The secret to a happy marriage isn't finding the perfect man, it's finding a man who you don't want to stab in the ear with an ice pick even though he throws his dirty clothes ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF THE HAMPER.
(actual crime scene photograph)This place has gone from a complain about everything (but in a humorous way! With mirth!) to a "work through the issue around divorce because my therapist is too far away and I work too many hours to go anyway and also I'm off all my medications oh and PS I'm having wicked body issues and aside from THAT Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?" bit of Internet that I mostly forget exists. I know. I suck. I blame the hippies and their damn patchouli oil that stink up our office.
See? Hippies. (side note: these particular hippies, while colorful were actually not at all smelly)
As usual I'm fully off my train of thought here. Surprise, surprise. I guess not EVERYTHING changes.
Okay. The point. Facebook in all it's amusing sadism, thinks I need to be "friends" with my ex-husbands new girlfriend. I'm sure she's lovely. In fact, I bet she's perfectly nice and I probably WOULD like her, but hello? Awkward much? Yes. Today they recommended we "reconnect" for the ten thousandth time and I noticed that her profile picture is one of her and J together, posed all couple-y in front of a landmark.
In all the time we were married, in all our road trips snaps, in all the family vacation photo's there are maybe two or three pictures of J and me together. Okay, maybe four. He refused. Flat out, absolutely NO FUCKING WAY refused to ever be photographed on any of these trips. Not alone, not with M, not with me and really, really never all together in front of some commemorative scenery.
Thirteen years of snapshots of scenery and not a single damn human in any of them. I quit asking. Quit wanting to be able to show people those photo's that no one except your Gram ever wants to see anyway (and here we are in front of a shrub! and this is us with a highway guard rail!) because I got tired of hearing "no" over and over. Instead M and I would do long arms of ourselves or she'd pose and I'd shoot. It's like he was standing outside our lives the entire time. When I sorted through the (oh dear god, the number!) photographs from before we went digital do you know how many I found of us as a family? A dozen. Or less. He simply wasn't interested in standing beside me to mark some little event that years later you look back on fondly.
And yet, two months in, there he is with his new love. Standing in front of a scenery marker, arm around her. Saying "look! we went somewhere and it was fun and we enjoy each other's company!".
Why wasn't I worth that same? Why wasn't the fact that I wanted it enough? What did I finally manage to say with my leaving that I couldn't say with my begging?
Don't misinterpret. I'm not jealous or...whatever else is not jealous but implies that I have a problem with them going places and enjoying it enough to want to remember it. I'm so very much happier where I am. But I don't understand. I can't wrap my head around why I had to dismantle our lives to finally get him to acquiesce to the tiny things that would have maybe been the Dutch Boy's finger.
I can't help but think that I really wasn't enough. That I am not enough. It's a fucked up smack to the face to finally begin to feel worthy of the happiness you've scratched out to then be confronted with the evidence that you've finally won a battle you're not fighting anymore. Or maybe lost it. I'm not even sure anymore.
As more people in my "real" life run across this blog, I find that I censor myself more. Which sort of defeats the purpose I had for this blog to begin with. That makes me sad. I'm not, by nature, a confrontational person. I'm the one that ends the fights, not the one that starts it. To the point that I find that I don't stand up for myself when I should.
A week ago while I was in Seattle on vacation J called me and read me the riot act about having brought Shush up there with me. He didn't want M to get mixed messages about whether or not HE agreed with MY dating while the divorce was still pending. Okay. Fair enough. I think it's not a necessary concern since M is 15 and a pretty sharp kid, but okay. For almost 30 minutes he lectured me up one side and down the other about it. I stood up for myself far more than I normally do, but still, he dug in when he could with comments like "I guess it's your life and I don't have to agree with your choices anymore", and "I just don't want M around 'that kind of thing'". I was furious, I felt attacked, but he IS her other parent and does get to voice his opinion in what she is and is not exposed to. That said, Shush and I have been together since July, and have known each other for about a year. We live together, this isn't just a 'fling'.
