When Your Ex is not an Adult

Here in Vermont we have a fall tradition that saves us from breaking our legs and hips and elbows all winter.  We gather our empty buckets and head down to the town garage in the Fall when it’s hot and dry and we fill them with sand, to store in our garages until icy days in the dead of winter when we need to spread the sand on the steep paths to our houses, which we tend to put on top of hills to avoid the Spring floods.

Now my soon to be ex is a procrastinator.  He waited until the sand pile was damp to fill up the buckets.  He is not a Vermonter and so doesn’t understand that damp sand will freeze solid in a bucket and become useless when it’s -20.

There was one bucket of sand left in the garage and I needed to sand the path so that my elderly mother could visit the house without having to call an ambulance.  A frozen solid 80 pound bucket of sand.  I tried to carry it up the mountain to the house, but made it about 15 feet and knew this was a terrible idea and I would pay.  In my younger days I would have dragged it, banging against my legs.  But now I bruise and ache and tend to become dysfunctional if I carry something that heavy.

So he came up to say good night to the boys.  And I told him I tried but couldn’t carry the bucket and asked him if he would carry it to the basement to thaw out.

It’s not my job.  There are plenty of other people who can do it.”

It’s heavy.  Can you just carry it up for me?

They can do it.  (Pointing at my daughter and her boyfriend.) It’s not my job.”

Gina can’t pick it up.  Can’t you just carry it up tonight or get it when you come in the morning to take the boys to school?  What’s the big deal?

I do EVERYTHING around here and get nothing for it.  Why should I do it?”

Why can’t you do it?  It’s just a bucket of sand.

“It’s not my problem.”

The boys are listening to you.  What are you teaching them?

“How to DELEGATE.”

No, you’re teaching them how to get out of things.  An adult would just go get the bucket.

I’m not an adult.”

By this time I don’t know if I was trying not to laugh or totally infuriated that a 300 pound man couldn’t just carry a bucket of sand 200 feet for his family.  Or maybe I was trying really hard to make a list in my head of what EVERYTHING is, seeing as I kicked him out and I’m not really sure what he does.  And I was watching Gina and her boyfriend trying not to say anything.  Although Gina did say “Are you really talking about a Bucket?”

So she made me this cartoon, which includes my boyfriend, who offered to bring me lots of dry sand when he comes later this week.28081509_10156271145686108_478470030_o.jpg



Let Me Compare Him to a Guppie

That’s the best I have these days.  These are stressful times.  Because once again the Relationship Expert got into another messed up relationship with an addict/alcoholic whose easy goingness was really passive-aggressiveness mixed with being high and drunk and whose blank expressions masked constant neurotic defense mechanisms and emotionally abusive thoughts.

I know this now because this is what he has turned into since I kicked him out.

He said two interesting things when I asked him to sit down and figure out how to co-parent with me.

Why do you get the kids?”

Because I didn’t drink to the point of passing out with them.  Because I’ve been financially supporting them.  Because I get up with them every single day without excuses.  Because I am an adult.

Now I have to get a good job because I can’t support myself on what I make.  And I need a big fancy truck and nice furniture because I’m alone again.”

Wait a second.  A real job now?  Not when you should be supporting your family, letting your pregnant elderly wife take 3 weeks off per baby, not looking for a job with benefits EVER.  And a truck.  A big fancy truck.  No concern for the children.  It’s important to have a big fancy truck after you fuck up your life.  I don’t get it.

What I do get that is the universe works in very weird ways and that if you just learn to let go, the things you need will come to you unexpectedly.  And that there is usually some humor to it.

Thus my new man, who has a great job, and a big fancy truck.  I didn’t even realize the irony of this until my best friend told me that the reason my soon to be ex got so passive aggressive to me was that he drove by the big fancy truck on his way in the driveway one night.  I am too oblivious sometimes.

I am waiting for everything to be final.  This spring is dragging by so slowly.  And I am so tired of these relationships.

Don’t tell a Vermonter how to use a drill.

Did he really say that to me?

I am still laughing, tinged with a bit of horror.

We brought a drill up to the kitchen in our attempt to wire a cell booster for internet.  It was a great plan, which hasn’t quite had the outcome we wanted.  Yet.

Anyway, someone set the drill down on the kitchen counter UPRIGHT and left it overnight.

He said to me the next morning “Do you want me to show you something?”  That’s the way he prefaces the “lessons” he gives me.  Like how to use a crowbar.  Or how to get your car out of a three foot crusty snowbank with a cup of sand.  Good lessons.

“NO.”  I said clearly and walked away.

“So look at this,” he said and held out the drill upright, pointed at the bottom of it where the battery is and then flipped it sideways.  “You have to put it down like this so that it doesn’t get bumped and cause blah blah blah.”

By the time he got to blah blah blah I had shut off.  Did he really just tell me how to put a drill on the kitchen counter?  Thank goodness.  All these years of almost causing blah blah blah to happen, the chances are really good that eventually setting a drill upright would catch up to me and the worst would happen.  Whatever that was.

“Did you really just tell me how to put a drill on the kitchen counter?”  I asked and had to shut myself in the bathroom to laugh.

Don’t tell a Vermonter how to get out of a Snowbank

I really should blog more, but I don’t want anyone to think I might lose my shit sometimes.

I actually considered murdering him with a shovel last night.

Gina gave me a ride home from work because my van is at the shop.  She turned too tightly to pull into the garage and got the side of the car stuck in a snowbank about 3 feet high and crusty.

