My Grandma And Grandpa

My grandma and grandpa were my daddys’ mama and daddy.  Mama never called them anything but Mr. and Mrs. S******* so that’s what I called them until the day they died.  My daddy called his mama “mama” and he called his daddy “papa.”  My grandpa called my grandma “son.”
They both had the patience of Job.  I never saw them get mad…even when my uncle got drunk, fell down and my grandpa and I had to pick him up and try to get him in the bed.
My grandma was one of the best cooks around and could “whomp” up a meal fit for a king…out of nothing.  Our main “meat” was fat-back (or salt pork as it is called in the North.)  To this day, I still love fat-back.
She would tell me it was time for dinner, which was my cue to go out in the yard and dig up Irish potatoes.  That’s when I developed my love of raw potatoes.  I would eat the potatoes, skins, dirt and all.
My grandpa loved the same white gravy that Loser did.  It was so thick, that a spoonful would “stay put” if it was turned upside down.
My grandmas’ coffee was, as my grandpa said, “strong enough to grow hair on your chest.”
My grandma had “Southernisms.”  She would say “el, I wished I’m a die.”  That meant she was flabbergasted.  She would say that I was looking “peurt” which meant spry.  I do believe that she was one of the sweetest women who ever lived.  The only one who could even compare was Losers’ Grandma H*** (his daddys’ mama.)
My grandma would stand and look out the window for what seemed like hours.  Mama used to make fun of her for doing that but later in her life, she did the same thing.  I asked my grandma what she was seeing and she said “I’m just looking.”
My grandma surprised me once when she said that she would like to go to Hollywood.  I was teasing her about wanting to see a good-looking movie star or something but she said “I’d like to see Disneyland.”
I lived in “Mickey Mouse” world for many years but I never went to see any of the attractions.  I wish now that I had so my grandma could have seen it through my eyes.
I don’t know much about her childhood except that she was sent away to live with relatives when she was about five.  I know she had brothers and one of them was accidentally shot and killed when he was sixteen.  I know she barely remembered her daddy.  She had a picture of him that hung on the wall.  I heard her tell my grandpa one time that she dreamed about her daddy that night.
She only went to the seventh grade and I was completely surprised when I got a letter from her.  I don’t think it occurred to me that she could read or write.
I know nothing about my grandpas’ childhood, other than he was raised by his mamas’ second husband and he was apparently a good step-daddy.  My grandpas’ daddy died when he was twenty-three.  Rumor has it that he was arguably one of the most handsome men to ever come out of Madison County.  He stood six feet six inches tall.
He died from typhoid fever.  Rumor also has it that my grandpas’ mama was a beautiful woman and never really got over “the love of her life.”  Neither my grandma or grandpa ever talked about their young lives.
My grandpa talked a little about some things.  He was too young for World War I and he was too old for World War II.  He grew up dirt poor and remained poor his entire life.
He told me that after he and my grandma got married and had my daddy, he was desperate to find a job but there were none to be found.  He was walking home after an exhausting, unfruitful day of searching for work and spotted a man putting a new roof on his feed and seed building.  My grandpa asked him if he needed any help and the man said no.  My grandpa said he started out standing on the ground, talking…then he was halfway up the ladder…talking…then he was on the roof…talking…and before long, he was helping the man put on his roof.  He worked for ten hours and the man paid him a nickel.  My grandpa worked all week, for twenty-five cents and ten nails.