AND THEN. Oh, yes, and then.
THEN, about two days later he tells me he's bringing a girl he's been dating for THREE WEEKS up there with him for Christmas. For the record, I'm GLAD he's dating. I'm glad that he's found a nice girl to hang out with and I'm glad that they like each other enough that they want to spend the holiday's together.
What I'm furious about is that he thought it was okay to try and make me feel terrible for having done the same thing. Seriously. Why is it okay for him ? Is it because *he's* the "wronged party" in this divorce? Because he's the one who got left, it's okay for him to move on? Is it because "everyone" (oh, yes, the ever present "everyone" gets a voice in this one too) is "worried" about him, that it's okay for him to bring a girl, but I, the one who "everyone" thinks "is making bad decisions" can't? Or is this some sort of score that needs to be settled? Some "Oh yeah? Well, *I* can move on too! See?". Either way, if he was even CONTEMPLATING taking her with him when he called me then yelling at me was not "being a concerned parent" it was being an asshole. And I thought we were past that. I thought that we'd agreed that we were going to do this differently. I know I've tried. But this? This is exactly why we had problems before.
Why can't I let this go? I didn't say anything to him about it, because, well, I have fought with him enough to last me a lifetime. It's seriously bothering me.
So, as it turns out I'm not dead and I didn't lock all you kids out because we're having some sort of secret meeting and eating cupcakes and riding unicorns and everyone but you is invited. We were eating pudding and riding hedgehogs, which sounds fun, but I assure you is very pokey about the lady parts.
Probably right about now you're picturing Lady Gaga in her non-meat dress riding a hedgehog and singing about her pokey place. No? Well you are NOW. So HA! I win.
Am I trying to deflect from where I really went and what really happened? Maaaaybe.
The thing about where I went and what happened is, well, it's complicated. And sticky. And smells a little like an old meat-dress.
For starters, my husband found this blog. Let's all wave to J now. I want to take the time to point out that he didn't ask me to take down any posts, let alone the whole blog. I did take down some posts from earlier this year. Not in favor of censorship but in the spirit of saying "what I said, while true, was mean". And we all know that being mean doesn't solve anything. Being mean gives you wrinkles and saggy boobs and no one wants more of either of that.
Things with the divorce are moving slowly, but amicably. I know, right? Did you guys even know that could be done? See, here's the thing. All that anger? It isn't productive. It makes you sick and it makes you mean. And even when it's justified, it's just...well...icky. All that anger feels like a vice. You can't go backwards, because what's done is done and you can't go forwards because you don't want to. You're mired down in the swamp of "but I'm RIGHT" and you don't see that it doesn't matter.
Sure, what happened matters. It hurt. It made me angry. It made me turn into someone that is the very thing that I didn't want to be. Mean. I don't know how many times I've said that nice matters only to turn around and be anything but nice.
No, it doesn't excuse what went on. It doesn't mean that I wasn't justified or right and it doesn't mean that what I said was invalid.
What does it mean? It means that I, right now, am choosing to go forward without anger.
I'm choosing to believe that being divorced doesn't mean you need to destroy yourself or the other person just because that's "how everyone else" does it.
I'm choosing to let go of the things that happened in the past that kept me from being nice.
I'm choosing to go on with life.
It isn't going to be easy. There are still things that make my heart hurt. There are things that I have said or not said, or wanted to say or wish I hadn't, things I've done or not done. There are things. Of course there are. There are any number of things. Infinite things. But above all there is one thing. Choice.
I'm choosing happy.
I am sitting on the kitchen counter and you stand between my knees. Talk to me you say but I stare over your shoulder. My eyes skip from the worn spot on the cabinet where my hand has opened it a thousand times to the wonky headed black construction paper cat with the yellowed scotch tape tacking it to the door of the cabinet adjacent to it. You get angry because I am ignoring you, but really it's just that I do not want to look at you for fear that I will begin to shout and not be able to stop. There is power in self control that I dare not let slip.
