My Worst Nightmare

This weekend we stayed over my side of town.  Truth tell, I was glad.  We don’t stay here enough and I feel as though my place is going to hell in a hand basket.  Of course one man’s hell is another man’s luxury and I know the Squeeze would shake his head at that description and just not see what I see.

We’d been rained out Friday night and had fought a river running through the garage.  Nearly every towel in the place was stashed under doors and the Squeeze, my daughter and I had wrestled my daughter’s furniture into the house since it was sitting in pools of water.  There was mud, bark and furniture all over the house – and still, it was a palace compared to “clean freak hell”.   We were wet as shags and bumping into furniture every time we turned around.

Saturday we had to cross to his side of town to pick up a sofa and didn’t have time to do more than a general tidy prior to going.  Boy 2 was not there but I was speechless at the mess; and there is so much stuff that it actually has a rather unpleasant odour about the place.  Things were scattered from A to Z – everything except Boy 2’s car that we were going to pick the sofa up in.

There were dishes everywhere; including a used cup tossed on the lounge room floor.  I didn’t bother to go on about it.  No point.  But really, who the hell does that?  Who makes a cup of tea, drinks it then tosses the cup on the carpeted floor?  Upside is that I think it is so bad now that even the cockroaches have decamped…

We zoomed around to pick up the car and keys from kid 2 only to arrive there and discover the back bumper has mysteriously gone and there is a large scratch down one side.  He was on borrowed time with his license and the wad of fines that arrived while he was in Vietnam would indicate that time is up; just as well given the state of his car.  Not unlike when he goes out, nothing happened to no one…  I was more worried about who/what he hit but also the fact that I doubt his car is roadworthy now, which will make things even harder for him.

I did get to grin at the nose ring he came home with…

The Squeeze is supposed to give notice at his place and leave kid 2 and clean freak hell behind to move to this side of town.  I’m certain he is worried that he will be met at the door by me in a Nazi uniform complete with riding crop.  I suspect he wouldn’t mind the riding crop so much, probably not even the uniform; but I find it amusing that he doesn’t get the reality that I have no intention trying to turn him into Betty Crocker.  Him in an apron is nowhere near as appealing as he would find my uniform.  My house is clean because that is how I enjoy it and as long as he doesn’t want to drink tea and toss the cup on the floor, we’ll get along fine. 

Aside from living in a hovel with messy kids and me turning into a pimp; well hell, it appears my jeans paid for Boy 1 to get laid…  It can’t happen fast enough for me because we seem to spend so much time going back and forwards that there is no routine. 

My daughter is busy apartment hunting – it can’t happen quickly enough for her or I.  We like our own space; she is responsible and likes to stand on her own feet.  Still, she needs to save a little more and like the Squeeze and I, she has had houses dropping all over the place in the form of car issues and mobile phone issues so just can’t afford it.  And this year was supposed to be a good year for us all… We are still waiting for that bit to start.

Last week the Squeeze emailed to say maybe we should get a big place by the beach with a room for Daughter, Son 2 and Son 3 on the weekends we have him.

I replied to say “This isn’t about Boy 2 is it?”

No reply.  I sent the email to my daughter who replied “is this a boy 2 thing” which I found bloody funny.  Great minds think alike.

The squeeze replied to say “no”; but I suspect that was due to my “you just described my worst nightmare” line.

And They All Fell Down...

Just like “I am happy you are happy”; the “fair enough” from the finance discussion the weekend before last went out the window as soon as she got home and realised that she may actually have to pay something herself.

Strangely enough, the Squeeze was told this over a “happy family” coffee when boy 2 got back from Vietnam.  That privilege cost him about fifty bucks.  Obviously, she has scorpions in her wallet; either that or she forgot she doesn’t actually put out so can hardly just sit there and expect someone to pick up the tab.  Every.  Single.  Time. 

Still… he pays.  And I guess if it works for her, so why stop?

Anyway, as expected, the financial agreements began dropping like flies.  Like ring a ring a rosie patients!  They all fell down…  I doubt they even needed tissues.  I just had to sit back and watch them fall; all the while listening to the Squeeze with his normal “it isn’t your problem” and “I’m handling it”.

Of course he is handling it.  In fact, he is handling it as magnificently as he has for the last year and half.  In other words, she still rules the kingdom and he does as he is told – and pays.  Oh, and he is still firmly married.

Not only did she manoeuvre him into continuing on with paying the “family” health insurance – (saying she would get her own - when and if he ever deletes the bitch from his account; which I’m not seeing); but then suggested that he should pay for Boy 1’s health insurance.  The fact that he isn’t the squeeze’s biological son is not even the sticking point. He is 25.  Hell, if he wants health insurance; get it yourself for crying out loud.  Tip:  stand on your own two feet kid!  (And why do I get that Anthony Hopkins flash of psycho again…)

Come to think of it, if the cow you are seeing wants Jag jeans – tell her to get them herself instead of stealing mine!!!  (In case you missed it, I’m particularly pissed off about my jeans.  I find it totally outrageous.  Between the harridan implying I’m retarded and don’t know my own jeans – “she must be mistaken”; the Squeeze with “are you sure” and Boy 1’s, "no way"; I feel as though a serious lesson has passed by.  What part of responsibility and repercussions escaped these people???

