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I just looked out the window and saw my cat doing his business at the foot of the slide of our swingset.  I thought about running for my camera because I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but I was mesmerized by his passive/aggressive behavior and couldn’t tear myself away until he was all done and covering it with some dirt. 

Covering turds reminds me of my nemesis.  Do you remember The Blonde?  Well, she’s back and driving me insane.

The Baby Blonde and my Princess are both in first grade but in different classes this year.  They still play together on the playground and go to the same gymnastics class after school.  Which means that I have to spend a full hour each week in the company of The Blonde while the girls are flipping and jumping.

The first time I walked in and saw her there, I blanched and fought down the bile rising in my throat.  And then she moved her purse and invited me to sit beside her.  For one full hour, I listened quietly (like I could get a word in edgewise) while she extolled the gymanstic genius of the Baby Blonde (who, by the way, is a shitty gymnast).  Apparently, The Blonde had high hopes of being a gymnast herself, tee hee, but she got too involved in making straight As to continue along that path.

The next day, I took the Princess to a birthday party.  And guess who was there?

The next day, we went to a football game.  And guess who was there?  I laughingly accused her of stalking me.  Only I was not kidding.

When we received news of Baby Ava, The Blonde was right there with her iPad to recommend names.  She offered to help with the Princess’s care while we were in Russia.  Nowadays, she texts me and calls me.  But the thing is she does not like me.

It’s evident to me and even to my “Do Unto Others” mother who met her while we were out of the country.  Mama has forbidden me to let the Princess go to their house unchaperoned.  She says The Blonde is “like a Texas ‘Cheer Mom’ or Tonya Harding’s boyfriend that clubbed Nancy Kerrigan at the Olympics.”  Strong words.

http://www.google.com/imgres?q=photo+queen+bee&hl=en&sa=X&rls=com.microsoft:en-us&biw=1080&bih=502&tbm=isch&prmd=imvns&tbnid=sjjbWjYJw7qd0M:&imgrefurl=http://vocolo.com/explore/content/87706&docid=derXqFQV84IE1M&imgurl=http://vocolo.com/files/media/vocalo-image/queen-bee.jpg%253F1311788976&w=400&h=400&ei=w8cmT8qoL-nD0AHVwKChCQ&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=397&vpy=87&dur=1616&hovh=225&hovw=225&tx=44&ty=251&sig=108678617360597572143&page=3&tbnh=138&tbnw=138&start=25&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:12,s:25

Queen Bee

The Blonde is a classic “Queen Bee” and to her EVERYTHING is a competition.  Our conversations consist of her telling me how great she is and how great her husband is and how great her 6000 square foot house is and how great her kids are.  And I just smile.  Time permitting, she will pepper me with questions about the Princess (just for comparative purposes not because she is genuinely interested).  Believe it or not, I don’t stab her answer with reciprocal bragging.  I just smile and answer her questions directly.

Being that I have a PhD is “Super Bitch Arts” myself, it is nothing short of a miracle that I’ve been able to maintain this level of self-control for nearly three years. Especially since that woman obviously (to my friends and to you, dear reader) drives me to drink.  Tequila.  At noon.  Daily.

Prince Charming and I have decided to homeschool the Princess next year.  This has NOTHING to do with me being emotionally bullied by The Blonde.  I swear.  We have a dozen reasons – all good.  BUT it would be a lie to say that being shed of this stupid bitch is not icing on the cupcake.  Actually, being rid of her for a year fills me with as much glee as if Donald Trump just paid off my mortgage.

Until then, I will continue to smile on the outside.  But in my mind, I am padlocking her into an old refrigerator in the garage.  Who’s passive/agressive now?

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