What does a Vermonter do?  I hopped out and grabbed a shovel to dig her out.  It happened to be a garden shovel because all of the snow shovels were up at the house.  So here I am with a garden shovel digging her wheels out of the hard snow bank when He comes down from the house and instead of being HELPFUL, goes into the garage and gets a CUP of sand to FIX everything.

Meanwhile, I tried to tell him that it wasn’t a matter of being slippery, it was about having part of the car trapped in a snowbank.  This was when he talked down to me about knowing what he was doing and how I was stupid and had no idea.  He is an expert on snowbanks  and that only he knows how to get out of one.(He is an expert on flying through the air and landing in a river, but not on snowbanks.)

I kept shoveling.  When I was ready for her to try to move again I asked him to help me push and he said “Don’t push the car.  You’ll hurt yourself.”

This was when, shovel in hand, I thought of murdering him.  No one tells me how to get out of a snowbank, or that I’m too weak to push a car.  No one.

Thankfully Gina saved me and took the shovel away.

Although I think that the Vermont Statutes should allow insults about how weak a woman is as a reasonable defense for manslaughter.

The car was saved.  I’m sure it was the cup of sand that did it.

Walk of Shame, the Day he put the Car in the River, and Reasons for my Divorce (in case you were wondering)

I can’t not tell this story.  It’s just too good. (And it’s my blog so I do what I want.)

The car continued to fly down the road, across the grass and then flew 20 feet over a pile of logs and stumps before landing gently in the river.  23622466_10156017524466108_8187372101427567255_n

The man admits that he was going at least 45 in a 30, just before a one lane bridge on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in the dark.  After it rained all night.  And was 19 degrees.  And he procrastinated on putting winter tires on for the past 3 weeks.  I call this poor judgment.  He calls it an accident.

He was lucky however that he didn’t die.  Just to the right of the car, the river goes over some rapids and under the bridge.  If the car had floated, he would have died.  If he had landed farther downstream he would have died.  If someone hadn’t come along just as he climbed up the bank and to the road and offered him a ride, he would have died.  Instead he landed softly and took a moment to think before he got out.


We went the next day to have the car towed out.  Not an easy task as it had to be dragged over all that debris that he never touched as he flew over.  He had to get into the water to secure the winch to a back tire.

Then Karma struck.


The driver’s door opened and the one thing he had left in the car floated gently out, around the back and down the stream:  his favorite pool cue in its special wooden carpeted case.  He stood frozen in horror until it had disappeared under the bridge.  Only then did he hear me asking if he was going to try to save it.  Too late.  It was gone.

The winch broke twice hauling the car over a huge stump.  By the time it was on the back of the tow truck it was a wreck.  He dragged it up the road a ways to make sure it was secure.  Then the next lapse in judgment occurred, the man who drove his car into a river turned my van around in the middle of that same dirt road, around a blind corner with me and my children in it.

I followed the tow truck to the junk yard, watching for pieces falling off the car and enjoying the sparks against the pavement.  This whole thing felt a lot like my marriage for the past two years.  I’m not sure what pieces fell off.  I think I was just trying to keep it duct taped together.

Ah, but the last bit of Karma was still to happen.  At the junkyard he discovered that his check for the tow guy was in his pocket the whole time and was soaking wet.  Unusable.  He looked up at me as I sat behind the wheel.  Like I was going to do something to rescue him once again, like a thousand times before.  I just stared back.  Nope, not going to write you a check for this one.  But I will remember watching that pool cue case floating ever so gently out of the driver’s door of the car.



What the Passive-Aggressive Man does

It started with complaints about the sponge I use to wash the dishes.

“It smells like mildew.  The dishes smell like mildew.”

And then moved to microwaving the poor thing for 15 seconds to “kill the germs.”

Now it gets thrown out without any thought of getting a new one out from under the kitchen sink OR checking to see if there is a new one.

And EVEN WORSE THAN THIS:  He no longer lives in my house and yet my sponges still disappear.

This note appeared yesterday.  I swear that is not my writing.



Someone must have heard me saying “Where the fuck is my sponge?”

Then tonight this one joined it.


What I really REALLY want to know is:  What in the world is he cleaning with them before he throws them?  Or does he just look at them and toss them?  I am taking my new sponge to bed with me.


Fighting Banana Spiders


I asked Gina to find a ladder and clean the outside of the windows.

Seemed like an easy chore.

When I got home she told me that she tried but couldn’t wash any and then took me outside to see why.

This is what she found on the side of the house under the window she had decided to start with.  A huge yellow garden spider, just hanging out there waiting to crawl up her leg as she balanced on a ladder.  We watched it as long as we dared and went back inside.

“You should go show Grandpa that spider.  He would want to take it home.”  I said jokingly.

The poor child takes me too seriously.  She went next door and came back with her Grandpa who was carrying a butterfly net to capture the nasty little (I mean magnificent specimen) in.  He had another yellow garden spider growing in his back flower bed and they could be friends!

(And thanks Grandpa for telling me where the other spider has lived all summer so that I wouldn’t accidentally run into it.)

Gina followed him to his house and watch as he deposited our spider on a plant next to his spider and then proceeded to blow on it so that they would move closer together and meet and become lifelong best friends.  Grandpa wandered back inside his house until moments later when Gina ran in, saying it was an emergency!

My spider had immediately started wrapping up his spider in the web.  Apparently the friendship didn’t go as planned.   Grandpa rescued his spider and took her inside to “warm her up.”  He did CPR and then cried over her lifeless body (I made that last part up, although it could be true–I wasn’t there.)  He was very despondent over his mistake in putting two huge pregnant spiders together and expecting them to be friends.

RIP neighbor spider.  My badass spider beat up your spider.