Monday kicked my ass again, and I should wear my glasses when texting.

That bitch Monday won again. We were done packing at 6:30 - so everyone should have been out of the door at 7. Except the garbage hopper fell off of the lift truck into the dumpster. By the time my shipper/receiver (by the way - he is so lucky he's my favorite) got a chain and hauled it out it was 7:30.

Meh, it was still kind of an early night.

So tonight all of my recent rage built up and I sent The Polish Guy a text. "I think you're a giant asshole for the way you ended things. It was cold, mean and unnecessarily cruel."

Stunningly I heard the ding of a response. When I got up the nerve to check, it was only "You got the wrong number"

My reply "Sorry, story of my life." Sue me, I'm feeling sorry for myself here.

Then I texted my girlfriend.

Me: Did he seriously change his number even? What a fucking asshole.

GF: Not that I know of, haven't talked to him today.

Me: Well then he's just being a fucking cunt.

GF: Why what's wrong.

Me: I just felt it was time to tell him I think he's a giant asshole.

GF: Vanessa

Me: Sometimes it's got to be said. And if he changed his number just lately I haven't texted him in over a fucking month.

Me: Actually, I need to put my glasses on. I did have the wrong number.

I must be completely deranged, because now I'm just finding this entire situation hilarious. It is kind of disappointing that I no longer feel the need to send that text though. Now is right about when he would have to painfully struggle out of bed (with his broken ribs) to see that it was only me telling him he's an asshole.

He is a giant asshole. A ginormous asshole.

Assholes bring out my inner Evil Bitch. AKA Fuck You Polish Guy.

I like to try to keep the evil bitch part of my personality on a tight leash. Or at least I like to try. Tonight though, she's trying really hard to slip the leash.

Two weeks ago, The Polish Guy probably saw his life flash before his eyes. I hope the motherfucker wept at the loneliness of it.

He was up North at the cottage he shares with his brother. The one I no longer am welcomed at as a guest, but I bet the money hungry asshole would let me rent it!

His brother had bought some sort of ATV on Kijiji and not bothered with silly things like brakes. Or a good strong towing cable. You are both idiots - one for calling half-assed good enough, and the other one for not just assuming your brother fucked shit up like he normally does. Polish Guy - you know better by now.

Some sort of accident happened because of this and The Polish Guy wound up under one of the ATV's. Then he got to spend 3 days in Englehart's hospital. Looks good on you and I hope it fucking hurt. 

So now he's home with four broken ribs (Oh, I bet that hurts don't it? I hope it does!) and a scraped up face.

Tonight, I'm so fucking mad at him for breaking up with me over who the fuck knows what since he won't say. I bet it's because I didn't clean up after my dog - even though my friend who cut my grass this week is wondering where all the dog shit I haven't had time to clean up since last fall is. Or maybe because I didn't vacuum his house free of dog hair before leaving - buy a decent fucking vacuum and if you want a wife, marry one! Or maybe because I wouldn't do his grocery shopping for him anymore - again if you want the milk, buy the fucking cow.

But anyhow....

I'm so mad at him that I want to sprinkle pepper under his nose until he sneezes while poking him in his broken ribs.

Plus I want a demented clown to tickle his feet for a half hour straight and make him laugh the entire 30 minutes.

Hurts, you fucker, don't it?

Oh and by the way? The dog is really wondering what the fuck is going on. So not only are you mean to women, now you're mean to dogs as well. 

Asshole.

Gnarly toenails are one of my phobias.

I've got these "issues" when it comes to nails. Not the nails you pound into wood - those I've got under control.

Nope, I've got issues with fingernails and toenails.

Long fingernails kind of make me want to puke. Seriously, I try to keep my own fingernails with only 1 mm of white showing. Anything else bothers me, especially when I reach into my purse and get those mysterious purse crumbs under my nails somehow.

What the fuck are those purse crumbs from?

Toenails are something I'm fortunate enough to be able to forget about for 10 months of the year when everyone drags out their socks and winter shoes.

