Blogging during a Divorce; the things he left behind.

Do you remember my last divorce?

I started blogging afterward, but then he found it and got very angry that I wrote about him, even though I called him EX, and threatened to sue me.

I would love to blog this time, but I know his mother reads it and tells him what I am saying.  I’ve been waiting for the divorce to be final.  As thought that will be the clear line of my new found FREEDOM.  I guess really that is just a day with a number on it and the day I declared myself single was actually October 2nd of last year.

October 2nd is the day I went home and told him we needed to talk about co-parenting and that he had to find a place to live.

October, November, December, January, February, March, April —— wait, why is all his stuff still in my house?  Why are his pictures still on the walls?  Why hasn’t he packed anything?  Why is he living in the bedroom of the convict son of the local drug dealer?

All good questions.  So I had him sign a paper that said anything left in my house by May 1st would be mine.

April 30th shows up so fast that he has no time to find a place to put his stuff.  He comes to the house with “a friend” who gets bit by my dog who is chained to the porch.  The friend leaves and this Ex has tears in his eyes when he shares this story and says he has no one to help him move and no place to put his things because the friend got mad at him.  “I didn’t have time to set anything up.”

He left piles of crap in my house.  Just like the teenagers when they moved out.  Despite my request to not leave me a mess.  Here is a list so far of things I have to bag up and get rid of:

  • A bag of used doorknobs
  • a bag of dead light bulbs
  • a bag of wooden wedge shapes
  • 6 cans of insect killer
  • 2 empty bottles of insect repellent
  • 5 empty paint cans
  • a 20 year old remote control truck
  • 3 dirty empty coffee containers
  • 24 crumpled receipts
  • chainsaw grease
  • a cardboard box with various pieces of thick cardboard cut into odd shapes
  • 2 empty water bottles
  • 5 different plastic tubs with screws and nails and trash in them
  • a big stuffed tiger’s head sewed to a sock
  • retirement paperwork
  • 3 toolboxes full of crap
  • 2 empty oil containers
  • a kirby vacuum head from a vacuum we had 8 years ago
  • used sandpaper
  • a socket set and case strewn everywhere
  • some netting of some kind
  • a diaper box with everything from the car he put in the river, mostly just trash
  • a bucket of electronic parts that had to be trash and looked like something he took a sledge hammer to and put in a bucket
  • rusty ski poles
  • a dirty role of toilet paper
  • 6 plastic shopping bags
  • a large think piece of cardboard with a sword drawn on it
  • a styrofoam piece that he cut like a kick board and colored
  • 2 vices
  • old pieces of metal pipe, plumbing parts, rusting whatevers

I have not finished.  It is taking me weeks.  I still have the area under the work bench that smells like cat pee to deal with.  And pay to dump.  And sneeze at the dust.  And scream at the spider bodies.

By the way, I was the one who took his clothes and dresser and things out of the bedroom.  I think he thought he still had a chance of staying as long as his things lived with me.  Pfffffftttttttt.


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.






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.



Marriage, the Plunger Effect on sleep and exercise.

I’ll have to look back and see if I’ve explained the plunger effect before.  My husband plunges the  toilet VIOLENTLY so that there’s water and other things all over the bathroom floor.  Instead of using finesse, he uses FORCE like the suction of an F4 hurricane.  This M.O. occurs in other things he does as well.  It’s become a theme in our house.

Forward to today.  I’ve been on him about coming to bed with me instead of sitting on the couch watching television until he falls asleep and then waking up in the middle of the night and coming to bed.  Going to bed at the same time is really important to the relationship.  We have very little time together with only one day off together, 2 little kids, 3 adult children, and all the chores that come with living up here on this hill in the woods.

I’ve also been on him about exercise.  Because he gets none.

Then comes the PLUNGER EFFECT.  It started two nights ago.  He runs upstairs at 9, jumps into bed, and is sound asleep before I get there.  Then he gets up at 5:30 to exercise which I’m pretty sure means coffee and morning television, especially since I found the elliptical unplugged when I got up.  So then he’s so tired by 8:30 at night that he runs to bed again.   I’ve been very clear and specific about wanting to go to bed “together.”  I think.  Do I have to be so specific and include 6 minutes and 35 seconds of conversation at night in my request?

Do all men do this?

More penis stories

Little boys are so weird.  Already obsessed.  The 4 year old has begun falling asleep with his hands down his pants.  Last night when I tucked him in and rearranged his blankets just so, which meant pulling them all down and starting over, he was down there rubbing away.  I said “What are you doing?”  And he got so embarrassed.  LOL.  Poor little kid.  It’s like his own personal sleep aid.

Then this morning he was so sick.   We all are.  I let him snuggle on my lap in the recliner, with my oldest child sitting next to us.  I wasn’t dressed yet and had this thin v-next t-shirt on.  Next thing I know he’s rubbing my nipple with one finger.  “Stop with the nipple rubbing.” I said to him and the 21 year old started laughing hysterically.  I think she comes here for the hilariousness of my life.

I think the poor thing is also constipated.  For the two days I was truly down and out with the flu, I don’t think his sister made him drink anything.  So the husband was going to town for supplies this morning and I asked him to get some Fleet suppositories.

“Where can I find them?” he asked.

“In the poop section.”  I answered.  “Blue box maybe, they have orange handles.  Spelled FLEET..”  Seemed pretty clear to me.

“But where’s that?” he asked.

“With the laxatives,” answered the oldest child again.

“Where?” he asked again.


He looked surprised and that’s when the oldest child started laughing hysterically again.  “He thought you meant here.  You would have a Poop Section Mom.  That is so you.”

There is nothing wrong with making sure a person is regular.  Next time they ask me for some smooth move tea or want me to look at their turds to see if whole piece of whatever are normal or if I see the face of Darth Vader, I’m going to remind them that pooping is EVERYTHING.