sueeeus

I had come to a turning point where I found myself with no other options, so I opened the smoked glass front door of the quasi-modernistic pecan colored office building (a warm, wooden structure), and stepped inside.  It wasn’t a seedy place, by any means.  It was clean and quiet.  There could be any assortment of businesses operating from within these walls.  I spoke to the receptionist and inquired, in a ’round-a-bout way, how one would arrange a business transaction if one had never done that sort of business before.  It was the oldest profession in the world, but it was unfamiliar territory to me.

She made me an appointment.  This is a double, she said.  A double?  It’s just as well.  I accepted the appointment.  I needed the business, and even though it was new to me, I had no other options, so I was grateful.  I wasn’t really in a position to give too much more thought to it, other than it was something that I had to do.  Stay the course.

The day arrived.  I returned to the building, and the receptionist greeted me with a nod.  I was feeling embarrassed, starting to question whether I really should be there.  I timidly asked her where I might find Room 3D, and she pointed down the hall, to the right.  I walked down the hall, vaguely wondering what circumstances brought these clients to this place.  Was this their home?  There were many questions, but I didn’t stop to give them much hold.  I knocked on the door and went in to meet them.   I had assumed they would be men, and they were.  But there was also a woman in the room.  I was a bit puzzled, but didn’t jump to any conclusions.

The one who opened the door was a black man, relatively young, maybe in his early thirties.  He was fit and good-looking.  There was a white man, and the woman.  I didn’t notice anything remarkable about the white man.  I was relieved that they weren’t old, greasy, smelly, skanky and creepy men.  They seemed pleasant enough.  Even normal.  Although, I must say, the thought crossed my mind as to what circumstances cause people like that to make these, uh, arrangements.  (It turns out they were going on a trip the next day.  Europe, I think.  This was just a stop, and they were just here for a while, having some fun.  Seems reasonable enough.)

The woman was sitting on a four-wheeler in the living room.  It seemed a bit odd for an ATV to be in the living room, but it wasn’t any of my business.  It wasn’t dirty, or anything.  Maybe that office space was also used as a recreational vehicle showroom or something.  Anyway.   She was skinny and blonde and sort of reminded me of a rocker chick, like the one on Guitar Hero.  She had those low rider distressed blue jeans on.  She said something about going to get some stuff to party with, and left the room.  So I figured she was going to be back and somehow be involved.  I was wondering what on earth I’d gotten myself into, but there I was, and I decided not to get worked up or freaked out, but to just stay calm and not jump to any conclusions.

The black guy was cheerful and gregarious.  He was at the moment concerned with his glasses, which he was holding in his hand.   Look, he said, they’re broken, and it’s a bummer because they’re really expensive glasses!  He was fairly animated about it.  I politely took them and inspected them, turning them over in my hands.  They were heavy, not a bit flimsy, and did indeed have an expensive feel to them.  They were dark stylish metal frames, smooth shiny black with nice boxy lines.  Italian, or maybe French.  Very nice.  The lenses were clear, but the top corner of the right lens was completely crushed.  Useless.  A real shame.  I handed them back to him.

So.  Back to business.  The reason I was there.  I was trying not to sound nervous, but had to ask the question, before any, uh, business commenced.  Do you have condoms?

No.

No?

No.

Well, I didn’t have any.  It’s not the kind of thing I think about.  I’ve not particularly lived a lifestyle that required them.  But this was new ground, and one thing I knew (even though I was completely unprepared) was that it was ab.so.lute.ly necessary.