Still, I regress.  I was talking about the harridan and her totally unrealistic view of the world in that the Squeeze is a bottomless pit; instead of basically broke and he just has to pay and pay and pay – if she thinks the kids need it (kids is plural and please note, two are in their twenties); but if the kids need it – he will pay it; or there will be hell to pay.

So, I sit there and watch rape and pillage and if I say a word; get berated for it.  Don’t want to speak about it.  I’m handling it.  Blah blah.

I am obviously stupid because the way I figure it, we are about to move in together.  My point – while he continues to support the harridan’s every wish, I see he will have nothing.  He can’t live now.  And it is astounding how quickly they each put their hand out.  And do nothing in return.  If they buy him a birthday present, it is because he has rebuked them for not doing so.

I asked him the other night if he got tired of it.  He mentioned that yes; sometimes he did.  He paid for Boy 1’s 21^st and the harridan and Boy 1’s biological father sat there playing parents – without putting one cent towards it.

And that is where we differ.  I could not have let that go.  I’d have been happy to put in 1/3, but the whole shebang?  No.  Sorry.  If you want to come – contribute!  Then again, I couldn’t have let Boy 2’s birthday lunch go by with the Harridan demanding food and drinks and birthday cakes in a restaurant – only to lift her arse from the chair and waddle out the door without even offering to pay one cent towards it.

I don’t and can’t understand that behaviour.  It’s not about right and wrong.  It’s about utter ignorance and a total lack of care for another person.  I don’t think I have done that to even my worst ex-husband – and I find the whole thing incredibly sad.

If he can’t change, then it makes starting a life with me rather pointless.

Situational Irony...

That is my life as it stands.  Hmm, originally I wrote ‘as it stands at this moment’; however, as I read it back, I realised that has always been my life!  There seems to be a discrepancy between the expected result and actual results when enlivened by perverse appropriateness.

I’m like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz; finding a wizard and fulfilling all of his damned demands so that I can go home, only to discover I had the ability to go back home all the time.  I’m an Alanis Morissette song for crying out loud!  But why is it that as soon as my life starts going in the right direction; a damned house drops on me?

This was going to be the first pay in a long time that I would be doing it easy (or at least easier…) and then out of the blue, Dorothy’s house drops out of the sky in the shape of my car.  I drove to work this morning – not a drama in the world.  It’s a 2002 Astra, kind of average.  But hell; I do under 10k a year.  I am literally that ‘one little old lady’ owner!  Turn the key – nada.

I called the squeeze; although he lives over in ‘clean freak hell’, he works not far from me and we generally finish around the same time.  He paused to say ‘I don’t know very much about cars… Wouldn’t you be better of calling someone who works on them?’  If not so annoyed at the situational irony I was currently experiencing I’d have rolled around the carpark laughing my arse off.

I contained the mirth but managed to mutter “are you out of your ever loving fricking mind?  I didn’t call you to come fix my car; I called to get a ride home from work!”  Fix my car, hell; even typing that makes me smirk.  This is a guy who when we were taking boy 2’s car camping, didn’t have a clue why the light didn’t work!  My brand new iPhone car charger didn’t work, nor his Nokia.  I pushed the lighter home and zip; obviously a blown fuse.  This was a little more difficult; I had to Google to find out where the fuses were but when found and replaced, we had action.  Perhaps I shouldn’t even mention the snapping the fuel cover off his car one night when getting petrol  (pfft!)

I’ve said it a million times; I am the man in this relationship. 

I wasn’t expecting him to fix my car.  What I expected was a little bit of ‘relationship support’; not sure why.  I had already sent him an email last night to say “as a boyfriend, you suck!”  He replied to say “how can you blame me for the time a cyclone lands?”  How sad that I had to point out that I didn’t blame him for Yasi. 

What I blamed him for is being an emotional puddle.  If not, he would have understood that he should have been here with me last night while I was walking the house and stressing.  My son was on a yacht off the coast of Queensland and his partner was stuck in their apartment in Cairns.  I was up until 2am then back again to try to find out what was going on by 6.

Hell, a work mate gave me a ride home but what I needed was a “are you ok honey?  Do you need me to come back and get you..?”  I’d have said I'd be okay, but it might be nice to think that he has one manly, supportive bone in his body!

Slander…

It’s funny.  I’m pretty sure that others see us differently to how we see ourselves; see our blind spots or black spots if you will.  Maybe we should examine what others perceive as our black spots and try to rectify them; then again, maybe we should just thumb our nose in the air and say “who the hell cares what anyone thinks”.

I take absolutely no care in the things I say in my blog.  Yes, I do try to make sure I use nick names as opposed to real ones but I don’t do any real vetting.  I’m probably less wary now than when I started but it’s one thing calling your boyfriend a “moodle” to his face; it’s quite different putting it online where it can be read by all and sundry!

