Since, I am no longer obsessing over a relationship I can not have, I have decided to focus my attention on those I can’t get out of.
Let’s start with my ex-husband, Beans.
Beans loves attention. My attention in particular.
Beans will cause a fight over nothing just so I will text him.
I love this.
Beans currently lives in Las Vegas. I live in Los Angeles. We share custody of our three year old daughter (Tallulah).
I drove Tallulah to Las Vegas last Friday for her bi-weekly visit with Beans.
Beans takes a lot of vicodin. This makes his sausage saggy, like his old man ass.
Beans has finally had enough of his limp dick problem. He told me so Friday, and with the advice of his doctor, started taking testosterone. Beans said it would take roughly three weeks until he was “working” again. Beans and I had a three year, sexless marriage.
It’s nice to have someone you can make fun of without feeling bad about it. Beans has earned his torture. Here is today’s text conversation.
Me: How is Tallulah doing today?
Beans: Tallulah is still sick. Please check her daycare. She gets sick there a lot.
Me: Beans, kids are sick all the time because of school and daycare. Duh! That’s why they have immunizations! It’s the dry weather and your cigarette smoke making her cough worse. If you are worried take her to the doctor.
Beans: it can’t be the weather or cigarette smoke because you don’t smoke and it’s humid in California. Just worried about her. Her eyes are red and puffy.
Me: You smoke and it’s dry there. Tallulah was not sick when she as here. Put a humidifier in her room and stop smoking around her.
Beans: You told me she was sick before she came here! She was sick when you brought her here!
Me: She was getting over a cold. Put the fucking humidifier in her room and stop smoking around her. I gotta go, bye! Text me when your testosterone kicks in!
Beans: so she was sick before she got here? I don’t smoke around her. Why are you getting defensive? I think it’s the daycare or maybe your grandma doesn’t put the heat on at night.
Me: I get along fine with men. It’s the bitches that I have the problem with. Text me when your dick gets hard.
Beans: Sorry but those days are over.
Me: What days? They never existed.
Beans: Ha ha! I’ll take that personal later.
Me: According to your mother it’s genetic. Ok, stop texting me! I have to get ready for work and I can’t when I’m laughing this hard.
Beans: Or maybe it was just you.
Me: Not according to the 380 other guys I’ve slept with.
Beans: You keep telling yourself that. Maybe I’m the one that got away. Lol
Me: AWWWWW! How sweet! But that would imply that I cared about you. Although I do not care about you, I do remember that you posses an enormous, Italian Wang. I would be more then happy to take a ride on that hefty pony once it’s reborn. Keep me updated! Now seriously, I need to go to work.
Beans: Ya, OK. I believe that. I only have sex with people I have feelings for. I’m probably the last true romantic.
Me: Great! I’ll see you in three weeks, Stud!
Beans: Three weeks? Cool! That means I get to keep Tallulah for Christmas!
Me: Wow. That’s all you could come up with? Now I’m feeling kinda bad for smashing you like a little bug.
Beans: Yes. I don’t know why you try to hurt me.
Poor, dumb Beans! He continued arguing with me all day today.
* Do you think I’m too hard on the guy? *
Pill popping and flaccid weenies run in Beans family.
I remember one Thanksgiving, Beans mother was slicing up boiled yams. She was holding a long, skinny, orange tater in her hand. She looked over at me and said in her New York, Italian accent,
“You see dis! Dis reminds me of my husband! Except his is soft! It doesn’t work anymore!” Then she laughed.
I laughed. Then I said, “It must run in the family!”
Beans broke his back over a decade ago. He has been in pain ever since. This is how he became hooked on the erection eradicating substances. He has tried several other methods of pain management. So, when the doctor suggested he have an out-patient procedure (minor surgery) to numb the nerves in his back, I told him to go for it!
We were at dinner at his mothers house when Beans decided to tell her the news.
“Hey, ma!” Beans said. “I’m goin’ to da docs on Tursday. They aw gonna do a mine-a surgery to numb some nerves in my back.”
Beans’ mother jumped out of her chair in shock!
“OH MY GOD, BEANS-A! YOU CAN’T DO IT! OH, LORD JESUS! Dont let that doct-a cut you open Beans-a! That doct-a will put you in a chair! He will make you a cripple! OH GOD!” His mother screamed.
“Ma! Sit down! It will be ok, ma! You will see!” Beans tried to calm the old coot down to no avail.
She was standing up, shaking her head. Her hands were in the air in prayer, the lose arm skin was flapping around.
“OH LORD JESUS! Don’t put my Beans-a in a chair! Why, oh why, Beans-a! Why you let that doct-a cut you again?”
This explained a LOT.
Poor Beans never had a chance.
Beans’ mother asked me to call her “Ma”. Hating my own mother, I had no problem with this request.
Ma was pretty much the worst cook that ever lived. Everything she tried to cook was floating in oil. Whenever she invited us for dinner I would make sure to bring my own dish or two.
Everyone always got sick after eating her cooking. Changing the kids diapers for the following two days after was always a nightmare.
One time Ma even almost killed my dad with food poisoning.
I loved it when she would order Chinese food.
I hate Chinese food.
I remember my last Christmas at Beans’ mothers house. I came early to help her cook in hopes of there being something actually edible that day.
When I arrived at nine am, she was already in the kitchen. Ma was a large, sweaty, typical, Italian mother. Ma had horrible body oder and a prickly mustache that would chafe me every time she kissed me.
Which was often.
Italians kiss each other a lot.
Ma had a towel around her neck. She was using the towel to wipe the sweat off her forehead as she cooked. The towel was fairly damp.
I asked Ma what needed to be done first. She pointed to the sink. It was full of dishes. Ma did not believe in using a dishwasher, though she had one. It just sat there being used as storage for her pasta pans.
I especially hated this because I always ended up with the fork that wasn’t washed good enough. You know, the one that had the dried up piece of noodle stuck to it.
I finished washing the dishes by hand. I had them stacked in the dish drainer by the sink when it happened.
In horror, I watched Ma walk up to the drying dishes. She pulled the sweaty towel off her neck that she had been using to collect her salty, body drippings with. Then, she picked up a clean plate from the pile and began drying it with the same soggy towel.
After she finished she wiped down the counter top.
I wanted to die.
My eyes were watering.
I excused myself and ran to the bathroom and purged.
I never ate there again.
Here is a picture of me sun bathing in Vegas. It has absolutely nothing to do with my story. I just used sex appeal to trick you into reading.