Hard to believe things didn’t work out

My daughter came for a visit last week. Unfortunately, it was with my ex-wife in tow.

Somehow the former Mrs Kyknoord managed to convince me that it “would be nice” if I let both her and Kyk Jr stay in my spare room. I like to think I agreed because I am infused with the spirit of generosity, but I realise now that the more likely reason was that I am just phenomenally stupid. When I mentioned the arrangement to my friend Andrew, his immediate response was something along the lines of, “Do you love pain so much?” I hate it when he’s right. And he usually is. It was, of course, a completely arse-brained idea.

Mere minutes after they arrived, I began to get an inkling of precisely how tooth-grindingly long the week would be. I had just finished lugging the last of three removal van-sized suitcases up the stairs, when I discovered the ex ransacking my cupboard:

“Why are you ransacking my cupboard”
“I’m looking for a raincoat”
“Ah. You didn’t you pack a raincoat?”
“No”
“You do know that it rains in Cape Town in winter”
“Yes, that’s why I’m looking for a raincoat”

Much as I love seeing the youngster, I’m afraid the sell-by date on my relationship with her mother is loooong past. We can take one another in small doses, but being stuck in the same living space for any length of time is another story altogether+. I am still fond of my ex, but I keep forgetting that she doesn’t visit – she invades++.

And then there was the Mess. Ye gods, the Mess! It requires capitalisation, because to call it just “mess” doesn’t nearly do it justice. Within hours of her arrival, every available surface in the flat was either sticky, covered in random detritus, or both. Usually both. How she manages this is a mystery to me. I am convinced she has developed the ability to manipulate space-time. This allows her to map dirtspace onto livingspace with alarming efficiency. I am a tad concerned that my daughter is learning the noble trade of Filthmongering at the feet of a Grand Master. This does not bode well for the teenage years.

Less tolerable than the Mess, though, was the thinly-disguised scrounging. During the course of the week, I heard innumerable variations on the theme of, “Oh, I’d love to take Little Miss to the Book Fair, but I don’t have any money”. This was inevitably followed by a long, Expectant Pause, coupled with a Meaningful Look – both of which I studiously ignored. Clearly she was hoping I’d leap into the fray with a gallant, “Please, let me pay for it. How much do you need?”

Look, I’m a reasonably a generous guy and I’m more than happy to help out where my daughter is concerned, but the former Mrs K seems to have overlooked the rather obvious fact that I don’t actually have a giant pile of money at my disposal. Certainly not after I paid for her air tickets and burned up my petrol budget for the entire month ferrying her all over town to see her retarded lovely friends. Not to mention the amount I spent buying low-fat/organic/hydroponically-grown-in-fucking-holy-water groceries for the visit because she’s on some Dr Phil-endorsed miracle diet. I would have been able to take the Ultimate Eating Plan for a New You nonsense a little bit more seriously if she hadn’t set about systematically hoovering up every other scrap of food in the flat moments after touchdown. She seems to view a stocked kitchen shelf as a personal insult.

However, the scrounging and the dietary drivel were nothing compared to her inability to make a sodding decision. The official reason for the trip was so that Little Miss could visit her grandparents, but every. single. attempt. at an arrangement became an exercise in frustration, because the ex could never settle on a time or a place. I was amazed that at how my mother managed to keep her cool in the face of this constant vacillation. The old girl isn’t exactly the soul of patience. I believe the root of the problem was the ex’s gnawing fear that that she might be missing out on something. Consequently, she would make plans, only to change them and then change them back again (repeat as necessary). Each time a seemingly more exciting opportunity came up, she would hop over the fence, only to discover that the grass she’d just abandoned suddenly looked so much juicier and a whole lot greener. Oh, What to do? What to dooo?!!

Fortunately, I was able to maintain my sanity with my demon lover’s assistance. I owe her an enormous debt of gratitude, since she applied her feminine skills with great skill and skilfulness to the task of releasing my pent-up tension+++. The treatments administered by Mlle Succubus were so effective that I was able to endure the foulest of my ex-wife’s moods with a smile. Actually, I think the smile may have been a contributing factor to her slouching around the flat with her lip on the floor. Call me paranoid, but I have the tiniest glimmer of a notion that the ex isn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of me having a girlfriend.

Of course, if I wasn’t the selfish bastard that I am, I would be pining my life away (as one does) in the vain hope that one glorious day she’ll tell me that all is forgiven and that I can come back. And wouldn’t that be fun?

+ Probably something by Dostoevsky
++ One particular expression, courtesy of Tenmiles, keeps ricocheting around in my head: “You remember the hits, but you forget the Mrs.” Indeed.
+++ Yes, that’s EXACTLY what I mean. Hur hur hur.

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30 thoughts on “Hard to believe things didn’t work out

  1. Actual sentences, with punctuation!
    Bowl me over with a feather!

    Isn’t it amazing how clearly we see the people we once loved when we are no longer fooled by the rose coloured glasses? An old, and wise expression comes to mind . . . . “What the f*ck was I thinking?”

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  2. Wow it must have been baaad. You used prose! Mind you, having suffered my ex on a couple of occasions so that he could visit our little darling, I could have told you it would be dire.

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  3. Of course, if I wasn’t the selfish bastard that I am, I would be pining my life away (as one does) in the vain hope that one glorious day she’ll tell me that all is forgiven and that I can come back.

    You mean she still hasn’t forgiven you? Vindictive woman.