Inevitably though, summer weather rolls around and I will be exposed to the visual nightmare of gnarly toenails. I kind of get that guys aren't into the whole pedicure thing, but when I see a woman walking around in sandals with toenails that look like they belong on a troll, I want to vomit.

Being the type of person who can't trash talk a woman unless I'm not guilty of the same thing - this weekend was the time to do that first of the sandal season pedicure. Except when The Polish guy packed up my meager possessions and moved them out of his house - he forgot all of the pedicure shit.  Including the very important "toe separators"

You can see why they are an essential right?

So I go to the grocery store, only in their cosmetic section they are lacking the all important "toe separators" so I went to Shoppers Drug Mart.

I have been avoiding that place, because The Polish Guy's niece works there. It has been over a month though, time to grow up and start acting normal. Right?

Like all retail, I'm sure Shopper's doesn't have certain people on staff for every hour I might want to go there. I could get lucky. Right?

Wrong.

She's on duty, and standing in the nail polish aisle. Which is where my fucking toe separators are likely to be.

We have the "blah blah blah" conversation.

Hanging by a thread, I'm keeping it together, until she tells me The Polish Guy got hurt when he was opening up the cottage for the season. Hurt badly enough to spend three days in the hospital up there. I've been told he's got four broken ribs and he's all scraped up.

All because his asshole brother K, took another one of his "buy it on Kijiji, half assed fix it and then sell it" didn't think brakes were important.

That's how I ended up crying in Shopper's Drug Mart.

His niece wondered why I wasn't chasing him down and forcing him to see reason.

I'm not, because I've been around long enough to know one of the hardest facts of life.

No matter how much YOU love them, you can't MAKE anyone love YOU back.

Sadly, no matter how much you feel as if you've been disemboweled through your nose, the sun will continue to rise and set. Bills will continue to appear in your mailbox, and life will go on.

Fate Will Have To Be In Charge of This One

Last night, after I emailed a resume to my former employer, who do you suppose was the first person I wanted to tell? It wasn't my mom, and as much as I love all of you who read my drivel and take the time to comment, it wasn't you either.

So instead, I called a former co-worker. Another sales rep. We discussed the job and the happenings over the past year at length.

I hope the three hour long distance phone call doesn't cost me an arm and a leg.

Which is when I discovered how much I miss talking to co-workers who know their stuff. The intellectual give and take of work conversation with people who are in the same industry.

I miss the give and take of being able to contribute to the conversation - because I know just as much as they do. I've been at my current position since the end of August - and I still don't feel like I know a damn thing.

Today my former boss was kind enough to acknowledge that  he had received my resume - so I guess he stopped laughing at that point. 

I still don't know if the position will require me to relocate, which could be a good thing for my mental health. It will keep me from hanging around, hopelessly hoping that The Polish Guy will come to his senses.

So now we will see what we will see. Right now, I'm emotionally incapable of making long range plans.

Fate will have to be in charge of this one.

Kitties and whatchamacallits.

So remember the whole |A box of twine and a game of hoarders thing? Well I kept seeing these things at work.

And I kept thinking they looked like something useful. I mean really - there has to be something you can do with a cardboard whatever the fuck you call it. Right? RIGHT?

So now I have six of them, two in the house and four in my car. Along with a couple of packages of Cottenelle that were on sale. Because when the really good shit-paper is on sale I stock up.

They've been rattling around for the past couple of months - I could have two more tomorrow from work too - but no idea of what to do with them. One of the workers - who is Jamaican - said they would make good pot planters. I've always preferred my buzz in liquid form, so I'll pass on that idea and stick to growing vegetables I'll never get around to cooking, and weeds.

So I still had no crafty ideas of what to do with them, but then Mother's day came and with me and me in a funk. I posted the following:

And honestly when all you want to do is cry, how can you pass up a kitty?

So I messaged her and her husband went under the deck and caught one. He may have had more than one, except he figured I didn't want the one that bit him.

So now we have a new member in the household.