The phone rings and Charley tells me something that doesn't matter and then scolds me for having gotten out of the car the night before to pump the gas as you sat in the drivers seat, ungallant.
How many times have I done that? How many times have I balanced a dozen bags and unlocked front door to bring in the groceries as you sit on the sofa and don't acknowledge me? How many times have I folded the laundry while you complain that I am rolling the socks incorrectly? How many times have I rushed home to do your bidding and how many more times have I called someone other than you when things go pear shaped, because you can not be bothered with me?
This is what I want to say; You don't see me. I know you won't hear me either and so I let my eyes focus on the dust that swirls in the breeze of the fan and say Nothing is wrong even though we both know it's a lie.
I know, I know. This blog isn't about my whining and complaining and all my DRAMA. Because no one but a llama likes the drama.
It's no secret that things at my house aren't....good. Haven't been good for some time. It's not all my husbands fault. These things are never just one persons fault. Ever. So while I paint myself as the victim in all of this, no doubt there is another side to the story. There's always another side.
But this is my blog. And this is my side.
We've been together for eleven years, eleven months. That's almost all of my adult life. There is almost nothing major left that we haven't gone through together. Financial messes, lost jobs, moves, illnesses, deaths, major surgery, arguments over the temperature of dinner, buying a home, buying a car, going back to school, picking paint colors and inside jokes. There is no part of my current life that doesn't have something to do with my husband. It's called marriage. That's how it goes.
But.
For almost that entire time I have chased my husband. I've done literally everything that I could think of to MAKE him pay attention to me. It's been years since he saw me in pajamas for longer than the half hour before bed because I know he doesn't like "casual" clothes. It's been years since he's seen me un-made up, hair a mess, chipped manicured and un-shaved legs. Save when I'm sick. And even then, I comb my hair and shower.
When getting his attention in a positive manner didn't work, I'd fight with him. Because at least then he NOTICED me.
A year ago, when I was at my breaking point, I lost my shit. Like, LOST IT. In a fit of rage, I packed what I could and I was ready to leave. I'd had enough. I shouted (which I rarely ever do. I don't like shouting.) that this, this wasn't working. We were broken.
He told me it was ME that was broken and I believed him.
What else did I have? Everything inside my head was a mess. *I* was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Was it possible that it was just me? Of course.
But it wasn't just me. Of course it wasn't.
It's taken me a year and a shit load of pharmaceutical intervention to realize it's NOT me. *I* am not broken. Bent, yes. I'll concede to bent. REALLY, REALLY, bent even. But I am not the whole problem.
And also?
I don't care anymore. I don't care if he shouts at me. I don't care if he doesn't shout at me. I don't care if he pays attention to me and I don't care if he ignores me. I find it annoying when he whines and I want to smack him when he's an ass, but I feel the same way about the people on television and the checker at Wal-mart. It's nothing to do with him personally. I simply...well. I'm done.
Last night, when he started in on my again with the you don't pay attention to me line of whining, I couldn't do it anymore. I told him I didn't care. I told him he hadn't paid attention to me in YEARS. That any time he DID pay attention to me I am suspicious of his motives.
I told him that I am done.
But, then, of course it gets more complicated. That's how it works, isn't it?
HE isn't done. He's not ready for ME; for US to be done. And I? I just don't care WHAT he wants.
But then again, of course I do. I don't like to admit failure any more than anyone else does. I don't know how to separate my life from our life. Everything we own, we own together. Everyone we know, we know together. When I go, because I will, and likely soon, will our friends still be my friends? What will people say? What will *I* say?
What can I say?
There's nothing TO say. Sometimes things get broken. Sometimes there isn't glue to fix them.
Sometimes, you just need to know when to be done.
For the last four years, my husband has spent at least one day, usually two and sometimes more hunting.
For the last three years, he's also spent an entire week at hunting camp. Some years two.