I can justify my non-vetting rule by pointing to my disclaimer; it quite clearly states that these are my thoughts; if you don’t like it, don’t read it.  Easy!  But even knowing this, there are times where I have wondered if I’ve pushed the envelope just a tad too far.

I mean saying quite plainly that he is a moodle who throws on a bow tie, primps the curls and goes off to do the harridan’s bidding should… At least in the real world, be considered highly insulting.  Then there was the entry where I focussed on the dead cockroach squashed on the bathroom floor; or my scathing remarks on the ex (and sometimes the kids) – and throughout it all, is the in your face knowledge that he is an emotional puddle – nothing deep there and a communications guru (like hell).

Personally, if someone was writing these things about me, I doubt I’d leave the house again.  If nothing else, I’d have a screaming fit at them and cry my eyes out – because if I had faults (lol) I wouldn’t want to share them with the whole damned world!

The other day, he suggested my blog was to slander my boyfriend on a regular basis!  I replied to say “pffft.  It’s not slander if you are telling the truth!”

But I worked out why it doesn’t seem to faze him.

One evening I heard him bark with laughter.  Naturally I sought him out to see what was so damned funny.  I stood in the doorway and watched him read the “primp the curls moodle” blog.  When he wasn’t laughing out loud, he was grinning from ear to ear.

Then I knew.  He reads it; but he is reading about someone else.

He doesn’t actually put himself in the role!

Well there goes my subliminal messaging him!  Damned fool!

A Manifesto - For a Moron

I tend to spend a bit of time in ‘Clean Freak Hell’ just cleaning up and rearranging.  This is in an attempt to have the house appear in some small way, even remotely hygienic and organised.  In reality, we all know that I’d be better off standing at the front door and tossing in a cup of petrol and then flicking in a match.  No amount of moving stuff around will ever get this place organised and clean.

I’ve told the Squeeze on several occasions; for me to clean it, I’d need a mini skip out the front to toss the junk in, them to all move out and about three weeks with decent cleaning products; and even then, I don’t think I’d want to live there.  I still get nightmares where that little cockroach squashed on the bathroom floor, gets up and starts running around.

I’m not sure how long he has been there but it’s quite a while I assume; so the build-up of “stuff” is horrendous.  It wouldn’t take much more effort to be the next ‘house of hell’ on one of those cheesy current affair shows. 

Initially he and the Harridan would take it in turns living week on and off.  Swapping from Clean Freak Hell to Velvet Wearing Country; although I’m tipping neither was that much different.  Every cupboard is packed to the rafters with things that should have found their way to a wheelie bin years ago and some of it is hers, so he isn’t totally on his own in the “clean freak hell” dept.  And I freely admit, I'm over the top in the clean stakes.  In fact the moving between houses is creating an ugly vibe at my place - it's starting to look a little too lived in for my liking!   That Boy 1, 2 and 3 are incapable of actually putting anything away or picking anything up is a learned behaviour (well at least their friends pick up stuff.  Oh wait, that is when they are stealing my jeans!)

I have previously mentioned to the Squeeze that there isn’t a hope in holy hell that I would have let my kid stay there when they were young.  I’m no velvet wearer banning antibiotics or sending a list a mile long thinking that the person on the other end is a moron, but I like to think the kids will receive the basic requirements of life; like not contracting salmonella…  Flea bites or waking up with a cockroach camping in their ear.

And here is where it all gets strange to me.  If the kid is sick and you have to send a manifesto detailing the most basic of requirements that any simpleton would know; let alone an adult who has in fact raised three children without killing them – how can you not see the red flags surrounding the house you are sending him to?  How can you think that penicillin is “evil”...  Yet not question the scum in the bath that has moved passed slime and into sludge and therefore you have added the element of a “slip” factor!

When Boy 3 was sick the last time, I was utterly astounded to find upon my arrival, the kind of note you would perhaps leave to the twelve year old baby sitter (if mentally retarded) – which even more astounding, the Squeeze had actually picked up with the kid and brought home.  Personally, I’d have paused for an hour or two and cut it into tiny little bits and left it in the same position; or perhaps burn it and leave the ash there.  I mean how bloody insulting!  I’d have certainly left my own little subtle message; it’s that or a baseball bat to her head…

Now you probably wonder where I’m going with this and why I’m even talking about it.  Water under the bridge, right..? 

Well on the weekend, I found the babysitting manifesto of requirements for the sick kid while moving the bookcase and desk and decided to scan it, remove all of the actual phone numbers for the “Call this… Call that…” and upload so that you can see exactly what the hell we are dealing with here.

Remember, prior to reading, that this kid is 13.5 years old.  All I can think of is that the poor kid has been dragged out of his velvet wearing school and is going to the school that his mother teachers at this year.  Let’s just completely stunt this kids ability to interact with another human…

And if you wonder why I picture Anthony Hopkins in a dress and wig – this is why…