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  4. Aaah. Mr. Noord. Don’t you know that ex’s are *never* allowed to date. *Ever*. Again. Ever. It’s against the law of nature. They must be broken shells of themselves. Haunting the corridors of the past with wistfulness and stuff. Not bonking shagalicious demon minxes. Noooooo. That’s just rude.

    Tut. Tut. Tut.

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  5. You used words and sentences and things I can understand! If the truth be known, as much fun as the art is, I miss your written musings, mostly because I think I am too stupid to get the art.

    Sometimes I wonder why a person cannot divorce someone before they marry them because that seems to be the only time they show their true colours.

    And a kind thank you to your demon lover for maintaining your sanity.

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  6. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh *rubbing hands in glee* an actual post!!!! *splutter*

    oh man!!… if you only ASKED … honestly… never…evvvvvvvvvvverf do that… never ever… ever …ever ever…. ok…?? but i guess you know that know 🙂

    i wanted to comment on +++ but i’ll just keep my mouth shut!

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  7. so wait – let me understand this: in addition to half (perhaps more) of your income, she wants the Cape Town flat as a time share vacation rental? Never mind the more egregious violation of mucking with the Dad-Sprog connectivity time. Two words – “Air Strike” (hey, remember… i live in the States. that’s how we deal with “stoopid”).

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  8. kerryn: Although sometimes it’s really difficult to see clearly through the red mist.

    charmskool: Oh, I knew it was going to be dire, but in an abstract sort of way. The reality is often far more visceral.

    gorilla bananas: Yup. I’m betting that this trip has done little to bring the day of forgiveness any closer.

    dolce: Of course. Very rude of me. I guess I’m just bad to the bone.

    katt: Please don’t get too comfortable with the prose, because regular programming will resume shortly.

    miss M: Misery heart company.

    stef: We had an expression in the army: “As jy dom is, moet jy kak”. Let’s just say this is my reward for being thick.

    daisy: Noooooo! I want to live! I want to live!

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  9. Well looks who’s back … You, I mean, not the Ex. I love your long posts & fabulous wit. Talk about a tall drink of water, dude!!!

    Kudos to your Demon … She sounds like the perfect Tart!

    Smooches from across the big pond,
    The Tart
    ; *

    Like

  10. My gawd. I have been missing out.

    I agree with the Uncle, noisey = annoyed ex 🙂 which would have made the sticky surfaces and huge hole in your bank balance totally worth it.

    Also, as has been mentioned repeatedly, wtf were you thinking! Double Eww tee eff man! Allowing the ex to stay with is like going up to Mike Tyson and saying ‘Hit me’.

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  11. the tart: Think of it as an interlude, rather than a return.
    uncle keith: Very. At her place, though. The neigbours hate me.
    silversabre: C’mon, it’s just the “wet paint” instinct writ large.

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  12. Oh my word. You write. You have an ex wife. You have a daughter…. I think my brain is going to explode. This is just like way too much information for one day. Arrrrgh….

    *runs away saying*

    “Remember. He does not live in a cartoon strip. He does not live in a cartoon strip. He does not live in a cartoon strip. And Jerry Seinfield no longer lives inside the TV.”

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  13. silversabre: I prefer to think of it as a healthy skepticism.

    the tart: Your tongue looks orange. What have you been eating?

    mandy: Don’t be afraid. I’ll be back inside my cartoon before you know it.

    gnukid: It’s a lengthy incantation that takes about two years to complete. So worth it, though.

    Like

  14. I bit my pen lid to shreds reading this post, it was that enthralling!

    Hello, hi, stranger. I’ve missed your written words too.

    Like

  15. It speaks paragraphs! What a long wait. We (the fans) need to orchestrate more drama for you just so you’ll continue to spurt*.

    Also, next time**, arrange a run in with me. I’ll utilise my techniques. (You don’t need to know which ones.)

    *Though words are always better than blood.
    **I suspect a “next time”.

    Like

  16. iitq: I’m afraid it’s just a guest appearance.
    shebee: I’m sure they’ve also missed you.
    mjw: I think I’ve got it all out of my system for now.
    ctyri: Sorry. I should’ve posted a warning.

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  17. Kyknoord, I came over to visit and got addicted by mistake. Sigh. I like the comics, but the prose rocked. You’re a twisted mf’er. My kind of guy!

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  18. I don’t mean to laugh at your unfortunate bad week with the ex but I couldn’t help myself. I live with my daughter and her husband which they like because even though I am legally disabled I manage to cook all their meals, grocery shop, do their laundry and all their errands and I give them my disability money to put towards household expenses.

    To make things more interesting every time my wasband (ex-husband) gets dumped by a girlfriend (we’ve been divorced 20 years) he moves in with me. He’s living with us now. Fortunately he and I are best friends and I always become best friends with his girlfriends. He has a new girlfriend (I’m sure he will end up moving in with her) and she and I have already bonded. I think my circumstance is most unusual and very strange to some people but it works for us.

    I love your disclaimer on your “About Me” page.

    I enjoy your blog and will be back to visit. I love your sense of humor and your wonderful comics.

    Like

  19. joanharvest: Thanks for the visit. I’m always gratified to hear that my pain brings joy to others :mrgreen: It makes me feel sort of like a psychological organ donor.

    Like

  20. Pingback: Must vote! « The Ultra, the Fabulous, the only, Miss P!

  21. Pingback: Moral Fibre Wins Best Music Blog in South Africa | SA Blog Awards 2009 | Moral Fibre

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