Hit and run

Note to the ass who sideswiped my husband in the parking lot –
What type of scum hits a blind man and drives away? Oh, wait, you do. There are nice toasty corners of hell for people like you.

Apparently the guy swerved and Husband heard brakes, but got tapped and knocked off the curb. One of our neighbors was nice enough to run out and help him. He wasn‘t badly hurt, though we went to the ER to get him checked out. the guy whipped out of the parking lot, and the neighbor who helped didn‘t see anything. Obviously, my husband didn‘t either. I can’t believe they didn‘t check on him. He uses his cane, and stays on one stretch of sidewalk, doesn‘t even cross a street to take out the trash. Does this person have a habit of jumping curbs?

Sometimes I hate people.

List of complaints

All the eating out, weird routine change meal wise has me feeling a little sick. My stomach needs to recover.

I was glad they visited, but having them here made me more homesick.

I feel bad that my parents and my sister came to blows just before they left. I am tired of playing mediator. Somehow I thought after 25 years with each other, they'd learn not to push each others buttons.

I want to go to the party my bank teller is going to tomorrow in honor of the Sex & the City movie. I don't even have anyone to go to the movies with.

I feel like I have a lot to say, but I am so fried from the last few days.

My car is officially dead. It tried to take me with it, I'm still shaking.

Wow, I hate whining, and yet, I am SO good at it.

If things had been different

Today, I would have been celebrating a little girl’s 4th birthday. I think of the baby we named all the time, think about how May 24th was my due date. My heart is not as broken as it once was, but it still hurts. I’m pretty sure it always will.

I can’t go to the tree we planted in the park around the corner in her honor/name. But, I’ll say a prayer and try not to cry.

Side note: Ugh, enough with sadness and anger. I am getting aggravated with myself.

Day after tomorrow

I’m told they’ll be here Sunday morning, my mother, father, sister and her husband.

I still have no couch. I just unpacked the last of the boxes from the move. I didn‘t go get a haircut.

I wanted to convince them that we’re wonderful okay. That the move was successful and that we’re thriving. To give them the impression that we’re on top of things, loving our lives, relishing the new digs.

It all seemed too insincere.

Yeah, I am not perfect. There are dirty dishes in my sink, probably a towel on the floor in the bathroom. I still have paper reproducing itself all over my office. I don’t have much in the terms of decor, I didn‘t go furniture shopping. It does look like we recently moved in. I’m the only one who sees it, and honestly, I probably don’t care as much as I should.

It’s easy when you talk every ten days or so, to make things sound good. We know, I’m good at that. Them spending the next week with us, well, that makes it harder to pretend.

Part of me wants to crawl into my parents arms and cry; to let go all the tumultuous emotions and collapse. I can’t. They are here to visit, but they can’t be burdened by my drama. My predicament is of my own making.

I sometimes think back, wondering how I got here. I never thought I’d be married, much less contemplating divorce. When I did get married, I thought by now we’d be a busy growing family. Much of what I hoped and envisioned my life to be hasn‘t turned out. I’m sure everybody thinks that, but I feel lost. I wanted to be a good wife and mother. When I couldn‘t be a mother, my aspirations towards perfect wife seemed to fade. I began to wonder if I was meant to be a wife, since I wasn‘t meant to be a mother.

I haven’t replaced those hopes. I have no hope.

I was a perfectionist. Growing up, I was the perfect daughter, the good student, the best friend. I did everything as I was told, until I started feeling desperate about it all. I still didn‘t change too much. Up until I got married, I had to be good at everything. Since then, I struggle to be good at anything.

I don’t want them to see that I’m crumbling. I don’t want them to know that my marriage has soured. I still want them to see me as their perfect daughter, even if I can’t.

I am an orange


I am like an orange.

I have a rough, thick skin.

If you manage to penetrate that, you'll find another, bitter layer

When you finally get to my insides

You never know if I'll be tart & acidic

Or sweet

Yes, I am way off my schedule and need more sleep.


The feeling of dread regarding the upcoming company is palpable.

I’ve forgotten just how difficult pretending can be. We have to be on our game for at least most of the visit.

Still have a bunch of things to do, and get. But tomorrow and Wednesday will be wasted by this little jaunt to Johnson City.

I still need to cry. I’m going to have to induce it somehow if it doesn’t happen. Otherwise, given Murphy’s law, it will happen at an extremely inappropriate time.

Weekend’s over…

Busy week up ahead of me, getting everything in order for the family visiting this next weekend.  Anxious about it, to say the least.

Newsflash – apparently, I’m driving 3 hours Tuesday to take the husband to a meeting. Can you just feel the enthusiasm? I’m not pleased, we’re going to have to stay overnight because of the schedule, and I’m not in the mood for a mini-road trip. Plus, I’ve not had to take a long car ride without Canadian Crack* since I left home. I’m wondering what the hell is in this 3 hr away town?

Today I ran a bunch of little errands. One of which – getting the dog washed. Almost killed the groomer. They asked me to hold the dog down on the floor as I arrived to pick him up so they could finish cleaning his paws/trimming his nails. Not to sound like a crank, but there I was, all dressed up and in white pants no less. Yes, I know, he’s my dog. Well, my husband’s. But, I paid you to do this, and crawling on the floor to assist you is not part of the price. (There was another person there she could have asked to help her)

Trying to finish up a few last projects before I go to bed. Ha, like I ever go to bed at a normal hour…

*Canadian Crack – term of endearment for Tim Hortons Double Double Coffee