I waited to see if she was going to eat and all of that before announcing her arrival, but she's found her feisty so I think she's going to make it. She smells kind of poopy right now, but I don't want to overstress her by giving her a bath.

I'm totally going to build a cat fort out of those whatchamacallits. 

No name yet. Asshat #1 wants to call her Hobbes. Firstly she isn't orange. Secondly we had a Hobbes already. In the cat world Hobbes rode the short bus and totally would have licked the windows too. He would spend the entire day chasing squirrels he could never catch and was always skinny as a rail. He needed Ritalin in a major way.

Asshat #2 wants to call her Pooter, since she really does smell like poo.

Myself, I just want to be silly and call her Cutie or Sweetie because I need some silly in my life right now. Anything other than tears would be nice.

Please excuse me, I've got a frisky kitty to go snicker at.

Hibiscus are just another way to say EFF YOU!

I have my hibiscus back, along with my campfire toasting forks and my barbecue stir fry pan. Sadly the dog bed is still missing, but I'm not asking again.

Having the hibiscus back has been hugely satisfying. He managed to sweep me out of his life without feeling anything about my absence, but I bet he's feeling a gap every time he walks in his door and those two mothereffing huge hibiscus are gone.

I've also gotten a reason - of sorts. Apparently me expressing concern that our relationship was suffering from lack of nourishment - as in he was too fucking lazy to drive down the road during the week - and worrying that it was going to wither up and die, was taken as "I was going to break up with him anyhow"

Listen dude -  if you're going to go and get yourself all pissed off over something so minor that nobody knows what the fuck pissed you off and then dump me, grow a set and own it.

All in all, I've got a nice little fuck you attitude going. I've only cried once today, and if I have my way that will be the last time I cry over him.

I'm also going to sign myself up for an on-line dating site tonight. If nothing else, I should get some great stories to entertain you all from it.

Saint Bernard Puppies, Goobers and The Grossest Tick Story Ever.

This past weekend, in a weird twist of the universe, I somehow found myself puppy sitting for my ex-husband while he took the youngest fishing.

The puppy is a 6 month old Saint Bernard. For a puppy he was mostly quiet and pretty well behaved. He may have pooped on my bedroom floor, but since I didn't have to clean it up no harm no foul. The first night he just pouted, and there ain't nothing sadder looking than a sad St. Bernard puppy.

We did have some discussion on whether he could just go off home on his own. Possibly a little dispute on whether sofas are for dogs. In my house they aren't. They certainly aren't for dogs who walk around with foot long goobers hanging off their faces.

On Sunday the oldest took both dogs for a walk. Which led to last nights downright gross fest.

I came home from work and cut the grass, since I've finally managed to get the motherfucking mower to start. Then I texted The Polish Guy a list of my things still at his house. The only thing I really cared about was my two Hibiscus. I've had them for fourteen years, they're each about 5 feet tall and I'll be fucked if I'm going to see them on his lawn all summer.

Well I guess he didn't expect to have to give them up because he told me I forgot to ask for a bag of dog shit back too. Apparently it's still a sore point that in between working 70 hour weeks, keeping my house somewhat livable and making time for him - I never had time to clean up dog shit at his house (yes it is my dog's shit). Hell, I still haven't had time to clean up dog shit at my house. 

I told him he shouldn't be bitter since he dumped me and he called me childish. I of course proceeded to drink too much and cry on my girlfriend's shoulder.

So there I am walking around on my deck - in my slippers - and I feel the unmistakable pop of a stepped on bug. I look down and see a ton of blood. More blood than the biggest bug is going to have on it's own.

I had stepped on a fully engorged tick. In all of my wallowing self pity, I missed my dog walking around with a tick on him for four fucking days. Did I stop feeling sorry for myself and check him over for more? Oh hell no. I was too far into the whole howling bit by then.

So tonight, the dishes will get done. Clothes will be washed. The dog will be brushed.

And I will get back to living my life such as it is. I may still weep, but I'll be damned if I'm going to keep hiding my head under the blankets. I'll be washing my slippers too. Blech.

