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Our oldest daughter is having outpatient surgery today. Which means sitting in the waiting room with my husband’s ex and her husband and my husband. Uncomfortable.

I’ve tried so far to know my place. When we checked in, I let my daughter’s mom and her stepdad talk to the check in desk. My husband was at work, waiting for word that she was actually going into the surgery before leaving work since we had not been given an actual time for her surgery.

Ok, “I’m going to hell for real” warning. A day or so ago my husband told me that, after not seeing his ex for months, when we saw her the other day her ass had become the size of a small city. Or something like that. Shamefully, I enjoyed that he said this as much as I enjoyed the idea that she might have gained weight. Why? Because I’m a little evil, I guess. As I walked behind her into the hospital today, I realized he was wrong. She looks great, as she always does. But I still like that he said it even if it was to make me feel better. NB: He didn’t like my post about sex with your ex.

“I’m going to hell” warning part II: my husband’s ex dresses her husband like he’s in his twenties, which I think is funny because he’s a week younger than I am: a solidly middle-aged 39. He looked his age today because he was off to work, but I decided that his new haircut makes him look like Tin Tin. When he had a moustache I couldn’t look at him without thinking Hitler. It’s a personal issue, much like my compulsion to sing whatever song connects to whatever the person I’m conversing with just said. Pop culture is an insidious bitch.

When the volunteer came over to tell us they were ready for our daughter, she also said only one person could go up to the next level with her. Her mom looked at her and asked who she wanted to go with her. Really? What was she supposed to say? It’s like Solomon’s choice and it’s one she’s been asked to make too many times and not by me. So I saved her and said, “Of course you mom should go with you.” I know my role by now. I’m only a little evil, after all. Once we were in the room and my husband showed up, I left the room to give everyone space. This would have stung in the early years, but I’m more mature now. As evidenced by my Tin Tin association.

Just to prove that I’m equal opportunity snarky, near the end of our sojourn in the tenth ring, a young couple came in and the young woman promptly pulled up her partner’s shirt and began smearing a blue gel on what appeared to be a new tattoo on his back. My husband’s ex and I had one of those moments I fantasize about us having in the nursing home one day when we looked at each other across and giggled. I said it takes all colors to make a rainbow (I know, so sweet) and she said something about all types of medical procedures being done at the hospital. We were still sharing a moment when the call came that the surgery was over and we could go up to see our little princess.

So the tenth ring of hell thing was an exaggeration, but that’s another of my gifts.

And in the spirit of full disclosure, my hair looks like this:

and I had, just for today, the tenth PMS zit I’ve ever had in my life. I tried to snag a photo of a zit, but, seriously, they all made me so nauseated that I just couldn’t do that to anyone else. You’ve seen a big, red, angry zit. Mental picture. It’s probably being featured in my husband’s ex’s blog post for today. I can only hope!

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