Fast forward to Fiery Fiona’s house. She is preparing for a Date. She is nervous. She is excited. She is busy. She is a whirlwind.
She is trying to unload 3 kids in the nick of time, and still look presentable. (Is that a SpagettiO stain on the back of your white skirt? Is that a piece of toilet paper sticking out of your bra? Is that gum in your hair? Is that a fruit roll up in your teeth? No time to look in the mirror.)
The Date is texting her sweet nothings about his impending arrival time at her house. He is bringing wine and a good time. Her ex husband wusband is standing in front of her house, refusing to leave, until they work out 3 years’ worth of differences and she hands over an outfit for their daughter. He is stubborn. He is argumentative. He is unflagging.
She does not want to be frazzled for Date. She is starting to sweat. This is cutting it really close. Will Date hit every red light on the drive over? Hope so.
How to make wasbund go away? Now he wants to discuss custody scheduling for the next decade. No! I have a date screams Fiery F, in her head of course. “Time for you to get out,” she purrs calmly. She left out various F and S words in that sentence. He finally leaves. Kids’ faces pressed against the rear windows as they drive sadly away.
At that moment Date’s car rounds the corner…he thinks she has been waiting for him…hair blown back, barefoot and expectant in the street…how sweet.
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