Wash, rinse and repeat.

I don't know what to do with myself most evenings right now. It's strange to me because The Polish Guy and I haven't spent time together on weekdays since September. Still, this seems to be the place I'm stuck in right now.

I've always prided myself on being able to fill time. Sometimes I can fill time doing absolutely nothing. It seems now isn't one of those times.

I feel lethargic, but agitated at the same time. I don't want to do anything, but I feel like I need to do something.

I tried mowing the lawn - it does definitely need it. I gave up when the lawnmower stalled the second time.

I could focus on the never ending always there tasks of running a home, but I probably won't. I could go for a walk, but I probably won't.

TV can't hold my attention and neither can reading.

Instead I wander the house aimlessly, never quite settling on anything.

In truth, all I want to do is go to bed and sleep so that today will be over and tomorrow can begin.

Wash, rinse and repeat.

I'm Still Wondering What Happened

Friday was fine. We talked about when we were going to take vacation. We talked about trying to overlap our week at the cottage with his sister again. I mentioned that I had enjoyed spending time with her and her husband last year and I was hoping for an extra day with them this year.

Saturday was fine. In the shower together, he asked if there was any more soap. I told him I didn't know if he had any, I hadn't done his shopping. He said "I noticed." I jokingly replied that grocery shopping fell under the rule "if you want the milk, buy the cow." It's an old theme so there was no anger in it, just play.

Sunday morning he went to work, I went home to my chores.

Monday and Tuesday were both late nights for me. When I finally stopped for the evening, I noticed the time. I realized he hadn't called but by then it was too late to call him - he would have been sleeping.

Wednesday I arrived home to an empty house. Quiet is a rare thing here, so I took the opportunity to catch up on some reading. I heard someone come in and thought maybe it was my neighbor. I entered the kitchen in time to see The Polish Guy set a box on the table.

One single box. It didn't contain much. A nighty, a lamp, a container of dog food and a couple of dog toys. Four years of happiness and love in one single box.

I felt the blood drain from my face. I started to ask why but then pride took over. "It's too bad, we had something that was pretty special."

The Polish guy shrugged his shoulders.

"I hope you have a nice life" was the only thing I had left to say.

Two weeks later, I'm still wondering what happened.

 

A "Fail" kind of weekend, spilled milk, and The Swinger

Saturday after work, I braved Walmart. The youngest needed socks and I was hoping for something to entertain me in my lonely spinsterhood. Can I still be a spinster if I've had children or do I have to be childless also?

After navigating through the other shoppers (Relax - there was zero bloodshed) I looked at a wall of books. Every one them of the Twighlight ilk, which wasn't anything I was in the mood for. So I picked the one that appeared to be different - Beautiful Bastard. If you've heard of it, you're probably already snickering right?

Because doesn't every just dumped woman want to read erotica?

Fine, I'll watch the movie I bought. Except the universal remote to work the DVD player is batteryless. I can't even blame the kids because I'm the one who stole them to use in the TV remote. Since I've got absolutely nothing to coax the DVD player past the menu screen into play, no movie either.

I found a book to read - other than Beautiful Bastard which is residing under my bed where it landed after sliding down the wall - and went to bed.

Value Village here we come

Sunday I stopped at Value Village on my way for Groceries - they've always got a lot of used books.

I also found this mirror and thinking it would look pretty neat painted black, I bought it. Then groceries, a stop at the Home Hardware for some black spray paint and I'm home.

The day is sunny, not warm but not frigid so I've got no excuses to NOT cut the lawn.

Except the mothereffing lawnmower would not start. My just bought last year, second pull guaranteed lawnmower. So I decided to spray paint my mirror and discovered I kind of suck at spray painting.

This is when I chose to go in the house and start reading the Dean Koontz novel I had also bought.

This is the "Woe is me, my boyfriend dumped me" part of the post. 

I won't hold it against you if you skip past this part.

