Doc left for work not speaking to me. Because he didn’t feel good, he was hungover, and I made him breakfast. And then I wouldn’t put up with his shitty attitude and made him go to work. So he’s not speaking to me. I wish I’d put hot sauce in his eggs. Days of getting along . . . pissed away because he felt compelled to stay up all night drinking. He said I even got up to check up on him when he was in the bathroom puking, he never pukes. And I have no memory of that at all. Which disappointed him. I guess it isn’t enough that I sleep walk to care for him, but I must now be alert for it. Gah. I was trying to have a good day.
And now I have to try and turn it around again. I wasn’t doing so well, myself this morning. I think the yogurt I ate last night had turned, whatever, it did not help my digestion at all. I woke up dead tired at 6, and decided to lay right back down again, and didn’t emerge from my coma until right before time to get Doc up. At this point I didn’t know he had been up all night and would need extra time to sleep, so I went into full panic mode. And spent a good amount of time in the bathroom, cursing all of the gods.
Then there was the “I woke him up too early”, and the inevitable follow-up, “Why did I let him sleep so long?” Brought on by, “My coffee’s not hot” (it was when I woke you up, you boob). So, in between bathroom runs, I cooed over him and made him breakfast.
As I sat in the kitchen, waiting for his omelette to finish cooking, he pointed out that the rolls had gone bad. “Yes, I know, I couldn’t find room in the refrigerator.” He repeated that the rolls were bad and they should have gone in the refrigerator. I repeated that I knew, this time, rather defensively, as he always does this repetition thing rather than come out and say what he’s thinking. Then he snapped and started yelling about my shitty attitude and how he didn’t need it and I had no consideration for his feelings. I left the room. I waited until his omelette was done and went back into the mine-field of a kitchen. He said, “You didn’t need to get defensive, I was just trying to tell you that the rolls went bad and they should have gone into the refrigerator.” Completely ready to tear my hair out at the third repetition, I pointed out calmly that it was the third repetition. He slammed something on the counter. I took the bag of rolls from the counter, where he had cleverly put them back. “Do you want me to put them in the refrigerator now?” He leveled a gaze of death at me, “Of course not, they are bad!” “Then I’m going to throw them away now, okay?” Something else slammed, and I went outside.
When I went to remind him of the time, as usual, he slammed the door in my face. When I followed him out into the garage to shut the door after he left, he slammed the door on my face. After I found and replaced the lens in my glasses, I waited inside until he left to shut the door. And he just texted me that his friend is coming over later, the one he humiliated me in front of the other night. AND he’s giving the guy my new phone number, that’s just fucking great, because I want all of Doc’s idiot friends to be butt dialing me when they are trashed. This day just gets better and better, and I’m only four hours into it.
Jewelry, jewelry, jewelry. I figured out how to fix the ugly clay moons I made . . . glitter! Glitter covers an amazing amount of flaws and makes everything look great and shiny. So, as well as the new, quick and easy to make line I have going, I can fix and continue making the clay stuff, which is also quick and easy to make. So that will improve my day. I can get absorbed in that and speed through a few hours.
I can’t believe it’s the weekend already. I’m not ready to deal with Doc for 48 unadulterated hours again. He took a day off work this week, it’s not fair. He drives me crazy when he is home. I know he doesn’t feel good a lot of the time, and I know he’s got the depression thing hitting him hard, and he has to physically recover from the commuting during the week. But it kills me to see him sit here for hours at a time. That is all he does. Watch TV, play on the computer, listen to music on his phone, sleep on the couch. That’s it. Get up and eat occasionally. Take a trip to the store if I whine and cry and throw a fit, but ONLY if I whine and cry and throw a fit, and lately, I just don’t have the fucking energy.
Wow, I just sent him my first angry text. I’m really bothered that he just gave out my number without even consulting me. I mean I have another phone for that. JUST for that. That is what that phone is being kept on for. For people who I don’t know well to text and call me. So when it rings, I can ignore it if I want. Now he say he didn’t know I could hear the other phone. Jesus! I have vibrate turned on for both phones, if we’re taking a poll. I don’t like the sounds, they stress me out. I may have the phones, but I refuse to live with the looming immediacy of them. That is ridiculous. There is nothing that can’t fucking wait 10 minutes. And if it can’t, I am NOT the person you should be calling or texting.
This day has just turned silly. He embarrassed me the other night because his friends were smoking a blunt in a car parked in the street in front of the house, it was this whole big thing, and he was standing right there, and didn’t do anything about it, and then tried to hold me responsible. And then he tells me he’s going to give the same guy my brand new phone number a couple of days later? WTactualF? And I’m just supposed to be cool and compliant with all of this?
Dudes, I stormed off Wednesday night when he yelled at me in front of them. I mean, they were too fucked up to get out of the truck and come into the house, but they noticed I was pissed. They got there, and like I said, were too drunk to come in, so I grabbed my coffee and went out to their truck. Doc was supposed to be home in a few minutes and he could take over the circus, it was his. There was some rap playing and I started dancing. I was doing, what they told me, was the “Dougie”. I did that for a bit and Doc pulled up on his bike. He parked it, and looked at me all accusing, I shrugged.
He came over to the truck and snapped, “What’s going on?” and H drunkenly explained that he was too drunk to move. He then lit up a blunt as I argued with the guys in the front seat that white girls were allowed to love Prince, too. As H passed me the blunt (I hadn’t smoked all day), Doc demanded (really sternly, like I was a dog), that I go roll him a cigarette. I decided to roll with it, I was tired of listening to “Purple Rain”, so I bopped inside and rolled us each a couple of cigarettes and then bopped back out to their truck.
I noticed the law-enthusiast couple across the street were hiding in their bushes, watching what was the first activity outside the house in four years. Jr. handed me what was now a dead blunt as I handed Doc his cigarette. I lit my own smoke while a really, really drunk Jr. kept trying to light the dead blunt in my hand, which was now just a filter. I just held my hand out kind of limply, not wanting to argue with him, and danced and sang along to “Raspberry Beret”.
I had my eyes closed and I was completely involved in the song when I heard Doc bark, “Cydniey! Knock it off!” I looked at him, shocked and questioningly. He just glared at me. I put out my cigarette, said goodnight to the guys, and stomped up to the house and slammed the door. I didn’t realize Doc was right behind me.
The next hour is a blur. Yelling and empty apologies and stupidity and paranoia and I am so tired of his 80-year-old-get-off-my-lawn-all-people-a
We got past it.
Then, after all that grief, about how sketchy H can be, and how careful I need to be (that was the crux of it, I got yelled at because he didn’t think I was being paranoid enough) . . . he gives him my clean new number. “Clean” being the operative word here. Get it? For now, that phone is as good as a burner. Only one agency knows about it. And not one of the ones that would care about what I do. The one that likes me. And I would like to keep it that way for just a little while. Not connected to me. Belonging to a fictional character. And I don’t want that guy calling me with his bugged up phone and fucking that all up!
I have to be done for now. I keep finding this inner core of rage. I think I’m going to put Rocket on (Guardians of the Galaxy) and put some glitter on some stuff. I’ll feel better then. Rocket and glitter.
Oh! And I have to take a few pictures before I lose the light entirely! I’m saying this at 2:45pm. That’s how dark the skies are today, mayhaps I should check the radar on my handy weather app.