The Ex-factor #12

Well, I had my own little helping of Masterpiece Theater served up the other night, which involved me, The Future Mr. Crazy Pants and of course…an ex. Let the drama unfold.

So because of that fucking online phenomena for the socially inept, which we will call FB (yeah, I’m on it, go take a sip of shut the hell up), I was contacted by an old BFF from high school. He’s in the same biz as I, would like to meet for drinks to catch up, yada yada…I’m like sure, why not. Now, as part of my Crazy Pants Therapy (CPT), I’m trying to make “good decisions.” Consulting my head editors (you know the voice of reason that I never listen to before I unleash the batshit crazy) when situations such as these arise. So I’m thinking is this one of those times when I go and meet an old BFF, especially a BOY BFF by myself? Thank God I wasn’t drinking the crazy juice when having this negotiation with Enrique-From-Guatemala Head Editor – whom at the time was covering for Olga-from-Belarus Chief Head Editor in Charge who was back visiting family in the gulag. He’s okay…a little slow on the response, but hey with my stellar thought processes, I’ll take what I can get. So we unanimously agreed, "NO" was the appropriate answer.

I set up a meeting with the BFF, invite the Future Mr. and all is good. The Future Mr. and I get to the bar a little early, order some small plates of eats and he begins to go through the run down of previous conversations on how I know this person.

You went to high school together?

Yep.

You were part of a group…ah skaters(boarders), right?

Yeah, did I mention I was totally goofy foot?

And you never dated, right?

Nope…just went to Prom together. (INSERT RECORD SCREECH. Apparently I failed to tell the Future Mr. this little tiddy bit of info)

(Me backtracking) But you know…it’s cool. It wasn’t like THAT kind of Prom date…it was like we didn’t have dates and took our first cousins. Seriously.

So Future Mr. is totally cool. Whew!

BFF shows up, we order beers and the nostalgia begins. And all through it I’m making sure Future Mr. is comfy and involved. When prom night is brought up I quickly deflect with a Stimulus Package joke…Hey! What do you think about the Stimulus Package cause the only one I want is one that’s not going to get me pregnant. HA HA HA.
So all is going great…until…

BFF: Oh hey! I meant to tell you, I called (My ex).

Me: whoa, wha? You did what???

BFF: Well yeah, we’re really good friends and I told him we were meeting for drinks and he said he’d stop by. He works next door.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. So yeah, I get the crooked evil eye from Future Mr. which I quickly deliver to BFF. And in walks the Ex-Factor #12 whom we’ll call Snake Boy.

Side note: I would like to point out at this juncture that Snake Boy is Ex-Factor #12 and that the guy whom I would date after him, Future Ex-Husband, was Ex-Factor #13. Had my head editors been on duty that year, I probably would have known that Ex-Factor #13 would be an Ex. But hey, I rolled the dice. A few highlights from my relationship with Snake Boy.

-Four months into our relationship, we got into a fight in which he started calling me MOM…yeah, MOM. As in “MOM don’t yell at me. MOM let me explain.” MOM. I mean like did his mother have a yeast infection while he was gesticulating and he never got over it and so now anything with a vagina and a stern glare sends him back to the womb? What the flying fuck. Mom.

-This was also the man who clung to the outside of my car while I drove 35 mph down the street…same fight as Mom fight (see above).

-We moved in together…again before CPT. He owned a snake. And not just any snake a BOA CONSTRICTOR which got loose in our 1 bedroom apartment and went missing for 3 damn months. When he finally found it, the f-ing thing it was sick and starving. Snake boy had the brilliant idea of turning up the thermostat in its cage, which in turned cooked the vile thing. I will never forget him crying out, “He’s dead, can’t you smell him?!” Vomit.

-When my head editors finally ended their strike against me, it was time to move out. Which I did in 20 minutes using large garbage bags.

So here we are, all “Lady Crazy Pants this is your life,” and Future Mr. is just being amazingly cool. And I’m getting scared. Because he’s being amazingly cool. Because you know…when I’m being amazingly cool something amazingly bad is going to happen. Bad as in “ordering two bottles of Crazy Juice (of the Chardonnay varietal) and a straw, drinking one, cutting a bitch’s eyebrows off with a butter knife right there at the table and hitting him over the head with the other bottle” kinda bad. Trust me, it woulda been a hot time in the ‘ol Crazy Town that night.

But no..not him. He listened. He laughed. He threw out looks of concern at the right points of in-depth conversation. It was an Oscar worthy Supporting Actor performance that would have rivaled all. And I’m sitting there going, God DAMN am I lucky. I mean really, what dingo saving piece of humanitarianism have I done to deserve this man? IN LOVE.

So with this revelation and a full Love glow goin, I turned to the ex and asked, “Hey how’s your mom?”