this for sexy?

It’s especially sexy when you note the pile of crap on Wifey’s bedside stand (I’m not trash-talkin’ here. mine is equally gross), the half-scraped wallpaper behind the lamp (which represents every wall in our bedroom), the Wall Street Journal on my computer, and lesson plans on Wifey’s computer. Yeah, we’re hot.

Last night.

11:45 pm: Wifey wakes up to our docile kitty Grace growling and jumping around in Little Man’s bedroom. Then she hears the tell-tale sounds of a bat.

11:45 & 30-seconds pm: Yours Truly, self-appointed leader of The Feminist Mafia, and protector of pansy-ass-Wifeys worldwide, discovers TWO bats in Little Man’s room. One under Grace’s paw. One circling the new light fixture. I scream like a little girl, grab the boy, and run back to our room.

11:55pm: Heart still racing, I re-enter the war zone. I gather my courage and perform a Xena-howling-back-flip (watch from the 1 minute mark). While the cat holds the bat down, I throw a plastic washpan over it. Yes, Batilda is trapped! But where is Stellaluna? I return to base camp to assess the situation.

12:05am: After creeping around the entire house with my sword held high a broom, I hear the cat again. She’s standing on Little Man’s bed, and meowing at his curtains. If she could, she’d be standing there rolling her eyes, pointing to the window and saying, “dumb ass, it’s right over here.”

12:05-12:30am: Wifey is practically pissing herself with laughter on the -outside- of Little Man’s door while I’m engaged in mortal battle with Stellaluna. The bat circles my head, I swing the broom and shriek. The bat circles my head, I swing the broom and grunt. The bat circles my head, I swing the broom and curse. And so on. Finally, I stare deep into Stellaluna’s beady little eyes and say “I’m gonna kick your ass.” Thankfully Wifey is laughing so hard that she doesn’t hear that line.

12:30: There’s a glitch in Stellaluna’s sonar and I finally knock her out of the air and trap her under a basket. Yes! But what now?

Our local Police Department, entirely unhelpful (as usual).
Me: Can I get an Animal Control Officer over here to pick up a couple bats that I found in my son’s room so I can get them tested for rabies?
PD: Ma’am, did the bat bite your son?
Me: I don’t know, he was sleeping.
PD: Well, did you wake your son up and ask him if he was bitten by a bat?
Me: No, he was sleeping. If a bat bit him and he realized that a bat bit him, the entire neighborhood would know it.
PD: Can you see any bite marks on your son?
Me: No, but do -you- know what a bat bite looks like? [resisting the urge to say, "well let's see, there are two small circular wounds on his neck that are swollen and oozing a slightly green substance, and there's a tall pale man standing in the corner."]
PD: Ma’am, did you see the bat bite your son?
- - ad nauseum - -

Long story short, the bats are still alive and trapped in Little Man’s room (11:30 am). The local Police, Animal Control and Conservation Offices were all complete a-holes when I called them this morning, so I called the State Department of Public Health, who assured me that I did the right thing, and that Batilda and Stellaluna should both be tested for rabies.  Supposedly someone will come to my house to get the bats today.

I made an appointment with a Bat Exclusion company for Monday.

And I’ll be buying some lumber to make a bat house this weekend. I’ll even apply a fresh coat of paint, pay for utilities, and provide free parking if they sign the lease.

And docile kitty Grace, the hero of the house, got an extra scoop of Cat Chow this morning.

And now you’ve seen as much of my Wife as I have in the last 20 hours. She was one of the crazy souls who showed up at the bookstore at 12midnight last night, and she’s already 350 pages into it.

Me? I’m a little behind. I’m almost 1/2 way through Book 5, which is fun, but since we saw the movie last weekend, I already know how it ends.

But I DON’T know how Book 6 ends, so please don’t tell me. By some pop culture miracle, I’ve avoided hearing who dies at the end, and I’m trying to catch up. So no spoilers OK?

The little angel is sitting on my right shoulder telling me to finish the syllabus for the class that I start teaching on Monday night. The little devil is telling me to read Book 5. And let’s not even discuss the state of my house and pile of unpaid bills. Oy.

ETA: At 11am on Sunday Wifey stopped reading to mourn the end of an era.  She didn’t want to finish.  Didn’t want it to end.  Then she plowed through the last 100 pages and finished by 12noon.  I’m still 1/2 way through Book 5, but I’m ready to teach tomorrow night.  Syllabus? check. Lecture notes? check. Handouts? check.  goooood night . . . z z z z z z . . .