For the last seven years, he's spent at least one evening a week competition shooting. At least one other night a week preparing supplies. Every few weeks he goes to a meeting about the club or a special event or something.
And I? Have encouraged every minute of it. I think it's good to have separate interests.
Apparently, he disagrees. Well, not exactly. He thinks it's FINE for him to have things to do that take up his evenings and weekends and don't involve me. But GOD FORBID I am not spending every waking moment attending to him.
For the last week or so, I've spent part of each evening getting ready for Faire to start. Either sewing or packing or mending or what have you. My sewing machine is in the dining room which is at one side of the the great room that includes the entry way and living room and leads to the kitchen. Basically, I'm in the middle of everything. Usually while I'm sewing I'm also doing laundry or making dinner and I'm always with an ear to what's going on in the living room, whether it be the program on TV or whatever he's talking about to whomever is there, interjecting my opinion about whatever it is (you know how I do). I've also made dinner every night, baked cookies, done laundry, cleaned the house and done the maintenance my car needed like topping off fluids and airing the tires. In short? I've been BUSY.
Then, as scheduled, as discussed for the LAST TWO MONTHS, Faire started and M and I were gone from Friday evening to Sunday night about nine.
Before I decided to commit to working seven days a week for two months, I asked him if he would mind. Not because I wanted permission, but because later, when he started to whine, I wanted to be able to rightly point out that he'd had his chance to object. He didn't. He said he thought it was a good idea and that I should go and have fun.
Only, apparently? He either didn't mean it, or didn't think I'd actually DO it. Because he's been a complete and utter ass about the entire thing.
The first thing he did when I got home Sunday, bubbling over with what a good time I had, the people I'd met, the things I'd done and seen (and OH MY GOD DO I WANT A ROBOT CAMERA EYE) including six separate Jack Sparrows on one day; he started complaining about how I'd ignored him.
Excuse me? What the fuck? For twelve years I've never ONCE said anything about the time he spends on his hobbies. The thousands of dollars we spend each year to support them. Well, that's not totally true. I do say things about it, but I don't complain. I encourage it. Because that's what you SHOULD do when someone finds something they enjoy, right?
Last night, exhausted from nine straight days and knowing that it was just going to get worse, I stopped at the grocery on the way home, made dinner (steak and gourmet mac & cheese with a ceasar salad), did the laundry, shampooed the carpet, worked on a few little costuming items that I'd agreed to make or repair and stripped and re-made the bed. All while engaging in a conversation from my corner of the room.
At 9:30, as I waited for the dryer to finish so I could toss in the final load? He starts complaining AGAIN.
What do I say to that? I'm sorry for ignoring you? Because a) I'm NOT ignoring him and b) even if I was, I wouldn't be sorry.
What is so terribly hard about being happy that I've found something I enjoy? Is it necessary to poke holes in my little happiness bubble? And if so why?
I know, I know. Complaining to you guys doesn't fix anything. It's not like I don't KNOW what needs to REALLY be done to ultimately stop the complaining.
I just don't understand why he can't be nice.
Exhibit B
Exhibit C
Exhibit D
Though I rapidly am at risk of becoming one of those one note blogs...like a MommyBlog, only with whining...I fear that since that is the mood I am in that's all y'all are going to be getting for awhile. Probably until my increased dose of Crazy meds kicks in. Which should be any day now, but in the mean time, I've got to tell y'all about the fucked up shit going on at my house.
My husband and I don't "do" things together. This is because A) I am not terribly fond of him B) he's an assface and C) we don't like to do the same things. One might argue that A & B are the same but then one would risk me crying and shouting things like I hate you for breathing and then I'd sulk and you wouldn't get to read my confessions tomorrow, so perhaps one should just keep ones mouth shut and let me finish my damn story.
ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, yes. Doing things.
