On Tha Toilet!
The D-Train #11
When my ex finally moved out of my basement (where he had been squatting for nearly a year), he just had to do it on Halloween. I’m out there trick-or-treating with my kids in a big, dumb shark costume, trying to pretend like everything is fine and normal, while their dad is back at the house loading up the trunk of his car with half my kitchen. Way to fucking ruin the holiday, dude.
(But hey, I would expect nothing less! You get what you pay for with men, am I right my bitches?).
Before he moved, he submitted a list through our lawyers of nine items he wanted to take from the house. I gave my approval for seven of them, offered a replacement object for the eighth thing, and flat out refused the ninth.
At the end of the day, I came to find that he helped himself to way more than was on his list. He took my television. He took six pieces of Le Creuset cookware. He took my kitchen knife block with all the knives. He took the French press. He took the colander. He took the big saucepan and the little saucepan. He took the little frying pan. He took the Foreman grill. He took the expensive Makita drill, the rolling tool cabinet, and every single tool in the house. He took a bunch of really expensive kids toys (that of course I had bought). He took the luggage. He took the ironing board. Most strange of all, he took my copy of Friday Night Lights and when I asked him to give it back he told me I could take him to court for it. Mmmmkkkkaaaayyyyyyyy
Homie also stole my car keys during the move. I called my lawyer and said, um, he stole my car keys and he’s saying he took them out of the house and he will not return them until he’s done moving because he doesn’t want me “fucking up his shit.” I did get them back later that night – when I came home from trick-or-treating they were sitting on the counter. But yeah. That was a thing that happened.
When I think about all the things he took that weren’t on his list, I don’t feel bad about the stuff being gone, per se. I can get a new TV (eventually). And while six pieces of Le Creuset cookware is something I’ll probably never have again, I can at least live with the hope that he accidentally drops that heavy-as-fuck dutch oven on his head one day.
What really bugs me is that rules, apparently, do not apply to him. I know that if the roles were reversed and I had to make a list of everything I was going to take out of the house, there would be a tabbed and color-coded spreadsheet listing every damn item I was going to even think about taking. It probably wouldn’t even occur to me that I even COULD take things not on my list. I would honestly be so afraid of doing anything to jeopardize my position, that I wouldn’t even dream of laying a finger on one thing that hadn’t been authorized.
So what did he leave behind? He asked me if he could take the cats or if I wanted them. I said all I care about is custody of the kids and do what you want with the cats. So of course he took my cats and left behind two full litter boxes of cat shit.
But that’s ok. The morning after he moved out I told a friend that my cats were gone. She said a tiny black kitten had shown up on her friend’s porch during a terrible storm on Halloween night. She heard him crying outside in the rain. She needed someone to at least foster him until she could find him a permanent home.
My son is curled up in his bed right now, sleeping with that tiny kitten. It’s cute as fuck, and when I see that I think, you know what, it’s all as it should be.
Here’s a final story.
The last I saw of my ex, he was loading up his car with a bunch of random, meaningless crap. He got in and started to drive away. He turned off the car and came back inside. Pushing past me, he tore open the cabinet and grabbed a half-empty bottle of Metamucil. He stormed back outside, and drove off into the night. And that’s how my marriage ended folks. With a half-empty bottle of Metamucil.
Here’s a song that’s doing it for me in the right now.