Of course i wondered how long it would take before i was given a verbal beat down about the new gig from the Breadwinner. Oddly enough it was a lot sooner than even i thought, i mean i figured i'd be a few weeks in before i heard some snide remarks but low and behold it took less than a work week. Actually it started before i got started. I'll admit i was a bit apprehensive, mainly because dealing with the general public is horseshit and the people using this service probably weren't your average lumpen-proles (that would be those of us working for the service) and i knew just how horrible the "upper crust" types can be. Some of these Karens and Bo-hunks would be using this service because they were to busy playing tennis or golf or Mahjong. There was the fear of being berated by someone for something trivial and getting booted because while i may have an extraordinary reserve of patience i also don't suffer privileged fools and have been known to use my lovely acid tongue to get myself in trouble. Being fairly mocked (by the Breadwinner) while someone says, "what are you scared?" is not the way you want to start. Granted i didn't really think i would get any support for my starting because that's just not how shit works around here.
Let me just state that back before this whole mess kicked off the Breadwinner rarely worked 40 hours a week. In fact many days her actual time on the job was less than four hours, yes she'd take some calls at home and handle problems but i think most of us wouldn't mind working from the comfort of our own bed or back deck or kitchen table. While i won't discount the stress that comes with her business i also will add that she creates more stress than is necessary. So on her most recent day off i had mentioned about getting some orders filled. Certain times of the day are better than others and so when i stated this i was met with a harangue about what i needed to do with her. (Note- the first thing i need to do when faced with a day with the Breadwinner is get ripping fucking high.) About how "just because you work for an hour" doesn't mean you can't do other stuff. It's the kind of jab i've grown accustomed to and i usually just head to another room where i often re-enact the scene in Jaws where Hooper silently gives Quint a piece of his mind. You know, pulling faces, flipping the bird, it's good for my own mental health to get it out and good for the boyos that i don't just blow a gasket.
The next little dust-up was even more telling, you see we all see the world differently, on average we look at the same thing or situation and it is processed through the grey matter with what the scientific types state as a roughly 7% variance, meaning while that we see the same thing we really don't... or something like that, then again i'm probably full of shit. That said after a day of making meals, doing laundry, hitting the gig and getting three orders done, running one boyo to the park for a bit of footie training with his friend, doing dishes, making dinner, doing more dishes, the daily litter box duties, getting Nick Disaster's new Beta tank for his fish ready and finally eyeing my book and favorite chair, i was told that i needed to run out and pick up a pair of sneakers since the I-mac had destroyed the pair he got roughly a month ago. Now while i don't mind this sort of thing by this time i was just tired of running around and wondered why the Breadwinner couldn't help out by running to the store, sitting in the car, and having someone bring the fucking shoes. I mean her day had consisted of a bit of work, coming home and eating lunch, laying in bed and diddling on her ipad, taking a nap, waking up and sitting on the deck, talking to her friends on the phone, perusing shoes online for the I-mac, ordering shoes, then issuing orders for shoe pick-up.
Unfortunately for myself i had the audacity to suggest she could pick up the shoes to which i was met with a diatribe about how before i became the house boy she did everything around the house. Something patently not true. She hasn't cleaned a bathroom in 18 years, until of course i stopped cleaning hers. Yes i know that's some passive-aggressive bullshit but i figured no one else was allowed to use it but her, was yelled at if they did (even her children) and so why the fuck should i clean it? So i don't and when it became a disgusting mess she finally broke down and cleaned it herself, astonishingly nothing was said about it. Litter box? she never touches them. Before i was made house boy the duties were a bit more evenly split, now all of it falls squarely on me. You won't find her doing the boyos laundry and she rarely cooks for them, and since she is the POSA's daughter, it's a "i make the money so i make the rules" kinda deal. I was treated to a lecture that was a thinly veiled string of insults as to my relative worth (in her eyes), about all the things she's done, about how she could do this that and the other much better than i could ever do, and about the myriad of sacrifices she has made in service to us all. Now when i bring in that 7% variance on our respective realities i feel the need to add 20 or 30 percentage points to our views but i think this stems mainly from the fact that we don't really like each other all that much.
So i took a large pull from a pen filled with Lucky Charms ( a lovely strain) and set off to get the shoes. Of course what should have been a 10 minute drive turned into twice that when it was discovered that once again the construction crews had decided to block myriad lanes and roads to get some work done. These days i can barely get out of my neighborhood they're working on so many streets but alas i made it and sat in my car and waited for my old phone to finally send the invisible message to bring out the shoes. Luckily there is music. You see while i sat there wallowing in my humanness of dejection and self pity and anger i decided a little Purple Mountains might help the situation and so i popped it in and let the late Dave Berman help me feel better, which is ironic considering Dave suffered from a depression so severe he took his own life... but as Mozza once said, don't forget the songs that made you cry and the songs that saved your life, and on this night the opening track of the record was just what i needed. Then the shoes arrived and i took the long way home (to avoid the traffic jam) with the windows down and the stereo turned up loud and sang along with DCB (as he's known) and i'll be damned if the summer air and lovely early evening sky didn't do wonders for my disposition. By the time i was home i felt damn near okay and then the I-mac tried on his new kicks and came downstairs and thanked his old man and gave him a big hug cuz the kid's got a good soul... and that thought brought a smile to his old man's face and then Disaster came bounding by and for no reason blurted "i love you dad" as he be-bopped on his way by and the yin looked at the yang and settled nicely in the middle.
2 comments:
Man, this still seems like one hell of a contentious relationship. That's so hard for me when even a day goes by like that. I can't imagine it going on in that fashion for years. What I never got was why it is that we would never treat friends like that, but husbands and wife get into it like that? I get that way with my wife too, but so far we are always able to right the ship. Shit, man. Keep grinding at the job and doing what's right by the kids and be safe out there.
your kids know. they understand. they see it. as they grow up, they will be quite adept at developing separate relationships with you, and with their mother.
my kids were 17 and 19 when we officially divorced, but given that my ex had moved out to our place on the lake a few years earlier (his job let him telecommute), he'd come home when i was about to leave town on a business trip... honestly, it helped me feel less guilty about my sometimes aggressive travel schedule because it was the only time he came home.
their relationships with him, and with me, evolved differently - and although The Boy didn't speak to his father for about 4 years, they have achieved a level of functional connection. i really wonder if your boys mom understands that she's losing her sons with every bit of abuse she drops on their father...
Post a Comment