Contact me if you’d like the new site…
… but it seems this is just my life now.
Misery loves company! If you think your life is shit and need a good laugh at someone else’s, read on. (It’s what I’m good for.)
12:46am. ”Goodbye, goodnight, thank you, have a good night,” etc etc Get the hell off this plane.
1:12am. “Bye, nice working with you too, have a great weekend,” etc etc I don’t care if I ever see your face again.
1:16am. Pee break.
1:19am. Standing, alone, in airport bathroom, thinking about terrible state of finances, realizing, slowly… Right in this moment- I have no money, no available credit, and no ride home- or, rather, to the house I co-own that I don’t live in or am welcome at.
And it’s 1:30 in the morning.
I stared at myself in the mirror and finally laughed at the pathetic hilarity of it all. I eventually wandered out and around the terminal, visiting our crew room, stuffing myself into a chair, and thought, Surely this must be rock bottom. Sleeping in my own airport. Isn’t it just so funny.
Fast fwd 36 hours.
I’m sitting in the dentist’s chair, finally having my teeth cleaned after three cancelled appointments. (it was a money thing, of course – even though our work plans cover roughly 80%, there’s still a $40-50 difference that I simply didn’t have.)
Tongueing my newly polished teeth, I was standing at the counter to pay when the receptionist looks up and says, ‘Your coverage has been terminated.’
My brow furrowed momentarily, until realization hit like a brick: babydaddy’s new job. His old company had already cancelled his insurance. Of course.
I fumbled madly for my own employer’s insurance card in my wallet, knowing that even if I had it (I didn’t) the coverage was crap and a mail-back cheque anyway.
Defeated, I tried to laugh as I looked at the balance owing, but my force-chuckles were choked out by squeeky, ugly sobs, as I had no other choice but to phone for my mother’s VISA to cover the $380. For a fucking cleaning.
Such beautiful irony, really, having continually cancelled because of the 20% difference, only to have to pay the full 100. Ha, ha, HA. (cue averted eyes by staff and clients alike, while ugly, embarrassing scene unfolds in waiting room)
Fast forward another 48 hours.
Uniform is pressed, makeup is on, ponytail is in place. I am tossing my pajamas into my flight bag, about to depart my posh hotel room, when, without even really realizing I was doing it and as naturally as if I were folding my laundry, I picked up the cooled iron I’d just used, dumped out the remaining water in its reservoir, wrapped its cord around its handled and nestled it into my flight bag.
Yep, I stole a hotel room iron. I would have balked at even the idea of such a thing before, but friends, I genuinely need an iron, (uniform) and sure as hell can’t be dropping the sizable coin required for one, and, feeling rather Aladin-esque I took no real shame in lifting one from a swank hotel. Necessity for me, peanuts for them. (I ganked a face cloth while I was at it.)
Ah, well. The moments sometimes get me, grab me, hold me in a place of terror/panic/misery, but then I remember you all and come to write and seeing it all there in print, collectively, somehow makes it less – horrible. And then I can laugh at it.
For better or worse right now – it’s such an adventure being me.
I haven’t time to post. (And yet here I am, right?)
I suppose what I mean is that I haven’t time to properly post. It is taking for fucking ever to get settled as the movers aren’t so much late as not here at all, and my shit phone has died and I have no internet and thus no communication with the outside world. I keep having to drive over to Starbucks to use their wifi, in erratic rushed spurts of course as I don’t want to be gone more than two minutes in case the movers arrive, and I am THIS CLOSE to having a meeeeeltdown. (surprise, surprise, I know.)
So that was yesterday. Now it is this morning, I am back at same Starbucks in filthy clothes and a pajama clad child who is saying an enthusiastic HI! to everyone who walks in the door. We both feel much better, after I picked up a case of beer and spent the night at my bestie’s, but bestie is gone to work today again so I’m on my own. I sent the movers a snootily worded email last night and am waiting to hear back on a time. Gaaaawd. Will this ever end?
My dear IRL friends – forgive me, forgive me not yet writing you… KR, KH, LH, AT, SS, MD… I promise, whole heartedly, you are at the forefront of my mind, and when I grab a wee moment of sunshine I will write.
