Life and other vehicles for confusion

It's weird. In the last week, I picked up three new clients to write for. I'm still not ready to quit my weekend job, and heaven knows I'll be buying detergent and toilet cleanser at the Dollar Tree for the foreseeable future. But I get this strange, not-altogether unpleasant sensation.

I'm not sure, but it could be what they call "confidence."

I've written a little about the tough time my daughter has been having of it lately - particularly getting along with her dad. Anyway, she's been with me while her school is on spring break. Her dad wanted her to go back to his house Sunday evening. This meant that during the second week of her spring break, she would be at home alone the entire time.

He's pretty strict about her having friends over when he's not there - which is perfectly understandable, but I'm home all the time, so she can have friends over whenever. I mean why insist on making her stay home alone, unless it's out of spite for me?

OK, so Saturday was a fairly tough day for her. Things started out OK. Puke Boy brought over his flat-iron and flat-ironed her hair for her. Then, by the time evening rolled around, he was telling her that he thought he loved her, which made her quite uncomfortable.

My son's current band did its farewell show Saturday night because the bassist is joining the Marines, and my daughter went to the show, but was increasingly uncomfortable being around Puke Boy. Why was I not taking extraordinary measures in protecting her from him?

Two reasons. 1) She or I either one could easily take him in a fight. He's not that big, and is rather slow-moving. And, 2) I figure that since he owns a flat-iron and brought it over here to do her hair, there's a reasonable chance that he, you know, plays for the other team. But she did call me to come pick her up at my son's show, and I did.

By the time we got home, she was frantic over having to go back to her dad's. You know me. I hate conflict, and it is a rare occurrence for me to go into full-on mama bear mode. But I knew that Sunday was one of those times it would be necessary.

I don't know what Little Chick has been telling her dad about my work situation, but it must pretty impressive, because the last couple of times I've spoken with him on the phone, he's sounded almost respectful, and even better: totally caved to my demands. She probably told him that I do full-time copy writing for several international clients. That's technically true, but the reality (writing for Indian companies that were outsourced by American firms in the first place) doesn't match up to how impressive it sounds.

Long story short: Dad caved. She's here till Tuesday. My son is looking for another bass player. I dropped Puke Boy off at a friend's house where he can stay until his grandmother stops threatening him.

On a totally unrelated subject, this picture looks like a combination of two of my favorite things: cinnamon rolls and cats:


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