12.22.2004
A Series of Unfortunate Events
1. It's 1:20 a.m. and I can't sleep because I drank too much green tea this afternoon in a (failed) attempt to become well.
2. I looked in my bathroom mirror and instead of my own reflection, I was treated to Doug Henning's. (I have to do something about this haircut, or else cover the mirrors like they do when somebody dies.)
3. Since I am so fargin sick (stuffy head, fever, can't get no rest, beeyotch, and general malaise-iness) I have to call in to work tomorrow. But since 99% of the office is on vacation, it not only A) looks bad, but B) I'll likely have to call in to the president of the fucking company.
4. The EH called today...turns out that he is moving into the condo after all, but only after spending a month in Ye Olde Guest House. He asked me if he could leave a few things at the house in the interim...THE LARGEST PIECES OF FURNITURE KNOWN TO MAN. A gigantic L-shaped desk and a huge craptacular home depot cabinet - both in the second bedroom.
Not wanting to sound petty - I am almost there, I yam I yam - I told him he could leave them, but he had to put them outside. DAMN IF THOSE FARGIN THINGS WILL BE IN MY HOUSE WHEN I MOVE IN, but a big part of me knows that those fargin things will be in my house when I move in!!!
He also asked if he could leave his dishes and glasses behind. Now, these are the dishes and glasses we got when we got married and they have been ensconced in the cabinets since we moved into the house. Who wants to bet that when I get there tomorrow, they will still be in the cabinets? huh? huh?
And he also asked me - well, asked the cable company when I called them about switching the name on the account - if he could HOUSE HIS EMAIL ADDRESS on my account until he's condo-fied. Turns out that they cancelled his account, so the motherfucker calls me tonight to see if I'll call them to get it turned back on!!! Not even close.
One more thing: the last time I was at the house I noticed that the washer and dryer were filthy. Covered in a black muck. I asked him today if he'd clean it off, and he goes, "That's not my muck - that's two years of dirt, Alisa," to which I responded, "No, those were clean as long as I used them." He parried again and I had to be like "please clean them off, EH. THROW ME A FUCKING BONE, HERE."
Help me ... is this really my life? I am so tired of talking about it - it's getting embarrassing, really. I am an intelligent, driven, bad-ass person, and I apparently married a pussy. He told me Sunday, "You're tough sometimes, Alisa, and it's hard to be on your business end." Hey - fucktoy - WE'RE GETTING A DIVORCE. And though it's a fairly easy divorce, compared to most, I don't want to be all sweetness and light because you keep asking me for money!
Yep. The EH thinks we'll come out of this "best friends" and we'll skip to the farmer's market together to get the ingredients for egg salad. Every Sunday! I'm going to ask him - after I've given him $8,000 and filed for divorce - to not speak to me ever again. Just fuck off.
Is that wrong?
Eh, who cares. It feels good just to think about it. I'm no saint.
5. I can't believe that I didn't mention this sooner: Hessian-Humping L (she of the sordid Friday night oh so long ago...well...Thanksgiving) asked if she could BE MY ROOMMATE. My first reaction was "oh my god, No," but I know she's sensitive right now so I tried to stave her off with "I'm getting my floors done and I just got a new dog." But ultimately, the answer is no.
I like living alone. My house is small. The second bedroom is the one with the doggie door. And dammit, I'm not even in that place yet and I feel like someone has designs on it...and me.
It's irrational, yes, but I believe that the onslaught of "taking things from Alisa" is why I wound up sick like this (physically - not mentally - watch it...waaaatch it...) in the first place. The house is MY Valhalla, babe, MY Secret Garden. It's my fucking hospital AND I'm the English patient. Not for you! Nein! Nein!
And with that, I bid you goodnight.
2. I looked in my bathroom mirror and instead of my own reflection, I was treated to Doug Henning's. (I have to do something about this haircut, or else cover the mirrors like they do when somebody dies.)
3. Since I am so fargin sick (stuffy head, fever, can't get no rest, beeyotch, and general malaise-iness) I have to call in to work tomorrow. But since 99% of the office is on vacation, it not only A) looks bad, but B) I'll likely have to call in to the president of the fucking company.
4. The EH called today...turns out that he is moving into the condo after all, but only after spending a month in Ye Olde Guest House. He asked me if he could leave a few things at the house in the interim...THE LARGEST PIECES OF FURNITURE KNOWN TO MAN. A gigantic L-shaped desk and a huge craptacular home depot cabinet - both in the second bedroom.
Not wanting to sound petty - I am almost there, I yam I yam - I told him he could leave them, but he had to put them outside. DAMN IF THOSE FARGIN THINGS WILL BE IN MY HOUSE WHEN I MOVE IN, but a big part of me knows that those fargin things will be in my house when I move in!!!
He also asked if he could leave his dishes and glasses behind. Now, these are the dishes and glasses we got when we got married and they have been ensconced in the cabinets since we moved into the house. Who wants to bet that when I get there tomorrow, they will still be in the cabinets? huh? huh?
And he also asked me - well, asked the cable company when I called them about switching the name on the account - if he could HOUSE HIS EMAIL ADDRESS on my account until he's condo-fied. Turns out that they cancelled his account, so the motherfucker calls me tonight to see if I'll call them to get it turned back on!!! Not even close.
One more thing: the last time I was at the house I noticed that the washer and dryer were filthy. Covered in a black muck. I asked him today if he'd clean it off, and he goes, "That's not my muck - that's two years of dirt, Alisa," to which I responded, "No, those were clean as long as I used them." He parried again and I had to be like "please clean them off, EH. THROW ME A FUCKING BONE, HERE."
Help me ... is this really my life? I am so tired of talking about it - it's getting embarrassing, really. I am an intelligent, driven, bad-ass person, and I apparently married a pussy. He told me Sunday, "You're tough sometimes, Alisa, and it's hard to be on your business end." Hey - fucktoy - WE'RE GETTING A DIVORCE. And though it's a fairly easy divorce, compared to most, I don't want to be all sweetness and light because you keep asking me for money!
Yep. The EH thinks we'll come out of this "best friends" and we'll skip to the farmer's market together to get the ingredients for egg salad. Every Sunday! I'm going to ask him - after I've given him $8,000 and filed for divorce - to not speak to me ever again. Just fuck off.
Is that wrong?
Eh, who cares. It feels good just to think about it. I'm no saint.
5. I can't believe that I didn't mention this sooner: Hessian-Humping L (she of the sordid Friday night oh so long ago...well...Thanksgiving) asked if she could BE MY ROOMMATE. My first reaction was "oh my god, No," but I know she's sensitive right now so I tried to stave her off with "I'm getting my floors done and I just got a new dog." But ultimately, the answer is no.
I like living alone. My house is small. The second bedroom is the one with the doggie door. And dammit, I'm not even in that place yet and I feel like someone has designs on it...and me.
It's irrational, yes, but I believe that the onslaught of "taking things from Alisa" is why I wound up sick like this (physically - not mentally - watch it...waaaatch it...) in the first place. The house is MY Valhalla, babe, MY Secret Garden. It's my fucking hospital AND I'm the English patient. Not for you! Nein! Nein!
And with that, I bid you goodnight.
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I am turning into one tough cookie, that's fo shiz! But lately I've noticed myself stocking up on the Puppy's favorites. Fuck! And just to clarify, my love: I never did the EH's laundry. We even kept it in separate rooms b/c he wasn't as disgusted by dog hair in his undergarments as I was.
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