Forgive the maudlin moment, but… everyone knows how much moving sucks and I was under no illusions that this would be easy, but what I hadn’t really factored in was how hard it would be to do alone. I’m a little, ah… terrified, mes amies. Bear with me.
It’s a good thing I wrote that promise post this afternoon. You know, where I promised that that was the last of my endless misery and blah blah blah?
Yes, a very good thing indeed, because it kept me in check when the world threw me a curve ball tonight.
Way back when Babydaddy and I were first splitting up, the long and wretched weeks following Christmas, we eventually came to (our first) place of amicability. We were bantering, somewhat, about how every boyfriend I’ve ever broken up with has always gotten his shit together right afterwards- getting in University, getting married, getting promoted, etc – and he could just thank me right then for his impending good fortune. Ha, ha, HA.
Let me first precede this tale by saying that I have been crash dieting for a solid week – have impending social event full of judgy old bags coming up and must be tiptop – and I am exactly the same weight as last week. Seven days, girls. Pop round real quick and shoot me, won’t you?
Back to the evening at hand, I returned from flying and was chatting amicably (we’re there again) with Babydaddy on Monday, when he tells me he got an interview.
Pause, for dramatic effect.
Let me quickly recount that this man has been at the same job since the day I met him – eight years ago – and has hated it more or less ever since. I’ve encouraged him, job shopped for him, written cover letters for him, etc, always doing what I could to help him; no matter where we are with each other, I would/will always say that he is too good for his job. He’s smart and funny and deserves much more.
Alas, his ambition wanes and he discourages easily, so these efforts have fruitless. I was gobsmacked at the news of an interview, now. I congratulated and good lucked him, and immediately followed with a ‘congrats on your new job’ to which we both laughed at.
The interview was yesterday and he said it went well, which was also shocking. Not being bitchy there, just honest – he is a lot of things, but a good conversationalist he is NOT. But he obviously did something right, because this afternoon, after having flown into a feel-sorry-for-myself-tithy following first sad feelings of how hard it is to live alone in this house and then the news of how much fabulous family time Babydaddy’s been having with his family without me – who he all but hated, by the way, until I arrived on the scene and encouraged and organized all these lovely little family get togethers despite these women being cold and apathetic statues – which I punctuated by such childish statements in the vein of how much fun they’re getting to have with MY child while not having to endure my company, how everyone must be so damn HAPPY about it, blah blah blah… (which, I know, it’s a bit ridiculous… but a) I know that no matter how much effort I’ve given it, how many tears I’ve shed over the past year- is there some kind of margin by the way, some set amount of tears one person can release in a set amount of time? – because surely I’ve exceeded it- I am still looked at by everyone in his life as some heartless bitch, and b)I’m an emotional wreck, friends, and if one’s not allowed a free pass at a time like this when is she?) – he drops the news, via text of course, that – what else – he’d been offered the position.
I was honestly stunned. He went to say that the hours were better (naturally) lots of golf would be involved (why not?) and it was a shit-ton more money (of course).
Well. What’s one to say? I absorbed this news, thankfully, in privacy, as we were still texting. Now that it’s hours later, I can say that the ratio of my being genuinely happy for him (90%) vs the ratio of bitter envy (10%) has shifted dramatically. I must emphasize, to pr0ve what I dont’ know, but that I am genuinely happy, thrilled even, for him; he deserves this. But at the time, I tried to stop the uglies from invading but all I could think was, Why the fuck wouldn’t you get it, why wouldn’t you have this great little family life now, why wouldn’t you find – oh did I mention? He found a sweet little condo, for which the mortgage will be less than my rent. And why the fuck wouldn’t he?
So. Sure is a good thing I made that promise post, yes indeedy! So instead of bitching I can instead say how very fucking happy I am for him and his fabulous fucking life! HaaaaPPEEEEE!
