We are in need of a small car that will get really good gas mileage, so my husband has been internet shopping, something, by the way, he likes to do. Did I tell you in our new Apartment, we share the living room as an office? No television, music boxes, or any other distraction. It is an all workroom, a place where I can read and write without distractions. Well, the other day, I was trying to write on my novel and my husband kept saying over and over again, look at this one, this one gets good gas mileage, look at the inside and on and on. I told him after about five cars, that I was tired of car shopping and wanted to get back to work. He can’t resists that urge to irritate me so right when I am back into the flow and doing so well and have my character knee deep in drama, he says, this one gets 51 miles to a gallon. I finally close up shop and storm up stairs to watch the cooking channel. He then yells behind me, come back, I’ll be quiet and I say Fuck You and he says, aren’t you going to look at my paper, and I say Fuck You. So, that was my Saturday.
Then Sunday, well it was worse. He has to work and I drive down the mountain with him so that I can go to my daughter’s house, which is really my house but she is living there. I am going there to help her organize her house. She is a good housekeeper but has no sense of setting up house. She has lived there for over a month and still doesn’t have anything unpacked. So, I go to unpack her kitchen and direct her. I suggest where things should go and how she should organize and how I did it when I lived there and she, then, gets an idea and can see the tree. On the way down the mountain he kept telling me I shouldn’t help her that she is grown and that I am not helping her but making her dependent and on and on and finally I had to say it, shut up you fucktard. Yep that is what I said. I remind him that she is my daughter and I am going to help her because when I was her age and moved and needed my mother to help me, well she was dead and I had no one and I had to learn how to arrange my cabinets alone and most of the time an experienced hand would have been nice and I am not going to let my children ever have a time when they need me that I can not help. He tries to interject and I say shut up and he tells me I must not be taking my medication. Yes, that is it, now that I have no uterus to blame, it is my drugs, my antidepressants, because god for bid, I would rebel on my own, me being a helpless female and all.
I hate that this seems to be a husband bashing blog but really, he makes it so easy. We both go to school, we both work, although, I tutor and work in the computer lab at school and he works as a computer person for a big computer company. Anyway, his work isn’t as physical as mine or as mental as mine. I say to him, try getting some one with a learning disability to understand the four major types of sentences in English. Try getting them to understand preterit and imperfect verb usage in Spanish. It’s like beating my head up against the wall but eventually she got it. Then there are all the other students who come to me with things like look at my paper, what courses are the best to take, what instructors are the best, I can’t get into the computer system, I forgot my password, I, I, I. And by the end of the day, I am so frazzled that I just want to hit the drugs and the wine. But I don’t because that would be so wrong. In addition, yes there is more, I write. No it is serious writing, a novel, and I try to get at least a chapter a day although that chapter might have to be reworked the next day. I try to get a short story or two done a week. Plus, I have a life, like being a Nana to my grandchildren and being a friend to my friends, and being a reader who likes to read for fun. But then he can not even remember to prepare his lunch, put it in a sack, and take it to work. His reason, I just don’t think like you. You are so organized. Bull shit, I say, that is an excuse to get out of helping. Just like you not doing the laundry or carrying the heavy things up and down the stairs for me or putting your dirty dishes in the sink and washing them out or even loading or unloading the dishwasher. I finally tell him yesterday that if things do not change, I am going to consider a legal separation. My children are raised and I am tired of being a mother to him. I wanted to be his wife, a position that I consider a partnership, and not someone to keep his socks clean and his drawers organized and his appointments made. It would be so much easier for me if I were only taking care of myself.
In the mean time, I am stressed over whether I am going to get this TA position and if I get it, which I really really need, can I do it.
I wonder if he, my husband, really understands how far and how fast he is pushing me away and do all men do it or am I married to the only fucktard in the world? By the way, Fucktard is a word that I borrowed from Delagar and I know she won't mind me borrowing it to describe well a perfect fucktard.