There weren’t any hard feelings and the discussion wasn’t all that awkward.  Calm.  Businesslike, I suppose.  I agreed to run to the drug store and acquire the tools of the trade.  Amateur.  I sauntered out, and thought to check on my boys, to make sure they were okay.  BB was supposed to be watching LB while I was out.  I peeked in their room, and there was LB, perched high on top of a cabinet, holding a blue dryer ball in each hand (they are used for fluffing the clothes in the dryer –the boys love to play with them).  He had a good hold of them.  Very controlled.  And he was well balanced and didn’t look to be in any danger of falling.  Still.   It reminded me of a scene from Kung Fu Panda, in which Panda was perched on the ceiling beams, in perfect control of the situation, munching happily on some treat.  I closed the door and hurried down the street, thoughts of guilt and abandonment starting to seep in.  I need to hurry up, get this over with, and get back to my kids.  I kept going, until I reached the big store on the corner.  It had dark glass walls, and lots of twinkling lights lining stairs, doorways, windows, and elevators.  Sort of like a dance club, actually.  But it was a shopping center.  Maybe like something you’d see in Vegas.  I’d been there before, in a dream.  I remembered the place — when I’d been before, there was a room on the second floor with racks of pajamas, all white, in my size range, and I was quite pleased to have stumbled upon it, given my penchant for pajamas.  But there wasn’t any time for browsing.  I had a commitment to meet.  I rushed in, past the racks of souvenirs and knick knacks that seem to be present in every drug store, scanning the aisles.  A sales lady approached and asked if I needed help finding anything, just as I spied the rack I needed.  “No, I’m good.  Thank you!” I said brightly.

I quickly scanned the selections.  There were quite a few choices, but what first caught my eye was a two-pack of clear cylindrical items that were apparently the female version.  Interesting.  I picked up a package and noticed a bowl filled with single purple packets.  I picked one up and looked at the label.  Apparently the contents were black.  Interesting.  They’ll work.  I grabbed a handful, made my purchase and headed back.

And finally, finally, I thought to myself, why am I doing this?  Why on earth do I think this is my only option?  What made me think this was my only option?  I don’t need the money.  I don’t need this.  I don’t need to do this.  I don’t want to do this.  I don’t have to do this.  I didn’t go back.

We were all walking in a field, me, Gadget, BB and LB.  It was late afternoon, not quite dusk.  I turned to Gadget and said, “There’s something that I have to tell you,”  and proceeded to recount what I’d done.

And then I woke up.  And marvelled at the sheer detail of the dream.

In the next installment, I might delve into dream interpretation.  Such an abundance of metaphors.  So many details.  Colors, thoughts, numbers, emotions.  I’m a strong believer in the healing power of sleep, and I also believe that sometimes dreams are our brains’ way of working through things that we haven’t processed completely while awake.  This one will take some thought.

This is nothing like the tale of Bilbo Baggins, and there is nothing like a mid-life crisis to jump-start a marriage (or send it off to the scrap heap).

In short, he left.

I filed.

He came home.

So here comes the long of it.

Gadget’s been on a steadily souring course for some time now, which escalated shortly after his dad’s passing.  Constantly irritable, he had a scowl imprinted on his face, and would barely speak or even look at me.  Being the not too bright when it comes to interpersonal relationships sensitive creature that I am, I internalized and assumed that somehow I had done (or not done) something.  A glutton for punishment, I even went so far as to ask if he could rule me  out as part of the cause of his unexplained feelings, to which he said, “I can’t rule anything out because I don’t know why I feel this way.”  Nice.  That felt good.

And so it went on.  Then he went away for a 3-day weekend business trip during which time he didn’t call home.  Cue the alarm bells ringing in my head.  I was distraught when he returned, and he was sour and irritable.  We had THE TALK.  I had to ask if he’d met somebody.  No, he hadn’t.  All that late night text messaging with someone, what about that?  Just friends of friends who don’t have a life.  Fine.  I didn’t really believe him.  I was hurt that he would carry on conversations with some near-stranger(s) when it was like pulling teeth to spend words between US.  I have to dig for any morsel of information.  Nothing is forthcoming.  We were finally talking about what’s going on with him, but it had to be me who brought out the ‘D’ word.  I didn’t expect him to jump on it, though.  Not in a thousand years would I have ever thought he’d be the one who wanted to leave.  I know I’ve had a difficult time adjusting to a partnered life, having spent the better part of 40 years the commander of my own ship.  But there it was.  He wanted out.

Do what you need to do, to find your smile.

I thought he’d stay home while we worked through the details, but he found a place the very next day, and that was that.  Gone.  I was stunned, really.  Leaving must have been on his mind for some time, for him to be able to move out so quickly.

I didn’t get a chance to process my feelings.  I did the paperwork.  Once you wade through the thousands of pages of instructions, and cut to the chase, it’s surprisingly easy to get a divorce here, without a lawyer, with children, when both parents agree to the terms.    I filed.  I wanted to get it done while we were still on good terms, uncertain of how things could change, for better or worse, in the coming days.  I set the hearing date, which is 90 days past the filing date, and I prepared the final papers for the hearing and had him sign them.  All set.  Show up to the hearing, have the judge sign the papers, and that’s that.  I keep the kids and the house.  He gets the truck and the boat.