J likes manly-man things, like hunting and shooting things and things that go fast and are loud and people who talk loud and drink too much and tell jokes about why women have small feet* and I? I do not. I like to travel, I like to socialize in an environment where I can hear what people are saying and more than anything I DO NOT LIKE DEAD THINGS. Meat comes from Safeway nicely wrapped in cling film and presented on a Styrofoam tray, The End. Which means that when it comes time to do things, more often than not they're separate. I take M to the state fair, he goes hunting. I go on a cruise with BabyMama, he goes hunting. I go to book club, he goes to a long distance rifle match. You get the idea.
But on Sunday? He decided we were going to have some quality time.
What. The. Fuck.
Sundays are MY day. I don't drive anyone anywhere. I clean the house and then I watch everything on the DVR and then we eat take out for dinner. Chances are I do it all wearing yoga pants. I KNOW, RIGHT? But NO. Not this Sunday. This Sunday he plops himself down on the sofa (after moving the laundry I was folding to the coffee table) takes the remote from my lap and changes the channel and announces I may bring him a snack because we're going to have quality time. Then, he insults what I've got set to DVR for the week, informs me that I fold the socks incorrectly and that his drink needs more ice. Because we're having quality time. And when I ask WHY THE FUCK WE'RE HAVING FUCKING QUALITY TIME he tells me it's because he thinks I want it.
WHERE THE SHIT DID HE GET THAT IDEA?
Not from me.
AND THEN?
He stayed home again on Monday afternoon. For more quality time that involved more being an ass to me. Because I "needed attention". Apparently the sort of attention I need involves telling me the delicious quiche I made "sucks" and that I should dust more.
Do you see why we don't do things together?
Thank GOD all my whining and moaning the of phrase ain't you got somewheres you gots to be?! finally conveyed that for fucks sake if he spends one more fucking minute with in my sight I will take that remote and shove it so far up his ass that every time he blinks the channel changes and also that HE NEEDS TO FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE. For example, not here. Or perhaps NOT ANYWHERE NEAR HERE. A good idea would be SOMEWHERE ELSE. Far away.
This, people. THIS is why Baby Jesus invented Xanax. So that y'all didn't have to mail me bail money.
*So they can stand closer to the sink.
My husband thinks I'm having a mid-life crisis.
I know, right?
His "evidence" for his argument is that I have 1) Gone to the bar ONCE with some girlfriends who are younger than I am 2) BabyMama and I went on a cruise and didn't bring the kids and 3) I got my nose pierced after talking about it for more than a year.
Personally, I don't think that adds up to any kind of crisis. Although, I suppose if I was having a crisis, mid-life or otherwise, I probably wouldn't think that I was.
But really, it's not like I've gone out and bought a $70,000 sports car, or changed how I'm dressing. I have completely replaced my wardrobe, but it was out of necessity and it's pretty much the exact same things I had before just smaller. I work in a very casual office. Usually, I'm the most nicely dressed simply because my clothes aren't covered in either paint or grease. I wear jeans and a tee-shirt almost every day. The days I'm not wearing that? I'm wearing a skirt and a tee-shirt! That's CLEAR proof that I'm trying to "look younger" right?
As for the trip to the bar it was ONE TIME. ONCE. And it's not like we were even at the kind of club that you have to line up to get in to! It was a crap dive bar where they have $3 pints of Full Moon. OOoooH big pimping, right? AND I was home by midnight even though we didn't get there until close to 10.
And my nose? I had it done the first time when I was in college. Then I went to work in a bank where facial piercings were unacceptable so I took it out. Every few years I'd talk about it. Much like the out loud musing we all do about our hair..."maybe I should dye it"...."no, I'm going to cut bangs"....."I could pull off the Posh Spice, don't you think".....Not really serious talk, but not exactly idle either. About a year ago I started mentioning it about once a month. I asked my husband if he would mind and his exact words were "If you want to look like an old dyke, that's your business".
So I did it.
We jokingly took bets about how long it would take him to notice. Six months was the median. It took him two days and when he did notice it he was pissed. "What'd you do that for?" he demanded "because I wanted to. I told you I was going to!" I countered and I suppose it was my failure to be petulant that caused him to remark "wow. You're really having a bad mid-life crisis, aren't you?"
