Late Sunday morning after my 2am wake up call, I received a text from The Ex that said, “My bad. I’ll never learn.” Learn what? Not to drink so much? Not to contact your ex-wife when you’re drunk? Not to ask your ex-wife for help?
Nope. He didn’t learn any of those.
On Tuesday night, I was on the couch watching The Mentalist through my closed eyelids when I was startled by a knock on the door. C’mon, if I’m not used to late night phone calls, I’m REALLY not used to late night visitors. Especially on a Tuesday. Or ever. Since I have a glass front door, I could make out the shape of my visitor – male, hat turned backwards, shirtless. Yeah, this wouldn’t even describe any daytime visitors that I might have. I was instantly nervous as I tried to remember if I had already set the alarm. I flipped on the front porch light, and there was my ex – shirtless, drunk, and bleeding. Not his best look.
“I need to stay on your couch tonight. I have to be at work at 6am and I need to get some sleep. I can’t lose this job. If I do, you’ll lose child support.” Is what I THINK he said with his slur and bobbing around trying not to fall.
“One question. Are the police on their way for anything?”
I decided that we should sit on the front porch and talk, for obvious reasons: (1) If the police were on the way, it’s better to give the neighbors a show, not my kids. (2) There is no way he can get back behind the wheel and drive anywhere, but maybe he’ll sober up a bit after a chat and then I can send him on his way? (3) If we sit outside, there is less of a chance that he will try to kiss me. If you think my ex has no boundaries on a regular basis, you should see him when he’s drunk. He leaned in for a kiss as soon as I suggested that we sit outside and talk. Really? As if.
He rambled on for a while about the weekend that the boys went to stay with him and the troubles he felt we have with our son’s new girlfriend. He proudly bragged about how he threatened to fight our son because he thought he was a bad ass. Umm-hmmm, that’s all very interesting. Where’s your shirt? Why are you bleeding? And why am I watching every passing car to see if it’s a cop?
Obviously, he and his girlfriend had a fight. They both enjoy the partying lifestyle, which has been great for them with the exception that they get drunk and jealousy and fighting sometimes come into play. (Trust me on this one. I used to live with the man and his jealousy.) According to The Ex, his girlfriend has been going to parties at her aunt’s house, even though he’s told her time and again that he doesn’t appreciate it. He doesn’t think that she’s cheated on him or anything, but it’s just so disrespectful. In his opinion.
Y’all, I could have smacked him right at that moment. On my front porch and all. Because ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Can we just pause for a moment and remember the last DECADE of our marriage? I think you just described it. Only then you thought it was ridiculous that I thought you were being disrespectful for hanging out in bars all night, even though I had told you a million times that it hurt my feelings.
“Whatever. That’s why I’m here. I get it.”
Anyway, from what I can gather from his story (in between pulling him out of the bushes where he stumbled), is that they had a fight about the parties at her aunts and it led up to him throwing a drink in her face. His “whole entire drink” as he described it. I’m not sure if he was just trying to paint a picture of the scene or if he was pausing to mourn the loss of his drink. After all, it was a “whole entire” glass of vodka with a splash of water. His new drink of choice.
So the girlfriend, oh let’s call her Bambi, grabbed her phone and threatened to take pictures and report it as abuse. So of course, he did what he had to do – grab her phone and run outside to smash it with his heel. Bambi seized the opportunity to lock him out. If I followed his story correctly, somehow he got back in and then got to lock her out while he tried to call friends to find a place to stay. She was screaming like a banshee, so he let her in and started hauling his stuff out, which she gladly helped him, tossing his shirt out the door and tossing his new whole entire drink on top of it. As he was carrying a load to his minivan, he heard the apartment door close, so he took off running to get back before it locked. That’s when he lost his footing and fell. Hence the bloody arm.
So there he was, outside of her apartment, shirtless, drunk, and bleeding, surrounded by his belongings. And now here he is on my doorstep, shirtless, drunk, and bleeding.