Paranoia III

Now I'm really getting fed up.  Even the slightest little slip gets an eyeroll, a groan of disgust , dirty looks.  A day doesn't go by when I apparently say something that doesn't make sense.  What do you want, I get confused easily.  I think she's at her wits end with me forgetting things, almost constantly having to remind me she'd already told me something I don't remember her saying.  So I forgot to make the oil change appointment.  Is it the end of the world that I threw away the invoice for the new furnace we supposedly had installed?  Are library fines really all that dire?  The lamest conversation draws ire and huffs of disgust or something.  I can't always remember her name.  So sue me.  Tonight we had an argument over whether or not we'd already watched a particular episode of some stupid fucking program we were watching.  I got mad and said I was going to bed.  I feel like a child, and want to be alone.  I climb into my bed in my room down the hall from hers.  Yeah, we've been sleeping separately for some time now.  "You move around too much," she squawked.  "And you hog my side".  I swear, she complains more now than she ever has.

I may have dozed for a while, but my door just creaked open and I see her silhouette tip-toeing into my room.  She's holding a pillow close to her chest, and it reminds me of an earlier, more enjoyable time in our marriage when we'd strip each other naked and get all silly and have pillow fights.  Of course, I think it often lead to some good sex, at least for me, and the feather mess wasn't too bad to clean up the next morning.  Maybe there's hope yet.  Maybe she's remembering how much fun we had at one time and wants, really wants to get some of that back.  I'm gonna stay still and quiet and make her think I'm asleep.

Paranoia II (sorry folks, you'll have to hit "Older Posts" if you need a refresher)

 The kids were over for dinner a day ago, a week ago- who knows.  My son's wife sat next to me and I mistook her for my own wife and touched her breast during dessert.  I didn't think anyone noticed and I forgot we were at the dinner table. Talk about a firestorm.  My wife called me a fucking freak, smacked me in the side of my head and sent me to my room.  I couldn't say goodnight to the kids.  Now my son isn't talking to me.  His wife is furious and says I'm a pervert.  My wife hates me and I think she's plotting ways to get out of our marriage.  I don't remember where my son and his wife live so I can't even write to him to apologize, and I surely can't ask my wife.  Sometimes I'm just confused.  Is that a crime?

These Eyes, Oh These Eyes

 I'm due for a visit to an eye doctor.  

I've made us move so many times my wife is about to explode.

She has handled all insurance, medical, address change, relocation-related shit and everything else all these years.

I make the money but can't be happy with whatever job I'm working at any given time.

This last time would be the last, I said.

I'll retire from this one, I said.

I promise we won't move again, I said.

My eyes seem to be getting worse.

My right one has had floaters for some years, and lately my left one has had a foggy area.

Together, these spoil my love of reading.  Large print books make it slightly easier, but the limited selection at the library is depressing.

Just the mention of a new doctor's appointment sets a storm a-brewing.

The insurance is shit.  Out-of-Pocket is my new cringe phrase.

Just venting.

No need for concern or serious replies. 

Thanks. 

Moving Mountains

 Every day my job requires that I scoop up dog shit.  Mountains of it.  Most days there's only one, but Monday mornings bring a whole range.  This dog is a Great Dane.  Close your eyes and try to picture the biggest turd you've ever dropped.  Now multiply that by at least five, and you have a pretty good idea of the size of these things. Usually they're pretty firm, but now and then they can be, well, a little soft.  No matter, it's in my job description so I do it.  Lately, with these frigid fucking temperatures the piles are pretty stiff, so they're easy to pick up.  A while ago the poor creature wasn't feeling well and the shit was pretty soupy.  I still have to scoop it up, though.  Most days the shit's on a concrete slab, but lots of times it's on the loose stone that surrounds the concrete.  When I scoop the shit from these stones the stones come up with it, so I suppose it's only a matter of time before my employer has to buy more stones. I don't know which is worse- the smell of the shit, or the combination of the smell of the shit and the "scent" of the bags.  I don't know what the manufacturer is thinking, perfuming dog shit bags.  It doesn't do anything for me.

Grandpa Died and I Laughed

Story:  Things told to me that are one person's view and are likely slanted

Fact: Things I know from personal experience

 Like so many parts of my life that exist only in stories I learned one day recently that (Story) father had died in the care of a sibling who (Story) didn't love him; who (Story) was an addict; who (Fact) was angry and had this powerful need to prove something.  Father, absent even when present, was (Fact) a sickly, mean, alcoholic, abusive, depressed psychotic poor excuse of a man.  Nonexistent to me for decades now.  It was during a telephone conversation with my youngest son from prison (him, not me)- the first time we'd spoken since the last time he was on the high side of one of his meth slopes & valleys (several years ago now)- when I remembered and casually mentioned it.  "Oh, I forgot.  Your grandfather died."  I laughed.  "Oh, umm, okay," he said.  And then he laughed.  

Things I've learned over the years come only from siblings and assorted others, but I also learned late in life to take everything with a grain of salt.  My wife forced me to see things this way.  The drama, depression and addiction has steered my family for years, and until my wife's lesson I'd just taken everyone at their word.

The same, I suppose, goes for mother.  I'm told (Story) she died a few years ago.  At least two siblings (Story) saw her after she passed, but (Fact) I never got to. The funeral director was so ired by my obnoxioux family that (Fact) when I contacted him to request a visit to pay my last respects he (Fact) said he didn't want me there.

I've (Fact) never seen an obituary for either parent.  

Funny, I was told once by an old family friend that (Story) my uncle was actually my father.  But that's for another post.

My Friend Tom

Tom's my good friend.  Not my best friend, just good.  I've known Tom for 6 months, and yesterday I read an article about Tom.  The article says Tom did a bad thing.  Tom dropped a litter of gerbils down a well.  He took the gerbils from his daughter's room, placed them in a brown paper bag and went out in the back yard and dropped them in the well.   The plywood over the well wasn't attached, just laying over the well, so it was easy to move.  Who even has a well in their back yard any more?  Was there water in the bottom of the well, or was it just a dried out well?  If the well was no longer in use shouldn't it have been covered or filled in, or whatever you do with a disused well?  I'm wondering if Tom ended up replacing the plywood since it was pretty well weathered and warped and the layers were all peeling the way plywood does when exposed to the elements.

Paranoia I

The notes are all over the place.  She leaves them for the stupidest little thing.  

"Tie your shoes"

"Don't forget the trash"

"Lunch is at 1:00"

"Scoop the litterbox"

I don't think there's anything she hasn't left a note about at this point.  I know I forget things.  Doesn't everybody?  I fight saying things like "I feel old", or "I really feel my age today".  

Sometimes I swear I did a particular task, only to have her fume and not talk, and when I finally get her to open up find out I didn't do it.  But I think I did.  This happens more and more. 

Sometimes I think she's trying to make me think I'm losing it.  I'm not sure yet how that would benefit her.  We count on my income so I need to keep working into beyond retirement. So that can't be it.

Now and then I'll come home early and she'll just look at me, like "oh, you're home."  Makes me wonder what she was in the middle of.  Is she planning something?  Is there something she doesn't want me to know about?