Sundays of Old

Today, aside from waking up with a killer headache; it reminded me of Sunday’s of old.  Pre-Squeeze.  Although I awoke in ‘clean freak hell’, which I should point out looks even worse than usual, if that is even possible; by 9am I was tucked up at home; washing on, bed changed and totally immersed in the ‘clean’.

I had a sudden flash of The Castle… The serenity!  And you have no idea just how fantastic that serenity is.  Hell, if I play my cards right, I may never have to cross the threshold of ‘clean freak hell’ again… sigh… the bliss.

Only dampener on the day that I can see is that awoke with a killer headache; and if you think about it, maybe that isn’t so bad either – because I intend to drug and going back to bed where upon I will read about 2.6 pages of my book before my eyes wilt for the final time.

And as I sigh with utter contentment in my newly changed, neatly pressed bed, I can go to sleep with the tiny seed of humour that is the Squeeze in clean freak hell, with Boy 2 and 3 (wanting to do as little as possible) – and the Harridan (cracking the whip and shouting orders like the Gestapo.)  Not to mention the dotted coversation of Kid 3 needs school shoes; Kid 3 needs new soccer boots; Kid 1 needs health insurance; Kid 2 needs... blah blah blah.  Obvioulsy what the Squeeze needs - like to 'eat'; doesn't count.

Even more amusing; I mentioned that while packing, he should raise the maintenance/back-pay conversation.  I knew when Boy 3 arrived yesterday that it hadn’t been raised at the soccer.  He thought I was being fanciful when I said “I assumed you hadn’t discussed it or I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have had the kid.”  Strangely, he turned to me and said “she wouldn’t do that…”

Fool. 

What about our holidays?  When it was slink down the highway with the “first aid” bag (including vicks vapour rub – in case he gets a cold in that 35 degree heat!!!) held in your hands like Oliver asking for more…?   Or don’t have the kid?  In fact, he didn’t come for the first two days, until the moodle bow-tied up and took the bag!

How nice to be able to rewrite history and reality in your head!

Folks Are Dumb Where I Come From…

Luxury!  Time to do two blogs’ on the same day!

I left my very clean side of town and entered clean freak hell – which was a freaking mess and smelled like a tin of petrol and a match should be tossed inside; which would be the only way to eradicate the stench.

I am counting the hours... the minutes; until I don’t have to come to this house ever again.  It is horrible and I’m sure there is a visible slump to my shoulders and a bow to my head as I walk in.  I’ve never entered and been pleasantly surprised, that’s for sure.

Even worse, Boy 2 is supposed to move tomorrow.  The Harridan will drag her arse over here and I can (without guilt), get up, have breakfast and leave them to it.  Then spend an afternoon with a movie every so often pausing to grin at the thought of her over here cracking the whip.  However, this isn’t until tomorrow and we have to get through tonight first.

I bought a bottle of red with me, which I have already begun (at 4.27 pm).  I don’t consider this alcohol; it is an anaesthetic.  A mummy’s little helper.  A mind number so that I don’t have to remember I am here. 

Even worse, Boy 2 has a girlfriend.  Now why the hell couldn’t that wait until tomorrow?  The Squeeze emailed me yesterday to say it was an ideal time to move, because he got up and showered and as he went back down the hall, he heard Boy 2 groaning and for just a second, figured he was sick.  Of course he was having sex…

In fact, the comment I received was “that girl yelps”.  And he isn’t going to bang on the door, kick it open and overarm bowl a pair of sox in there, muttering ‘shove it in her mouth’ before slamming the door and going back to his room.  I do believe I could…

But first up, I was more worried to walk in to bedlam and discover that there was not a soul in sight.  You’d never know that they were moving.  Not one box.  Nothing packed.  Dishes.  The usual utter fricking mess.  Tomorrow is looking better and better by the moment.  Better that I am not here that is.  When I last moved, two weeks prior to moving out the spare room was fool of boxes; all wrapped and packed with a label on the box stating what room it was to go to and a basic break down of what was in it.  Yes, I'm a project manager but hey, tossing things into the back seat of your car to move isn't going to cut it for me.