I took the high road, friends. I know, shocking, right? But I did. I knew that the insane, overwhelming feelings of uglies would dissipate and I would be able to genuinely congratulate him, which he would need as his friends and family are so useless with proper excitement, so I plastered a big smile on when he walked in, hugged and congratulated him, and threw a bottle of bubbly on ice that I said we’d crack after I got back from doing my storage run. (bringing boxes back to load into the moving van this weekend, you might remember)
But my forced cheer did little to actually cheer me – in fact, once I was in the safety and solitude of the jeep, barely off our street, I felt my eyes well up. Pissed at myself for being such a sissypants AGAIN, I blinked them furiously back and angrily forced away the woes that swarmed my mind. (what the hell?! I’m the one who’s been sacrificing, miserable, finally deciding my life is worth more and heading out blind into the abyss to find it and HE falls ass backwards into this good fortune?! Who the fuck is running the show up there?!)
But fortunately, I promised no more misery posts, so we won’t go into detail about said woes. ;)
I did finally come round – he does deserve this, I may have miserable these last months but so has he, etc etc – and just as I was starting to feel better, (and brace yourself for some UBER cheese here) I rounded a big corner and there, right smack in front of me, after a big rain we’d just had, was a perfect rainbow. Like from end to end, a perfect crescent, not one of those half-ones you usually see. Again, tears filled my eyes – yep, that’s the place I’m at, being moved to tears from a rainbow – and while I’m not a super religious person, I do have a spiritual side and, from Noah’s Ark, I believe that rainbows are a sign from God that things are going to be alright.
So there I am, bawling, AGAIN, though this time from a happy place, finally feeling, really believing, that things really are going to be okay, that I can do this…
Of course, when I pulled up the storage locker, which is outside, it had started raining again, and big fatty plunkets at that. I laughed. Why not.
I’m now sitting, writing out this lovely little anecdote, not bothered at all by the fact that my house looks like a bomb went off in it and I should be fervently packing; I’m accompanied by Leona Lewis’s Better in Time (vom, I know) and a cappuccino I made with – wait for it – chocolate milk and BAILEYS. Yes, your intuition is right – I am definitely a genius. For this one moment in time, I don’t feel afraid, lost, lonely or like a big fat failure. I feel… hopeful. Ima be okay.
I’ll add this little tidbit for your amusement – believe me, it’s a goodie, PG13 at least (gawd I’m lame) – I stopped by my mother’s on the way home to pick something up, and on my way out I passed my brother, the proverbial will-never-do-anything-with-his-life-and-live-at-home-forever type, who, as usual, was standing in the garage smoking a joint. He jokingly held it out to me as he always does, and halfway through my usual ‘get bent’ blow off, I surprised the hell out of both of us and took it.
And there, in my mother’s garage, I shared a rare ten minutes of companionable silence (we’ve never had a lot to say to each other) amidst a cloud of haze with my brother. Will wonders never cease.
You know when people say they’re ‘in between jobs’, which of course is just a nicer, less embarrassing way of saying they don’t have one? I feel like I am, in effect, ‘in between homes’, which is to not to say that I have nowhere to sleep, but that no matter where I am I’m not ‘home’.
I am in the final stages of moving now; it was going to be next week, but I dropped my pairing and am now driving out on Friday. I’ve hired movers- after realizing my original plan of renting a Uhaul and driving myself and my stuff out on my own wasn’t going to pan out (did I plan to toss my bookcase over my shoulder and haul it up and down stairs on my own?).
This is the saddest stage, I think, which is both good news and bad news: bad news because, of course, can I (and you poor readers) take any more misery? Like really? Good news, because, this is it; we’re in the home stretch, the 11th hour, and things can’t possibly get any more wretched than they are now.
It’s unfortunate I’m taking it all so hard, because I’d anticipated the heartache of packing and tried to prepare myself. But the thoughts hit anyway, as I lift dishes/clothes/knicknacks from their shelves, selecting what’s mine and what’s his… reaching around the beerstein he bought on our first trip to Europe; behind the fancy box that held our marriage license; selecting which of Lovebug’s books, toys, clothes to bring and which to leave… feeling panic at packing up the kitchen, which is all undoubtedly mine, because what will he cook with/eat on? I call him, then, at the dishes moment, and before I can even blabber out any plans he says, with complete calm and repose, “Oh, sure, pack em’ up, I’ll just buy some later.” I stopped, listening for any traces of snide, or even detached, emotion, but he’d spoken as easy as though we’d been chatting about the weather. He even said, in the same breathe, some funny anecdote that had happened at work.
