desserts for one: kindness of strangers: single tragedy: mrs o

Last night I was googling desserts for one, and the fact that I am single (or soon to be) sort of hit me.  Right in the face.  And then right in the feelings.

It’s almost 3 weeks now.  It will be on Wednesday.  Or Thursday, I suppose, if you want to get technical.  I was dog-sitting for the Other and got to spend the week alone in the cottage.  On one hand it was good timing because my sister and her boyfriend and their dog are all at my mom’s right now.  On the other hand, it was far too easy to stay in bed until 1, eat a handful of almonds, and then retire to the couch for the rest of the day.  I’m not sure if it’s a coping mechanism, or if it’s depression, or if it’s maybe just laziness.  It’s truly hard to say at this time.

On Friday night I drove out to have dinner with the sis, bf, and ma.  It was a far drive, but I didn’t mind.  It’s nice to get out.  I didn’t stay for too long, and on the way back encountered a large line of traffic.  My first thought was road block, and while I hadn’t been drinking, I wasn’t able to find my purse.  I launched into a bit of a tizzy, messaged the sister, searched everywhere.  After a few minutes I discovered it just beneath the front of the passenger seat.  The dog was with  me so I’d rolled the window down because he was fogging the place up.  After it was clear we weren’t moving, I put on the emergency break and promptly took my foot off the clutch.  While still in gear.  The car stalled, naturally.  The thing is, my car is a hunk of shit, so after it stalled it refused to start.  Then it started raining.

So I’m sitting there in this huge line of traffic.  Emergency vehicles are tearing up and down the shoulder of the highway.  No sirens, just lights, so something weird’s happening.  At this point my battery is so fucked that I can’t even start the car enough to roll up my windows. Because of course, they’re electric.  After having a mild panic attack, I got out of the car and knocked on the window of the vehicle ahead of me.  It was a couple, maybe a little older than me, and she was very much pregnant.  I explained my situation and he said “I was wondering what was going on with your lights back there.”

Holding back every iota of stress coursing through my veins, I asked if he would be able to give me a jump.  He turned his car around and got me started, and was very nice about it considering I had no idea what to do and was essentially asking him to stand in the rain to help out a stranger.  After the car started he suggested that I idle the engine at about 15 for ten minutes, to make sure it got a good charge.  So I did.  With the lights off because that’s a good way to conserve energy, right?  Sure.  Know what else it’s good for?  Not lighting up the dashboard doohickeys in the dark.  So I revved away for 10 minutes, praying that this line gets moving before the car dies again.

It had been about 20 minutes now.  Did I mention I had to pee?  For about 10 minutes before I’d even hit the line.  No?  Well.

The line started moving, slowly, and I turned my lights on.  Oh look!  The car’s overheated.  Oh even better, there’s smoke billowing from beneath my hood.

Wonderful.

I blasted the heat and kept an eye on the dial, now praying that the line would get moving before the car explodes.  I started picking up a little speed and it started cooling down.  All the meanwhile, not even wondering what the deal was with this insane line up.  Until I passed the first cop that was directing traffic, and saw the look on her face.  And then two more.  And then the car.  Flipped upside down in the middle of the highway.  Mangled.  No glass, frame bent to shit.  There was something on the street next to it, it looked like a leg but I couldn’t bring myself to turn my head while I was driving past.  I heard the sound of a fire hose turning on and water hitting the street.  Passed two more cops, one looked ready to vomit, one looked ready to cry.

The car had cooled.

I made it home.

But someone that night didn’t.

And it’s funny, because stuff like that puts things in perspective, right?  I mean, suddenly my panic about getting a ticket for not having my licence with me, or about being embarrassed because my car won’t start and I have to sit in 40 minutes worth of traffic flowing past me while everyone curses at me, suddenly not such a huge deal.  I still don’t know exactly what happened.