I was going to get them marching to and fro when they finally turned up but Kid 3 was limping and had the worst infected ingrown toe nail I’d ever seen (we are talking gag worthy) – complete with a spotty rash climbing up his foot.  He had (surprise surprise) antibiotics on the table (usual hand written instructions of wipe nose and arse that the dumb bitch gives).  Although he had only started them the evening before.

Yeah, sure.  Leave it to us to find a doctor on the weekend because you’re too tight fisted to pay for it and too stupid to listen to advice the first time and give the kids drugs to combat it.

But the foot looks shocking, bad enough that I tell the squeeze he should call casualty and they will give him a 24 hour clinic to go to (if for no other reason than to stop him turning up at the hospital [I know, that is what we do at work]).  But I say to the kid, did the doctor suggest antibiotics on the previous visit, because no one could leave you to walk around with that for 3 weeks!’

You guessed it.  Of course they did, but that moron that is the harridan didn’t want him to have it – he’s already had some last year when she nearly killed him with the chest infection.

Call me mean, but I lectured him and told the truth.  This is so much worse than it should have been and getting it cut out hurts like a bitch.  Hell, he is nearly 14 – he is going to have to stand up to the bitch at some stage.  I don’t care who or what you are; that is down right neglect!

After all that, I haven’t even asked about the maintenance, but I suspect they didn’t get to discuss that.

Too busy giving instruction on what he has to buy this week.

Angry Wife. The Joy That Gives Forever…

The Squeeze doesn’t realise it yet; but this is where the joy really starts.

Marriage breaks down (years ago); but they limp along in some weird brain pattern that… what?  I don’t know.  It will get better..?  They’ll wake up tomorrow in love?  Wake up and be successful?  Who the hell knows?  It’s not a concept I’m familiar with (obviously).

But welcome to the real world.  You wake up and they are not in love.  The marriage not only doesn’t work, but creates an existence of misery for both of them.  From the outside looking in, I suspect she was more miserable than he; and for that, she has made him pay.

In reality, I suspect she is even more miserable now.  She’s an aging art teacher; a right wing, velvet wearing, non-drug taking, over opinionated middle aged woman.  Life is passing by and in case she missed the whole idea of this blog, finding a man in your 40’s is freaking hard.  I don’t even want to think about the mid 50’s.

And the Squeeze has the sheer audacity to meet and fall in love; be happy with someone else.

Even worse, we have managed to hold it together for 1.5 years.  And when I say ‘hold it together’, what I really mean is that we have managed to stay best friends, fall in love, and keep that love and even more importantly, the friendship.

And it all culminates in this moment: Moving in together.

I don’t quite understand it but believe her preference would be for him to grow old as a bitter, somewhat destitute timeworn man that she can whack with a stick whenever she wants something done.  And let’s face it; he has given a good impression of that being the future.

Last night we went to a comedy show and he mentioned that there had been no issue with her receiving the divorce papers and that they had even escalated the “maintenance” discussion.  On this however, she had finished the conversation with the word ‘back pay’.

I should mention at this point that I love the way he does that.  Mentions it in an oh, so light and breezy comment, just as we are on our way out.  When I say we have kept the friendship, you should probably know that he understand me well and is far smarter than this blog, gives him credit for.  Strategically mentioning this while walking into a comedy club stifles my ability to screech…  Clever boy.

So off to soccer he goes this morning; like a lamb to the slaughter. 

For my thought, he should have shut the thought of back pay down straight away. 

Instead, he thinks that means that she wants maintenance for this month.  Agreement and general understanding between them to this point has been that he funds adult Kid 1 and 2; and pays a fortune for Kid 3 – and everyone is happy.  Now that Kid 2 forced to fend for himself (which personally, I believe will be the making of him) then there is a sum of maintenance to begin to go to the Harridan - towards Kid 3.

