People who know me well, know I have a pretty volatile temper. And they know it’s best to don a crash helmet, and, perhaps, a bullet-proofed vest when my ugly ire reaches a combustible level. However, the good news is my threshold for tolerating bullshit is exceedingly high. In that, I don’t explode over someone forgetting to put the toilet seat down and such. So, when I go off, there’s a pretty good reason why.
That said, since my ex-husband, Ashe’s 45th birthday would’ve been tomorrow, I thought I’d share another Ashe-tale, so to speak. For the 411 on Ashe, check out this post:
We were living in a rather spacious 3-bedroom apartment in West Virginia. Ashe was unemployed and making little effort to find gainful employment. My son, Tim, had just turned two. Ashe was taking care of him and allegedly job hunting while I was doing hard time as a paralegal in one of the many cubicle prisons I labored in over the years before going freelance. My boss was an obnoxious ambulance chaser to boot, so my ability to abide Ashe’s nonsense was weakened.
I came home one hot summer evening to find my apartment completely trashed, per usual. I knew exactly what Ashe and Tim had been doing each day because the chaotic mess told the story. Whatever toys Tim had played with would be everywhere but his toy box. Their mealtime detritus strewn about: a Jeno’s frozen pizza box on the couch, a plate speckled with ketchup and fish stick crumbs on the coffee table, a couple plates awash in pancake syrup beside the couch, and sippy cups and plastic cups with rapidly drying residue from Ashe’s Mountain Dew, etc., dotted the landscape of my living room.
If that weren’t bad enough, I went back to mine and Ashe’s bedroom, sat down on the bed to take my shoes off, and what was lurking under MY pillow? A dirty diaper! No, I SHIT you not…, LOL …
Ashe had this habit of folding dirty diapers into little packages and re-taping them. They looked like sullied little footballs. And, you guessed it, ladies and gents, this little football was NOT full of pee. It was a shitty football indeed.
And that, my friends, was the shit that broke my patience meter. I stormed into the living room, screaming and fist-pumping the poopy diaper in his face.
“What the hell is this?”
“What?” Ashe asked innocently. And know that he didn’t leave that shitty little gift for me on purpose…not that it mattered.
“I found this godammned diaper in our bed, asshole, UNDER my fucking pillow!” I screamed, shaking the foul football bomb at him – about an inch from his face.
“Really?” Ashe asked, weaving sideways to avoid getting smacked in the face with Tim’s shit ball while trying not to erupt into ripples of burping laughter he often exhibited when he knew he’d done something really stupid, and he knew I was going to go ballistic, but the image of whatever happened like my discovering the accidental poo bag under my pillow was too funny to completely curtail a couple giggles despite the life threatening hell I was about to unleash upon him.
“Yes, really! How the fuck did it get there?” I asked…and did I mention Tim was next door at the time playing with the neighbors and their new dog? So don’t be wagging your fingers and shaking your heads thinking I was swearing in front of my 2-year-old because…I wasn’t. No, no, no, that was Ashe – who, years later, got more than one enraged sermon from his Grandmother after our son, Max, called her a “bitch” not once, but twice one Thanksgiving when he was 2 or 3.
“I don’t know,” Ashe replied, his hand now cupping his mouth trying to trap the 9-year-old-ish belly laughs that were dying to escape.
If looks could kill, Ashe would’ve been dead well before winter graced the Appalachians that year.
“I see,” I replied in a rather staccato tone, still ready to strangle him. I walked into the kitchen, dropped the diaper into the over-flowing trash.
“I’ll take that out when I go get Tim,” Ashe said flashing that smile that could charm the pants off a nun.
“You better, or you’ll sleeping on the goddamned sidewalk!”
Ashe nodded, buttoning his lip – again trying to stifle his laughter. I never quite got why he thought my temper was so funny…
“And why the hell can’t you clean up more during the day?! I’m really getting sick and tired of coming home to this goddamned pig shy!”
“I was busy taking care of Tim.”
And that, my friends, was it—my bullshit barometer snapped! I picked up a steak knife in the dish drainer beside me without a thought, and I lobbed it at him.
Luckily, I have pretty decent aim anyway, and when I’m stoked on adrenalin, for some odd reason, my aim is even better. I’m sure if I ever learned archery, I could give Katniss a serious run for her money. So…the lethal weapon landed into the drywall with a THUNK about 2 inches from his big, stupid head. And it kind of wobbled from the impact. This moment kinda resembled a Bugs Bunny cartoon where there would’ve been a BOING-ing sound, but instead, peels of laughter were heard.
Most men would be livid and threaten and/or exact some serious physical damage to my person after something like that. But not Ashe. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you just did that! Look how close that is to my head,” he said looking at the knife, than back at me – amidst a gaggle of belly laughs.
And why was I so ferociously peeved that taking care of Tim was his excuse for not tidying up? Because Tim napped every day for 2-3 hours, giving him plenty of time to straighten up and wash a few dishes.
And that was life with Ashe. When he got angry, it was often for ludicrous reasons, for example, this post:
http://tenaciousbitch.com/2012/09/07/post-75-about-ashes-logic/
But when you assumed he’d get pissed off, understandably so, like tossing a knife at his head, he busted out laughing. At this point, I couldn’t help but start laughing myself. Then, I shook my head—thinking…we just aren’t gonna last. Sadly, I kicked him out a month later. We reconciled briefly but finally divorced less 4-5 years later.
THEREFORE, heed these words: Don’t cross Tenacious Bitch – cuz she won’t hesitate to cut and/or stab a bitch…
Over and out from fracked up central -
TB/KS…
AND DON’T FORGET – if interested in doing a guest post or contributing to my book, go here for the guidelines:
http://lunaticslounge.com/submission-guidelines-for-guest-bloggerscontributors/
