Cornholio

Tonight, Hubs was swinging the passive-agressive grumpy jerk attitude like a battle axe, and I just wouldn't tolerate it. He saves that one just for his family, so lucky fucky us. I suggested I could go hang with Mell until I was able to get disability approved, so i can get bariatric surgery and then, we could just get divorced. He says he doesn't want that . Then, constructive solutions were developed and it was better,  

He often doesn't ask what's going on with me and then doesn't understand, when all my spoons are gone if I tell him I can't do something,  he doesn't want to do, I get the passive-aggressive garbage. I'm over it. If I wanted to be in a relationship that I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, I could have stayed with any one of the abusive assholes in my multi-colored and checkered past.

As much time as he says he wants to hang out with me, he doesn't seem to care how I'm doing at all. It hurts my body,  my spirit and my heart because he is just choosing to not pay attention. 

Today, I got up with little sleep and drove a regular to work. I worked for a few hours and got one to the airport, which is very close-by home. I spent the afternoon with calls, emails, and assorted stuff. Mind you, I can barely walk, use stairs or move because of all the collective ow and the unending poo fest that is my butt, after the gastroenteritis hospital stay. 

I asked G to do the rest of my shopping today with said income. She said she wanted to shower after the gym, but then she could. Three hours later...Nada. I could have called, but she has been working on school projects, so guilt plowed in and her evasion worked. When she got asked to put the groceries away, she started with the tantrum and I simply said, hey ya blew off doing the one damned thing I really needed today, you can do this part of it. And I'm exhausted, so no energy to track her ass down and push the issue.

I said something about the shopping needing to get done to Mike and he grimaced with the face that means, "Fuck you for thinking that." Knowing the usual battle, passive aggression and all with his assorted BS, I had to go with him with everything hurting and my digestive track having me run in earnest for the past week. God forfend he could hold his own as a grown ass man at the Piggly Wiggly.

It often feels like daily, I'm dealing with a toddler, who is supposed to care about me. I know he's always been a bit autistic, though he thinks I'm on crack. (Just my butt crack.  Yes, I have a 12 year old sense of humor, so cope, OK?) But yes, very autistic.

I said, "Butt." (insert Beavis and Butthead laugh here)

I'm really depressed.  I'm struggling with all the issues of my body not working and my insurance not currently covering bariatric surgery that would save my life. No drama.  Just facts.  I can only take 3 medications to deal with gastroparesis and one I can't take because of an important one I take for fibro and the other two cause heart problems, which can and will interfere with my existing heart issues over time. A gastro surgeon said there are no good surgical options for me short of a roue and y bariatric procedure.  Add to that that the gastroparesis has me looking like a tuskless walrus and I'm absolutely miserable.  Also, I've been getting all these weird muscle strains and sprains that (no surprise) don't fucking heal.  My sugars are being pretty princesses and behaving, but the fibro is dropkicking my ass from Kingdom Come to Kingdom Went.

Part of the problem is that even though I asked for help, I didn't get it from my hubs and kids.  I told my husband he doesn't get to be nasty to me because he doesn't like or want to deal with something.  And that's his go-to.  He hollers or gets nasty or takes on a shitty attitude for the night, so he doesn't have to do things.  Grumble, evade, be a bitch, so Ruby has no energy to fight it out with you. The problem is that he's taught the kids that and I'm over it.  I've informed both kids that the going rate for a room to rent in a house in our neighborhood (there's a room for rent on the other side of our back fence)  is $900, in our neighborhood. And if we're charging them $500, it's because we're expecting them to step up and be adults and help with the household chores or they can pay a more appropriate amount of rent, so I can hire a housekeeper. I've informed Genny and Mike what the meals will be this week and sent recipes and plans.

