My former sister-in-law has enviable hair, nails and halter top collection. She is a walking billboard for the local tattoo parlor and has smoked enough weed to ensure the poor sap cremating her will get a hell of a contact high when the grim reaper stakes his claim. Some days I wonder what’s taking him so long.
The jettisoned psycho ex is one of those people who has an adorable mouth, nose, eyes and flawless skin, but somehow all those features put together aren’t terribly attractive. I think the CQ (cute quotient) diminishes every time she opens her mouth, too. Some people can wear a Hefty sack and look smashing. Others – like Psycho Ex - look like a heap of trash in an otherwise glamorous evening gown. I thought the tattoo on her arm was a giant bruise until I got a better look at it. It is difficult to look classy with a smattering of unrelated caricatures carved onto your body. Not impossible, just difficult. The daisy duke cutoffs and braless tube tops don’t help.
For the record, I have two tattoos. Most people never see either one because they are in very discreet locations. Their visibility is actually decreasing as I gain more weight and pretty soon the dragons on the small of my back will disappear into the crack of my ass.
But I digress. The CQ of Psycho Ex is actually quite appealing when compared to her personality. Misspent the household allotment for utilities? Not a problem. Lean on extended families to pony up the money to turn the lights back on. When that stopped working, she had a kid. “The baby is cold,” she would say, “and we’ve no money for oil. We just need one shipment, and she is so cold…” Who doesn’t have a heart and wouldn’t pony up a few sheckles for that? And when the fuel truck was on its way over to deliver an emergency shipment (with a $50 fee on top, of course) she would ring someone up to come wait for it. “There is a peace protest in Woodstock
and I promised I would bring the filet mignon to feed the marchers.” The next time fuel ran short, her answer would be “They stiffed us fifty bucks’ worth. Can you float us…?”
Credit was a dangerous way to live with her. “Oops!” She will say. “No one ever taught me how credit works.” She claimed not to know that credit cards weren’t preloaded cash, and was under the impression that once one was “used up,” well, you just moved on to the next one. Repayment was a thorn in her side and I heard her get mouthy with bill collectors on a regular basis. “You knew when you gave us that card what kind of money we had. You’re an idiot if you thought we had enough money to pay all that back.” Student loans were not so much for funding education as they were for financing vacations, leather coats, designer pants and nights on the town. There wasn’t a karaoke bar she wasn’t well acquainted with.
The worst part, though, was how she could turn on you like a rabid dog. Life with Psycho Ex was great unless you stopped agreeing with her. Then her claws came out and that pretty little mouth morphed into a megaphone, broadcasting all sorts of charming belittling sentiments. Whipping the unsuspecting into submission, she would finish the tirade by calling everyone she knew and telling them what an idiot you are. My gosh, according to her, I did hard time in prison, stole money from my father and scammed an entire community out of ticket money for an event that never happened. Funny thing, though, is that I haven’t been to prison, my father borrowed heavily from me since he hadn’t worked in years and this nonevent resulted in a large donation to my alma mater.
We all know a person who preys upon the good-hearted, hard-working among us. Time is unkind to those people, and that may be the only solace my brother has as he digs out from years of oppression by the tattooed wunderspender. Our mom finally doesn’t fall for her cries of her cold baby needing heat. She cuts Psycho Ex off when she starts degrading my brother now. That is progress for mom.
Now, if only Psycho Ex could get a job, well, that would be progress. I’ll keep you posted.
