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I never get tired of bitching
July 12, 2012
creepy vintage TV moment: watching Adam-12, and Christina Sinatra is playing Gary
Crosby's hot 25-yr-old niece. In the last scene of the episode, the implication is she's
going on a date with the wolf of the precinct, and will be putty in his hands.
The wolf of the precinct is played by Frank Sinatra, Jr.
Yeah...her brother. Ew.
So--despite having a rather nasty UTI with accompanying vaginitis this week, I was
bravely soldiering on and not missing any work...Spouse effed that one up royal. Since
he's screwed into a corner by these hideous hours he's working, I asked him earlier in the
week if I needed to handle taking the dog for his second follow-up on Wednesday. You
know, I asked him early enough where I could have requested some personal time and
handled it without having to get dinged a sick day I can't afford because he
punked at the last minute, leaving me make up an excuse, race home just in time to
change out of my work clothes, grab the dog, and get him to his appointment.
And since there was no way I was going to be able to get all the way back to work and
get enough time put in to "buy back" my sick day, I said to hell with it and just stayed
home. Why should I put in 3 or four hours and still have it count against me? I took a
swim while the shade was still on the pool, and then put on my grungy, comfy shorts &
teeshirt and read a book all afternoon, because I had to be quiet & not disturb "sleeping
beauty".
I tell you, this shit has simply got to stop. All this overwork turns him into a raging
asshole at home, and it's like living with a combination of the worst traits of my dad:
"When work sucks, keep your mouth shut till you get home and then verbally attack and
abuse your family!" and my grandfather: "He loses his appetite, so how dare I even
dream that I need to eat!"
But here's the thing: I am NOT my grandma and I am NOT my mom and I am NOT
going to roll over and take it. Eff that. If he starts on me tonight, I am going to grab my
keys and go to the library without saying a damned word. I wish being direct with him
worked, but it isn't getting through--thanks to that monster mother he had, all he
understands is a passive aggressive response.
I feel like every time I decide to do something for me, that's the signal for everything to
come rushing in and fck me over. That's why I so rarely bother any more--I never end
up enjoying myself anywhere near enough to make up for the crazy-ass, shit-falling-apart,
everybody-suddenly-needs-a-piece-of-me, absolute HELL it seems to trigger. Have a
crazy idea that it would sure be nice to get together with some people I grew up with? In
steps fate, with an infected dog and a dead uncle and 12-hour-days screwing Spouse over
and epic heat waves and droughts and oh, I could go on and on. YES. I know it's
magical thinking. YES. I KNOW it's unscientific bullpucky. But after 48 years of getting
screwed out of everything from class trips to graduation parties to my original wedding
date to...oh, I don't know...EVeryFUCKingTHING!!!!!
--my judgement is getting a little warped.
Reading:On a bit of an Ann Warner kick. "Seeing France with Uncle John"
(1906), and "Sunshine Jane" (1913), both by Warner.
Listening: Of Monsters and Men, Foster the People, Fleetwood Mac (Happy
B-day, Christine McVie), and Soul Asylum.
Surfing: .
At Random:
click here
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