No. I'm not.
What I am having is a bit of a liberation. I'm 33. I've lived almost all of my life trying to fit into the mold that others have set out for me. Their definition of a good student. Their opinion of what makes a good mother or a good wife or a good....whatever. But you know what? It's my turn to say what makes me a good ME.
And I? Think that it's time to have some fun. It's time to stop waiting for my husband, who hates to travel, to finally be needled into going somewhere with me. If I want to go, I'm going. It's time to stop sitting at home wishing that I wasn't missing what the girls were doing just because I think other people would think I look silly because I'm five years older than they are and have a kid practically old enough to club herself. I'm all done caring if a nose stud makes me look like I'm trying too hard.
Because I'm not trying any more. I am doing.
Among the more annoying things that my husband does (and believe me, if I told you everything he did to piss me off you'd never come back here because it would be All Complaining All The Time up in this website) is volunteer me to do things for other people with out asking me. Need to borrow a car? Take Thystle's! Need your taxes done? Thystle will do them! Need help moving? No problem, we'll be right over! This week alone, he's volunteered me to pick up D from work, let D borrow my car for the weekend and told ThePerv I'd watch his kids last night because it was their man-date night and ThePerv's wife, despite knowing this had made other plans that apparently were more important than mine.
I told J that I had to pick up M and drive her somewhere at 6, so if I was watching TheDemons they'd need to be ready to go with me.
When I pulled up in front of ThePervs house, he opened the garage door and came out. I'd stayed in my car, but got out so that I could load up the car seats.
"You can park in the driveway" he says
"No, I've got to go, are the kids ready?"
"Uh, ready to go where? BabyGirl is sleeping"
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
Apparently J hadn't bothered to tell him that I had plans.
"I have to take M somewhere, she has to be there at 6 (it was 5:45)"
"Oh. I don't have car seats"
SERIOUSLY.
Rather than lose my shit, I tell him that I'll deal with it, shut off my car, slam the door shut and go in the house. I call M who, surprisingly doesn't whine. Probably because she was already on my list after I found fucking dirty dishes in the mother fucking bathroom. Who does that? Who? Anyway. I digress.
ThePerv tells me the kids haven't eaten and tells me and TheBoy that BabyGirl has a lunchable for her dinner and TheBoy can either have a hot dog or I can make the pizza on the top shelf. Now as you read the rest of this, bear in mind TheBoy is almost 8.
The very minute the door to the garage shuts, TheBoy whips open the fridge and takes out a lunchables box.
"What are you doing?" I ask him
"This is my dinner" he tells me
"No, it's not. You can have hot dogs, that's for BabyGirl"
"No, it's MINE"
Oh HELL NO. No child, especially a child that doesn't belong to me, speaks to me like that. I bend over so my face is right next to his and hiss out in the voice I reserve for door to door Jesus peddlers, you know, the one that makes me sound like Satan;
"You do not speak to adults like that. Put it back."
He shoots me an evil glare, but does it.
Next thing I know, he's standing on the coffee table using his toes to remove the glass insert. I scold him again. Then he scampers off, presumably to his room. Only, he went to his parents room and comes out wearing a slip and his mothers shoes. Then he proceeds to take off his shirt and twirl it around his head, stripper like.
I KNOW.
We manage a few minutes where I don't want to beat his skinny little ass and I figure we've gotten over the transition from Dad to Babysitter, so I step into the ladies.
When I come back out, I hear a weird popping noise.
"What's that?" I ask him
"I'm making chili" he tells me
"That doesn't sound right," I say and dash into the kitchen
Where i find a mother fucking CAN of chili in the microwave. A can. In the microwave. I snatch open the door and yank out the sparking can and toss it into the sink. I whip around ready to scold him and you know what that little fucker says to me?
"you were stupid to do that"
WHAT?
"Excuse me?" I say, giving him a chance to back peddle and avoid an ass whipping
"You. Were. Stupid" he repeats.
