1. Confessions of a Single Mom: Ain't no good gonna come to you ...

***This story was originally published on the now defunct Twelve24Girl.com in the sites Confessions blog. It will be republished in its entirety, here.***

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Hi all,

My name’s Melyssa Ganache and I’m gonna be unfolding my confessions to you for the next few weeks, months or so, who knows … right here. Spilling my guts.

I’m a single mom currently embroiled in a heated custody battle with my baby’s father. This negro wants sole custody of my kid, y’all You believe that? Sole custody. He’s a nut case.

But there’s more to it than that. Infidelity; rumors of infidelity; accusations of kidnapping; backstabbing and getting back (nobody ever breaks up just once, you always get back). And -- if we can just be real -- the serious consideration of contracting a hit man’s services. It’s all here and it’s all true.

If you’re a baby’s mama (ugh, that term makes me cringe), a baby’s daddy (equal disgust, here) or close to someone who has been through the drama that most certainly follows either attachment, then maybe you can relate.

This is my story …

Ain't no good gonna come to you

The powers of the universe are working like a well oiled machine. My story is one, unfortunately and admittedly, of karma at its most elemental.

Here’s the broad synopsis: My child’s father is my ex-boyfriend’s best friend. Messy, I know. (Quiet the insults spat at your computer screen until the end of the post, please. It does get worse). My son’s father is my girl friend’s ex-boyfriend. LOL. But really.

So first, the now:

I’m being held hostage in New Jersey per court order because my son’s father doesn’t want me to move out of state with our baby boy. Fine. Moreover, he wants sole custody of our son. Nuts.

Then, I’ll begin to bring you up to speed:

Baby’s daddy (we’ll call him BD for succinctness and anonymity) is a Bronx-bred, staunch White-people-are-devils-Black-man-is-God Muslim who doesn’t eat pork (because pigs were grafted in a laboratory by French scientists); doesn’t touch alcohol, (literally, doesn’t touch the stuff. Wouldn’t even handle the bottle standing outside of a house warming party to which we were bringing wine as a gift for the host. That’s another story); Believes he is the smartest person in the world (and it is his ordained responsibility to correct you, by force if necessary, if deemed to be doing something “wrong” ie, listening to Hot 97 on the radio or watching Flavor of Love on VH1); and finally, is absolutely not turned on by two girls kissing. (It’s an abomination).

He’s all for premarital sex though. (Just a sidebar.)

I, on the other hand, in my mid twenties, am about 6 years his junior; hail from the heart-of-the-Bible-belt Midwest; eat swine all day; am inclined to indulging in a nice buzz on the weekends; “love whitey” (let BD tell it. LOL); Am much more from the school of “you do you, umma do me;” And have learned not to share old college experiences with a new boyfriend as he may be the one man on earth who doesn’t think it’s hot.

Who knew this mix-matched love affair wouldn’t be a fairy tale, right? Well it was damned from the beginning and sadly, had little to do with love.

On a fluke -- I actually met the VP of the company on a flight layover in Indianapolis -- I got this totally less than fab job in an absolutely fabulous midtown New York building, so I packed up and moved from my home in my boring small town in the Midwest, headed for the bustling New York metropolitan area. Wide-eyed? Yes.

Young, single, childless and pre-pregnancy sexy -- which sadly, is not the same as post-pregnancy sexy. Sigh. -- I happened to run into BD one day in the city. (Before he was BD, of course. Stay with me).

So here I am, without a friend in all the five boroughs and much of New Jersey, when I lock eyes with BD. Hadn’t seen him in years, though Serita still often talked about him.

I know, I know. If he was sooo effin crazy, if he was suuuch an unhinged sociopath, if his world view was soooo skewed, WHYD YOU GET WITH HIM? Lemme tell ya, a booming, deep, authoritative voice taunts me in my sleep and awakens me out of REM every night around 3 a.m. demanding answers to the same questions. You guys, get behind that guy.

But it wasn’t like that in the beginning. I mean, is it ever? It was cool, it was on the up and up, it was friendly, kosher, all that. I mean we were old friends … at first.


Check out In Between Disappointments for the next installment of Confessions of a Single Mom tomorrow, when Melyssa reveals the dirty details of the beginning of a match made in hell.