Trouble on the Horizon

I often wonder why I can’t just win lotto and bugger off to live down the coast and be that scary woman in black with the haunted house – where kids cross the street rather than walk past.

In short, I basically work for a rather large and somewhat wieldy organisation that goes through regular upheaval and restructure as the powers that be, attempt to find the meaning of life; or answer the question as to why the department doesn’t work.

In reality, it does work.  It works as well as it can with the funding it gets.  Doesn’t take a mental giant to work that out; hell, I’d tell them for free!  Instead, they hire CIO’s and get in consultants that basically come up with the same answer I just had – except their invoice is a damned site more.

Perhaps the astounding part of this is that each evolution appears to actually get worse than the one previously.  Now, we reach this point; where the fools really are running the show!

What this has to do with the Squeeze is that I find it better if only one area of life goes haywire at a time.  It gives you time out; you cope better.  As much as I figure this is the case, I do not get to experience it I’m afraid.  I have always been “the tower”.   My whole world pretty much just crashes down and I have to build it again.  If nothing else, it keeps you on your toes; makes you resilient.

It is comical how different my life has been to the squeeze, considering we are quite similar…

Obviously, the ‘testicles in the handbag’ is not really in my makeup.  Nor is refusal to face the inevitable or be closed off and/or fear change.  Change is what wakes us up; because no one actually ever said the change was going to be bad – even if you figure it is at the time.

This difference between us; my propensity to walk away (thank you three ex husbands) and his to Moodle on – will be the death of me.

When the last relatively long term relationship I had ended (which I pause to admit lasted far longer than it should have) it was done and dusted.  Over.  Kaput.  Why drag it out?  He was a sleazebag.  I didn’t want or need to be “friends”.  We have spoken maybe once in the 5 years since.  I don’t wish him dead.  I don’t wish him anything. He just ceased to exist really.

Ex husband number two and three that I have children with, I rarely speak too.  I would if I needed to but they don’t pop into my head.  Three seconds after the door shut, they ceased to be a priority for me.  I didn’t move house or clean out rooms and think “ex 1 may need this!” or “look at that, ex 3 would just love this!”  They are ex’s.  They are not my priority.  I couldn’t care less if they mow the lawn or get lost because the grass has grown 10 feet high.

And if they had the audacity to abuse me on email or text; suffice to say I wouldn’t bother to reply, do as demanded or answer again.

I am the “you are dead to me” queen.

He is the “prancing puppy/moodle/do as you are told (literally ‘til death do you part’).

I see trouble on the horizon…

Please Step Away From The Marriage…

I have been totally pushed for time this week and as such, the blog has been left to gather cobwebs.  I had a good reason.  The Squeeze and I went to look at a house on the weekend and it just so happened that it was in a great position and had all the bits and bobs that we wanted!  Ie:  good kitchen, two bathrooms, floor boards, extra bedrooms.

Deciding to apply for it meant that we had to collate documents that stretched from birth until now; (at least that is how it seemed) and not only do they want the documents, but they wanted all the contact numbers – which they then sat and phoned!

And the application was looking good.  They had phoned me a couple of times and I knew we would get it.  I’m a clean freak; my previous property managers would have sung my praises.

Then I went to bed and tossed and turned because it all just seemed like a rush.  My lease isn’t up yet so I’d be penalised there.  My car died – more money flying out at a rate faster than I can earn it.  The girl isn’t ready.  The list seemed endless really.  So, after a night of sleeplessness I got up and emailed the squeeze to say “I think you should get rid of your place; I will aid the girl to move out and we should stay here until the end of my lease and save the money to move without hassle or drama.

He agreed so I wrote a brief letter, blaming my Moodle like boyfriend of getting cold feet and withdrew our application.  In fact, they were very nice to me; probably discussing what a pathetic weasel I was going out with and feeling sorry for me; which was ok by me.

But in the end, here we are making decisions on house size based on Kid 3!

As I said in my early morning email; for one - if the kid is even remotely normal he will begin to cease wanting to come and spend the weekend shortly anyhow (given that he is about 14). 

For two; this was about Kid 3 having “his own space”. 