I don't know why, but evenings are not too bad. I'm sad, but not "lose it" sad. Mornings (and by morning I mean anytime before 3 pm) are brutal. Which I guess is just more proof that I'm not naturally a morning person. This morning it seemed like I was going to be closer to okay. Then I drove to work and saw his truck was home.

Did I forget to mention that part? Yeah, we live within walking distance of each other and will regularly need to drive past each others houses on our daily routines.

My emo Brain: Why is he home? Did something bad happen?

My logical Brain: He did mention something about having to take a night shift for a guy on vacation.

My emo Brain: Well how is he going to pick up his kids on Friday if he's on afternoons.

This is where my logical brain gave my emo brain a slap across the cheek

My logical Brain: Not. Your. Fucking. Problem.

Then, while at work someone asked me if I had plans for vacation. Which I did - two weekends ago. In fact The Polish Guy and I were even discussing when we would take our vacation. Then Wednesday he dropped off all of my stuff.

I'm kind of guessing that means he's not planning on taking us with him this year.

I've written those hurtful words "I've been dumped" but I up until this morning I had not been able to say them. I just couldn't do it without losing my composure.

I managed to get the words past the lump in my throat, and told her why I had no vacation plans at the moment. I did not cry. I even held it together through the meaningless platitudes that people make when they're sad that you're sad.

Not even an hour later I flipped the bitch switch over something trivial. Then I had to apologize for being an asshole, but at least I didn't snot and slobber all over an employee's shoulder.

That would be unprofessional.

Cockroaches and spilled milk

Another trigger for me has been seeing the one lady at work and remembering her little homily from Barbados of "There be a cockroach in your milk." Apparently, this is what they say when a woman is having a sneezing fit.

Why do I even worry about this? It's not as if I have any reason to believe he was two timing me.

Besides, should it even matter at this point if "some other woman be doin' yer man"? Another woman is not going to make him any more not attracted to me. It's like worrying about getting more pregnant if you have sex while pregnant. Obviously he's "just not that into me", so why even worry about it? Why look for answers in the inexplicable? Why care so damn much over someone who obviously no longer cares for me?

It's like crying over spilled milk.

The Swinger is back at My Half Assed Life

The Swinger's got some big weekend plans. Whenever I felt weepy, I would picture him in ridiculous role playing costumes. Emphasis on ridiculous so as not to trigger my gag reflex. Alternately, I would wait until I caught the other Shipper/Receiver's eye and make like I had the guy on a leash and collar with a whip in my hand.

Whicha!

It got me through the day.

One of these days, the day after tomorrow will be the day.

Remember this post - Don't Make Me Flip my Bitch Switch?

We're waiting for Dad to come and pick up his youngest child for the weekend. Or I'm waiting and they're trying to drive me nuts.

You know how it is when you're due to go somewhere so you just pace around the house until finally it's time to leave? That's what the youngest is doing right now - with his shoes on. The oldest is trying to aggravate the youngest and doing a damn fine job of aggravating me at the same time.

So I'm hiding in my bedroom listening to a Cake CD skip - because it's been that long since I really used my stereo.

Four today and eight tomorrow

After a full week of six today and eight tomorrow, except for last night when it was six today and seven tomorrow, this should be welcome news - no?

Except me - the asshole at the party - goes and says - so no break? I made a yuck face too.

Then I laughed at myself, because let's face it four is better than six.

Except right now that's how I'm getting through the day. Counting off time until this segment of the day is done and the next one begins.

In the morning, I have to force myself to wait until it's my normal time to leave because the sooner I start the sooner first break will come. The sooner first break comes the sooner lunch will come and so on until today is done.

The sooner today is done, the sooner I can get through tomorrow and then the day after tomorrow.

One of these days, the day after tomorrow will be the day I'm okay again. Okay with being just me instead of us.

That day isn't visible on the horizon yet, but it's coming. It always does.

Weekend Funnies is on hiatus

If you're looking for a great place to link up for the weekend? Yeah Write has got you covered with the weekend Moonshine Grid. I promise - you'll get a lot more out of it than I can offer.