OH FUCK NO.
I stick my face right into his, grab his chin in my hand so that he has no choice but to look right in my eyes and tell him
"You will not EVER speak to me, or any other adult like that in my hearing. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"But you were stupid!" he insists.
"Tell you what, since you can't be respectful, we're going call your dad and get him to come home, because I will not be spoken to like that."
Then the water works and the no no please no.
By this time BabyGirl is awake (she's 3) and wants to cuddle on the chair with me. She slides in beside me and tucks herself up under my arm. I hear a door close and there's TheBoy only now he's wearing a healthy helping of his mothers jewelry and another pair of heels. I tell him to return them immediately and he glares at me and stomps off, but comes back and climbs into the chair on my other side, apparently having decided that I wasn't going to give an inch to bad behavior.
We sit peacefully for a few minutes and I tell them we should move to the couch so that everyone has a little more room.
Next thing I know he's humping my leg.
NOT EVEN KIDDING. He was HUMPING MY LEG. Like a dog.
I remove him and tell him that's not acceptable behavior. So he climbs up on the the couch and starts trying to STICK HIS HAND DOWN MY SHIRT.
I tell him to stop, but he does it again, insisting that I "have to let him, because (I'm) his girlfriend".
OH FUCK NO.
Again with the demon voice and he stops.
Since it's about 7:45 I ask BabyGirl if she wants to put her jammies on and she scampers off to find some princess jammies. When she comes back, I ask her what time she goes to bed and she tells me 8:30. Seems a bit late for a 3 year old, but not unreasonable. I turn to the boy and ask him. 10:30 he says. No, I tell him, I doubt that. Try again. Fine, he huffs, 10. Nope, I say. After a few more attempts we get to 9, which I find more believable and so I ask it they're allowed to have dessert on a school night. Oh, OF COURSE he tells me *I* can eat anything in the freezer, but BabyGirl can't.
More screaming and some hitting ensues as BabyGirl insists that they each get ONE cookie and that's it.
Thank god their mom came home right then. I thought. Until she and TheBoy start yelling at one another about dessert. Then he storms out of the kitchen throws himself on the floor and starts wailing in his best Whatever Happened To Baby Jane fashion.
I give BabyGirl a hug goodbye and he leaps up to get his and STICKS HIS FACE IN MY MOTHER FUCKING TITS. I shove his little head back and make my escape.
When J gets home he asks M how her thing went and I tell him that she didn't get to go, because ThePerv wasn't prepared for the kids to leave the house. That apparently he had no idea they were supposed to.
"Didn't you call him?" J asks
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?
"No," I say calmly (thankyoubabyjesusforxanax) "I asked you to"
"Why would I call him?"
(I begin to stab him in my mind)
Finally we get resolved that he had told ThePerv that they needed to be able to go with me, only hadn't given him a time frame and apparently ThePerv had forgotten. I tell him about the can in the microwave and the tittie touching and announce that I will not. ever. watch. that. kid. again.
"Oh, I already told him you'd watch them on Tuesday" he replies.
And that, my lovely little kittens, is why I am in jail.
Hsb: Feel my face!
Me: (feels face)
Hsb: Smooth, right?
Me: yeah, actually, it's way smoother than usual.
Hsb: That's because I used one of your Venus Breeze refills! They fit my shavers handle. You should buy me some more of those.
Me: I'm pulling your man card.
Hsb: Who cares? I've got a face like a baby's butt
Me: Yes, yes you do.
J: are you eating cucumbers AGAIN?
me: (mouth full) maybe
J: I think that you might need an intervention
me: no way.
J: seriously, you have an addiction
Me: nope. There's no twelve step program for it so there's no way it's an addiction.
You know how when you get a new medication they give you a big old list of things that will go wrong and somewhere on the list is always "AND MAY RESULT IN DEATH"? Well, Ambien has warnings like "may result in amnesia". No shit. Among reported side effects are "sleep eating" (not awesome) "sleep driving" (kind of awesome) "sleep sex" (awesome for the spouse) and so on. Basically, if you were doing it, or even thinking very hard about it when you fall asleep, you run the risk of doing it while you sleep.