Ummm excuse me?  WTF?  At the moment the kid has a room with a single bed futon velvet wearing thing in the corner on the floor (bed never made and I doubt ever changed...)  Kid 1 has a piano in there that basically takes up a whole corner.  And there is a bookcase housing sheets etc that takes up another corner.  There is an ugly wardrobe which I assume is empty given that if he doesn’t bring clothes with him when he comes to stay, it means a shopping expedition (not added to the spreadsheet to calculate maintenance either I bet.)

Other than that, there are clothes (not his) strewn about the floor and I suspect that whenever the kid rolls out of that bed, Kid 1 (who I pimped for) rolls into it – because he obviously can’t find his own place!

Shoot me for being a fool, but I kind of figure a weekend in my spare bedroom; clean queen sized (normal) bed.  Spotless room; no risk of slipping on the slime in the shower; not a cockroach in sight – would be paradise by comparison!

So we are agreed that the Squeeze needs to set about giving notice at his place (hopefully it doesn’t take as long as the ‘one more page’ on the divorce) getting a mini skip (half of his crap is just that – crap – and it isn’t coming), and organising what goes where.

Not that I’m being pessimistic, but I suggested that he doesn’t just ‘give it away’.  I mean what happens if it doesn’t work out?  And if he was dolling it out to Kid 1 and 2, he should tell them it is on loan and look after it.  Otherwise they’re likely to move house and the Squeeze’s large (and dirty) fridge will just get left behind somewhere.

Last night I’m looking into storage.  I will have some of the daughters stuff and I have a few things stored for Boy 1 (mine) and my sister in the UK – and hell, my place is already packed to the rafters, so figure we can store stuff off site.

So while using the calculator, I say “I’ve put the lawn mower into this storage calculator, what else do you think should go in there?”

And he replies: “I’ll just give the lawn mower to the harridan.” (He uses her name)

WTF?  Would this be the same bitch that sent text messages earlier in the evening yelling at him to fix her latest organisational cock up with Kid 3 (while attributing blame to him of course)?  The same cow that delayed our holiday?  The same holier than thou, velvet wearing weirdo that wouldn't let him have drugs and nearly killed the kid?  Then wouldn’t trust the squeeze to have him when he was sick (unless she had to go somewhere)? 

Give her the new-ish lawn mower?  Over my dead, freaking, body!

Moodle!  You are one page away from divorce!  You don’t have to look after her.  You never did need to!  She has done perfectly well when you consider she has a house – you have a rented dump and a couple of kids that require assistance! 
News Flash:  She no longer has your testicles in her handbag!!!  Please step away from the marriage!

And all that flicked through my mind before I even thought of the fact that we will be looking for a house in September; and I’m sure as hell not buying a new mower because the Harridan might need it!  I couldn’t care less what she needs!  (Except for maybe a good slap) 

It is freaking Stockholm syndrome! 

Deal Breakers...

Today we went off looking at houses.  It’s such a thankless, time consuming job.  Practically a whole day is gone and we’ve only gone through two. 

On the second place there was a line up.  A line up!  To rent a bloody house!  And that was one that although pretty good in size etc., fell over on the kitchen.  Sorry.  I cook.  A good kitchen is a deal breaker.

We both liked house number one, but I did wonder if it is a bit small.  Plenty of room for the Squeeze and I but he has a kid there on and off and we are not talking transient; it’s pretty regular – which means that is bedroom 2.

All of my family live somewhere else; be that in the country, interstate or in a whole other country.  Point being (and the kitchen prerequisite resurfaces here) when they come to stay we cook; we drink enough to down a horse – and then they stay. 

So bedroom three is basically needed to be a full time set up.  Hell; I haven’t even added into the mix that Boy 2 of mine comes up for a week or two when he has trade school and Boy one lives interstate.

I was tired before we began.  Clean freak hell does that to me.  When we are there, everything is harder.  Getting a straight answer as to “who is in for dinner?” so I can shop is hard enough. 

When I started coming here a year and half ago, I would clean before I started.  These days, not unlike right now, I don’t.  I sit in the bedroom (and the Squeeze has changed the bed in anticipation of my arrival so at least that is clean) and I blog; or read.  I don’t mind cleaning, and I’m good at it – but five minutes after someone walks in, it looks like a bomb has hit again – so there is no lessons if I do it.  Actually, there is no lessons if I do – because they don’t care if they live in squalor.