I had to work, and I had to take care of my kids.  I didn’t want them shaken or confused.  I didn’t want to expose them to any turmoil.  I put on a cheerful face, and when asked, explained that Daddy’s taking a time out.  A grown-up kind of time out. He’s not in trouble.  He just needs to be alone right now.  I was matter of fact, and BB accepted it as that.  But inside, everything churned.   I wanted to cry and scream and release some emotion, but I couldn’t — it would frighten the kids.  It was a terrible few days.

I made new plans to keep things moving.  Joined the gym, added the kids.  Pick them up from daycare, give them a snack, drop them off at the kid’s playroom, work out, go home, feed them, put LB to bed (poor little guy falls asleep in the car on the way home), spend a little one-on-one time with BB, then off to bed.  Do it all over again.  Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays we go to the gym where I do water aerobics for an hour.  The other days BB is my helper and we do projects and jobs, all with gusto to make it fun.  Take out the garbage, take out the recycling, cook dinner, tidy up the house.  Last weekend we sanded, painted, and reupholstered our dining chairs.  BB helped me sand and choose the new fabric.  We walked through the fabric store playing “I spy”, and we had a good time making the transformation.  I wouldn’t let him paint (we used spray paint) or use the staple gun, for obvious reasons, but he loved sanding and I think he shares that wonderful feeling of accomplishment and creativity, now that we see the fruits of our efforts.  I love that!

I asked Gadget to come over for dinner and spend some time with the boys.  They need to see their dad, I told him, and true enough, they were so happy to see him, they couldn’t stop climbing all over him, and running circles around him.  LB kept resting his head on Gadget’s leg and foot.  Hugs.  Baby hugs.  I couldn’t fathom how he could possibly walk away from that.  Yet the frown remained, just below the surface, imprinted on his face.  A truly unhappy man.

He called the next day.  He’d thought things through.  He didn’t want to live a different life after all.  He thought he could be happy on his own, but decided that the life he wants is with us.  He would be more involved with the children.  He would help out more around the house.  He would be a better father and husband.

I can’t take the yo-yo action, I told him.  You can’t change from unhappy to happy, the way you can switch a light off and on.  But he insists he can.  He insists he’s made up his mind and he will stay with that decision.  The decision for family.

Come home, I said, but I’m not going to cancel the case immediately.  You have to prove to me that you mean what you say.  We have nearly 3 months.  Show me.

We have new family plans.  BB, Gadget, and I each get to choose what’s for dinner on two days of the week, so we have six days planned and one day for leftovers.  We’re going to do something fun as a family every other weekend, and Gadget and I are going to have a date, just the two of us, at least once a month.  We’re going to do more together.  All of us.

We went to the aquarium yesterday.  It was a full and happy day.

Gadget’s bachelor pad, the court fees, and emotional trauma have added up to a very expensive couple of weeks, but in the long scheme of things, if these were necessary in order to reach a pleasant and hopeful outcome for a bright and glorious future, then it’s all well worth it.

I’m still holding my breath, though.

I have one of those minds, call it obsessive, that latches onto things and can’t seem to let go unless or until a plausible explanation is rendered.

The mystery of the missing bath salts.  Did someone throw them out?  Why would they?  Why would they not be in the same place they have been for the last 5 months?

The mystery of the missing brown blanket.  Did someone throw it out?  Give it away?  Take it?  Where on earth is it?  It’s not like a big fluffy blanket just walks away on its own.

Granted, I am one to be over zealous when it comes to giving things away.  I’m currently in the midst of a mass expunge in which I am relieving myself of the burden of ownership of much of my earthly possessions.    So of course it’s not a problem that even more things are not here, but it just bothers me that I don’t know what happened to these particular things.  It’s the lack of explanation that gets me stuck.

Stuck.  I do feel stuck, in many ways. Or perhaps the word is trapped.  Trapped in my mind, trapped in my body, trapped in my office, trapped in my life.  Where would I go and what would I do?  Obviously it’s mainly my mind that governs the overall trappedness of things.  My work day is over.  A bona fide 8 hours plus have been devoted to my employer.  Yet my computer is still online, and I glance at it every few minutes to see if more email or work items have come through.  I should just shut the thing off and not think of it again until the next day begins.  But I don’t.

