Say Hello to June Cleaver!

Upon our divorce, my ex-husband relocated himself to his parents' cozy basement--where much to my delight, he is sleeping in a twin-sized bed. After he monopolized my queen-sized, four-poster sleigh bed, complete with 400 thread count sheets, for many, many months--while I slept on an air mattress in my living room--I find this to be a lesson in karma, created especially for him. Look back and watch me smack that!

When my ex left, he took very few of his possessions. He took his guitars and his musical equipment, apparently fearing that I might pawn it for cash or drugs or sex, or perhaps all of the above. He took the clothes that had previously been scattered all over my bedroom floor. He left everything else, which was very little, since I own the majority of possessions in my home, including the home itself.

One day, I got to the point that I was tired of looking at the evidence of my own job of being a poor "homemaker". I decided the best way to start was to take the initiative, and pack up his stuff on my own. I called this "taking out the trash". And really, what other option did I have? I certainly could not invite boys over if I had my ex-husband's stuff all over the place, so it had to go. I gleefully deposited it on his parents' front yard--on Thanksgiving. A shameless homemaker, I am.

Once his stuff was out of my way, I could get down to business and clean the house to my standards. Plus, I felt as though as 250 pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders--it was like gaining a new life and a new attitude. So I cleaned. And I organized. And I cleaned some more.

Serving in his role as baby daddy, my ex had to come to my house to pick up AC one night, and he noted the cleanliness of the house. He was probably cringing inside, knowing that he had missed out on the June Cleaver-like tendencies that I seem to possess after all. Because I was getting ready for a double date and the baby daddy was 45 minutes late to pick AC up, I had no choice but to kick him out as quickly as possible so I could get ready.

The double date, a first for me, was a disaster. It was a completely misguided attempt on the part of a guy friend. The guy friend happens to be dating one of my own best friends, and on this night, the guy friend ended up having to date us both, because I ditched the double date candidate after one glance. All that house cleaning...for nothing.

Needless to say, my ex was not oblivious to my tactics. At the next possible opportunity, he brought up the clean house, and said he "knew what I was up to". I became curious of "what I was up to", since clearly, I'd been up to nothing. He warned me that I "knew what he meant".

I smirked to myself, knowing that he was implying that I was *a-hem* entertaining men in my newly-clean and organized house. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am lucky if I am home often enough to entertain myself in my own house, much less entertain guests, especially the type that are looking to get laid by me, this Pussycat Doll-turned-June Cleaver-homemaker that I have become.

In the end, I found it highly amusing. If he believed that a clean home is an indicator of an active sex life, what did that mean about ours, since the house was rarely clean during our marriage? Using his standards, it would indicate that he didn't get laid. Ever.

Homemaker versus Homewrecker

My ex-husband is not thrilled that I am divorcing him, and honestly, who would be? A catch like me? For sure he should've straightened out his behavior in the seven years that we were married, so I wouldn't have had to find myself in the position of needing to choose between killing him or divorcing him.

For the purpose of making himself feel better and more like a man, he loves to hurl insults at me. He insists that I am a "homewrecker", despite the fact that the only home I've seemed to wreck is my own. That is not to say that I have not participated in some lecherous behavior that could've possibly deemed me a homewrecker, had I selected a less-honest man to seduce. However, my single endeavor in homewrecking, while momentarily promising, came to a halt when my womanizer--you know, as in Britney's 'Womanizer': "You say I'm crazy...I GOT your crazy"--decided that he had too much to lose if he got caught having a little planned but no-strings-attached afternoon delight with me.

In a recent tirade, my ex-husband was shrieking insults at me, which I calmly navigated, knowing that if I fulfilled my desire to actually kill him, I'd find prison much lonelier than divorce and life as a single girl.

By far, my most favorite insult of the night was when he looked and me and screamed, "You are sure no HOMEMAKER!"

I damn near fell over laughing at the fact that anyone would ever believe that I would aspire to the career goal of "homemaker" in the first place, much less that someone would consider me to be less of a person because I am not one. I am sure that my shrill and hysterical laughter only incited his anger more, but really...who did the guy think he was marrying? June Cleaver in a Pussycat Dolls costume? We married in 2002, not 1952.

