Gut Rumbles
 

February 28, 2011

"shared" custody

Originally published October 19, 2002

I really don't understand why I do a lot of the things I do. I picked up my son yesterday and was notified by the BC that Quinton had 1) a soccer game at 8:00 in the morning all the way over in southside Savannah, then 2) a car wash at the Sonic drive-in in Rincon from 11:00 until 1:00.

I had a few objections to this schedule.

First of all, I cut my vacation short and paid for a cabin that I left two days early to be with my son this weekend. Had I known he was so heavily booked on his social calender, I may have reconsidered that choice. It would have been nice to know before 6:00 on Friday, when I picked him up.

Second, who in the hell except an overbearing Soccer Mom, who does this shit a lot more for HER personal gratification than my son's, has him scheduled to play soccer at sunrise forty miles away from home, then wash cars in 50-degree weather TWO miles away from home when the game is over? That's batshit planning to me. And it's also batshit thinking. Eight year-olds don't need to be washing cars in this kind of weather. I started to ask, "How much money do they expect to raise at this all-important car wash? If I write 'em a fucking check for that amount, plus fifty dollars, can I keep Quinton today?" It's MY SATURDAY with him.

Third, I see my son every other weekend, from 6:00 on Friday evening until 6:00 on Sunday evening. The BC has him THE REST OF HIS LIFE and I don't appreciate her booking MY weekend with shit SHE wants him to do. I took him to the soccer game this morning, at 8:00 so that he could warm up before the face-off, kick-off or whatever the hell they call the start of a soccer game at 8:30. She arrived 30 seconds before the beginning of the game and was one hell of a show all by herself. I didn't know she was there until I heard her holding court from a lawn chair ten yards away. The men gathered around like flies on shit (and YES, that is a PERFECT analogy) as the other Soccer Moms stared in abject adoration at the Queen of Them All. The game was a sideshow that really deflected the spotlight from her.

I didn't receive so much as a how-de-do, and I wanted to puke. While I'm standing there tasting food I ate three days ago on Blood Mountain, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the only person in the world I despise more than the Bloodless Cunt. "How are you doing, Rob," said Joe Thompson, the most worthless, scheming, ass-kissing, loogie-stain of a person I've EVER met in my life. He stuck out his hand to me. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

"I wasn't doing worth a shit, then I saw you. The day just got worse."

So, I left. I elbowed my way through her throngs of fans to reach the Soccer Goddess and told her, "I'm outta here. When Quinton is finished with the grand multiple-county tour you have planned for him today, you can bring him back to my house or not. But if his "schedule" on MY WEEKENDS has any more shit like today on it, notify the coach, the car-washers and EVERYBODY ELSE involved that he won't be there."

I am certain that she can explain to her adoring fans what a total asshole I am, without mentioning the unemployed dope-smoker and the other downright sleazy things she has done to me. That's fine. But she needs to get her greasy fingers out of my son's head and stop manipulating that boy for her own aggrandizement. My son didn't want to play soccer this morning. He warmed the bench for all but about two minutes while I was there, and he DAMNED SURELY didn't want to wash cars after the game. SHE wanted that.

Now, I don't know if he'll be back here today or not. That depends on her mood, I suppose. But I know one thing.

I'll never have to ask that question again.

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