Gaslighting and conversations that make no sense. I feel crazy sometimes.

Jude brought his report card home with two tardies on it.  Hmmmmm, his dad was the only one driving him to school in the morning at that point.  Here is the ultimate, clearest gaslighting conversation ever to happen in the history of gaslighting.

“How was Jude tardy twice?”


Not that I know of.

I feel like there is something super sacred and magical about this conversation.  So I had to share it.  If you don’t know if you’re being gaslighted there is an easy test.  If you leave a conversation with an involuntary twitch in one eye and the back of your head hurts like someone hit you with a board, that’s gaslighting.


So I melted down. I didn’t need an intervention.

My 19 year old made eye contact and stated that it was time for an intervention.  Oh, she has a lot to learn if she’s going to work in the psychology field.

You are moody lately.  Either talking fast and running around or angry and then crying.  

Oh, so you’re saying I am bipolar then.”

“No, you know what bipolar is.  Just moody for the past month and a half. And I don’t know what’s wrong with you or how you’re going to be.”

“Could it be menopause?”  I asked and that seemed to stop her for a second.

“Or maybe the divorce?”

“Or finances?”

I decided to make her a list of all the problem right now that I face every day because I am the only adult in the house of 5 or 8 people depending on the day.


Then I showed this list to my friend, who thought it would be a good idea to make a diagram of it.  I might do that just for fun later today.

And then my boyfriend asked if he was #1 on the list.  I told him he was before menopause and after the bills, on the same level as Alex biting me on the ass while I was making a fire in the wood stove.


Crazy Making conversation about T-ball.

I still don’t understand what happened.  I found a notice in Jude’s backpack about T-ball signup.  He really wants to do that this year.  We talked about somehow making it work after last Spring when his best friends played and we didn’t have time to take him.

So the ex shows up this morning and I hand him the notice with sign-up times.  I can’t do Monday and Friday nights but we’ll make it work.  He stares at it for several long minutes.

This is just like Basketball,” he spits out angrily, “they don’t tell us what time practices are so how are we supposed to decide.”

He doesn’t have a team yet so they won’t know what time practices are.

“But they should tell us so we can decide.”

It all depends on what team he gets put on.

“So this is just a sign-up time.”


“Then I definitely think he should play,” he said and walked away with his chest puffed out, proud that he made a decision.

And this is why we aren’t together.  If I hand someone a half piece of paper with sign-up times on 2 Friday afternoons when I am obviously working, I expect to talk about the best time to go sign him up.  Not IF he is going to play.

But he wasn’t done yet.  He came back and said “If you wanted something else you should be more clear.”

More clear than handing him the sign-up times for T-ball?

This kind of conversation makes me feel crazy.






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.