He taught me that if you dip a nail in oil, you can “almost drive it into concrete” and if a screw is loose, all you have to do is take the screw out, put a toothpick in the hole and it will tighten right up.
My grandpa had a little book that he kept right beside the sofa.  Every time he read or heard something interesting, he would write it down.  What I wouldn’t give for that little book.  He was writing in it one day and when he was finished, he asked me if I knew what a sideburn was.  I told him I did and he asked me if I knew where the term came from.  He said that it was from a man named Robert Burnside who had the lamb chop thing going on.  I remembered that and actually won a trivia contest once because that was a question.
My grandma, having a bad back, wore a “girdle-type” back brace for as long as I could remember.  She had a favorite chair…a turquoise recliner.  She was sitting in it one day and my grandpa walked by and gently touched her on the cheek.  She blushed like a new bride.  I will never forget that tender moment they shared.
Years later, when I introduced them to my second daughter and told them her name, my grandma said “el…that’s B**s’ name.”  I was so glad they got to know her name before they died.
When my grandpa died, I think my grandma grieved herself to death.  I wasn’t told that they had died because (as I said) my daddy said “I was afraid you would try to come to their funeral.”  I guess he didn’t want to piss mama off…just like Loser kept all of us away from his daddys’ funeral so it wouldn’t piss off his precious mama.
My daddy went over to their house (which they left to my drunk uncle, who promptly sold it for booze) and picked up her old washboard from the yard.  Until the day she died, she washed all of their clothes by hand and used that washboard.  B gave it to me and it is among my most treasured belongings.
Somehow, he got her wedding rings.  I didn’t even know she had any.  She had at some point, told B that she wanted her granddaughter to have them.  He gave them to my little sister, who probably wouldn’t have recognized my grandma and grandpa if she had passed them on the street.  I asked him if he really thought she wanted D**** to have them.  He said “mama said she wanted her granddaughter to have them.”  I wonder who the Hell he thought I was?
I quickly got in touch with my little sister (who had said if she ever passed me on the street, she would spit in my face) and offered a trade.  I didn’t care if she spit on me…I wanted those rings.
I gave her a ruby and diamond ring, necklace, bracelet and earrings to match.  I would have given her my entire jewelry box.
A few years ago, I gave those rings to my middle daughter.  Even though she no longer speaks to me, I hope she will treasure them.
I didn’t know where my grandma and grandpa were buried.  I called the records department one day and they told me the name of the cemetery.  A friend of mine and I found it.  My drunk uncle was buried right beside them and I resented it.  I only glanced at it long enough to see his worthless name on the tombstone.
They were two wonderful people who loved me and tried to make me feel like I mattered.
I knelt on their graves and talked to them for a few minutes.  I told them that I was too damaged to know or appreciate how much they cared about me.  I was too damaged and broken to let them know how much they meant to me and I wanted them to know it now.
I hope I will see them again someday.

