I had one of my once in a blue moon cranky pants I-really-want-to-fight moods. My husband, who is still about35% fine from the exploding descending colon, e.coli. two feet of hot gangrene and last rites is not, to be fair, ready for me to go crazy on him. In six months, yes. Well, maybe. Now, no.
But he has been sick unto death since September and has had three of the five surgeries he needs before the first of the year. (I split every break I get. Someone else tends to him and I can go shopping).
So he is about halfway into being halfway to actually helping me. Just in case you don’t know, I moved in February, I have three dogs I take out 3 times a day. I do all the cleaning, laundry, folding, putting away of things. I run his business, file takes, pay bills, wrestle with the IRS, the city and the morons who want to bang on my door to listen to my dogs bark.
I am on the tightest budgets I can manage, just in case he dies. No candy bars, ice cream, chips, cakes, twinkies.mani-pedis, facials….the list goes on and on. Even the dogs don’t get groomed. He still is smoking and one of his doctors told me it was MY RESPONSIBILITY to make sure he stopped smoking. It will slow down his healing to the point he just WON’T heal….as in die. I told him I had given him the wonk eye, he knew exactly how I felt and if his plan was to drop dead, have at it. I was not in charge of his smoking.
Later, Mike wanted to know why I couldn’t have softened up my replay a little, because the surgeon thought I was some kind of nut.
I told him the only nut I saw standing around was SMOKING and as far as I was concerned, he could smoke a carton a day. Die faster and let me get on with my life.
Then I mentioned that my name is on none of his bank accounts. His name is on mine. Heck, even the kids names are on mine, because we follow the rule of draining an account before the bank knows you’re dead. He thought I was nuts and over-reacting, so he called the bank and surprise of surprises, NONE of his accounts are in my name. So he has this little pile of cash I know nothing about (except it exists) and he can write checks out of my account and handily forget to let me know.
I was married to him for 13 years before he put my name on all his properties, because, as I recall putting it, I had tossed about a million dollars to RENT a bed and if I didn’t get something in my hand that said this real estate was part mine, I was moving. FAR, FAR away and changing my name so he would never find me or my kids.
We were in the lawyers office the next day.
So whenever I get worked up like this (okay, I’ve been worked up since September), I cut my hair. Dog clippers, whatever scissors I happen to have in my hand; once I use nail clippers and cut from Bakersfield to Vegas with the window open. Lucky for me, it never turns out horrible, just sort of punk and this side of scary.