So yesterday I spent the day hunched over my keyboard and laptop learning this song.  I’ve fallen head over heels for it, and I’ve already memorized the words so as soon as I memorize the piano I should be able to put it together.  I’m very excited about it.

I was in the midst of the first bridge when the Other popped in.  It was the first time I’d seen him in a week.  It was awkward.  The dog was very upset when he left.  So I kept playing.

He came back a night early, so tonight I headed back to my mom’s place.  She has this somewhat obsessive nature which she takes out on the furniture.  And the walls.  And the floors.  It’s a rare occurrence to have the furniture in one place for longer than 2 weeks.  If she can go a month it’s a damn miracle.  Usually it’s about once a week that a major change is made.  So of course when I got “home” she started discussing moving the dining room table.  And then the curtains.  And then the couches.  At that point I got up, packed up my laptop, and went upstairs.  I’m stressed enough as it is.  Having these constant changes, and listening to these constant plans, yeah, not helping.  Being asked what I think about the inane and unnecessary ideas?  Also not helping.  And I don’t think she realizes that it’s really making it that much worse for me, because she lives in her own little world.

But I do too.  I realized tonight that lately all I’ve been doing is complaining.  How fucking boring that must be for everyone I’m forcing to listen to it.  I think for now I can say it’s justified, but pretty soon I’m going to have to just start sucking it up and dealing with it and moving on.  Which will definitely not be a bad thing.

So silver linings to end it on a positive note.  My sister as an adult is pretty cool, and the interactions thus far have been enjoyable.  Her boyfriend is quite charming and funny, and useful around the house (my mom has already claimed him as a second son).  The dog is a bit of a shithead, but is tiny, so by nature is kind of cute.  And today I bought new jeans that were two sizes smaller than the last time I bought new jeans.

I’d like to have more positive things in my life, and I think the first start to that is positive thoughts.  Obvious but easy to forget.

Also, I would like to suggest you listen to the lyrics of this song, because the story they tell is absolutely lovely.

 

*note, this is a cover of carol king covering maurice sendak’s story.  

I can stand the rain

Missy Elliot says she can’t stand the rain against her window.  I don’t mind it so much.

Last night my mom came home.  She’s been staying with her on again/off again ex for the last few days.  Usually I would welcome the chance to be alone but this week I’d rather be with anyone but myself.  She blustered in with bags of food and groceries, and a box of beer and a box of hard lemonade (instant flashback to high school).  Even though she had worked with the Other on Thursday (he will still be the Other until the divorce.  Then he will be the Ex), she wasn’t aware that the final decision had been made.  She steamed about her ex a bit, ranted about the house, and then asked me why the Other had been so quiet and upset at work.  I explained the situation, briefly, because it seems that when I talk about it I start to cry.  She was understandably upset (she loves him like a son, obviously) and proceeded to get drunk.  But she didn’t push anything.  She didn’t tell me I was making a mistake.  She didn’t ask me any questions.  She was just there, and it was what I needed.

Later that night we were talking about my next steps.  I still have my name on a lease until the end of February, but once that’s done I really have no place I need to be, so I was thinking I can start looking for work anywhere in the area that I want.  I mentioned that, and she brought up the fact that we have family in New Zealand.  And Australia.  And Africa.  And Italy.  That’s a little more adventurous than I was thinking, but she also started talking about Kenya.  I’ve never considered myself selfless enough to be one of those people that hike off to a third world country and help rebuild (or just build) lives for those less fortunate, and I think that heading off to Kenya might be a little ambitious but there are things around here I can do.  I want to start volunteering, maybe to teach cooking at a community kitchen, or to tutor people on reading.  I’d like to make a difference somewhere to someone.  I’m young and healthy and while I may be piss poor, I do have a lot to offer.

Everything I’ve been reading on divorce says not to make any major decisions in the first while, which makes sense, because otherwise I would have three more tattoos, a maxed out credit card, and a plane ticket to Spain by now.  But now I wonder, when do I start making major decisions?  I’m still in shock, that much I know.  When our house burned down in 2008, I spent a year in shock.  A full year.  And everyday I would ask myself (and anyone who could stand to be around me) how much longer it would hurt for.  How much longer until I’m just feeling sorry for myself.  How much longer until I’m over it.  And no one would know.

