Petty is As Petty Does

When someone asks me to guess something, I make a point of coming up with something completely obscure and possibly inappropriate.

Guess what I want for my birthday?
Six pounds of butterfly cut pork-chops?
Close. A sea kayak.

My mother called the other day

Guess who showed up on our doorstep?
Snoop Dogg?
Close. FRED*!

I’m pretty sure that my white, green eyed ex boyfriend can’t be mistaken for a black rapper, but no matter what random thing I come up with, the guessee almost always says “close” to my guess.

Of course, I wanted to know why he was there, but that, my chickens, THAT is the whole point of this game. Feigned disinterest. That’s nice I tell my mother. Really I’m thinking that I bet he’s dying. Or maybe he wants to return the No Doubt CD that he “borrowed” in 1997. Maybe he’s recently come in to a large sum of money and wants to give me some because once, a long time ago, I let him see my amazing rack. I might have even let him touch it, but this is a G-Rated blog (sometimes) so I won’t say if I did or didn’t.

The truth was much less interesting, he needed my contact information so that he could provide me as a reference for a job he’s applying for.

Guess what else? My mother gleefully asked me. This is because my mother, above all things, LOVES gossip. He’s missing all his teeth? I guess. Close! He’s married and they have a baby! I find this information less than interesting. I knew all that. I have Google after all. AND he’s fat! But not FAT fat, just kind of fat. This information I do appreciate. I appreciate this information because twelve years or so ago, he made a huge deal about how *I* had gained ten pounds or so. I’m already a big girl, does ten pounds really matter? We should go on a diet he tells me. DIET? Um, Fuck You? I’m pretty sure the reason that you had no girlfriend for a long time before me was because you don’t have the brains to realize that telling someone whose vagina you wish to know in the Biblical sense that she needs to lose a few pounds is NOT A GOOD IDEA. So, yeah, I’m glad he’s fat, because me? I look exactly the same. That’s not true, I actually look better, because I can afford $60 hair cuts and bi-monthly mani/pedi’s and I have learned to dress to accentuate rather than hide my figure.

Anyhoodle, back to him being fat. I’m pretty sure that the only thing that would make me happier would be if he had a really hideous wife. Not because I wish her ill, but because, COME ON, who doesn’t secretly hope that their ex, however amiable the split, is now dating someone that you have to look away from because other wise you’ll throw up in your mouth? Oh stop that. You know you’ve thought the exact same thing.
We chat a few minutes longer, but really I’ve lost interest in the subject. I mean it’s not as if he’s gone from homeless to billionaire and has just sold his memoirs for a huge sum to Paramount and wants to know if I’d prefer Jennifer Garner or Reese Witherspoon to play me in the movie.

But then, you’ll never guess what happened! He sent the ‘rents a couple of pictures of himself and his family! And then the DaD MaN send them to me! HAHAHAH. Okay, breathe deep, Thystle. Ahem. You know what? He is fat! And balding! Hee hee! Alright, so the baby is cute. But he’s a baby after all so that is kind of a given. His wife is alright. Not hot, but not hideous. She *was* wearing Mom jeans so that made me happy.

But you know what made me really happy? His house is a mess! I’ve no idea why I’m so thrilled with this, but really I am. He used to give me ten tons of grief over the fact that my apartment was cluttered. Now, I’ll grant you that it was, but the apartment was about 500sf, so what do you really expect? I sew, I write, I read (all the time) and I’m a teeny-weenie bit obsessed with clothes, shoes, make up and all other things related to being a girl. Also, I lived alone so really, if I left three months worth of magazines and six bottles of nail polish on the side table who was it hurting? No one except (apparently) someone who should have been happy just to be allowed in to the incense scented pink glory that was my single girl apartment.. Now, all these years later seeing that his house is ten times as cluttered as mine (a feat, I assure you) gives me no end of amusement. It’s like Karma backed right up and dumped a hot-steamy load all over him. Because that Karma? She’s a bitch my lovelies.

P.S. If anyone needs me, I’ll be feeding handicapped nuns and orphans homemade chocolate cake this afternoon. In case you see Karma hanging around or anything.


*Name changed because it makes me seem more mysterious that way.