I’ll never understand. How do boys/fellas/men/what have you remain so damn resilient, so detached and fortunately insensitive to all the sentimental crap that eats women alive? Won’t you miss all my lovely dishware, I wanted to shout, won’t your now empty china cabinet fill you with despair, won’t the sight of my clothes being gone from the closet bring you to tears?!
I said all this, of course. It seems to have worked out in both our favours that he moved out when he did, it’s sort of removed all the feeling that goes with a house, so no, he doesn’t care about all that stuff. Well, lucky him, I said.
I realized, in that convo, how much I’ve… I’m loathe to say it… babied him. I mean, panic at taking pots & pans, really? The guy is a fully capable grown adult; he’s more than able to fend for himself. And he’s taking ALL the furniture, and I don’t see him panicking at what I’m going to sleep/sit/eat on, so what the hell am I doing to myself here?
I realized, then, and the other day after a mortifying morning of complete idiocy, that I am, simply put, in a bad space. Mentally. I’ve lost my spark, my charm, my charisma; gone is my sass, my humour, my lightheartedness. My stress & sleeplessness, I’m again mortified to admit, but I think – I think I’ve actually gotten a little dumber as a result. (GAK, right?) I’m clumsy, I’m tripping, breaking nails, forgetting simple things… I hit a parked car (as in yep, unmoving) while leaving a friend’s house a while back. I’m unable to accurately gage distances – the other day I turned right into the edge of my car door, earning myself a fantastic goose egg on my forehead that was a LOT of fun explaining to people. I’m misplacing everything. I’m embarrassed to even be with people, even those that know and love me. I make these collasal mistakes and while everyone assures me it’s okay, I’m almost always certain I catch of a look of – what? Pity? Annoyance? – cross their face.
This is all a result of the one worst condition of this Bad Place I’m in: I’ve lost the ability to laugh at myself, mes amies. I would oridinarily find all these hiccups hilarious and be the first to make fun of myself, but now, instead they’re manifesting as severe faults and detriments, bludgening my already struggling self esteem.
However – all is not lost! The realization in and of itself that I am here, (Hell) is inspiration enough to climb up out of it. I’m literally at the end of the tunnel here, there is light there… and after this weekend, I’m sure, my self esteem and (hopefully) my brains will restore themselves, even if slowly, and… I’ll be on my way.
I’m already feeling better, actually. Thank God for this blog. And for you, dear readers, you are, dear friends…
And with this, I promise that my next post, which will be after the big drive, the big move…
Aka, my living room. I woke at some ungodly hour again this morning, combination babydaddy’s stupid alarm clock, scary shark dreams, (a recurring theme since childhood, odd I know) and sudden panic about the future.
This last little nugget is nothing new; I go through this type of mad panic, punctuated by a mad job shop, about twice a year. I’m overdue this time; it’s been a year since my last episode, (which had landed me the HOM job) and before that it was the final days before Lovebug was born. I’d sit, huge and uncomfortable and unable to sleep, in the wee hours of course, madly clicking, searching (and for what, right? Did I think I was going to start a new job with a newborn?!). .. But I vividly remember coming to the harsh realization one day that the automatic assumption we make in our youth that getting married, coupling up, making a life with someone, was the guarantee to happiness, and, more importantly to all the pampered princesses I went to school with… security… was definitely not going to be the case here.
I’d go so far as to say that coupling up and getting married actually worsened my financial state, and the only security it brought me was the assurance that I’d be massively in debt for the rest of time. I’d realized, slowly and surely, that my original plan to work part time while my kids were little and go back when they hit school was not going to happen. Babydaddy is a lot of great things – I’m not outright blaming him for anything – but a planner, a money maker, a businessman, he is not. I was going to have to be the brains behind the banking.
This wouldn’t be so horrifying (I’m actually good at budgeting & planning) if it wasn’t for my enormous softness, my want to give the people I love everything; and I used to work in a bar – right up to 5-6 months pregnant – translation: cash in hand, which made letting babydaddy have whatever he wanted a lot easier. Enter all kinds of eventual financial chaos, blah blah blah very boring but resulting in debt & disaster.
