heated_seats pony Riding in the passenger seat of my ex's mother's Sports Utility Vehicle, my ass nearly on fire, I thought about the stark duality my children were experiencing on a weekly basis. The judge ordered alternating weekends, but when faced with deadbeats born of regretful mothers, certain liberties must be taken. Every mid-week, my children are picked up by their paternal grandmother and shown a side of life departed from the other six days a week, where we reside in a modest home - a meager but meaningful two bedrooms in six hundred square feet - filled to the brim with art, music, literature, toys, painted walls, furry rugs, greenery and open shelving. Minimalism is not for us. We pack as much love as we can into our humble abode, and we'd never want for much of things, if not for the gaping disparity my beautiful young doppelgangers are increasingly aware of; their grandparents drive on heated seats, to heated floors and vaulted ceilings, finished basements and inground pools, and there's never an explanation given for this great divide, except that mommy comes from a different kind of pool, and daddy hates your mommy. For all the damage done, my children delight most in dollar stores and the shine of two dimes. Perhaps I'll raise them right after all, packed as we are, with hardly those two to rub together. Do not find us remotely ungrateful, even when our asses are cold. 240228 what's it to you? who go blather from