Who Said “Love Never Dies?”

“Love never dies.”  I’ve heard that phrase before and I heard it again just the other day.  Maybe you think love never dies but I can tell you for a fact, it does.
Maybe it met its demise because it didn’t exist to begin with.  Maybe it died from lack of nourishment.  Love needs to be cultivated.  It needs to be returned.  Like any other living thing, it needs attention and affection.
Love does indeed die.  Love can in fact, be killed.

I think about how many times Loser treated me like a common whore.  The first time was when he tried to buy my forgiveness with flowers, gifts and promises of trips.  My forgiveness wasn’t for sale.  He thought money and what money could buy was an apology.  My “love” for him was sick.
What I wanted was an earnest conversation.  I wanted him to tell me that he understood what he had done to me and how much he had hurt me.  I wanted him to tell me that he would never do it again.  I wanted him to stop taking me out to dinner and then, inside an hour start talking to me like I was garbage because I interrupted him while he was on his computer.
I think he finally understood that I couldn’t be bought so he decided to put those efforts into somebody who obviously could be bought.  My “love” for him was getting even sicker.
The second time he treated me like a common whore was when he thought he was going to be able to keep his WTC, then sneak around and “play husband” to me on the side…and get to keep all of his money.  He was going to have the best of all possible worlds.  My “love” for him was almost comatose and was starting to die.

