Backtrackin Blues

After my inexplicable demon possession on Friday and subsequent rectal exorcism I am now sufficiently medicated, rested, and in a more mature frame of mind. I must retract my verbal crucifixion I angrily inflicted on my semi-innocent spouse. I have trust issues transforming me into an explosive homunculus when faced with real or self-created abandonment. It is unfortunate that I cannot delete this misfiring signal of raging nihilism, but it remains in hibernation until the next time it burrows its way forward, a tapeworm feasting on irrationality.



After the manic barrage of hysteria is exhausted, the equally demented release of laughter begins. I extract his cell phone from his coat and see he has not listened to the overwrought curse laden call I had made. I listen and laugh after his polite please leave a message, I commence my tirade “You want a message here’s your message, you’re a ###### @@@@@” I continue with my blood pressure soaring – diatribe alternately huffing and puffing as I schlep through the snow. It was funny a nasally whine infused voicemail with what I imagine Marge Simpson’s sister Selma sounded like in the throes of passion with Sideshow Bob.



By the next morning all is past except my husband’s wish for the now deleted voicemail. It would have been played for years, a running loop of, The Day The Oompa Loompa Erupted. I am fine with that erasure. I am also fine with my grand mal hissy fit. A dramatic diva presentation, was beautifully choreographed, over the sidewalks and pseudo-mountains, sung in native Greenvillian  The 2011 Snow Follies.

Night Shift Lullabye

So, I became a raving Bitchasaurus this morning when I did not receive a phone call and my beloved did not pick me up. We had discussed this the night before as a blizzard had occurred two days earlier and many people do not shovel. I wanted to be assured of a ride. He absolutely said he would pick me up. I became nervous when he didn’t come and did not answer his phone. I knew he might be having an interview, but I was infused with anger that he didn’t answer my text or calls. My irritation was compounded by yesterday’s unfulfilled request. I had asked him the night before to get the garbage out as it was buried in snow. He promised me he would do it the next morning. The next day he growled at me when I reminded him, he needed to finish his breakfast, needed to finish watching The A team. I found him asleep a few minutes later. I trudged through the snow, lifted the can as best I could through the drifts, gathered the heavy garbage and set it out. Yes I knew he was tired, but what I do, or feel doesn’t matter anymore. My job pales in comparison because he works a twelve hour night shift. I could never be as tired as stressed, as overwhelmed as he. My life is centered on letting him sleep, which he apparently is not able to do, that my f-ing dogs, my f-ing phone, my f-ing brother, my f-ing medical show, evilly plot against him.and his circadian clock.


I try to get the work done, make his lunch, keep the dogs quiet, keep the papers out of bed. I am dancing the waltz of my youth keep things even, maybe Dad won’t get drunk, the frenetic jig of motherhood buy them what they want, maybe they will stay sober, let him sleep maybe he will not yell. I no longer trust he will pick me up, help me with the endless tasks of living. He’s sleeping and doesn’t want to be disturbed.