Wife Cakes and knowing when it's time to say when.

One of my workers often gifts me with a Kit-Kat in the morning. Last week, when he was out in the greenhouse picking green beans* for himself, he picked a bag full for me. We'll be having green bean casserole tomorrow thanks to his efforts.

This week he gave me a box of cookies. 

Every one of them individually wrapped within it's own plastic tray.

With one of these little packet under the tray and warnings to not eat or microwave.

They were called Wife Cakes and gave me terrible indigestion - make of that what you will.

 

Apparently I give The Polish Guy indigestion too.

 

So tonight The Polish Guy dropped off the little bit of stuff I had at his house. Seriously, four years together and it fit in one box. Most of it was the dog's stuff. 

I guess that means he's saying no way to the Friday night dog visitation I always joked about. No worries - there's always a walk as an alternative.

 

Three strikes - You're Out!

 

Yep, that's right. Three strikes. Three relationships for my 42 years (I don't count flings - I know the difference) and three failures. At the end of the day, it really doesn't matter if it's my failure, their failure or our failure. It wasn't a win.

For each of the last two, I've taken the leap of faith - this time will be different. I've made my best effort to let go of the past and hope for a future. This guy isn't the one who hurt me last. This guy will be different.

And I've discovered the landing to be just as rocky and painful as the last time.

This guy was different. This guy is a guy who was never meant to go through life alone. So boo to the ladies who treated him like shit on his last go arounds, and boo to him for not dreaming that this time would be different and braving the free-fall.

Even if the landing is rocky, the fall is pure exhilaration.

Now please excuse me, I'm sure there are some cats out there looking for love.

*We grow tomatoes at work, but at the end of each row is a green bean plant for sentinel purposes. The beans from them may not be "garden grown" but they are far superior to the grocery store offerings this time of year. They're also free. 

Somebody owes somebody some something something

Friday night sitting in the "Man Cave" with The Polish Guy and we're watching a movie. Religulous, which is marginally less bad than the last movie we watched - Stuck. I can honestly say the average tampon commercial is more entertaining than either of them.

I left this at home waiting for me. 

 And this.

So you could say, I owe him sexual favors for giving me a place to go where I can't see that shit.

Or realizing those dishes are going to be even harder to scrub, and that pile of laundry will have grown to epic porportions by the time I am home long enough to deal with it - you could say he owes me sexual favors.

I'm a selfish bitch so I'm going with option B.

Weekend Funnies #6

Thin love ain't love at all.

The Polish Guy and I have been together for four years. We weren't together for very long before we developed a routine. Weeknights at my place, weekends at his.

Our weekends with kids coincided and his kids and my youngest took to the routine readily. With the three of them, we've got 15, 16 & 17. Summers were mostly spent at his house, because his kids would hang out there more in the summer.

It worked. Until all of a sudden it didn't. Or at least it no longer worked for him.

I still go to his house on weekends. He still calls me every night during the week. But that's all. Other than coming for dinner Christmas Eve, he has not been in my house since the kids went back to school in the fall.

I've gone through the range of emotions. Hurt and anger and a little more hurt. Lately though I've become guarded and to be honest - selfish. A healthy response to the situation? Maybe.

Does it do anything to build a warm caring relationship? Not at all.

Last week, I stopped at the corner store on my way home from work. He stopped at the same time. We exchanged pleasantries but nothing more. When I got out to my car I sat for a few minutes and  wondered how we appeared to the sales clerk.

Casual acquaintances with no hint of intimacy.

And I'm left to wonder - is that what we've become?

Survival Of The Fittest

You know how everyone always says that people who date a long time before marrying have the strongest marriages?

It's survival of the fittest folks. The only ones who make it to the altar are the ones who haven't killed each other.

Honestly, I'm aware that I am seeing the sweetest man on earth. Really I am.

But - after four years of sleeping together dating, my ability to be sweet in return is compromised by familiarity.