Loser was the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.  Loser was the man I waited for years and years to show me just a tad of affection and attention.  Loser was the father of my children.
I spent almost my entire marriage, hoping that someday…after he “reached the top” there would be time for me.  I thought he would then have time to treat me the way he should have treated me all along.
He finally made it to the “top” but didn’t treat his employees or employers any better than he treated me, so he was fired.  I guess in a way I fired him, too.  People can only take so much before they tell you to “go fuck yourself.”
My “love” for him was having agonal breathing.
When the divorce was in full swing and he wrote what he did about me in his affidavit, my “love” for him died a violent death and morphed into an intense hatred.  Even the “I still love you and I always have” message in his last text did nothing to assuage that hatred.  I think it made me hate him even more.

I have hated before and still do.  I hate Losers’ fucking mama.  I hate Loser to the point that I literally cringe when I think about him.  I think about his reaction of insouciance to the pictures and notes I have been getting, reminding me that “he belongs to her now…and how she’s looking forward to spending time with MY children.”
He looks at it as an ego boost.  It shows how much this WTC “loves him.”  Jealousy is attractive to him.

I understand and agree with the old adage “the opposite of love is indifference” but there are exceptions.  How can you be indifferent toward somebody who used you and treated you like you only had value to give them an avenue to do whatever and go wherever they wanted, free from any and all encumbrances?  How can you be indifferent toward somebody who literally destroyed forty-one years of your life?  How can you be indifferent to a man who intentionally passed on an incurable disease to you and doesn’t care because his WTC (according to him) already has it, so…no problem for him…or her…and no need for guilt?

Any love my mama had for me died after I killed my little brother and she never let me forget it.  I’ve heard that there’s nothing stronger than a mothers’ love but it’s not true.  Any love I had for her eventually died, too.  I don’t even know at what point.  I just know that it did.

Love does indeed die, for many reasons and there is nothing deader than a dead love.

Love that has been killed leaves a wound and a horrific scar that is a constant reminder of the misnomer…”love never dies.”

Why Don’t I Read Books?

I have been blogging for several months and I have been encouraged many times to read certain books.  I probably sound like a cad when I respond “I don’t read books.”
One of my readers said “yet, you read blogs and you write.”  She’s absolutely correct.  I do read blogs and write on my own blog but blogs aren’t books.  I have no explanation how I justify that but that’s how I see it.
Like doing drugs or drinking alcohol, I never said “I’m never going to read a book.”  I know of no other person who does not read books…not one.
Loser said if he could change one thing about me, he would make me a reader.  He used to buy books for me and I resented it.  I wasn’t going to suddenly start reading books to please Loser.  If I could have changed one thing about Loser it would have either been that he wasn’t a drinker…or he was faithful.  He didn’t stop drinking and he certainly didn’t stop being unfaithful.
I don’t think it’s rebellion but there is a block and I don’t know whether it is subliminal or conscious.
If I started reading books, it would be almost like I had deserted my staunch affirmations.  It may sound crazy but that’s the way it would feel.
I don’t remember ever being hit with a book.  I don’t remember having a book thrown at me so why do I have this unyielding attitude?
When I was growing up, everything was jealously guarded by my family members…emotions, affections and material things.  I wasn’t allowed to touch anything that didn’t belong to me because it wasn’t MINE.
Could that be the reason I don’t read?  Is it because none of the books around were mine and I wasn’t allowed to touch them, let alone read them?
I had school books and they were mine but I didn’t read them either.  I just paid attention in class and thanks to my wonderful memory, I never had any problem passing tests.
Am I a victim of my own making?  Is it something that I devised so that it would be one thing about me that was unique?  It certainly is not considered to be an asset but rather another reason to be chastised and ridiculed, so why?
I don’t proudly boast than I am not a reader but I have found that it is treated with the same disdain as when I say that I am not a drinker.
There are things about me that cause people to gasp or look at me like I have horns…or look at me like I’m sub-human, such as never having eaten a McDonalds’ hamburger.  I have never eaten lobster.  I have never eaten a shrimp.  I have never even had a sip of beer or wine and I don’t read books.
One morning I got up and decided that I was never going to have another glass of milk.  Coming from somebody who used to drink at least a gallon a day, that was pretty extreme.  I gave it up without a second thought and I have never had another drop of milk…and I never will.
I read one book and I did it to stop Loser from looking at me with his familiar disgusted, contemptible sneer.
I have heard all the rhetoric people say about how they “took a trip…slayed a dragon…became a princess…or discovered a lost continent” through books but my thoughts are “no, you didn’t.  You read a book.”
I know there are reasons we do and don’t do things but I have no idea what part of my brain bars the slightest desire to get lost in the writings of a book.
It used to piss me off that Loser would spend hours and hours and hours, sitting in the bathroom reading books and then act like the quilt I had just made, had no value because I didn’t “read it.”
Maybe it eventually came down to intentionally refusing to read because, in his mind, reading a book should have “taken precedence” over everything I did.  It was a sign of “intelligence” (per Loser) and it had already been acknowledged that since I didn’t go to college, I needed something to make me appear to have half a brain.
I have profound aversions to so many things.  I have never been able to walk around without clothes…I think because Loser told me I would never be voluptuous.  I am extremely uncomfortable when I am hugged, even by my own children…I think because I’m afraid of being hit.  It takes every ounce of courage I have (and a ladder braced against the door and the bathtub) to be able to get into the shower without being afraid somebody is going to pull the curtain back…because my uncle always had to “come check on something” when I was in the bathtub.
None of these things make me special.  They just add to the stigma that I am the worthless, uneducated, NOT court-holding queen, non-reading waste that Loser made me feel like and pounded into my head for so many years.
It still begs the question…why don’t I read books?