I always assumed I’d just fall into some Big Career; some great life was just waiting for me, I just had to find it. I spent hours upon hours of online job shopping, applying, writing cover letter after cover letter. Mission FAIL, always, and while it was so great to get away from that when I went back to flying after mat leave… it appears… I’m back.
I’m making this big move on my own; I am, in effect, stuck flying for the immediate interim, so as to bring Lovebug back to see her father, but I’m a) so certain he’ll eventually make his way out to us, and b) dreading this child-hauling commute. I can’t help but feel a little bitter that, as always in our relationship, it’s going to have to be me who makes all the effort, travelling twice a month back with a toddler to suit his schedule. I’m the one moving, fair enough, but it was OUR plan to go in the first place, I’m simply keeping in line with it.
And so, this morning, I padded downstairs and put on the kettle and turned on my old Dinosaur and pulled up the old familiar job pages.
I should know by now to expect the gut-wrenching anxiety that always accompanies these shops. Because, friends, my belief in myself is low to moderate at the best of times, but when reading the outrageous expectations of job listings… well, it’s a bad scene. Sweat starts in with a damp perspiration, my breath comes in short and shallow, my bottom lip is chewed to near total destruction. The Mean Reds arrive, my voice echoing thoughts of ‘You can’t do that’, ‘You wouldn’t last a day’, etc etc. And the thing is – those thoughts are true. I’ve been flying so long I don’t know anything about the real working world anymore. I have no computer skills to speak of- seriously, AT ALL – I don’t know the office politics game, I have so sales/negotiating/marketing skills, and to be honest I have the motivation of a 22 year old pothead; I never last in a job I don’t like. I have no skills or talents or really anything to offer whatsoever.
Ordinarily, I come out of panic and enter lighthearted humour; one thing I am really good at is laughing at myself. But right now, I’m looking at the future not only for myself – I now have a sweet, innocent little girl who’s depending on me. I have to provide for her, and set an example. It’s terrifying.
I guess I’m going to have to figure out how to grow up.
I just noticed, upon pulling up my WordPress dashboard, that this will be my 100th post. Wow, eh? I wish I had something to write about to properly commemorate it!
Which brings me to the Move, Part 1. (random capitalization justified) It was… less successful than I’d anticipated, which is always a let down, and I fear for all the work that lies ahead of me.
It wasn’t ready on the 1st, it turned out; the landlords were still cleaning it, and as I’d originally asked for a later possession they thought I wouldn’t need it right away, blah blah blah. This was a moderate blessing in disguise as instead of spending Canada day in move mode, I spent it with two other single parents and our collective lot of kidlets at a lake. Kids and adults alike were completely spent by evening, so we had a backyard campfire wherein I mowed down no less than 27 roasted (burnt) marshmallows. Cue fireworks.
I was there a total of five days, which feels both like forever and not nearly enough time. I’ve always been uncomfortable imposing on other people, crashing someone’s place, and it’s a million times worse with a child, as you’re now factoring in noise and mess and neighbours who hate children and schedules and so forth. So that part, for me, is total misery; no matter how great someone is about it, I can’t help feeling bad & awkward & uncomfortable.
I didn’t have my laptop with me and my phone died midway through the trip, and naturally I hadn’t brought my charger. I’ve plugged it in now beside me and am watching the brigade of texts coming in, all along the lines of ‘where the hell are you’. How I wish I knew.
I’ve been incredibly lucky in this apt shop/move to have the incredible support of a – perhaps ‘the’ – bestie out there- also a single parent, fortunately, with a couple of munchkins running round for Lovebug to play with- putting me up, driving me round, minding my moods & meltdowns… So I feel even worse for having such a hard time with everything. I imagine I appear such the ungrateful whinny pants and I so wish I could shake it.
