Miss Hathaway Returns.

From: The Desk of Miss Hathaway

To: To Whom it May Concern

Dear Readers, (All 3 of you)

I realize it's been awhile since I've written; I honestly thought things were getting better with him. The outbursts, throwing of furniture, and Tourette-like symptoms had virtually gone away. Sure there were momentary flares, like him throwing that innocent crock pot out the office window when the Yankees won the "World Series" (whatever THAT is) or the time when Trot peed in the sink and he signed up for the Marines. (Thankfully whatever mental exam they give you disqualified him in the first five minutes. And personally? I think that child needs to be committed, but that's just me.)

But all in all? It's been a relatively quiet winter.

Until today; you see, it started to snow again. Down here in the South a snow storm occurs about as often as Haley's Comet (I wonder why they named it after that nice man who wrote "Roots"?) so 6 relatively major storms have got the natives a tad restless, my employer included.

When it started to fall today he immediately locked himself in his office, but I did catch him muttering under his breath something about "sticking all this crap up the nearest available......, well I'm a lady and you get the idea. And when I checked in on him before I retired for the evening he had a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines in front of him and some gentleman named "Curt in the Car" was pontificating, rather condescending in my humble opinion, on the radio.

Before the words "Will there be anything else tonight?" left my mouth he looked up, WINKED at me (a rather startling development I must say), and said the following 3 words.

Baseball.

Is.

Here.

It was then that it hit me; this calm existence we'd had over the past few months coincided right along with the months where there was no baseball being played. No nightly phone calls at 11 p.m. where he either screamed for joy in my ear or mutter profanities under his breath; both of those are totally acceptable next to the 15 minutes of total silence where I listen to him breathe into the phone while some gentleman with a soothing voice named "TC" talks about the blowout loss to the Yankees that just finished up. Those are the nights I get up at 3 a.m. to peruse the want ads on Craigs List.

Not a pretty sight.

So, here we go again. Another 6 months of me arriving at the office wondering if he'll be in a good mood due to a win, taking a 9 iron to the coffee maker if it's a loss (He doesn't even DRINK coffee; two weeks ago I caught him Googling "How to Mainline Mt Dew") or God forbid wearing that "Teets for President" T-Shirt he wore to the Board of Directors Meeting last year after that handsome Master Ellsbury stole home against the, and I quote, MFY.

At this stage in the game I'm just trying to hang on until retirement and hoping he doesn't stroke out or show up to work wearing nothing but his ever present Red Sox cap and a smile. I'd hoped marriage and three children would have mellowed him out, but those two emissary's of evil on two legs sort of threw that out the nearest available window.

So here I sit; on the north side of 50 in a dead end job where my greatest hope of peace and solace resides in a team of baseball players in Boston, MA and a 2 inch snow storm reduces my employer to a 10 year old who didn't take his Ritalin.

As much as all this is stressing me out? I'm kind of glad it's here.

At least I know what to expect over the next 7 months.

Sincerely,

Miss Hathaway

P.S. If anyone has any potty training tips that encompass taking a whiz on the garage floor? Please send them along.