Back In The Game.

Wow, OK a week since I last wrote. Let's catch up.

It's Wednesday morning, and the lovely morning sun keeps me from sleeping late. I'm taking a mental health day and keeping the boy at home. The plan is to get some shit done, such as bills, and to figure out what this boy needs.

The weekend was a great one, full of friends, music, sex, food, wine, and cheese. Having my friends over for late-night hanging out with a fire made me happier than I have been in a very long time. People asked me how I was, how's the separation going, and I truthfully answered 'Great. I'm happy.' It was such a relief to say it. It was such a relief to feel it. My life is not just better, but good.

And yes, I did say sex. As candid as I can be, I'm not going to get into the details too much, only: POW pow pow pow POW POW. Yes yes, it's good to be touched and desired, to hear tender words, but really, let me just say fucking is good. And this fucking? Really fucking great.

Then I picked up my son on Sunday and it has been one car crash after another. Tantrums. Tantrums with me, tantrums with his teachers. Made us all cry with frustration. Then it turns around and starts affecting my work, and I feel like a professional fuck-up because I'm letting my co-workers down and distracting them from the million other things they should be doing. And I don't know how to handle this kid. Boot camp? More leeway? He's tired and stressed, confused too. There's no small measure of sadness and anger he's feeling. Like, duh. I, in turn, feel terrible, awful really, for putting him through this.

So I'm taking today to figure things out with him, get the groceries, pay the bills, make some phone calls. . .get back in the game.

Home Sweet Home *Update*

Today we all got to go home early because of the weather, and my evening job was cancelled.

A night to myself! I spent most of it moving things around the house, and cozifying this little space ship of a room. I'm much happier in here than in the big bedroom, so this is where I'll stay. I hung up some pictures, moved a little furniture, and sucked the dust bunnies into the big black vacuum cleaner. It all makes me much happier.

I just got up and took a photo of where I'm sitting as I write.
I'm getting up from that exact chair, undressing, and putting my little head on that pillow right there.

Goodnight.

And here's the lamp. The blessed, glorious lamp.

Did I really go through all this just so I could buy a new lamp?
So I could eat mushroom soup by the fire after filling the entire house with smoke because I closed the flue instead of opening it?
So I could drink a beer or three more with friends without having to call home?
So I could masturbate in the house alone?
So I could eat cheese and hummous and bread for dinner?
So I could flush the toilet at night without fear of someone waking up?
So I didn't have to look at the stupid crap he liked to collect?
So I could happily think of a sex life that explicitly excluded him?
So I could sleep late?
So I could spend less money on eating out now because life used to be so streesful I couldn't be bothered to cook?

Is that why I spent thousands of dollars on therapy and mediation fees? Did I do all that work over the past year just for these reasons?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Light Dork.

I'm so happy.

On my way home today I stopped and bought a lamp. No big thing, a $90 Pier One lamp. This is my first purchase in about 10 years that is for my home that I could buy because I love it, without consulting with someone. It is a big bulbous silver lamp with a drum shade; it looks perfect on top of my mother's old Stickley bookcase.

Out with the old! In with the new!

Let's hope the trip to the grocery store goes as well.

Juice boxes for all!

The Hateful Mac.

Tuesday morning. Still not getting laid. Up early but no snow to delay school. And when I drive to work, I have to risk Fleetw00d Mac on the radio. I mean really, why do we still have to listen to them? Did they not make their 'We're Fleetw00d M@c' point? Are we not over this yet? Please, people, enough. Stop requesting the Fleetw00d M@c. We're done.

Schubert too. Can't stand that guy.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Unbe-fucking-lievable.

I took the boy on the road for seven hours on Friday through the rain and slush and traffic.
I made sure to connect with my ridiculous grandmother, while we were visiting family.
I suffered his horrendous temper tantrum and refusal to sleep last night.
I got less sleep than when I'm home.
We drove home today.

All so that my husband could gather and pack all his shit with the boy out of the house.

I got home an hour ago. He packed up maybe a third of his stuff, and from what I could tell, it was his desk drawers. This was the weekend, not for moving all the stuff, but at least to get it all stored in his bedroom so that he wouldn't have to come back until he found .

Very, very, very little has gotten done. I could have killed him if he didn't start crying when I confronted him.

Done. Done.

Done, fucker, done!

Trolling for Panties.

OK so what if I've had a headache most days this week. And there's that time on Wednesday when a kid threw up into my hands. I've certainly not had enough sleep. Hey did I mention that cold? Well it moved right the fuck into my chest. Oh! Let's give a shout out to my son who completely lost his shit and kicked a teacher.

What's that you say? My marriage? Right-o! My husband and partner of 10 years moves out this weekend.

But hey fine, I'm rolling with it, feeling boisterous and wry about it all. I'm game. I'm in there, fully submerged in my life and kind of invigorated by it. 'Another day, another adventure,' I thought upon waking this morning. I'm good. Cruising the highway with the music blaring, not having any idea where I'll wind up.

Until.

Until.

I went to pack for the weekend and remembered that it was kind of important to do laundry when I got home because I have no clean underwear. Let me rephrase. I have no clean First Tier underwear. I have to go trolling for panties. Here are the cute ones that are, like, two sizes too small (pre-baby purchase). Here are the old old old ones with elastic that is -- wait -- what elastic?

But I'll tell you what's more depressing than the lackluster state of my underwear drawer:

Pulling down the fancy lingerie box and realizing that the only reason I'm opening it is for the inauspicious occasion of Laundry Day.

No one's getting laid. No one is snooping around, looking for fun. There's no hope of touch or desire tonight or tomorrow or the day after or the day after that or the week after that. Warm friendly hugs are what I have in store for the forseeable future.

Oh that's a desolate feeling, my friends.

But one that I choose to submit to, I guess. Technically, I could go out tomorrow night and do my own trolling, or have my panties trolled, however that metaphor is less awkward. There is just no fucking way, though. I know too much. I want too much. As a friend said, once you earn your PhD in fucking, you really can't go back to undergrad. The cheap and easy encounter wouldn't actually solve anything.

So I'll just run my fingers once more over those closeted silks, shimmering ghosts waiting in my closet. They'll wait. I'll wait.

Ugh.