Tuesday, May 19, 2015

My Day

My day was literally jam-packed.

OK, not literally.
My day was busy, and eventful, and emotionally taxing.

I worked an eight-hour day at my IRL job. Which, big whoop. The highlight was when someone from my corporate office asked me what kind of charity our office wanted to support as a group, and I told her flat-out that a staff with as little camaraderie as ours was unlikely to support anything as a group, including world peace and women's suffrage.

I maybe embellished that a bit.

As far as I know, no one in my office
specifically opposes women's suffrage.

But after work, I rented a storage unit. Because contractors are descending on my house in three days, and shit's gotta be out of there, or I can't start my life over.

Somewhat important, then.

And then I went home and packed. And cleaned.

And cleaned.

And packed.

Then my Precocious Daughter texted me to pick her up from a school karate event. So I drove there, and she was...nowhere to be found. Not where she said she would be. Not where she would be if she weren't where she said she would be.

And she didn't answer multiple texts/calls to her phone.

So I called a friend, who is the mom of PDaughter's best friend, to ask if maybe she had picked up my missing child.

Because at this point, in my head, she was a MISSING CHILD.


I'm not a nervous mom. I'm not a helicopter mom. I knew, on one level, that PDaughter was most likely just fine. Just doing something away from her phone, like helping her karate instructor clean up.

Which is exactly what the situation turned out to be.

But because it's 2015, when my child isn't where she's supposed to be and doesn't answer texts/calls, I have to worry that some terrible fate has befallen her.

Sometimes 2015 sucks.

Fifty years ago, I would have left her dinner
on the stoop and gone to bed. Times change.

Anyway, now I'm tired and sweaty and emotionally unstable. So I get home...and have an uncomfortable exchange with my spouse about packing.

In a nutshell...he refuses to pack up his own stuff so that the contractor can repair our home so that our realtor can list our home so that we can sell our home so that we can get divorced.

Follow that?
This leaves me with the option to either pack up his shit myself (as I've been taking care of his shit for 25 years), or toss it the hell out, which will create gross tonnage of bad blood between us.

I don't want bad blood between us. But I'm pretty goddamn sick of taking care of his shit.

Anyway, that's been my day.

I hope your day has been AWESOME. Really and truly. Because you guys are the best.


  1. Sounds like he needs some shit burned.

  2. So, as someone who deals with the cleaning/packing/planning for two, I feel you. Take one for the team, and know that soon, the team will be *you*, and his shit will be his problem.

  3. I agree with ae. Because you still have to deal with him in the foreseeable future with children involved, it's best not to cause undue disharmony. There will still be plenty to come, but you can take the high road, so at least he can't go there. Keep your chin up...this too will pass.

  4. I completely understand how frustrating it is to take care of someone's stuff after you've decided you don't want to take care of their stuff anymore.

    My ex had a good story about worried moms, though. She said the only time she ever ran into trouble while out at night was when she had to pull over in a bad section of town to respond to her mother's constant paging (this was pre-cell phone). I'm going to try and remember the sentiment, at least, with my own kids...

  5. It's a good thing your spouse doesn't work in your IRL workplace. If he did at least then you would have an example of someone there who opposes women's suffrage. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's against women's suffrage. He's just all for women suffering.

    But it's not worth it to make your joke true. Not having to work with him means you can minimize your contact with him to the absolute barest necessity. Or cut him out completely.

