Go Squat Somewhere Else

Yes, I still have a tenant. A roommate. A squatter at this point. Over the summer, when we weren't home much, it was a breeze to share space with a stranger. I collected the rent money and went off on my merry way, often to the farthest set of outlets with the kids in tow to buy new apparel for my divorce-diet shrinking body. Now that we are home and the summer breezes have turned into 'batten down the hatches, winter is here', I'm resenting that stranger who told me it was just a month or two that she needed a place to stay. The month or two has turned into four, and my fear is she's never going to leave. I like money but I also realized I like my privacy too.

Don't get me wrong, my first experience with a renter could have been a lot worse. She seems to like my kids and our dog. She's very patient with all of them, and she's quite nice. But she's also a, how do I put it kindly...a fucking slob. And a pretty lazy one to boot. I know I'm anal when it comes to organization but it's my house. If my stuff is picked up, yours should be too. At least in the common area. And would it be too much to ask for you to wipe the fucking stove down after you've cooked your greasy midnight snack bacon which splattered all over? Would it kill you to clean the bathroom once in a while? I know you share it with two kids but for me to have to do it every week seems a little, I don't know, GODDAMN unfair. 

There are days when I drive up my road and I say a little prayer that her car is gone and she's not home. Very similar to how I felt coming home to Army Boy for the previous six months before he tore my heart out and shat on it. Maybe my squatter is secretly cheating on me and that's why I don't want to be around her. 

Or maybe I'm still PMSing or maybe, just maybe, I'm torqued up because I have go to a court meeting tomorrow about the divorce because Army Boy is too fucking stupid to finalize anything and apparently wants the court and some lawyers to tell us what to do. Heart warming really that he can't make a decision about his own children and needs someone to tell him what to do. Or more likely, he's too much of a pussy to tell me to my face that he's not going to give me what I asked for and he's going to let his lawyer play the bad guy. I texted him that he can pay my attorney bills because we should have been able to come to an agreement overselves and our lawyers could have just reviewed it. Dividing assets of nothing doesn't take an accounting degree. But wait, I believe his skanky whore has an accounting degree from a mail order school. Even she should be able to advise him that nothing divided by two is still NOTHING. And I'm sure it's the money thing that Army Boy is worried about because he told me the schedule he wanted to see the kids and I said yup, sounds about right. 

I'm prepared to stay up all night worrying and angsting (that's a new word I just coined) and tossing and turning and swearing and cursing and plotting someone's demise. And I can only hope my stovetop is clean in the morning or my squatter is going to get an early wake up call via a wet sponge to the head and me yelling, 'Clean up that fucking grease or you can move out today.'