I’m seeing the Other today to take the dog for the night.  He called this morning and sounded pretty reasonable, he’s getting more sleep and is eating now, which is wonderful to hear.  He sounded strong until the end, when he started talking about the divorce party (we had decided a long time ago that if we ever got divorced we would throw a divorce party a la Jack White).  I said I didn’t want to even think about it yet, and he said he wanted to still be my friend forever, and then I started crying and then he started crying and I couldn’t wait to hang up the phone.  Too hard.  Even right now as I’m thinking about it my thumb is rubbing my finger where my ring used to be.  What a strange feeling.

Anyway, last night my mom gave me a delicious little pain pill that was so much more effective than Robaxacrap, and it sent me to a lovely stoned place that finally muted my mind and let me listen to the rain as I fell asleep.  And it was the same sound I awoke to this morning.  Autumn has arrived, and I don’t mind.  It’s cliched and trite, but there’s something cleansing and refreshing about the rain.  Sure it’s grey and it can be depressing, but it washes things away.  It waters things that are dying.  It signals a new start.

Today I’m dopey.  My heart is still broken.  My stomach is still anxious.  My back is still sore.  But  given time, some day I will be supa fly.  Maybe even supa dupa fly.

Some day.

Day 3

I feel manic.  Maniacal? Mechanical.

It’s day 3 since I made the decision to end my marriage and thus close a chapter on the last 10 years of my life.  It was honestly one of the most painful and scary things I’ve ever had to do.  To have the man that you love, that you’ve shared the last decade of your life with, look you in the face with tears on his cheeks and hurt in his eyes and tell you that you’re stomping on his heart is absolutely horrible. I’ve spent 10 years trying to do everything in my power to not hurt him, and now I’m making the ultimate betrayal and actually breaking his heart.

And it’s not because he’s a bad man.  On the contrary, the amount of growth and self development he’s gone through in the last 5 months puts me to shame.  Literally.  I am ashamed that he had done so much more work than I even considered.  He has a huge heart and so much love to give, and jesus christ he loves me so much.

But it doesn’t do much good having somebody love you when you can barely stand to look at yourself in the mirror.  Over the 10 years of the relationship, and the 5 years of the marriage, there have been a lot of times where I’ve been a less than ideal partner.  In fact, there have been times I’ve been a downright terrible person.  And those decisions I made were obviously made for a reason, even if most the time I don’t know why I do the things I do.  And I have a feeling a big part of that reason is that I feel lost, unhappy, and incomplete.  What good is security and stability in a relationship when it only comes from one person?  Not much good at all.

And so, I made the decision to let go.  The healing separation was only giving him hope that we would come through it together, and that was unfair of me.  I knew I had to let him go so he could grieve and then start to heal.

What I didn’t expect was to be so heart broken myself.  This is what I had been daydreaming about for years.  A chance to start again, to discover who I am and who I can be.  Maybe I can move to Wales and work in a little pub in a village somewhere.  Maybe I can finally write those books I’ve been threatening to write for years.  Maybe I can join a band and become a rock star.

Fuck you.  Maybe I can sit on the couch in my mom’s living room with tears streaming down my face as I realize it’s actually over.  Maybe I can spend 3 days not eating or sleeping but enjoying immense panic attacks because now suddenly I don’t know if I’ve made the right decision.  Maybe I can be completely overbearing to a friend and then spend the rest of my night rehashing and kicking myself for the stupid desperate way I was talking.  Yeah.  More self doubt and anxiety.  That sounds like a good time.