So. I’m here (Calgary) for two days and then I fly for three, and then it’s Move Part 2. Rent the Uhaul, load it up and make the drive. The ‘real’ move. I padded downstairs this morning, stood in the quiet of the sunshine streaming in my beautiful main floor, and couldn’t believe I wasn’t going to be spending summer here. It’s honestly surreal. I haven’t packed any essentials… I have a mile-long list of cancellations and changes to make concerning bills phones cars etc etc… and then there’s all the writing I wish I was doing. (those of you who know me IRL and are waiting for an email back – I promise, it’s coming….) Oh, speaking of writing, I forgot to tell you the hilarious (trust me, you’ll just die laughing) news: not 24 hours from signing the papers on the new place went by until I got the pink slip from my part time writing gig. It wasn’t entirely shocking news- there was simply no money for the project - but the timing of it was simply priceless. That was 500 bills a month I really needed, especially now. What a gas, right?
I’m sorry these posts are so dreadfully boring & weakly written, (is that a word?) nothing more than one step up from point form notes ofwhat’s currently haps in my messy life. Sigh. I start every post with one thought/intention and it invariably gets lost along the way – much like me. I’ll get back to the good, dear friends, just… bear with me.
It appears Babydaddy had his alarm set on a daily go-off. So when classic rock blasted suddenly through the speakers at 6 something this morning, I was ‘up’, to say the least.
I wouldn’t have known this before as I haven’t slept here in the better part of three weeks. Gak, you say? I know. Between flights I’ve been shipping out to Van to apartment shop, which is mutually beneficial for us both as he gets to sleep in his own house and I get to find a place, and we both get to avoid each other. I do take Lovebug with me on those hops, (it’s as much fun as it sounds) so please don’t think I’ve abandoned my child. Far from it.
It feels somewhat weird being here… when I arrived the other night and got Lovebug to bed and came down to write, (mission failed, obviously) I ended up just sitting here, the dim glow of laptop light illuminating my house around me, an almost foreign place devoid of any personal touch or warmth. The bare walls, the bare surfaces, the packed-away mementos… I was, not surprisingly for one of my sentimental nature, moved by the sadness of it all.
The chair I sit on while writing at my table faces out across the street, and at night, when a light is on, you can see directly into the bedroom of the unit there. A girl, about my age, was inside on the phone, visibly upset; she was gesturing frantically and wiped her eyes more than once. I was staring, simultaneously feeling sad for her and relief for me that I’m not the only one, when some rather loud shouting from somewhere outside caught my attention. My wannabe-patio door was open, so I hung over the railings in the cool night air. Further listening revealed it to be quite the domestic, and, unable to stop myself, I ventured out my front door to locate the voices.
Three units down, my friends. Good grief. There was no glass breaking or sounds of violence so I left them to it, but couldn’t help wondering if there was something in the water in our little complex.
And now here I am, on the other side of the wee small hours, watching a beautiful day come to life to the sweet voice of Ella Fitzgerald. Lovebug and I are going to the zoo today, as a) my membership expires and b)… we’re moving. Soon.
I found an apartment, mes amies. My house hasn’t sold yet, so I’ve been shopping with the idea that I’d find a place with an August 1 possesion date and if, on the off chance it hadn’t sold by then, (it’s a really nice place, I do believe it will go soon) I’d simply dip into the cash I’ll take away for my half of the sale of the house for a month’s rent. Outrageous waste of money, you say? Many – most – would agree. But for me… I simply loathe living here, dear friends, you can’t imagine. I feel like the air is being sucked out of me. So a hunk of money down the drain for a fresh start and some peace of mind is more than worth it.
Oh, but the apartment – I can’t wait for you to see it – (yep, I’ll post a few photos) is perfect. I’ll go into detail later but the problem I encountered was the possession date date; I could tell the landlords were partial to me but it’s obviously had other interested parties, so financial negotiations ensued and long story short possession is July 1. As in, tomorrow.
So that’s that, friends. Lovebug and I are flying out tomorrow for the long weekend to do some shopping (um, mumsy? Can I borrow some cash?) as aside from a chaise lounge and a couple bucket chairs, I’m taking virtually no furniture with me. I’m hitting a Costco and a Homesense and some garage sales, and I actually couldn’t be more excited. I’m renting a Uhaul mid-month to drive out all my crap in storage, (frames, photos, kitchen stuff, etc) and of course said chaise and chairs and some plants and such.