There is time now, before the evening tasks commence, in which I could be doing things for myself like exercising, planning healthy meals, reading a book, going for a walk, doing errands.  Instead, I’m compelled to sit at this computer and write about how I can’t make myself do any of those things.

I think the word for it is probably depression, but all right already, it just seems like I should be able to rationalize things.  Figure things out.  So I can get on with things.

But I can’t.  Because I’m stuck.

Sometimes I feel this way all day, and then when evening falls I’m hit with a wave of relief, as though nightfall justifies the need to remain indoors.  It’s crazy, because I like the outdoors.

Part of me wants incentive.  I’d love it if Gadget were interested in fitness and health, but if activities don’t involve boats, motorcycles, RVs, ATVs, or other such motorized things, guns, or gear, then it’s not likely that he’ll be interested.  Look at me!  I’ve just skillfully blamed him for my predicament.  I’m good that way.

Seriously, though, it would be nice to enjoy simplicity together.  Walks, talks, healthy meals.  It would be nice if we shared more, and did more things together, including the mundane household chores and meal preparations.  He thinks I’m not romantic because I don’t want him to buy me flowers or bring me presents.  That’s not the case at all, though.  I just want him to know me well enough to bring me something I like.  He thinks that’s impossible, because I’m too particular.  I would like him to share more in our every day living.  That’s really what I want.  Not presents.  Presence.

It occurred to me, while driving to work this morning, that I am happy.  I’ve been one to chase rainbows and look for greener grass, rather than stop for a moment to catch my breath and take in what’s all around me, so I tend to charge through life thinking it would or should somehow be better.  There’s a slow change taking place within me, though, that is letting go of burdens and looking for the joy of simply being.  It’s a good feeling.

Six years ago I stood at an altar in a little chapel in Vegas, and made a vow.  All the while thinking, good LORD, what am I doing?  I don’t do Vegas.  I don’t do vows.  I don’t do permanency.  I don’t do commitment.  At least not formal commitment.  I’ll be a friend for life, but make it an edict and I may flee.

In less than ten minutes, my life changed forever.  In the years since then, I’ve maintained a little reservation, thinking that we could scrap it all and walk away if things came to that.  I was more ready for things not to work, than for them to work.  Horrible, awful, me.   But there it is.

And here I am.  Six years later.  Certainly I have (many) moments of frustration and exasperation over my chosen’s lack of vested partnership when it comes to matters of the home front such as housework and child care, but to give him credit, he does shoulder the burden for the manly things (mostly involving motors, dirt and/or power tools) that I don’t like to bother with.  We have two beautiful children.  He sometimes comments that now that I have what I wanted (my kids), I don’t need him around any more.   Not sure if he’s looking for an out, or just thinking that I’m going to kick him to the curb. I think I’ll keep him around.

After six years and two children, I’m feeling settled and content.  It may be the magic number.  Six years was the longest relationship I’d had previously, and it ended badly.  There was no marriage, but I had sunken too much of myself into that abyss, only to learn in the end that it was riddled with lies and deceit all along, the depths of which I never unraveled (nor want to, as the mere recollection feels like swarms of maggots writhing in my guts).  Those six years consumed the better part of my thirties, and I ultimately felt robbed of the prime of my life.  Six years of marriage is therefore an important milestone for me.  Six years, plus another two or so years in relationship prior to the big I DO, join together to negate the folly of the previous six years.  I’m in the clear now.  Ahead of the game.  Not stuck in impossible quagmire or a nest of lies.

Six years of steady as she goes, comfortable companionship.  Certainly we have our differences.  We come from different worlds.  Different backgrounds.  Different cultures.  Different people.  We think differently, we speak differently, we like different foods, we enjoy different activities.  So many differences.  But somehow, we work.  I don’t know what it is.  Maybe it’s simply that.  Comfort.  Being comfortable with each other.  I can imagine growing old together.  And that’s something.

I like my life.  My marriage.  My children. My family.  It’s a very very very fine life.

I can’t think of anything selfless that I did today.   As for blessings?  I think the highlights would be baby laughter and both kids finishing their dinner without a  three hour struggle.