Add insult to injury, I’ve tweaked my back quite badly and have been in near crippling pain since Tuesday.  Plus I’m still not working, near broke, my bestie had gone back to camp, and my car is in need of what is likely a fairly expensive repair.  Last night I went to the movies and when I came out.discovered that my cell phone had been lost in the car.  Like, in the car.  Under the stick shift.  I sat there and cried as I ripped the leather out and reached my hand through that greasy hole.  Cried like a baby.

What’s interesting, and I think also quite indicative of my needy nature (because I’ve come to realize that I am actually quite needy) is that I’m really concerned about the people I’m disappointing.  Him.  His family.  My mom.  Our friends.  And I feel completely responsible since I was the one that ended it.  I was the one who decided I didn’t want to work on this, that I needed to work on myself and I couldn’t do it with him.  And now I’ve put him in a scenario where he’s almost 40 and he’s going to have to start his life over again.  I just pray that he doesn’t spend the rest of his life thinking he wasn’t good enough for me.  Because in all honesty, he was too good for me.  And I’m not being unnecessarily hard on myself.  I know my values as a person, friend, lover, partner.  And I also know that when one person is pulling all of the commitment weight in the relationship, the other clearly wants out of the situation, subconsciously or not.  And I know that while there were times he was a bad partner as well, it really comes down to me.

So all I can do now is put one foot in front of the other (figuratively.  Back is far too sore for any serious walking) and take one day at a time.

And my god it’s hard. 

Hippies and Drum Circles and Bonfires, oh my

This past weekend I discovered something that kind of bummed me out.  Actually no, it fully bummed me out.  This weekend I discovered that I no longer have fun when I’m out with the Other in a social setting, especially when he’s drinking and I’m not.  In fact, I’m generally uncomfortable around him when with others.  And it bums me out because it wasn’t always like that.

It’s not that he’s out of control.  He’s not.  He used to be, but it’s changed.  There was a long period where we’d go out to a party or to the bar for a show, and I would spend days after apologizing to random people for things he’d said or done.  He can get quite snippy when drunk, and a little obnoxious (or a lot obnoxious), and sometimes very mean.  But it’s in a weird way, because the thing is, he thinks he’s being funny when he does it (a la Tony Clifton).  Even when no one is laughing.  There was also a time where he fancied himself a purveyor of truth, so long as he had a six-pack and half a bottle of Sambuca in him.  He was once instrumental in starting a brawl that involved four different people directly and two more indirectly, that ended with half of the birthday party crying in various areas of the house.  That’s right, at a birthday party.  Of his best friend’s girlfriend.

Anyway, he’s calmed down quite a bit in his older age.  Now he slams his six-pack, says things that are sometimes insightful and sometimes absolutely nonsensical leaving other people either laughing or backing off slowly in confusion, and will then usually pass out quietly in a corner somewhere.  Gone are the days of him puking in parking lots, or yelling at cop cars because he thinks it’s hilarious.  And it’s a good thing too, because I would have packed my bags and said goodbye a long time ago if they weren’t (or at least I like to think I would have).  What it ultimately comes down to is, he has a problem with alcohol.  He’s always had it, as long as we’ve been together.  He goes through a six-pack (or a bottle of booze) the way I go through a jar of Nutella;  elbows up, breathe through your nose, keep going til it’s done.  And I guess that’s why I don’t keep Nutella in my house.  But also, I guess that’s why I get so uncomfortable when we’re out.  Usually if we’re both out then one of us is driving, which often ends up being me because the Other has this trick where he’ll start to drink before we leave, rendering him incapable of driving.  Smart, no?  So we’re out, he’s drinking, I’m sober and irritated that I’m driving again, and on the lookout.  Even though I know I don’t really have to be, my guard is up and I’m watching.  And it stresses me out.

And it stresses me out that I know I don’t need to stress out about it.  Someone once told me I act like I’m repulsed by him when we’re out with friends, and that really upset me.  I don’t do it intentionally, and what a horrible way to act towards someone who you love and you’re supposed to be spending the rest of your life with.  But it’s true.  And it’s not that he repulses me, it’s that he makes me uncomfortable. I’m always worried that he’s going to say something insulting or something stupid or embarrassing, because he likes to do that too.  And even when my friends say “don’t worry about it, just have fun and ignore him” I still fucking worry about it.  Because apparently I looove to worry.