Take for instance chewing. I know, we all do it. But - it fucking annoys me to the point that chewing near me is part of the Asshat's arsenal to drive me bat shit crazy.

Since we aren't married (or living together - which if you ask me is the same damn thing) the boyfriend and I have separate addresses, so if I finally lose my shit and ask him "Do you have to chew so loud right in my ear?" somebody will be going home that night.

Asking do you have to chew so loud = no sexy time. Need I say more?

Then there is the whole memory issue.

Men who are co-habitating with a woman on a daily basis would KNOW after 4 years that she has a better memory. Take for instance this recent conversation when he called me on his lunch break.   

Yes I know it's incredibly sweet that he takes 5 minutes to call me on his 20 minute lunch, but he is still wrong.

Boyfriend: It happened eight years ago.

Me: No, it was just four years ago.

Boyfriend: Oh, it was was it (in THAT tone)

Me: It was right after Gary died.

Boyfriend: Yeah, eight years ago.

Seriously folks. I renewed my mortgage for a five year term right after we started dating. It isn't due until 2014, and Gary died after we started dating but before I renewed my mortgage.

Me: We'll talk about it when you get home. Try to have a good night. 

Who do you think is right?


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Bitter Cold and Bad Karma

Outside it's -11 Celsius, or 12 Fahrenheit.

And conditions indoors aren't much better.

I'm wearing a long sleeve T, two sweatshirts and my winter coat. Even though I'm waddling around like an Ewok and can't move my arms, I still wish I had thermal underwear, a hat and a scarf on.

The bitter (to us anyhow) cold was the topic of last nights phone conversation with the boyfriend.

Boyfriend: Did you plug your car in?

Me: No, somebody tie strapped the cord to a hose and I can't get it undone.

Boyfriend: Who did that?

Me: I don't know but it's been like that for 2 years.

My Brain: Probably you Boyfriend.

Boyfriend: You used it last year.

Me: No I didn't, I never needed it last winter.

Boyfriend: I hope your furnace doesn't quit on you.

Me: Why would you even say that?

Thanks Boyfriend for putting that out there. Now I have to worry about Karma making it happen - even though I know there is nothing wrong with my furnace.

Crackers and Assless Chaps.

The boyfriend and I enjoyed relaxing and having coffee together this morning. Well I enjoyed it, he was probably wishing I would get off of my tablet (what I use when my big girl computer is unavailable) and actually converse. Then it was time to go.

Boyfriend: So your mom is having dinner tonight?

Me: Yep.

Boyfriend: Are you going to make those crackers?

Me: What crackers?

Boyfriend: Those crackers I told you about.

The crackers he told me about. The ones I've never seen, let alone tasted. The ones that take ingredients I don't have and require that you toss them every 10 minutes for an hour. Those crackers.

Me: Nope. I'll be lucky if I find time to shower before dinner. See you later. 

I mean after all, I've got to buy ingredients to make my food porn and then figure out how to get it to look exactly like what I see in my mind. This is important business I've got planned for my Sunday afternoon.

Until then, for you people who resolved to hit the gym a little more? I bring you a preview of what you will see in the change room at old lady o'clock.

For some reason we aren't allowed to pack these ones either - in this case I can see why.

Also? If you tell a group of high-spirited Jamaican ladies that you need that tomato so you can make it assless chaps out of Romain leaves they will start gifting you with the oddball tomatoes.

Look at the one they gifted me with yesterday.

I swear I blushed. Could you imagine if I worked in cucumbers?

It did not quite turn out as hoped. Fresh romaine is not flexible like the romaine that is usually in my fridge. Also I had planned to build a frame out of wire coat hangers. Do you still have any of those? I don't. 

I asked #1 Asshat what it reminded him of. He told me it was no David - but then I pointed out the dangly bit. 

 

PS Those crackers are Firecrackers, I have provided the link so you don't have to Google it and get the recipes for how to make marijuana firecrackers which I'm sure are something entirely different. I'm also sure I can't find those ingredients at the grocery store.

And Then I Almost Shot A Noodle Out Of My Nose.

