Tuesday, April 26, 2011


I'm just going to preface this with the fact that I know I'm fairly vile, and if such a place exists I will be heading straight to hell as soon as my cells stop moving. It's okay, I'm cool with it. And yes, I know bashing on a dying man is pretty much a no-no, but I'll try to be soft about it.


There's a song by the Fine Young Cannibals containing some lyrics that go something like this: Blah, blah and I'm mad about that. Another blah, blah, and I'm mad about that. If memory serves the singer is pretty much just blowing off steam about all the things that piss him off on a daily basis. Sometimes when I'm feeling particularly bratty I'll start singing that song in my head but add things like: My panties don't fit and I'm mad about that. I hate sitting in my cubicle and I'm mad about that, too.

Lately I find myself singing this song when I think about my ex-in-laws. (This is where my horrid nature comes in to the equation.) There are so many directions to go here, but I'll stick with the selfish one and make it all about me. I know there are some people who love their in-laws, good for you and congratulations you are worthy individuals. In the best of times I was never open-my-heart close to Pat and Tom, but we were always civil, well at least until I somehow got on Pat's Permanent Shit List and when she occasionally saw me there were always comments about the unfortunate length of my poofy hair or my weight gain. Whatever, I didn't want to grow up to be her so I figured I would mostly ignore it and strive to not be her. I could also go on about my almost phobic aversion to her, but I won't, I'll save that bitch card in my pocket for later.

So anyway, my frustration comes into play somewhere around here: Matt and I are getting back on track, we're excited about the future, a household consolidation, etc. All super good stuff in my book. But. Dude keeps getting uprooted every few weeks because he has to go back to Utah to care for his dad and babysit the train wreck that unfolds on a daily basis at Pat's nursing home. I'm not saying I'm not grateful for the few weeks he is home because that means Jen is out in Utah, away from her kids and man doing the same. For the record Jen has been Queen Conductor of the Pat Train for the past few weeks and her stint at her own home is beyond warranted.

So I should be happy? Yes. And mostly I am, but I'm really quite pissed in some ways. One, the little detail of that stroke Matt had last November. One doesn't usually just willy nilly have a stroke at 39, get diagnosed with a degenerative vascular disorder and then bounce right back into an active lifestyle. There are appointments with specialists and oodles of follow up care. That should be understood, however when your doctors are in Denver and you are 500 miles away in Utah the care doesn't happen, especially when the person you are caring for doesn't seem to grasp this -or in my Book of Bitch interpretation-  care. Again, my selfishness jumps back in because if Matt's own health is somewhat precarious and his father uses up all this time that should obviously be spent with me? I'm gonna be pissed.

Two. The kids miss their dad. Devon's little heart breaks every time his dad leaves town. He curls up in my bed with me at night and we count the days until his father will be back. When Matt does come back to town Devon spends nearly every moment he can with his dad. The older two miss Matt as well, they just lack the pitiful drama of Dev.

Three. I have three children, none of them drive, we live in a rural area, gas is crazy expensive right now. Just the logistics of transporting them all, even with my mother, is such a challenge. It's hard for me to even get 40 hours in a week at work because of the schedules.

There is more. I could get personal thereby ensuring my place in hell will not be a glamorous one, but I'll try to keep this clean. However,  I will say this, if our new Glee karaoke had the FYC's Blue on it I'd totally have fantasies of driving out to Utah, standing in the ex-in-law's living room and belting out a few lines. They wouldn't get it but it sounds fully therapeutic.


  1. This is disappointingly tame. Love to you.

  2. I think you're trying to buy your way out of hell, if it does, in fact, exist, by treading so softly.

  3. I also wanted to say that I've been seething over my mother's comments about your hair and weight. She has made the same comments to me over the years, and that's bad enough, but I remember Mark's family commenting on my appearance and I was horrified and insulted. I am horrified and insulted in this case too, on your behalf.