I think what it comes down to is for the better part of our 10 years together, I’ve been begging him to curb his drinking.  There was a point in time when it was absolutely unbearable.  He never got physical (except for one time he threw his shoe at me as I was walking away, but it was because he thought it would be funny.  It wasn’t.), but he has said some pretty disrespectful things before, to me and to others.  And like I said, it has changed as he’s gotten older.  But I still don’t like him when he’s drinking.  My stomach starts to turn when his words start to slur.  Maybe it comes from having to watch my mom when she was going through her alcoholic phase (which involved a lot of incredibly frustrating and pointless drunken phone calls).  It doesn’t stop me from going out and getting my drink on, but it does stop be from getting my drink on with him.  And he’s my partner, so isn’t he the one I should want to be going out with?  My friends all like going out to party with their significant others.  It feels like I’m the only one who doesn’t.

And what’s really heartbreaking is all he wants to do is go out and have fun with me.  He tells me that all the time.  He’s been telling me that since this whole separation thing started coming to a head.  But I just can’t.  We went to a friend’s birthday party on Saturday, they had an awesome potluck and a bonfire by the beach and a drum circle and other hippie things.  And of course, I was driving because he had downed four out of six of his ciders by the time we were ready to leave.  And he sat there socializing, even though we didn’t know most of the people there, and I sat in the corner quietly watching.  Waiting.  Wincing every time he’d say something and the person he was speaking to would raise their eyebrows or ask him to repeat himself.  I barely said anything to any of the people I did know there.  And then 3 hours later, when the hallucinogens came out (I mentioned it was a hippie party, right?) I stood the fuck up and said it was time to get out, because if he put those party goods in his mouth things would get messy.  Because that’s like booze times a hundred million, and he LOVES that shit.  And then the next day he kept telling me how much fun he’d had, and how he was so glad we’d gone.  And I had to lie.  “Yeah, I had fun too.  It was a good time.”  But I didn’t have fun.  I didn’t have fun at all.  I rather would’ve stayed home.  Actually, I rather would’ve gone alone so that I could have done mushrooms and danced around a bonfire to a drum circle.  But it didn’t matter, because I couldn’t.  Because he was there and he’d gotten to drinking first, so I had to take care of it.

And that’s something that really bothers me.  I’m the primary care giver.  That was a big reason for this separation.  I’m 31 and I’m taking care of a man who is 7 years older than me.  There were times it felt like I was taking care of a child.  And I’m not saying that I want to be the one taken care of, but I think that there should be give and take.  One person shouldn’t have to make ALL of the dinners, or do ALL of the groceries, or drive ALL of the time, or make ALL of the plans, so on and so forth.  It’s fucking exhausting.  And how’re you supposed to take care of yourself when you’re spending all of your time constantly taking care of someone else?

But this ends on a somewhat positive note.  Last night I found my pencils, and I have time now (because I have time to myself now, which is fucking amazing) to start drawing again.  A work in progress, much like my life.

 

 

Sometimes Your Bangs Look Like A Mullet

It’s interesting how a little bit of time can really change your perspective on things.  Some of you may remember from a little while back I had made an attempt to separate myself from my media.  it hasn’t exactly worked, but I have noticed that it’s less important.  It’s not such a big deal if I don’t get an immediate response.  The anxiety seems to be subsiding, and while it seems counter-intuitive that I may be less stressed right now, I really think that’s what it is.  Separation isn’t an easy thing to deal with, but in all honesty the whole time leading up to (and the making of) the decision was more stressful.  Now that I don’t have it looming over my head, my mind is more peaceful.