And not remembering it.
I've been taking the controlled release version of Ambien for a while now and I've not had any thing too weird happen. Except that time when I woke up and the entire contents of two book shelves were piled in leaning 6ft towers on the coffee table and then oddly topped with tennis balls. But that was more awesome than weird and I'm still a little pissed I didn't take a picture of it.
This morning when I woke up I noticed a laundry basket full of clean clothes sitting on the desk in my bedroom and I thought "FUCKING SCORE! I can sleep and still do laundry! High Five Ambien!" but then I checked my text messages and saw one from my husband "used the last laundry soap. Can u buy more? thx"
So, clearly, I'm giving sleep blow jobs.
I don't usually do posts like this, because really, who wants to read a bunch of whining all the time? But there's only so much whining I can do to the people I see IRL before they're all "WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP?" and then I'm all "GREAT, NOW I HAVE TO HATE YOU TOO!".
That's how we talk around here, in all capital letters.
So today I'm going to whine to you and if you don't want to read it then just come back later, okay?
I am so very, very tired of fighting with my husband. Seriously. There are only so many times that I can bite my tongue before it falls off and then how would I blow the gum bubbles that annoy my mother so much?
Through the years of being married me & J have never been one of those joined at the hip couples. Mostly because while I am willing to do things that I don't enjoy just because he enjoys them, he isn't willing to do the same and so most of my hobbies, trips, etc are done with friends while he stays home and acts like he's some kind of martyr for "allowing" me to do things.
When it comes to things around the house, it's all me, all the time. He claims that his "job" is to "protect us" and that counts as an equal amount of housework and since it's either do it myself or be buried in trash and dirty laundry while weeds grow up to cover the house, I do it myself. Well, not the yard work, that I hire out, because it's fucking HOT here and all the plants in my yard want to kill me.
Because I also work full time away from home, that means from about the time I get home until I go to bed, I'm doing something. Running errands, cooking, cleaning, whatever. Even when I'm watching TV at night chances are the dishwasher is running and I'm folding laundry. It's not fair, but it's better than arguing about it.
Recently though he's started to bitch that I never want to spend any time with him. If I'm in the bathroom cleaning toilets, it's because I'm avoiding him. If I'm cleaning out my closet, it's because I don't like him any more. If I run to the grocery to buy toilet paper, I'm abandoning him. I'm seriously at my wits end here. If I don't do these things, they don't get done, but if I DO do them, then I'm a bad wife? WTF? And if I ask HIM to do them? Well, lordy be, he makes $4 hour more than I do, so that means it's MY job because he's the "bread winner"? WTF again, I ask?
THEN on Sunday when we went to lunch with BabyMama and Smooth (and my wee little Gigibella) he tells them that I need "drugs to be able to stand being near (him)". First of all, yes, I do. Secondly, what if I didn't WANT the whole world to know that I am dependant on pharmaceutical intervention to keep from screaming? Of course, I retorted (and I swear to you that I did actually say this) that "if (he) wasn't such as asshole then I wouldn't need to, would I?" and BabyMama, God love her, replied that she was on the same thing I was and he shut up.
We're headed to Vegas for the weekend so that he can go to a bowling tournament and I absolutely DO NOT want to go. It's wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't I be excited? I LOVE Vegas. It's going to be 115* here and a bit less up there. And of course, only 70* inside the casino...LOL. But I feel so anxious at the thought of going that I'm doubling up on my meds to keep functioning.
I'm just at a loss here, Peeps. Any advice would be appreciated.
(while watching American Experience special about Geronimo, we learn that Geronimo gave his father in law a large number of horses is exchange for his first wife)
Me: That's so sweet!
Husband: I'd have given your dad a donkey for you. But I would have needed a goat back as change.
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