If the kids moved out (Oh, please oh please), I think we'd keep the house another couple years, take our equity and go somewhere substantially cheaper to live. We bought the house with the kids in mind, knowing that that the boy would need his own restroom and space for an indeterminate amount of time because of the myriad of health issues he has.  He's decided without knowing the language or the culture, he's going to the Philippines to play poker for a living over some girl he met online a few months ago. (God save me from the stupid!)  We have discussed things with him and he said he wants to try this out. He's always been a good poker player and he's been playing since high school and winning his butt off.  At 30 years old, all I can do is advise and shut the fuck up.  I'm not holding my breath for the woman involved, and we all know horror stories of morons being taken in. If he makes it work for himself, I'm not going to whine. I'll even keep my big mouth shut, if "I told you so" comes into my fibro brain. My biggest concern is he has inherited the same problem I have, which is a huge difficulty with saying the word, "no," when it comes to the latest and greatest in dating disasters.

In the interim, I would probably rent the room in the basement with the en suite bathroom because it'd be a simple way to gain some income without the hassle of adult children being snots. He wanted to pay half rent, i.e., quarter rent, for us to maintain the room for him and I told him no.  I told him at 30 years old, he could rent a storage shed or let his sister be in charge of any crap he wanted to leave behind.  I am not moving crap for someone who no longer lives here. He decided at that point, that he'd just like to leave copies of important papers here.  Funny. Thing. That. I agreed to that, of course.

I'm so sick of this shit.  I'm so tired of the constant Battle Royale to get help with the house.  Genny has money to pay for a trip to a Furry Convention and they both have money to go to a Brazilian steak house and sushi, and we're both driving Uber to try to cover the fucking bills. I told her I'm not OK with essentially funding her nerd orgy.  She said that it was her money.  I said the only reason she had it was because she wasn't paying the rent we could actually charge for her room. The lightbulb went off.

After venting with friends, I've scuttled from the edge of murdering them all in their sleep and burying them under the raised beds. Not far from the edge, but more like I'd drop pure capsaicin on their foreheads in their sleep. Besides Turk is in his permanent home there and I wouldn't defile his grave for all the fucktards in the world, even familial ones.

Now, if I can just find the Holy Grail of my personal Arthurian legend, aka my bottle of oxy, I will be the happiest Morgan Le Fucking-Fay ever and I might even be able to walk to the bathroom without screaming obscenities.  This torn quad muscle has me begging for something deep and abiding and far larger than mercy. Calling PT, Podiatrist, and getting cervical ablation scheduled tomorrow.  

 Appropros of not a damned thing, I found an etsy listing for glow in the dark dildos with suction cups on the end.  I'm sitting there looking at that and I'm thinking, "Is that so you can stick in on a chair and ride it AND simultaneously be able to find it in the dark?" Then it made me think about what furniture in the house might be appropriate and then, the severe creeps ensued. Shut up brain!  WTAF! Good wavy gravy, all I could think is thank the great disinfecting wipe gods!

In the same ad, I found a listing for a bag of dicks and there was a neatly lettered little tote bag with, "Bag of Dicks," on it, and a bunch of gummy penises for said recipient to choke down.  Who do you know, who should really eat a bag of dicks?  I supposed I know a good number of people.  When that first came out, I thought it was genius.  I still do, which just goes to blow ya, I've got the mental maturity of a 12 year old.

I saw a doctor today that I loved, who does bariatric surgery.  I could pretty much cancel out the majority of my health problems, if I had it and sadly, with time, they are compounding.  It's so fucking frustrating.  Mike's new company has a rider preventing coverage of bariatric surgery.  Without it, I'm going to die, probably of heart failure because my vagus nerve is dying from being a long time diabetic.

Mike is considering changing jobs.  And I may just go ahead and see if I can get disability. I've worked close to a year now, so it is possible, but I'm getting less out of the low-dose naltrexone and starting to really experience more inability to work versus the other way around.  Not getting insurance to cover it is very much like finding a glowing green ween in the dark: gross, disturbing and completely aggravating to deal with. And yes, I think preventing someone from getting bariatric surgery makes you a candidate to eat a bag of dicks.  Mike's sent an email to HR asking about it and we'll see what they say. If they can't change/make an exception, they can eat a bag of dicks with the stupid totebag, and Mike will be looking for a new job.