I’ve moved back into the cottage for the month.  This means I’m now out of my mom’s space and into my own.  I spent the long weekend cleaning and organizing, which isn’t something I usually enjoy doing.  But I’ve come to the realization that when my surroundings are chaotic my thoughts are chaotic, and when my thoughts are chaotic I get anxious.  So cleaning and organizing seems like a fairly obvious way to combat this.

I’ve also noticed I seem to be putting less expectations on things, and people.  I’ve always considered myself a go with the flow type of person but now I’m putting it into practice.  I think it’s because I understand that shit happens and things come up.  I mean, I always knew that, but now I understand.  Sometimes the things are out of your control and sometimes they’re not, and even if that’s the case, you have your reasons for making your decisions.  I may not understand them, but chances are you wouldn’t understand the reasons I have for making my decisions either.  I’m also starting to understand that you can’t push people to do anything they’re not ready to do.  Yeah, there are circumstances where you do need to push someone because they’re not ready, but these aren’t common, and for the most part you have to let people make their own decisions and come to their own conclusions because this is what lets them take responsibility, and this is what holds them accountable for their own actions.  And everyone needs that or else they turn into douchebags.

But what really sucks is when someone holds you accountable for something they decided, because for some reason they feel that it’s your fault they didn’t get the results they were expecting.  I strongly feel this ties right in with never having to take responsibility and never being held accountable.  If I do something that upsets you and you make the decision not to say anything about it, you can’t be mad at me about how it made you feel.  You have the choice to either suck it up or speak your mind.  If I make a decision based on the fact that you didn’t say anything, you can’t blame me solely for the miscommunication. 

It’s easy to lay blame elsewhere, and it’s easy to expect other people to fix things for us.  It’s not easy to turn that critical eye inwards and figure out what you did wrong and what you can do to fix it, and what you can do to make yourself feel better about it.  And so when the Other left the cottage in a less than desirable state of cleanliness, I decided to say something about it.  And then I decided that rather than say well stuff him and leave the place an absolute sty, I will lead by example.  I will clean and organize for my own mental wellbeing.  I will maintain the state of my home because this is something I need to work on.  I need to work on standing by what I say, and I need to work on getting out of my head and off of my couch and actually putting effort into things.  And at the end of this month I know that the decision I made last weekend will put me one step closer to becoming who I’m meant to be.

Because everything happens for a reason.

Dear John

   You breathe on my neck.
A dried rose on the dresser
   loses a petal.

   I move gently now.
A sigh escapes and you stir
   and then roll over.

   The sun will rise soon.
Another night spent with you
   smothered by your arms.

   Your love is so close.
I love best from a distance,
   try to understand.

The nut doesn’t fall far from the tree

Last week my husband and I began our six month trial separation.  We’ve been married for five years, together for ten, which is a long time when you’ve just turned 31.  It hasn’t been an ideal relationship, but it hasn’t been a necessarily bad one by any means either.  I’ve never suffered from any physical or emotional abuse; at least, nothing inflicted by him.

But we were stuck.  There’s definitely a circle that we keep dancing around in, that leads to frustration, to anger, to fights, to reconciliation, and then back around to the start to begin it all over again.  After realizing that we had been having the same argument for the last six years, I decided it was time for us to do something.  I did some research and about two and a half months ago we started seeing a marriage counsellor.

The husband and I were both raised in families where the mindset was very much “mind your own business.”  His father had anger issues and didn’t want anyone to know about their family’s situation.  My mother has mild paranoia issues and, well, didn’t want anyone to know about our family’s situation.  So starting this therapy was something that was quite difficult initially.  But as we became more comfortable with our therapist, and more comfortable with each other, things started flowing out like muddy water from a boiling hot outdoor faucet.  And while it was murky at first, the water got cooler and clearer. 