So. Here we go… Let the adventure begin.
Written yesterday – Saturday – in the air.
On the plane again, dear friends. My usual lovely stewardess persona has given way to the irritable bitch within and I’m one annoying person away from shouting into the megaphone for everyone to shut the bluck up and sit the fuck down.
I picked this flight up last minute – as in, 2am last night, when I was three gins deep into a state of melancholy & picking up a quick Honolulu seemed like a great idea. It’s funny how smart one feels when half in the bag – I looked at this pairing logistically, in that it had me away roughly 36 hrs – check in Fri aft and home early Sun am, so really only missing Sat with Lovebug – and was 12 hrs credit, which is over $400. (I’ve been worried about money lately) And, ps, 24 hrs was in Honolulu. What’s to think about, right?
What I didn’t think about was who would watch Lovebug for Friday aft. Or that my airport parking pass was in the car, which babydaddy had driven downtown. Or that if I left the jeep at the airport there would be no carseat for Lovebug while I was gone. Etc, etc.
What ensued of course was a tornado of me flying about trying to find someone, anyone, to watch Girl, but with the combination of our daycare girl being a hundred months pregnant and me being rather isolated from everyone I know, I couldn’t wrangle anything. My poor mother had to call into work -again- to rescue me. As for the parking pass/car seat dilemna… I kicked myself again for acting rashly and – sigh – took a cab. $35 out of the $ I’d be earning, and so the tab begins.
This flight is never-blucking-ending, I’ve been poked and prodded and excuse-me’d to death, some filthy hoe-bag dirtied up the lav right after takeoff and now the whole galley smells like dirty vag, and the guy I’m working with- sitting shoulder to shoulder hip to hip – has breath that could kill a horse. AND – some effing caveman of an individual went and shit themselves all over the lav (in the sink, really?) so badly we had to close it off. (I do NOT get paid enough for that, mes amies) Read: Sour Grapes.
Roughly 30 hours later…
Back on the plane, middle of the red-eye home, fighting to stay awake. Sunburnt all to hell, in excruciating pain (sob sob, I know) and while it was a lovely day and I’m grateful to have had it, the real joy (or irony, perhaps) comes from the fact that in my efforts to pick up 12 hours of work and make myself some extra moving-coin – I ended up losing my wallet. Which contained credit cards, IDs, Canadian, Australian, and American cash, etc, etc. I probably won’t even break even. What a gas. Oh, the best laid plans.
So my 24 hour forget-my-life break is over and I’m on my way home to my shit life, which I’m actually rather apprehensive about. Because oh, did I mention why I was up so late the other night, why I couldn’t sleep and was ginning up, why a quick escape seemed like such a great idea, aside from the money?
Brace yourself kids, big happenings over here. Not only did my house officially hit the market on Friday – I watched the realtors put up the For Sale signs with mixed feelings of sadness and relief – but then babydaddy came home and announced he was moving out.
It’s rather interesting, how I took this news. It’s something I’d hoped for for ages – since I first broached the topic of Separation way back in the Fall. When things went off & on Ugly over the winter I was beside myself, unable to believe he wasn’t taking the high road and shaking up at a friend’s, but unable to kick him out of his own home, like everyone expected. This trying to cohabitate amicably has been nothing short of Hell of Wheels, but I’ve been trying, so damn hard, to be the bigger person and do what it takes to make it work. So to hear those words – especially now, in the 11th hour – was unexpected, to say the least, and I suppose it was the shock of it that found me taking it rather… hard. It’s an incredible feeling of abandonment, someone being moved to the point of throwing together an overnight bag and squatting on someone’s couch just to be away from you. We’d been doing so well up until the night before – wicked fight, sadly – and now here he was saying all the things I’d been thinking but would never actually say. ‘I hate living with you, seeing you, can’t stand this, etc etc’ -and I hate to admit what a sensitive sissypants I am but it just felt like such a sucker punch.
It’s one thing for me to feel those ways, see – I’m the one who set this train in motion, the one who had a list of grievances a mile long, the one who’s unhappiness was no longer liveable. And that list, I might add, is something babydaddy fully admits to.
