Divorced Divas – Chapter 2 cont’d

Brad never complained about our sporadic sex life. He’s not even complaining now—about anything. In fact, he’s not talking, full stop. No explanation at all for this impending divorce, other than he wants to be single again. Says he can’t handle married life. Ha! Oh, he can’t handle married life? That’s a joke. What has he had to give up? I’m the one who runs around after the man more than his doting mother ever did. He doesn’t shop, cook, clean or even communicate with his kids. Not that they are the world’s greatest communicators. Even I have to watch home videos of them in their pre-teen years to realize that they once talked in a pleasant manner. My son just grunts at me, and all I get from my sixteen-year-old daughter Mindy are sassy quips and derogatory looks of utter disbelief, especially when I attempt to espouse her virtues with my growing list of positive sayings.
‘I’m not a bloody dimwit, Mother!’ was the response I got from her when I told her that she was special the other day. She glared at me as if I had just denied her Internet access. ‘Special is the word we use for kids in the special needs class. Save your positive attitude for yourself. You need it!’
Poor Mindy is not coping well with the separation. I sense hostility, and perhaps a dollop of hatred, because she then said that had she never been conceived in the first place her father and I would probably never have gotten married and she would have been saved listening to all this ‘shit’ going down. How does a mother respond to that one? Admittedly, I was only twenty-two and pregnant with Mindy when Brad and I decided to wed, but we loved each other. Didn’t we? I’m not sure I can handle Mindy at the moment. Perhaps she could go and stay with the aforementioned grandmother for a while. Beatrice would definitely side with her granddaughter in the ‘attack against the witch of a mother stakes’, but at least I could have the time to wallow. It’s a thought…
Today is Wednesday. My day off, and I know I should be doing something productive, but I think I’m rapidly slumping into the depression stage of my grieving process. As I said, one can slip in and out of all five stages at any given time. So, today I am deciding to choose depression. It’s rather apt that I’m still in my pyjamas. I eye off half a bottle of cheap cooking red left over from last night’s casserole, and, with indecisive fingers drumming on the kitchen bench for a few seconds, I marvel at my willpower and head back to bed.
This is where, hours later, on her return from school, Mindy finds me, and she’s none too impressed. Her scream is loud enough to cause deafness. I dive under the bedcovers in shame as she wails, ‘What in hell’s name are you reading? Is that…? It is! You’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Oh, how gross! You have really hit an all-time low now, Mother. Don’t you know that stuff is for sickos?’
Before I can even get out the words, ‘I am a bloody sicko and if this novel is categorised as mummy porn, and I’m also a mummy, then it is good enough for me,’ she’s gone. I place the offending book back under my bed in the basket of sex stuff that Alessandra gave me, eyeing off the sex manuals for lesbians and wondering what Mindy would think of these. Out of sheer curiosity, I pick up one of the sex toys and press the small switch on its underbelly. I gasp as the penile-shaped toy with rubber spikes the full length of its shaft vibrates so violently it launches out of my hands and falls on my bed, whirring its way to the pillow like a Hickory Horned Devil. I kid you not, there is such an animal. Well, technically they are insects. And before you go accusing me of gross exaggeration, I have seen a documentary on these giant caterpillars. And just so you can picture it (my dildo, that is) the grub with the fearful name grows up to fifteen centimetres in length before eventually emerging into a regal moth. Fifteen centimetres! And that’s a length is not to be sneered at. Just ask my ex. He would be proud to own…
I must stop this right now. Vindictiveness will not get me anywhere. Unless I’m shifting into my anger stage? Then I could be justified in discussing Brad’s appendage—or rather lack thereof I should say. I gingerly remove said horned devil sex toy from my pillow, turn off the switch and examine it, contemplating its future in my life. I fight the urge to soothe it with my hands. Boy, was I ever good at doing that to Brad…
‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’ This statement comes from the other possible trade-in; my son Cameron, or Cam as we call him. He’s fourteen, and although I said he only grunted, he does sometimes talk, but only in relation to food. Cam notices nothing else; not the fact that his father and I are sleeping apart, nor that his father talks less than he these days, which is a near impossibility. And Cam certainly hasn’t noticed that his mother is still in her pyjamas and fondling a dildo.
‘Reheated casserole,’ I answer and receive his trademark grunt followed by a flick of his long-haired head before he mopes away.
To be continued….

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