Sounds of Silence

Sigh.  I guess we are somewhere between the ‘silent treatment’ (my pet hate) and ‘over it’.

I’m not even sure who is what, although I do have to admit that I’m not the silent treatment type.  Hell, my dad still says that I could talk under water with a mouthful of marbles!  No... Silent treatment, that is the Squeeze’s bag – to be honest; I find that it screams of a distinct lack of intelligence and maturity.  I suspect it means you are just too stupid to put your feelings into words; and too immature to see that sulking is a teenager trait.

So I guess that means he is ‘silent’ and I am ‘over it’. 

And to be honest, I am over it.  Yesterday – the fridge – I saw my life with the Squeeze stretching out in front of me.   Just an endless parade of kids; all in their 30s/40s and the Harridan, demanding her pound of flesh; and the Squeeze, running for the Wusthofs’ to slice a little piece of his heart out.

I feel quite justified in arguing against handing over the fridge.  In essence; he has been robbed blind – repeatedly.  Has walked away from a laughable relationship with nothing financially.  The only thing he got out of the marriage (by his words and said with pathetic pride) was the fridge.  Now, he turns around a gives it back to her.

So she has the house.  Everything in it.  Wants maintenance but that shouldn’t  interfere with the endless bills.  Boy 3 needs school shoes.  Boy 3 needs new soccer boots.  Boy 3 needs saxophone fixed.  Lessons.  And on and on and on it goes.  And it will never be enough.

So where are we at?  Well I had a brief 3 line email while he was home from work babysitting the 13 yo - it basically said “what is happening, because if things are off with us, I have to find accommodation”.

How nice.

Yes folks.  That is what I am.  Accommodation. 

It doesn’t matter that I have a right to be angry – because hey!  Moron!  I hardly want to acquire some leech moving in with me – so that he can afford to offer a sacrifice daily at the feet of the ‘Lesbian She Devil!’

I kind of just wanted a relationship.  That’s all.  Someone who loved me and could actually tell me they loved me; and maybe once – just every so often; put me first.

And my lengthy email sent this morning at 10am, stating that we couldn’t really decide or discuss anything until we had established one thing – did he still love his wife… Not ‘could he live with her’,’ would she want him back’,’ is the sky falling’ – but ‘do you still love your wife..?’  Because in the answer to that; is the answer to if there is, or has ever been an ‘us’.’

Did I get a reply I hear you ask?  No.  I did not.  Which I suppose in realtiy, is its own reply.

I’m just glad I found out now, prior to me giving up my fridge…

And Around We Go Again

Maybe I’m unrealistic.  Unreasonable.  Irrational…  But hell, I’d like to think that I have some sort of say over decisions made by the squeeze; which I’m beginning to see I never will.

Kind of makes me wonder how a relationship can work when my point of view doesn’t count.  But whatever the Harridan says – you bet your arse it will happen.

Here we are barely keeping our heads above water moving from pay to pay and he tells me this morning that Boy 2 did a deal with the Harridan and now she has taken the large, relatively new stainless steel fridge. 

WTF?????  He is kidding, right? 

I would have imagined the discussion over the mower would have covered this off; then I followed up when I knew she was helping with the move to say “this is not a shopping trip.  What the boy doesn’t take, we can put on eBay!”

What the hell is wrong with this fool? 

Firstly, it wasn’t the boys to make a deal.  And I’m sorry; someone obviously hung a sign around my neck that said I’m retarded!  Do I really look that fricking stupid..?  The boy didn’t do a deal; the harridan asked and he gave; doing everything except lick her boots while doing so I imagine, and even then, I can’t guarantee there wasn’t any foot kissing.

If we don’t work (and that is looking like a distinct possibility given this shit) then what the hell will he use then?????  Because he sure as hell won’t be getting mine!  And that miserable bitch has bled him dry, he won’t have a cent to even move, let alone have any furniture!

And all I get in answer is that her fridge was crap, now Boy 3 wins.  So much for me saying that he would be wise to keep some stuff; in case we don't work out.

Of course the thought of her getting off her arse and buying a new one wouldn’t have occurred to him.  I mean hell, she’s got the house.  The only decent thing he got out of the relationship was the fridge – and he even gave that back; tail between his leg, pissing down his leg like a good little moodle!

And all I can think of is how pathetic he is; how unattractive that trait is, and why the fuck I’m setting myself up for this shit.

Why the hell am I doing this..?

Because I'm seriously not sure that this is the way I should go; or even want to anymore.

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.