Kind of frustrated with Gadget, though, and if I even dwell on it, it completely blows my glass half full exercise out the window.   I could stop here.  I could.  I should.  But  I won’t. (It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to, whine if I want to, whine if I want to…  …you would whine to if it happened to you…  hahahaaahahhahahhaha)

It would be nice if I weren’t the only one who noticed that the baby needed a new diaper, that  BB’s bed needed to be made, that the soiled bedding needed to be washed, that the already washed clothes needed to be folded, that the now-folded clothes needed to be taken upstairs and put away, that the baby needed another new diaper, that the dinner leftovers needed to be put away, that the dishes needed to be loaded in the dishwasher, that the dishwasher first needed to be unloaded, and the clean dishes put away, that the baby needed another diaper, that the baby needed a bottle, and then another, that the kids needed to be put to bed…

I might as well be a single mom.

…and he has the nerve to get irritated with ME for asking for help, because when I want help, I want it NOW, not in a minute, not later, not any other time besides now.  NOW.

Because I shouldn’t even have to ask.

There are times of agitation where I liken the sensation to the inner workings of a grenade during the moments after the pin has been pulled, before the explosion.  Lying in bed at night, trying to grab an hour of rest before I must rise and express.  On the right, my husband’s snores mount a steady gurgling, spluttering, thundering assault.  On the left, softer sounds of contentment that could at any moment turn into a wail, demanding milk.  Above me, the whoosh of the breathing machine.  From the other room, whimpering, whining, and a steady stream of chatter from a very strong willed nearly four year old who is bound and determined not to go to sleep.  Outside my bedroom window a steady stream of traffic speeds by.

Another snore explodes in my ear.  My nearly four year old calls into the room, “Daddy, why are you making those sounds?  I don’t like those sounds.  Stop making those sounds.”  But the maker of those sounds is blissfully unaware, lost to the land of nod within seconds of his head hitting the pillow.  He won’t hear the baby cry.  He doesn’t hear the pleas from the other room.  Will he feel it if I smash my fist in his face?  The thought actually crossed my mind.  The agitation is consuming me quickly, and the minutes are ticking by.  The hour that I once had has dwindled, and with each passing minute in which sweet relief is nowhere to be found, the agitation rises.  I surprise myself with the hostility of my thoughts.  I don’t like the version of me that surfaces in moments as this.

Get through the night.  Tomorrow is a new day.  It becomes a mantra.  And somehow, miraculously, hope and relief sail in with the dawn.

Gadget is away for a week, visiting his brother Gizmo in California somewhere.  He’s not the best of planners, my Gadget, and announced one day not so long ago that he had a week of vacation time that he needed to use by the end of the year, or forfeit it.  And to him, vacation means going somewhere.  He didn’t like my suggestions of staying home and doing things around this city.  After all, people come to this city for vacation, so why not take advantage of what we have at our own back door (and not spend a fortune)?  He totally turned his nose up at that idea.

Being the sucker enabler that I am, I looked into last minute cruise deals.  There were some great deals, but as it turns out, babies must be at least six months old.  So no cruise for us.  So how about Disneyland?  He was all gung ho about that, but the more I thought of it, the more I realized that it would be absolutely wretched for me, since I’d be the one with the baby, walking around all day, having to find a place to pump, working out how to store the milk, and generally just watching them have fun.  Which made me consider sending BB and Gadget, alone, while I stay home with LB.   That would save a good grand at least, and I’d be a lot more comfortable.  And of course he makes the comment, “I don’t want to stay in a dive hotel.”  (Translation:  You’re a cheapskate.  Defense:  We’re not made of money, Dude, and why spend five star prices when all you need is a place to sleep since you’ll be gone all day every day.)  But then I thought I want us to vacation as a family, so if we can’t all go, then none of us will go, and we’ll just plan a trip for later, when I’m not bound to the insufferable breast pump.  We could manage a drive to see my sister, but no, he didn’t want to do that.  To him, that’s obligation, not vacation.  We settled on him going to visit his brother Gizmo, and me staying home with the kids, or possibly taking them to see my sister.  So much for spending time as a family.  He’s a master manipulator (he claims not!) and I’m an idiot for letting it happen.  All because I allow him to corner me into a guilty place where somehow I’m doing him wrong by not wanting to spend thousands of dollars venturing out somewhere, preferably tropical.  Clearly I have some serious underlying issues that I need to get to the bottom of.