‘Tis The Season For Giving

I have always been one to give a handout to a homeless person.  I feel like I owe.  I know that when my son is on the street, he relies on the kindness of strangers.
People have given him money.  They have bought him food.  I imagine a few of them have bought him booze.  One lady paid for a hotel room when it was fifteen degrees outside.
It’s a common perception that if you give money to a homeless person, they immediately go out and buy booze or drugs.  I can’t say that I haven’t thought and don’t still think the same thing…but it’s not always true.
One day my sister and I were approached by a man and he asked if we had any spare change.  He said he was hungry.  I gave him all the cash I had which was only three dollars and my sister gave him the same.
I watched him walk away, clutching that money as if it was pure gold.
My sister said “he’s probably going straight to the liquor store” and then turned around and headed to the car.  I watched the man walk all the way across the parking lot and straight into McDonald’s.  He was telling the truth.  He was hungry.  I wish I had followed him and bought him enough food to last him for the day.

It’s winter now and depending on where you live, it can be bitterly cold.  I have seen homeless people shivering, holding up signs that say “will work for food.”
At night, I have seen them crouched down in alcoves in the front of stores.  I have seen them asleep on sidewalk grates and park benches.  I have seen them in dumpsters, covered up with pizza boxes.  I’ve seen them being handcuffed, most likely for public drunkenness and/or vagrancy.  The last time I saw that, I thought “at least they’ll be warm and have something to eat tonight.”

I decided to gather up all the quilts that I have made and put them to good use.  They’re doing no good folded up and put away.
I drove all the way to my hometown because I know where most of the homeless people hang out.  They congregate around a park, where all the city buses used to line up, waiting to make their daily rounds.
I stopped by McDonald’s to get some food.  I have never had a hamburger from McDonald’s and I wasn’t sure what to order.  I told them to give me a great big hamburger, put everything they had on it, give me everything that came with it and do it times fifteen.  They looked at me like they thought maybe I had just awakened from a sixty year coma.
I took the food and quilts uptown and handed them out to the homeless people who were standing on almost every corner.
Some of them smelled like the local brewery but I didn’t care.  Some of them were so grateful, I thought they might cry.  Some of them hugged me and called me an angel.  Some of them seemed embarrassed, took the quilt and food and said nothing.