But for him? Forgive my arrogance but what the hell has he ever had to complain about? I was a good wife; don’t worry I won’t bore you with self flattery. The point is… him feeling that way, being unable to so much as stand the sight of me… is incredibly wounding. Bruising to my ego, my sense of self, summing up the conclusion that my best… just wasn’t good enough.
But – chin up, buttercup – (Gaaawwwd I hate that expression) onward and upward we go. It can only get better from here. How thankful I am to have you all along to share the ride with me. Thank you for readi
Sometimes I hate myself. Well – more often than not, I’d say, I can probably be said to be hating myself, but let’s not split hairs.
And for some reason, it’s almost always during those bouts of self loathing, when I’m deep in darkness and solitude, and usually in the wee small hours, that the writer in me sparks to life.
I can always feel her stirring; my stomach is usually upset by then, the self loathing causing it to quench and churn almost to the point where I want to puke, and with that physical assault going on it’s not such a stretch to then envision a tiny little version of myself, beating with tiny fists at my ribcage to get out. My right hand adopts a slight tremor, then, absently pawing about for pen & paper, and a heavy curtain falls over whatever is presently happening in front of me while words and half sentences race across my eyes.
The Sandman often makes his appearance then, holding up his big Flava Flav clock while his tiny two inch frame dances in front of my face, Tinkerbell style, begging me to get some much needed shut eye. I give him a wan smile, knowing his fight is futile, but as you can see by my lack of posts of late – I’ve been indulging him. (Until tonight of course; wee writer girl has gotten rather angry and bitch-slapped our dear Sandman away, and thus I am here, now, in the wee small hours, so.)
Actually, the little fist-pounding writer in me has been popping up at unusual times, I suppose as a result of having been ousted so often by the Sandman. She’s been hitting me at times when I simply cannot write, like when I’m strapped into my jumpseat on takeoff and landing, when I’m driving, when I’m clearing Customs. These are times that, while I can’t write, I can certainly daydream, and I’m nothing at all if not a dreamer. (Borderline ADD, honest.)
And so I dream. I let the roar of the engines/noises of traffic/static of voices lull me to a far away land in which I create the most wonderful life for myself, the most wonderful, wildly different life; because, of course, surely the life I’m actually living can’t possibly be true?
I am in France. Lovebug and I have subletted a place there for the summer and loved it and stayed. I landed some amazing job that I can do from home which, of course is some great affordable place both Lovebug and I adore. Her father comes out to visit her and we get along great apart.
I am in Montreal. I landed some adorable apartment over a street of shops and have fabulously friendly old lady neighbours who watch Lovebug while I hop out to my fashionable job where I look fabulous and have gorgeous French men bringing me lattes and brioche suisse every day in attempt to win only a smile from me.
I am in New Zealand. I live a hop and skip away from my bestie and her fam and we hang out all the time and have tea and toast while her father regalls me with adorable dad stories. She is of course knocked up and I am her savior during the hells of pregnancy and she has a girl who becomes besties with Lovebug and the four of us have girls only dates all the time.
I am… somewhere lovely…the weather is temperate, my mood is content, I am strolling down a lovely street with Lovebug in a pink polka dot umbrella stroller, sippy cup in her hand cappucino in mine, we are en route to the park and I’m wearing a lovely skirt and my hair is down and I feel beautiful… I am… in a grocery store… Lovebug is in the cart in front of me, we are making faces and laughing and having so much fun… I am… on a couch, (my own?) in the twilight of evening, in my sweats, cuppa in hand, watching – whatever the hell I want – because Lovebug is sleeping and I haven’t anyone else’s shit to take care of so the night is my own.
More realistically, I am in… Vancouver. I have landed – fingers crossed – an adorable apartment, though it may end up having to be a basement suite – but it’s a place I feel good about calling home for my child. I am apprehensive but excited. I have fresh flowers on my table. Pretty pictures on my walls. Ultra feminine bedding, high heels and purses and scarves at the door, girly smells and French music playing and a cuppa brewing. I am figuring it out, one day at a time, and while it’s not easy just yet, I am… happy.
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