I had decided a while ago that I wanted to separate.  Initially it was because I couldn’t stand the way that he would handle things.  We were constantly fighting and of course it was because of him.  While I may not be the perfect wife, or the perfect person, I’m definitely good at both so what the fuck is wrong with him that he can’t handle his shit.  I had to get out or I was going to go crazy.  When we started seeing the counsellor, she talked a lot about taking responsibility.  I would stare at my husband while she spoke, willing him to listen, willing him to realize that it was his responsibility, his fault things were the way they were.  And then she called me out.  She called me out loud and clear, and more than once.  And once I started listening to her, I realized that it wasn’t just him.  I had a lot to do with the situation.  In fact, it was my situation, and I had to take responsibility for it, and I had to take control of it.  After that realization I began to see that I didn’t want to leave because of him, or because of the way he handled things, or because I was unhappy with the person he had become.  I wanted to leave because of me.  I was feeling empty, and unfulfilled, and generally miserable, and it had absolutely nothing to do with him.  The counsellor is fond of saying we find mirrors of ourselves in other people that we deal with.  And I think that it’s true.

I’ve come to realize that entering such a serious long-term relationship at such a young age was probably not the best thing for me to do.  I feel like I never had the chance to become the person I should be; instead, I became the girlfriend/partner/wife that he needed (or that I thought he needed).  I strongly believe that you need to know yourself before you can understand others, and I have no idea who I am.  I go through existential crises every 3 months.  I yo-yo with my weight and exercise.  I begin projects with total gusto and give up halfway through.  I don’t have any long term goals.  I don’t know what I want in life.  How am I supposed to commit to a person until I’m old and grey if I can’t even commit to a hair colour?

And so, last week, we began the separation with clear plans on what needs to be done.  Maybe we come out of it together.  Maybe we don’t.  Either way, we’ll both be more complete and whole people than we were when we started.  And this leads me to my current housing situation.

I’ve moved back in with my mom.

And my god, the reflection in that mirror is scary. 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love my mom and all her adorable idiosyncrasies.  But man oh man, living with her as an adult versus as a child is a world of difference.  Example:

I found out that she has a bobcat, or possible cougar, running around her backyard.  She’s seen it twice in the last two weeks.  When I suggested she contact someone (SPCA, animal control, the ministry?) to find out about what to do, she assured me that she had it figured out.  She had set a mat by the hole in the fence to find out if it had come in or gone out. 

Me:  Well what happens after?
Her:  Well, if it’s in the yard, then I’ll know that it’s in the yard.
Me:  Okay.  And then?
Her:  I’ll set a trap.
Me:  You can’t set a trap to capture a bobcat, or possibly cougar, by yourself.
Her:  Why not?  Besides, it’s not like it’s doing any harm.

Now, maybe it’s not doing any harm at this particular moment in time.  But I’m supposed to be bringing my dog to live with me part time, and she’s talking about bringing the family cat home to die (from the ex’s house) since he’s ancient and decrepit and most likely ready to kick the litterbox any time now.  Not only that, my brother has a little girl that adores my mom, but he has already said he isn’t willing to bring her over with a wild creature running around.  And I don’t blame him.  Not to mention the fact that there are neighbours, and they have pets, and children.  So I bring this up to her.  Her response?

The neighbour’s cats haven’t pissed in her garden in the last two weeks.   So maybe it’s not that terrible of a thing.

I walked away shaking my head, thinking my god.  Am I that difficult to deal with?  I know that sometimes I can be quite stubborn, but I like to consider myself fairly reasonable.  But maybe I’m not.  This morning we were talking about her situation with her ex.  Well, she was talking.  I was drinking coffee and thinking about something else, god knows what.  I sat there, nodding and “mmhmm”ing and being a terrible daughter in general, when she said something that caught my ear.

I obsess about him.  I focus on it and obsess about what he does and doesn’t say and I can’t stop, and I hate it.

And that’s exactly what happens with me.  Exactly what happens with me.  It’s why I’m always checking my inboxes.  Because I need to know what they’re doing, or what they’re saying, or what they think about what I said.  It’s a compulsion, and apparently, it’s hereditary.

Sweet jesus.