I see my son in every one of them.  I see him in every labored step they take while trying to get across the street.  I see him in every hopeful glance they cast when somebody walks by.  I hear his voice when they are desperately asking for money.  I see his eyes in their gaunt, hopeless faces.  I see him in their frail, undernourished bodies.
Most of the time people don’t make eye contact with them because they’ve just become part of the local scenery.

The next time you see a homeless person, err on the side of grace.  You don’t have to give them money.  You don’t even have to give them a second glance but give them a second thought.  Say a silent prayer and remember…there but by the grace of God…go I.
These people may be destitute through self-inflicted, irresponsible actions or they may be traveling a path that was carved out for them through absolutely no fault of their own.
They could be veterans who are the very definition of the line in the movie Rambo, when he says…”back there, I was in charge of million dollar equipment….back here, I can’t even hold a job parking cars.”
They could have simply been dealt a crappy hand.  They could be somebody who was made to feel so worthless and insignificant that they finally believed it and ultimately gave up.
They could be my son.

 

My Daddy

My daddy died twenty-six years ago today, ten days before he was going to turn sixty-eight.  I always called him “B.”  Mama never taught us to call him daddy.
B was cremated but mama put together a sort of “service” at the church.  I noticed my children watching me as we stood there, listening to mama sing his favorite song.  They were looking for tears but they found none.  If anything, they may have detected a quiet, subdued anger.
Bs’ only surviving brother was at the service.  This is the man who wouldn’t give my daddy the time of day when he was alive, yet there he was…pretending to care.
I wanted to slap him.  I wanted to ask him what the Hell he was doing there.  I wanted to tell him to get the Hell out of there…but I didn’t.  I held my tongue because I didn’t want to embarrass anybody or upset mama.

B could be described, in Southern speak, as a “good ole soul.”  I think he would have been a loving daddy under different circumstances and I wish he had spent more time talking to me.
He was the oldest of three boys, born to my beloved grandma and grandpa.  He was named after his daddy and my second daughter bears their middle name.
B wasn’t very tall but his daddy and both of his brothers were tall by most standards.  My grandma said that when B was born, she almost starved him to death.  She didn’t know that she was incapable of producing any milk.  She kept breast-feeding him but he was getting no nourishment.  My grandma said she thought “well, if he dies, he’ll die in my arms.”  Somehow, they were able to scrape up enough money to buy a cow and it was just in time.
B was clearly intelligent beyond his years.  He started school at age four…but he hated it.  He would hide out behind the barn until my grandma would catch him and send him on to school.  He hid out one day and it was bitter cold, so he decided to go back to the house.  My grandpa said he knew he was out there, knocking on the door but he thought my grandma would go open it.  She didn’t hear him so after a few minutes, B kicked the door and said “open door, sunbitch.”
My grandma had a bad back, so my grandpa and B slept together.  My grandpa was an uneducated man who only went to the fifth grade, but he was smart.
My grandpa told me that after B got used to going to school, he told him to study hard and he would take care of him.  He said, “and then when I get old and gray, you can take care of me.”
My grandpa said he thought B had gone to sleep, but “directly” he threw back the covers, sat up in bed and said “Papa!  Who’s going to take care of us when we’re both old and gray?”  B wasn’t even five years old, yet he already had that kind of reasoning.
B had it in mind to be a doctor.  He studied hard and made good grades.  Graduation day was nearing and he didn’t have a decent shirt to wear to the ceremony.  My grandma cut up a sheet and made him a shirt out of it.
B said that when he walked across that stage to get his diploma, everybody in the room just howled.  It was at that point he decided nobody was ever going to laugh at him again.
I asked B what he did for fun when he was a little boy.  He had a vertical scar that ran from just above his eyebrow almost to the top of his hairline.  He said that he and his brothers used to throw hatchets at each other.  He had a twinkle in his eye when he pointed to his scar and said that was the only time he ever lost.
He said that the most fun they had as young boys was when they took off their shoes at the top of a hill and then raced to the bottom.  Whoever made it all the way down without stepping in cow manure….won.
His dreams of being a doctor were never to become anything more than just dreams.  He was called into the service when World War II started.  He became a surgeons’ assistant.  I wanted to know what he did but he would never talk about it.
I get asked all the time “what was the worst call you ever had?”  People want to hear about gore and death.  I wanted to hear about how many lives he saved.  I wanted to know if he had made any promises to those young men before they died and if so, did he keep them.  When he got out of the army and tried to enroll in medical school, they told him that he was too old.  He was only twenty-five.
Apparently B learned to do the Hula when he was stationed in Hawaii and rumor has it that he could rival the most seasoned hula dancer.
I had never seen my daddys’ legs.  I once asked him what they looked like and he said “youngun’, many a woman has cried themselves to sleep at night because they didn’t have legs as purty as mine.”
B could carry on a conversation with Loser as if he, himself had gone to H****** but my daddy also suffered from the “good ole boys” mentality.  He would tell me to get up and get Loser a cup of coffee…or go fix Loser something to eat.  Loser would sit there and smile.
I would be tending to our small children so I finally said “B, Losers’ legs aren’t broken…if he wants a cup of coffee, he can get up and get it himself.”
B was horrified and said “that’s your husband, youngun’….you ought not talk like that.”  B thought that I should wait on Loser hand and foot because he was such a “highly educated, brilliant man.”
Loser suffered from a bit of that as well…thanks to his mama raising him thinking that all women (except her and whoever his WTC was at the time) were subordinate.
One time when Loser came home, I literally had one child on each hip, trying to open the refrigerator door.  Loser came over to open the door for me and said “the top of the refrigerator is dusty.”
I looked at him and said, “okay, Mr. Eighteen-foot tall man….hold the children while I run get the ladder real quick and dust it off for you.”  He laughed but even then, he didn’t even think about picking up a cloth and dusting it.