He tends to see things through rosy glasses.  Probably my fault too, because he sees a plane trip as a fun thing to do, and I see it as a hell ride with a handbasket full of logistics to accompany it.  Two kids, one of whom is exceptionally defiant and prone to loud unpleasant and lengthy outbursts, a car seat, a booster seat, a stroller, at least two pieces of luggage, a breast pump, a cpap machine, pump paraphernalia and milk storage items, not to mention the need to work around the pump schedule itself.  These things he’s oblivious to.  These things make even the thought of travel sheer insanity.  The oblivion itself is maddening to me.  I find nearly everything about travel very stressful.

That said, I was actually happy at the prospect of having some ‘single’ time.  The freedom!  I was also happy at the prospect of visiting my sister.  But as luck would have it, this is the weekend that winter touched down with a fury, so the roads are dangerous, and I cancelled the trip.  My vacation, therefore, is being a single stay at home mom.  Nice.

It was nice.  Very nice, in fact.  Liberating, even.  One less kid (the biggest boy of the house) to care for.  It felt great to distance myself from all the thoughts described above, and to enjoy having the home to myself with no resentment at chores undone and general perceived lack of initiative.  (Why is it that a man who works all day thinks he’s entitled to relax all evening, as if life’s duties stop at five o’clock.)  I cleaned the fridge, and it made me so happy to gaze upon those sparkling shelves!  I enjoyed my peaceful home for the first couple of days, but tonight I found myself feeling melancholy and, dare I say it, missing him.  I even called him and told him so, much to his surprise.  He didn’t believe me, really.  He tends to assume he’s always on the verge of being kicked to the curb.  I do miss him.  Truly.  I like to be together as a family.  I like having him around (even if I have to remind him that I do, in fact, need help around the house and parenting the children).  But most of that warm fuzzy missing him was snuffed out when I discovered, close to midnight, that no outdoor winterizing has taken place, the snow has arrived, and I am left rifling through the garage looking for insulating materials, then wrestling with the outside faucets in the black of night with snow falling all around me, removing garden hoses from the spigots, rigging some sort of insulation to the faucets, hoping to stave off frozen and burst pipes.  I miss him, yes, but some resentment has resurfaced.

Some vacation.  I am using it to capture as much rest as I can.  Tomorrow, snowmen and sugar cookies.  BB will be very excited to see the snow.

The nice thing about living with someone who used to be an appliance repairman, is that I can call him up at 2:30 in the afternoon and tell him that the schmancy expensive front loader washing machine broke during a spin cycle, because it got off balance and galloped impressively and terrifyingly across the laundry room floor, eventually overcoming the strength of the latch and flinging the door open (takes deep breath) and he will say, because he’s a man of few words, “Okay.”

And, by 3:45 p.m. he’s home, with the required part in hand, and by 4 p.m., one can hear the sounds of a machine going through various operational modes.  And by 4:09 p.m. he will peek his head in the office and nod when I ask if it’s fixed.

The only flip side, is that now that he’s no longer an official appliance repair man, he doesn’t have as easy access to these troublesome parts that tend to need replacing.  Back in the day, he’d save bits and pieces that were scraps from other repair jobs, but that had good parts on them that he knew we might one day need, and that way we’d have them for free.  This way, the silly little latch cost us a hundred bucks.  But at least I don’t have to pay for a technician and service call, which would be another hundred and forty or so.

Sometimes he’s worth having around.  😉

And I really do love him, in spite of the whinges that I normally post.

I love colors. All colors. Especially jewel tones. But I seem to always come back to blue.

For instance. I’ve had cobalt blue forever, and was trying to change it up in the last few years by adding some striking red items in my kitchen, and some chartreuse as well. Glorious. But I found this, and couldn’t resist. At least I only got one. And even though it’s a bowl, I got it to use as a cup. I love it!

Not only is it gorgeous for tea, it works for lattes as well. (I have a thing for swirls.)

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that I have an addiction to jammies the way some women have an addiction to shoes.

My new all time faves, and the latest acquisition. See? More swirls. In blue.