In a discussion with friends, one pointed out that some men want their women to "seduce like a phone sex operator, f*ck like a hooker, dress and look like a model--all while putting on a perfect facade of devoted parent, devoted wife and "homemaker". Right that.

It's Britney, B!tch!

Okay, okay...I will admit that I like Britney Spears a little bit more than your average 32-year-old woman should. One of the things I like best about her is that typically, we go crazy at around the same time. When she was crazy and shaved her head spontaneously, I was also crazy with postpartum depression, and sobbing over the fact that I could no longer see my OBGYN on a weekly basis, a complete devastation to me as--much to my ex-husband's dismay--I was certain my OBGYN was my soul mate. When Brit was crazy and locked her naked self in the bathroom with her son, I was also crazy with depression that would later transpire into a "mood disorder" diagnosis, which, in my mind, actually means "bipolar". My mother adamently disagrees with my self-diagnosis, and frequently tells me, "It's not YOU that's crazy. It's that you are in a crazy situation with your so-called husband." Nevertheless, I take pride in the fact that Britney and I share a commonality, at least in my own mind, though my "bipolar" has all but disappeared since I made my now ex-husband disappear.

As a newly single girl with newly single friends in a town of transient "pipers", we discussed one night how we ought to assume names when we go out. We vowed to never, ever give the pipers our real names, because we really aren't looking for anything long-term and really only want to be wined, dined and pipelined. Because I like the opening part of Britney's 'Gimme More', I decided that I would go by 'Britney B!tch', because really...calling your friends and saying, "It's J, b!tch!" has far less impact than quoting Britney word-for-word by calling your friends and saying, "It's Britney, b!tch!", just like she does in 'Gimme More'.

When I was still married to my husband, I begged and pleaded for tickets to Britney's Circus concert tour--for my 31st birthday. He obliged and went, particularly because he thought he was going to get a great night of sex after the concert, since he believed I'd be all heated up by both the Pussycat Dolls and Britney. Unfortunately, what he really got was chaos, because Brit was staying at the same hotel; no dinner because all of the restaurants were too packed before the concert; me downing champagne and Klonopin to control my stress; and Britney's Lip-Synching Extravaganza. To top the night off, we discovered that there were no restaurants in the area still open at the late hour of 11:00 pm, and ended up ordering room service, so the only sex he got was a quickie in which I yelled, "Hurry up! Room service will be here any minute!" I enjoyed the room service meal much more than I enjoyed the quickie, and enjoyed my luxurious shower in the posh tiled doubled-headed shower even more.

After I got over my shock and horror that Britney did no actual singing at the concert, I decided that it was still fun, so I taught myself how to use iTunes specifically for the purpose of downloading each of her concert songs, in set order, so I could re-live the event over and over in my car. With my OCD traits, if I have something new like this, I tend to play it over. And over. And over. Eventually, I will tire of it, as I have now, when Britney comes up every other song when my iPod in in shuffle mode, because there's so damn much of her on there.

However, during my Britney phase, I took AC to Target, an adventure that, round-trip, takes us roughly an hour-and-a-half, so we had plenty of time to listen to Britney. It should've been a warning when AC shrieked from the backseat, "Hey Mama! You wanna piece of me?" Sigh...I told her no...no, I did not want a "piece of her".

AC took her Britney obsession even further when we arrived at the McDonald's drive-thru to place our dinner order. She insisted that I "make it bigger!", and her favorite song was a less-than-innocent Britney song called, 'Hot as Ice'. For an adult, it is obvious what Brit is referring to as being "cold as fire, baby, hot as ice...never been to heaven? This is twice as nice...", but for AC, it quickly became her favorite song.

The line at the drive-thru was long and slow, and we had to wait with our car window down the entire time, with Aidyn yelling, 'MAKE IT BIGGER' while I had to play "Hot as Ice' over...and over...and over... I felt the glares from adults, who probably assumed that it was me, not a two-year-old, who insisted on playing the same obscene Britney song "bigger" and over...and over...and over.

But hey...it's Britney, b!tch. The kid's got good taste in music, and at least it wasn't Brit's current (and my favorite) obscene and even more suggestive hit, '3'.