B had very little interaction with my children.  When he did see them, he was nice but he reserved his greatest love and affection for P****s’ son, just as he reserved his greatest love and affection for her.
I left town right after high school.  When I came back almost three years later, I went to see B.  I asked him if he missed me and he asked…..”were you gone?”  I think that answered my question.
I don’t think B hated me the way mama did but I’m not sure he liked me.  I think there were times when he felt sorry for me but I also think he knew “the good of the many outweighed the good of the few…or the one.”
Like I said, I asked him if he ever wondered why I was bruised and battered and he said “your mother said you were sassing her.”  I guess that excused the marks and swollen eyes.

I gave B a book and asked him to write things down for me…things about his childhood…his life….just anything he could remember.  He wrote a few pages but there wasn’t much.  Mama said he wrote in it the night he died.
B never called me or came to see me or wrote to me.  I have one lone Christmas card that he sent me many, many years ago and I framed it.  He signed it “your daddy.”
I guess if we had been closer, I would miss him more.  I do think about him now and then, though.
I have some of his ashes that I keep in an urn.  I will pick it up now and then and just say “hey B.”

About This Woman I Call My REAL Big Sister

There is a woman in my life that I call my REAL big sister.  She is everything anybody could ever want in a sister and she is everything anybody could ever want in a friend.  I call her my RBS.
She protects me with the fierceness of a mother lioness.  She supports me with the staunchness of a concrete pillar that will not bend, break or sway.
She has a kindness in her face that is immediately detectable to everybody she meets.  She has rich, dark ebony hair and eyes that almost dance when she smiles.  She has an infectious giggle that helps me remember how a laugh used to sound.  If I can manage a laugh now and then, I can hear the joy in her heart.
She calls me “honey” and it touches me because I know it is genuine.
She has never dismissed my values as being “puritan” but rather respects and applauds them.
She tempers my anger when I’m talking about things that Loser and other people have said and done, by assigning deliciously insulting monikers to them, exactly the way a sister would and should.
My RBS will spend her entire day taking people to doctors’ appointments and acts as though it was as common as answering the telephone.  She is the kind of person who would come to your rescue without being asked.  She is so unassuming that I don’t think she could even come close to realizing the impact she has on other peoples’ lives…especially mine.
She is loving and giving and feels my pain as if it were it were her own.  She is a mentor and a confidant and I have no doubt that she would take a bullet for me.  I have no doubt that she would let herself be crucified before she would betray anybodys’ trust…especially mine.
She has walked with me through the darkest days of my life, covering me with an invisible cloak of tenderness and has never callously told me to “get over it.”  She has never tired of listening to the months and years of the endless grief that I have shared with her.  She has cried and ached with me and for me.
She talks softly to me when I’m sad or upset…not because she thinks I’m fragile or need to be placated…but because she has an inherent, caring nature.
Even though we live on opposite sides of the geographical continent, I can feel her arms around me.
She is a true gift that was sent to me from the angels.  She is a priceless, one-of-a-kind treasure.
I have two biological sisters but I had never known what a REAL sister was, until I met my RBS.
Those of you out there who have been blessed with the gift of a big sister will understand what I mean when I say, there is nothing that can compare to the love of a REAL big sister.

Isn’t Life Fun?

Something continues to baffle me.  It’s the communication between these “OW” and the wives of the husbands who are and were cheating with them.  These OW are searching for their lovers’ wives on websites and sending them texts and emails.  These OW are sending the wives or soon to be ex-wives, pictures and notes, “reassuring” the wife that “he belongs to them now.”
What exactly does that say about these OW?  Does it say that they are jealous, insecure women who are afraid that these men, who are telling them they love them, really don’t?  It is their way of trying to taunt us and make themselves seem to have some kind of value when in fact, they have none?  Immoral, unethical women have no value nor do the men they are whoring around with.  When you lose your honor…you lose everything.
There are OW and scumbag ex-husbands who threaten wives with lawsuits for telling the truth about them.  Do they really think they are that entitled?  Do they really think we should protect them? 
I know Loser thought I should “care enough” to want to protect him…..and his “celebrity status.”  That’s the mark of a true narcissist.
My sister went through that with her husbands’ OW.  I always called my sisters’ husband “tricky” and he lived up to that name.
This OW would call her and say “hey girlfriend” and then expect to have a friendly conversation.  (The sad thing is that my sister actually talked to her every time she called.)
There were times when tricky called my sister and asked her to meet him for lunch and when P**** got there, the OW was with him, waiting to “chat.”
The OW persistently called.  I guess she was trying to keep “her frienemy close” so as to not piss her off while waiting for the divorce to become final.
She called P**** one day with the usual, cheerful “hey girlfriend” and asked her what the progress was with the divorce.  When P**** told her that they had been divorced for almost two years, the OW almost went insane.  Tricky had told her that P**** wouldn’t give him a divorce.  Too funny.
A couple of months later, tricky lost his job.  Suddenly, the phone calls stopped.  Suddenly, the OW wasn’t so “desperately in love with him anymore.”  All the gifts, trips and expensive dinners were about to dry up.  The steady supply of clothes had already stopped when tricky moved out.
P**** is one of those women who buys the best clothes, gets tired of them in a few weeks and replaces them.  Tricky was telling her not to give them to Goodwill because he knew a “needy person at work” who could use them.
Imagine P****s’ surprise when she found out that tricky was giving her clothes to the OW.  Again, too funny.
In reality, we shouldn’t care what these OW (and I don’t even like to refer to them as women) do or say or think.  We should just laugh at them.  I don’t care what Loser and the WTC do.  I don’t care where they go.  I don’t care who they visit.
I just think about how, where and WHY they “found each other.”  THAT, in itself is worthy of a hearty laugh.