So I asked Gadget what he thought of my gorgeous new jammies.

“You look like a teapot.”

Oh, the love. He went on to explain. “You’re little at the top, round in the middle, and flat on the bottom.”

“Just like a teapot!”*

My cup overfloweth. At least I knew (this time) that he was being silly in his own special way, and I accepted his comments graciously. Even without Zoloft! To be true, I am feeling as though I look like a teapot, and am constantly marveling at how my belly could possibly be protruding SO MUCH so soon. I am a woman of size, regardless of gestational state, but this… …this seems a bit extreme. (But it is what it is. And I’m beyond grateful to be carrying a lively little boy, no matter how big he and I become!)

*Showcased here is my little English teapot, purchased at a Safeway supermarket (of all places) in the London area. Note the apple green accent wall with the gorgeous Australian tiles. I spy some gum nut gnomes as well. The apple green transition took place last weekend with all the other spring freshening. It’s very happy, and looks great for the most part, but it doesn’t quite fit with that sandy beachy oatmealy color that has become the main color downstairs. So I may re-do it after a bit. Or not. I might have gotten my spring painting bent out of my system.

So today it’s a reprise of the now-and-then marital whinge theme.  Go away, this will be long, boring, and self-indulgent.

The other day, Gadget commented that I should go back on Zoloft.  Because I’m such a grouch. 

Darling, I’m just acting the way you usually act.  See how nice it is to live with someone like that?

He doesn’t see it.  He thinks he’s perfectly amiable, and I’m the one who is out of sorts.  Granted, I am out of sorts; my tether is short, and I’m much more sensitive to tones of voice and what is conveyed with expressions than what is actually said with words.  Zoloft certainly helped buffer me from all this.

Still, it would be nice if he’d acknowledge that he’s not always the most pleasant person on the face of  the planet.

Perhaps I have a future with a long-term Zoloft relationship.  Or marital counseling.  Or both.  Perhaps second trimester hormones are amplifying things for the time being.  Or not.

One thing is apparent.  Spending a morning in the land of extreme-pissed-offed-ness does no favors to one’s blood sugar, and therefore overall health.  By the time I remembered to check, it was 110.  Fasting.  Not good.  So it’s obviously bad for my health to stew, yet I just didn’t have the wherewithall to pull myself out of that funk, and took the low road, allowing myself to fume all morning.

It’s indulgent, I know.  But good grief!  I feel as though I don’t expect much, so if what little expectations I have aren’t met, I am immediately and thoroughly disappointed.

And how I don’t like disappointment.

Feeling a bit out of sorts over the fact that today is garbage AND recycle day, and a certain life partner was too lazy to put it out last night.  I want it out on the evening prior to collection day.  Always.  Without fail.  Rain or shine, wind or sleet, in sickness or in health.  End. Of. Story.  No exceptions.  I’m very hard-nosed that way.

I noticed he wasn’t in bed around 4:30 a.m.  Oh good, he’s up early to take out the trash.  He climbed back into bed around 5:30 a.m.  I inquired whether he was calling in sick today.  Yes.  Fine, I don’t mind.  I hope you feel better soon.  As long as you took the trash out.  Back to sleep for me, for another 20 precious minutes.  Upon arising, I notice the master bathroom trash is still full.  Well, so he missed one.  I can let that slide.  Oh.  The bedroom bin is also full.  Starting to get annoyed.  Downstairs, peeking out the window, the absense of bins on the curb sets me spinning into the depths of pissed-offed-ness.  Yes, I could choose not to be angry, but I don’t.  Instead, I fume.  And stomp about gathering up all the various recycle and non-recycle bins.  It’s not like I don’t have a morning routine in which I have a set amount of time to dress myself, dress the child, pack breakfast for the boy, pack breakfast and lunch for myself, load the car, take him to daycare, and drag myself to work, invariably a few minutes late.  I don’t really have time to deal with the trash.  And I don’t care that he’s feeling sick.  I do all the rest of the household tasks, whether I’m sick or not.  The laundry gets done.  The cooking gets done.  The dishes get done.  The pantry gets stocked.  The fridge gets stocked.  Granted, I actually like to do these homemaker tasks, so generally, I’m FINE with the gross imbalance.  But the shirking of the one regular task that I see as his responsibility sends me postal.