For some strange reason, in her world, the paying of the school fees, the uniforms, the saxophone lessons, the instrument repairs, school camps etc – doesn’t constitute as maintenance. 

He told me that when he had tossed a monthly maintenance figure at her weeks ago, that she actually seemed quite accepting of it.  Three seconds of conversation later and realised she actually thinks that she’s going to get this – on top of all the bills he pays now.

You may ask 'how is he supposed to live?'  Well it is kind of obvious to me, that no one really gives a shit about how he lives.  And of course he is moving in with me so I suppose she thinks he’ll have more money to burn now.   (which of course, is the funniest part of all!  I was born broke and will probably die that way.  I live well and have nice things.)

So when he explains the facts, well as you can imagine, I'm sure it will be quite a show.  And if he goes that far today, I'm tipping he won't be bringing Kid 3 home for the night - her ultimate weapon.

I’m almost looking forward to hearing about the outcome.

Life - Too Busy!

What a drama.  Daughter moving and packing; the Squeeze’s Boy 2 – packing and moving out; the Squeeze filtering through rooms of stuff trying to sort out what he is bringing, what he is dolling out to whomever (hopefully not the harridan or that will have its own drama). 

Sunday, the Squeeze and the Harridan are moving Boy 2 into his apartment.  Glad I am not going to be there, because I don’t think I could stand listening to the orders.  And when they have moved him, I suggested he hire in a professional rental cleaning company – because come hell or high water, I am not cleaning it!

What will I be doing?  I’ll be cleaning.  I haven’t been here for a full weekend since I don’t know when.  And hell, my place has missed that whole Saturday morning cleaning thing.  And it shows.  And even though I can see it, there is still a whole world of work less to do here than in clean freak hell!

God knows where we are going to put everything because for the life of me, I can barely move in here now.  What ever happened to the days where I had space?

I can see we will be moving.  Soon.

Only One ‘t’

I write.  I write a lot.  I used to write rather lengthy and somewhat protracted emails and send them to the Squeeze documenting the things that normal humans, the ones with souls - already know.  We are talking deep; emotional pouring’s from the heart.  For example, trying to explain why I may be a tad upset to sit at home while he squeaks off on a happy fricking family holiday over Christmas.

Sometimes I would sit for hours.  Occasionally, I would cry while I wrote.   It was gut wrenching and even I have to admit it, sometimes pathetic.

Mostly, he would not reply.  I would have no idea if he had actually read them and he certainly didn’t address any of the issues I had spoken of as they just seemed to keep repeating themselves.

Still, every so often I would open the laptop and start the email program and then be shocked to the core to see an email from him.  If it started with [for example] “RE: You are a moronic moodle!”  I would open the reply to my 3000 word email, my hand shaking; expecting some sort of explanation; some insight into who he really was, on the inside.

And I would read “detached only has one t”.  That’s it.  He had perused my tale of woe and sorrow and that is all he could come up with.  Only one ‘t’.

In fact, that was the reason that I began this blog.  This way I got to speak my mind; remind him he is a moodle and off times, a fool.  I get to write and in the documenting of my feelings, it becomes something else – something for me; cathartic.  Hell; it was that or stab him.

Given his propensity to pour through three thousand words long enough to actually spell check would be an indication that he shares my love of the written word – which I know is the case.  So even though he teases me on the odd bit of diction, (when some weird sort of cockney accent jumps out of my face), or chooses to answer my sometimes lengthy emails that I know he has read, if for no other reason than the desperation to find fault in the spelling - I know and love that we share this love of words.

Still, it does irk me on the odd occasion when I see a text or email from the Harridan; who both texts and writes in a weird combination of phonetic slash prehistoric.

Ie:  Wot u do car.

All it is missing is the ‘ugg!’ at the end.