Last night at the boyfriends "the boys" prepared our dinner. His son and my youngest.

By prepared dinner, I mean grudgingly cooked hot dogs and Kraft Dinner at 10pm. Asshat #2 also sliced up some Polish Sausage.

Asshat#2: Hey Mom, want some Polish Sausage?

Which he knows will never happen - I don't do carnivore so my only answer was a disgusted look.

Asshat#2: This Polish Sausage is good.

The Boyfriend: Oh, you like the Polish Sausage?

The boyfriend is part of a very big Polish family.  Any guesses what polish sausage is code for amongst the men of that family?

And of course I was reminded of the "sext" he sent me last year at this time.

Him: Have you had dinner yet?

Me: No, have you?

Him: I've got some polish sausage for you.

It was even less sexy delivered by a robotic female voice, because get this - he had sent his oh so witty sext to my landline. 

I came very close to shooting a Kraft Dinner noodle out of my nose last night.

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My New Year's Pledge

I've never kept a New Year's Resolution - ever. So instead this year I'm making a New Year's Pledge.

I pledge to quit living for the life I want and start living the one I have. 

For the past four years I have focused too much of my time and energy in trying to build a partnership with a man who isn't ready to take that step. At the end of each year, I've been a year older, my kids have been a year closer to independence and I've been just as far away from my dreams as I was at the beginning of the year. I'm not doing that anymore.

Instead I will occasionally join my guys in their never ending verbal sparring, and when I do we will laugh together or maybe even yell at each other. Sometimes there may even be a bit of wrestling - it's the boy version of a hug. There may be curses and vulgarities strewn about when we're done, maybe even some furniture. It's who we are and it won't be much longer that they are here every day driving my nuts with their bickering.

I will attempt to maintain some order in my home but I won't worry that I'm only just keeping my head above water (or laundry) because tomorrow sure as shit there will be more to do. Instead I'll do what I can while still unapologetically taking time to do what I love. If you need me to spell it out for you - I don't love housework.

When I need to work a ridiculous amount of hours because that's my job, I'll do it and celebrate the independence piling up in my bank account. When enough of it has piled up I'll start looking by myself for a home I can love. Who says I have to wait for someone to make a home with me, because going by the last 20 years, I'm pretty sure I can do that all on my own.

I'll still hope for that partnered life. One where I can share all of life's ups and downs with somebody else and their shoulder is always there. A life where I have a partner to tackle the trivial and mundane stuff that happens every day, and at the end of the day we’ll crawl into bed together and do it all over again tomorrow. I'll even still hope that someday he will be that partner.

Until then I will pledge to fully live this crazy chaotic life that is mine.

Now I Feel Like Coming Over

Last night I had an urge to do the unforgivable and let my dog sleep in bed with me. I was feeling just lonely enough that the company and the big body against my back would have been welcome.

I know there are plenty of people who think letting their dog sleep with them is just fine. I'm not one of them.

I mean sure, right now there's no 2 legged man sleeping in my bed (no 3 legged pole vaulter visiting it either) so it seems like no big deal to let the 4 legged one in right? Wrong.

The dog easily has another 10 years in his life span and I sure as hell don't intend to spend the next 10 years with only a dog for company. Having a big body snuggled against your back sounds cozy, but in my experience you usually end up with 4 big paws against your back trying to push your ass off of your own damn bed.

A dog in bed when there's other things to do there is just a mood wrecker. They watch for one thing. Plus they start thinking you are play wrestling and want to get in on the action - hopefully just the wrestling. Next thing you know someone gets a cold nose on their bare ass and the giggling starts.

Once the giggling starts, well you may as well forget all about having some fun because I have yet to meet a penis that can stand proud once the giggling starts. Penises are pretty sensitive like that. You can try to convince a penis you weren't laughing at it, but they seldom believe you.

Anyhow, all this talk of penises and loneliness - I guess it's time to go spend a night at the boyfriends. Unless he has other plans, in which case there's still #wineparty.