The Gunnysack

 It's called gunnysacking, a term used by therapists everywhere when dealing with the fallout or impending fallout from a decaying and deteriorating relationship. I first became aware of the term and it's connotations when Pops was going through the divorce. His therapist had stated that what my mother was doing was called gunnysacking, taking all the things she didn't like and storing them away so she could pull them out and throw at him when the time came. Call me guilty as charged i guess except for the fact that i haven't thrown or thought about throwing these things out at the Breadwinner mainly because i want to raise the boyos and i know even broaching these subjects would probably not end well for me. So i avoid the conflict. Yes maybe it's not the best way to heal the wounds but after the wound festers for so long sometimes the best course of action is amputation. We ain't there yet but if i was to look into the future, something i'm loathe to do, there is a table with a hacksaw and a bottle of whiskey. 

And so here is the breaking of the New Year's resolution. In a word, fuckit. Resolutions are bullshit anyway but i'll do my best to keep the pissing and the moaning to a minimum, i've got other tales to spin, infinitely more interesting and entertaining (at least i hope) than the shit show of domestic disaster. I tend to read stuff, books and articles and blogs, and what i realize, have realized for a long time, is that whatever one could call this thing it is far from a functional relationship. In fact it's more a game of Master and Servant, to steal a title from Depeche Mode, i being the latter of course. When i see how what one would deem healthy relationships work i see a give and take, i see a general concern for well-being, a sharing of household duties and the like. The question has been posed about the Breadwinner's state of mind, how she feels about the situation and i can only say from the observations made she has no problem with it. Yes there are things she is unhappy about but on closer examination those are things of her own doing (mainly her work). When you absolve yourself from ever driving your children to practice and the like you shouldn't be surprised that they're not really concerned if you come to their games or not. The boyos have both heard her complain about the expense and the boyos have both heard me say i don't care about the expense, i'll figure out how to pay. I'm quite sure that Pops would have no problem with the dosh he left me being spent to finance the boyos endeavors. He'd have done it himself if he thought it was needed the same as his mother, my grandmother made sure i got my degree by paying for my last year of school. 

So let us open the gunnysack. There have been new developments here at the lounge, the newest being what i call Point and Bag. It's been documented here before that Wednesday is my roughest work day, the Breadwinner's weekday she takes off so that we can do a few things, all things of course i could do on my own but the Breadwinner likes to "do things", so being the obedient servant i obey. Trips to get groceries are my new favorite as these days the Breadwinner walks in front of the cart lording over all the aisles, she will point to things and tell me to get this and get that while i mutter expletives under my mask. (On a side note i don't really mind the mask because it covers my muttering lips and saves me the hassle of explaining what i might have been saying. When previously caught i used to say i was singing, music saves me again.) Why she can't get said items and place them in the cart? That remains a mystery much like this next bit. Once at the checkout a new game begins. The Breadwinner likes to bag things because no one knows how to bag like she does, the thing is once the groceries are bagged she then points to the bags for me to put in the cart. Why can't she put them in the cart? Are they too heavy? No they are not. Hence Modern Serf puts them in the cart. Apparently that's in my job description. We then adjourn to the parking lot where the Breadwinner once again walks a few steps ahead of the lumpen-prole and then opens the car and gets in while the lumpen-prole unloads the cart into the car. It is Master and Servant. 

The making of daily meals is also a textbook study in the Lord and lumpen-prole association. Dinner being the main bit of theatre where the Breadwinner will announce what it is i will prepare. She then takes up her place at the table to scroll through her phone and pull on her e-cig scepter while talking at me about what's on her mind. Remember, i am not to add more than a perfunctory comment or nod in agreement as this in not a conversation but the Breadwinner airing her grievances and thoughts about the world. The fact i'm busy cooking helps and i've become quite adept at playing the fool so to speak, of understanding exactly what i need to do to avoid the wrath. Of course once dinner is over all manner of cleaning up is left to me, another shining example of the no partnership clause, and while one may say, what about the boyos? fact is usually one or both of them is then running to get ready for a practice or getting back to or started on their homework. Yes i'm guilty of letting my sons slide when it comes to certain chores much like i was allowed to slide by when i was a kid. As i explain to them, they'll learn and they do as they do have chores and tasks to complete it's just i don't feel the need to be an overbearing ogre when it comes to it. You only get to be a kid once. 

In fact just recently as i was doing about a half dozen things after dinner before getting the I-mac to his futbol practice i was chastised for not being more gleeful and engaged in the rhetoric of the Master. I was queried as to my mood and my attitude to which i replied i was busy. I was then treated to a diatribe on how the Breadwinner would do things (much like one her father would give) while being told she doesn't understand why i seem stressed. Fact is i wasn't all that stressed more just agitated by the fact i was doing a bunch of shit while someone else sat there and pontificated. Fact is whatever wasn't done would have to be done when i got home and after a long day of modern serfing, a job that she still doesn't seem to grasp the physicality of if one intends to make it a profitable gig, and after hanging out in a cold car for almost two hours while i wait for the boyo, hence the last thing i feel like doing after coming home sometime after 9pm are the dishes left over from dinner or scooping litter boxes or taking out garbage. In fact at that point i'm usually so tired that all i really want to do is imbibe my favorite plant and pass out but even that is impossible as i then must make sure the boyos don't putz around while winding down and getting to bed at a reasonable time. 

The truth is i don't mind the long days, i love doing whatever i need to for the boyos, but i don't really feel like being told how to do things or overseen by someone who spends a good deal of time sitting and scrolling through their phone or lounging in bed with her cat and an Ipad... and so here i am, flushing that resolution squarely down the shitter as i piss and moan about my plight. Do i expect some sort of sympathy? Absolutely-fucking-not. To tweak a cliche, i've made my couch and now i must lie on it. Like Dostoyevsky in that Siberian motel i watch the calendar, never thinking too far ahead, staying in the present because that's where i am and that's where the boyos are and that is firmly where i want to be. Now enough of this pissing and moaning. Back to our regularly scheduled program known as the Wilderness Years. (Enjoy this lovely song which about sums it up.)