Dear friends,

Fuzzlebut is a word I just made up. I just said it out loud, in the tone of an expletive. I made it up to keep from saying a string of much-worse words.

I said it because I noticed Mr. Mom posted a photo of our Colorado mountain property on his Facebook wall. I said it because I’m here instead of there. And I said it because he made his way to our property on a dirt bike via a long trail through the adjoining National Forest. Which is NOT, by the way, the same thing as going by truck via a short route on our road. And you might have guessed, if you read my last installment, that he couldn’t go by road because three years later, we’re still locked out.

It’s a scenic view, though. See for yourself.

So once again things didn’t turn out. I guess I won’t get ahead of myself since I’m telling our mountain story and I’m still back in 2009, narratively speaking. But once again Mr. Mom drove to Colorado. And once again the hearing was rescheduled. Needless to say, the whole thing is just . . . just . . . fuzzlebut.

I like fuzzlebut because it starts out like the mother of all curse words with a good strong FUH. And it ends forcibly with BUT. And even though it’s an innocuous word, If you say it loudly, with an emphasis on the FUZ and the BUT, it can be pretty satisfying. I think if I shout FUZZLEBUT you’ll clearly understand that I’m not happy, yet I’ve managed to stay polite in the process.

And, really, there’s no better way to express my frustration — especially my frustration that Mr. Mom keeps driving to Colorado and keeps turning around and coming home with no resolution because the court sees fit to jerk us around this way — than to shout FUZZLEBUT. I mean — come on. Is there truly a valid reason why the judge can’t be considerate to a defendant who lives 900 miles away? Is there a reason why repeated reschedulings can’t be handled with 48 hours notice instead of 24, especially when one of the participants is facing a 14-hour drive?

I know. My rhetorical questions don’t serve any purpose but to rile me up. I need to breathe in. Breathe out. Times 10,000.

Maybe if I breathe fast enough, I can hyperventilate myself into passing out. And, today, that’s a preferred state.

With gratitude {through gritted teeth for made-up curse words that are keeping me from improperly influencing everyone around me today},

Joan, who really would like to kick somebody, anybody, in the shins right about now, but knows it does not reflect the gratitude example she wishes to set