As I blew out my candles on my birthday cupcake, my fondest wish was for a man to take me away from all of this.
I normally don’t reveal my wishes. And they normally don’t come true. So, this year we’re doing it a little differently.
My disclaimer on this is that a man is what I want in the long term. I don’t really care about the short term. I’ve always said, and I’ve always meant it, that it’s the heart that attracts me. And far be it from me to walk away from someone who treats me well, since there are so few who seem remotely capable of doing so. In other words, no limits, kids.
I was telling a friend the other night though that since my life has been nothing short of a disaster, is it so wrong to want the fairy tale/happily ever after? Maybe not a white-picket fence, but a lovely modern condo in the sky that serves as a home base for all the world adventures that await would do just fine.
But this tender age where normal women start to feel their biological clock ticking, the only “24”-like explosion in my life is going to be my HEAD if things don’t get better.
So, for those who aren’t aware, I moved mom back in with me. That would explain the clawing at my own skin, in case you’ve seen me lately.
I had to kick her out. I couldn’t have my days sucking AND my nights sucking almost as bad. Three years and counting here. *gnashing teeth*
So when I made some life changes … and realized she was NEVER going to be able to help me with the rent — which was WHERE EVERY DIME WAS GOING — I found a bigger place in the same building and moved us both into it.
I had been promised financial assistance when I moved Mommy out on her own. Which was the main impetus for doing so. And it eventually came in a lump sum a few months after the fact. Which I used to float myself between jobs. Thanks! 🙂
The financial hell was part of the reason for taking her back. I had stopped hating her for being underfoot — and started enjoying the ability to work from home, to have the cat be silent because nobody was riling her up, and to mostly come and go as I pleased — but I could have been renting a six-bedroom oceanfront mansion for the same cost.
I mean, GOD FORBID I wanted to do anything fun with my life. Two sets of rent, electric, cable, and groceries … what the fuck do I look like here, an ATM?
Plus, her health is in such rapid decline that, much as I DON’T want to keep an eye on her, at least she’s underfoot so I know if she’s OK.
But who has two thumbs and ISN’T OK? *this guy*
Why? SHE’S DRIVING ME CRAZY.
Oh, the reasons are too lengthy to list. But I’ll try. 😉
She loves to play with the cat. The cat screams constantly. She loves to drag the screaming cat through the house and out on the balcony all day long. (Did I mention the baby talk? All fucking day long to the cat. I remember my grandfather used to baby-talk occasionally. Mom said I would miss it when he was gone. I miss him, absolutely. But the baby talk? Not so much.)”
I cannot work from home anymore because it’s like I have a burr nestled up my ass. Between having to hear her TV and having her enter my bedroom a thousand times a day because she wants to pet the cat, I want to kill myself.
For the record, I’ve told her that her tormenting the cat is just a cry for attention — negative, at that — from me. And that my room is not a fucking thoroughfare. The cat will come out. You can see her all you want then.
So I have an L-shaped balcony. My bedroom is at the heart of the L, with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors on two sides. The kitchen is to the left, the living room is to the right and her bedroom — the master bedroom — is on the other side of the living room.
So instead of her, say, walking across the living room to get to the kitchen, she walks the L-shaped balcony damn near constantly. Since it’s all sliding-glass doors, you can access any room from the balcony.
So I have to look at her face fucking constantly. And hear my poor screaming cat as she dances her along the balcony.
I’ve actually been able to go out and have some fun lately. Mostly, I’m back in my “not going home till bedtime” mode. Whereupon I have to be asked 20 questions about where I was, what I ate, who I saw, where I got my outfit, why I didn’t answer all 30 of her e-mails, why I didn’t buy her X, Y or Z like she asked, and anything else screamworthy.
I just don’t want to talk about what I do or don’t do while I’m away. I can’t even fucking whack off in my “water room” (as it sits on the Intracoastal Waterway) because princess is parading up and down the walkway at all hours.
God forbid I actually brought somebody home. I can’t go outside to make a phone call in private because she’ll come out too.
I can’t go anywhere on the weekends without her claiming me. Like last night when I rolled in at stupid o’clock, she parked her ass on the couch over my shoulder (the computer is in the living room because my bedroom is tiny, so I can’t write uninterrupted anymore — GAH). And she said, “Whatever you do tomorrow, I want to go with you.”
She does this all the time. It’s basically pissing on me and marking her territory. It’s always done after I had a day to myself, so that I feel sorry for her for being ALL BY HERSELF all week and maybe also on a weekend day that I was otherwise supposed to babysit but failed to live up to my job description.
She doesn’t care where we go — be it the beach or a four-star restaurant — just as long as she’s nestled up my ass so that I couldn’t possibly enjoy the day. And then I will hear all day, “YOU’RE SO MEAN!” because I will drag your ass around town but I don’t have to like it.
I brought her back this pretty necklace from Canada. She left it in my room the next day. (Because she’s always in my fucking room.) Apparently there was a 90-page e-mail explaining why, that I treat her like shit and I make her feel like she doesn’t deserve anything.
Because GOD FORBID I deserve to have my life back. Which one of us doesn’t deserve what we want in this scenario?
So I told her to throw it away. She doesn’t deserve nice things? Then wipe your ass with them. Really. Fuck you. Over it.
So of course she wore it yesterday and got compliments on it. No thanks to me, of course, since “You always make me feel like shit.”
So now I’m sitting here, trying to get some writing done while she dances a very angry cat around the back of the couch, with her asking what’s in the picture on the screen, and her saying, “If you go to the beach, I want to go with you. Are you going to the beach? it’s Memorial Day. Do you want to get a burger? I know you say you’re not eating meat but it’s Memorial Day — you HAVE to eat a burger! Oh hey I put cake in the fridge with that ten bucks you gave me. I couldn’t afford anything else so I bought you cake. That won’t hurt your diet. When are we going to the beach? What are you typing? Where did you get that shirt? Can I see it? Why not? You’re SO MEAN!”
*headfacepalmdesk*