Last night I walked in and it was an utter pigsty.  One look around and I felt my nose creep back on my face.  I wasn’t sure if it was distaste or a snarl.

And when the light shone through the window, it highlighted just one thing.  Lying in a discoloured heap on the floor, was the squeezes Triumph t-shirt.  A Bob Dylan Special Edition; covered in God knows what and tossed to a corner.  Hell, it had dried so hard you could stand it up in the corner!  My anger levels rose…

The squeeze thinks this is a compliment…  That one of those heathens would wear his t-shirt to work behind the bar in a pub meant he is ‘cool’.  Idiot.  That only made me cool since I searched for the damned thing, found and imported it. 

And staring at it - I was not; fricking; happy.  It was a bloody hard find.  And this is a major problem in clean freak hell. 

There is no hygiene; no manners and a distinct lack of basic consideration for other people or their belongings.  Shall I make a comment on my jeans again here…?  Probably not since the whole world knows I became a pimp!  My jeans paid for that Idiot Kid 1 to get laid!  Who, I might add, even though he has moved to a place quite close to here – is still here all the time.  Cooking; leaving a mess; dropping things where ever the hell they land! Sleeping on the sofa.

Now Idiot Kid 2 swans in and steals a t-shirt that I bought the squeeze for Valentine’s day!  And it’s ruined!

I swallowed the anger and cooked dinner.  Hell, I may even have forgotten  it (I can almost hear the squeeze make a comment there…)  But no…  There it was.  2.38am.  Kid one and Kid 2 are home where they decide to laugh, put on every light in the house, cook, make more freaking mess and then turn the television up full blast – WFT?

So while house hunting today, I pointed out to the squeeze that there are several deal breakers on the idea of ‘Him; Me and a House.’

They are:

1.    Must have a good kitchen.

2.    Must have a bath.

3.    Kids do not get keys.

And of each of the deal breakers, number 3 is not negotiable.  I’m not living with them; and I’m not coming home to their mess and selfish bullshit.  And I won’t be changing my mind – not in this lifetime!!!!

The Weird Games He Plays

If I think on it, I assume the squeeze would miss me if I wasn’t there anymore.  I mean we get along like best friends.  Both write; love music. 

But I have to admit that maybe I’m projecting; because hell, he is his own one man show of wonder.  I’ve never met anyone so totally enthralled with his own humour and little fantasy world that consist of over the top weird stories that are actually delivered through song.  To be honest, I think he could amuse himself for hours and hours.  So what the hell does he need me for...?

His nun stories are hilarious; as are the lesbian ones but I have to say that the gym teacher is a little creepy!

Why can’t he role play being a lawyer and complete the freaking divorce?

One More Page…

Where is the divorce at?  I hear you ask.  Funny; I asked the same thing via text on Monday night.  That went unanswered.  Tuesday while at work, I added to the bottom of an email – ‘and where is the divorce at?”  I got the reply of ‘all done bar one page.’

Just one more page…

Hmm.  My immediate thought was ‘yeah and how damned long will that one page take to get done?’  And we all know that just filling out the paper work is the easy part!  Then you have to give it to the harridan and hope she signs and passes back; because if she has to take it home and read the whole eight pages, well suffice to say that we would then be rolling into next year before that paperwork is coming back.

Then when it actually comes back signed, you have the whole drama of sending it off with the money and getting a time for it to be heard.  After that, there is scheduling going to the hearing…  And the list goes on really.

And after all that, he will have only completed one item on the list of things that he said he would have completed by February.  I mean it is obviously just so damned hard to organise to rollover all your super policies into one and have the wife removed as the beneficiary.

Organise a will and a medical proxy to ensure everything is as you would want it…

And for the life of me; when all is said and done, given the whole “I’m happy that you are happy”  - which actually translates into “why aren’t you dead you mo fo” – you would imagine he would be keen as mustard to get her off the policies and divorce her so that she doesn’t have the legal right to instruct all and sundry that it was his one wish… Told to her many, many times – that there was to be a ‘non-resuscitation’ rule!

If the never ending “delay” is just a tactic to wear me down; cease my asking for what is rightfully mine – what I in fact, give to him; then I have to say it’s working.  Because I’m fast approaching ‘over it’!  Line in the sand!  He gets me: unencumbered.

I don’t intend to be a Moodle Master forever…