You suck.

I hate you.

And your little dog too.

I will not be defeated by your pointy-headed bean-counting algebraic formulas.

I’m going to kick your ass tonight.

Because, I’d like to KNIT again!

T-minus 5 hours to stitches, wool fumes and vanilla vodka.

Before. After.

Click the picture for more than you ever wanted to see.

ETA: Thanks for all the early compliments.  But let me clarify — Nina Beana did the lion’s share of Phase 2.  We love her!

And I’m getting really tired of people thinking that I am. Nothing against femmes, of course, because I ADORE them. Hard femmes are totally my thing. Meow. But I am not femme. And in the last few weeks I’ve been called a femme at least 4 times, and worse yet, someone said I look like a suburban mom. Dems fightin words!

My weapon of choice — scissors!

This is merely Phase 1. I suspect that another 4 inches will be chopped off before the week is out. I have clippers and I’m not afraid to use them.

As the semester grinds to a close, my workload is unfathomable. I am settling into a new home. I am coping with this horrid divorce. My custody arrangement is such that I’m either at work, at school, or caring for Little Man. There is one night per week that I have neither, and that’s my homework night. How will I ever date? Do I even want to? [prob not. never again.] But all this stress feels so teeeeeeeny in comparison.

Because my mind is stuck on blood soaked images of one lovely womb and the insane cells that grew there, without warning, almost instantly. The best case scenario is a hysterectomy. A hysterectomy on a woman in her mid 30s. A hysterectomy on a dear sweet friend who watched her own partner die of cancer in her early 30s. WTF? How is this just? What is wrong with this world??? How could I ever believe in a god who allows such horrible ironies? This dear sweet friend is engaged to a dear sweet friend of mine. Both are such generous souls that you want to snuggle into on the couch with them to discuss art and life and knitting and music and love and heartache and fear and judgment and sex and lust and loyalty. The kind of friends who hear of your divorce and offer to drive 6 hours to pick you up and drive you away from the source of the agony. Amazing amazing women. My heart is absolutely breaking.

please please please please please please please send wishes for steel walls in her womb.
If it hasn’t spread beyond her uterus, she will probably survive.
please please please please please please please send wishes for steel walls in her womb.
Steel Womb
Steel Womb
Steel Womb
Steel Womb
Steel Womb

please please please please please please please don’t let this happen.  please.

I’m in! And the Bachelor Pad is nearly unpacked too. Photos forthcoming.

As always, Suzanne has incredible timing. She posted a dirty little internet quiz today, which offered fresh perspective on my love life. Sweet!

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.

It’s official. At 6pm last night I signed off all rights and responsibilities to Ms. 1890. I’m sad. She was my house. My first house. I found her. I poured myself into fixing her up. And I wanted to keep her. But I can’t afford her, and I don’t understand how Xifey will manage to keep her afloat. [file under: not my problem] Not to mention, I couldn’t possibly live next door to The Other Woman. Alas, Ms. 1890 and I will part ways this weekend when I move into Ye Olde Shoe Factory: a beautiful 2 bedroom 1 bath condo in the “arts district” of my town. For the record, 1 block of galleries/antique stores/pubs + 1 extensive marketing campaign = the arts district. It’s a 3rd floor unit. 12 foot ceilings with exposed wood beams. 8 foot windows. An exposed brick wall running the length of the place. Deeded parking. An goooooood Irish pub directly next door (ahem, not that I care about such things … ).

Any of my local yokels wanna haul boxes on Saturday? Anyone own a truck?

To the rest of my yokels: please forgive me for not replying to comments. I’m bad. Super bad. And tired. And packing. And you know … just not emailing right now. Okay? And soooooory.

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.

A little bird has been telling people that it’s my birthday, so my yahoo box and my ravelry box are packed with well wishes.  What a wonderful way to start the day!  Clearly I have the best little bird that a mafia could ever want, and no, I won’t share.  And just to make you even more jealous, my little bird left an entire pan of brownies on my desk this morning.  Not a couple brownies, which would’ve been wonderful.  An entire pan!  Okay, now I’m bragging.

Anyway … I have no big plans for celebrating, except a lunch date with a new friend, and probably adult bevvies and knitting tonight.

I’m looking forward to being 33.  It’s such a nice round number.  Also, if you tip your head to the right and squint, 33 looks like lesbians spooning.  It also looks like my favorite hug — the sneak up from behind surprise hug.  Just sayin.