So Over It

So Over It

Thankfully, self-absorption is the secret to getting out of a rut. As I had reasoned, there was no sense getting all worked up over issues beyond my control, i.e. anything outside of myself: the answer was simply to focus on me! Easy enough. My new Rollerblades arrived on Wednesday. These skates are heavier than my old ones, but I can definitely tell they are sturdier. And boy do these babies glide. The left boot still needs some breaking in, but this afternoon I returned to good ol’ Keynote Skating Rink (i.e., the corporate parking garage) and my god, I’d forgotten just how smooth the concrete flooring is. Apollo Ono is in da house! Got a great workout. I’ll certainly go back for more tomorrow.

In other news, I was uber productive last week at work– probably in anticipation of four days out of the office this upcoming week. A childhood friend of mine is getting married, so I’ll be in Maryland for that. Then, run the usual errands/chores with the parents– in and out, I tell you. I max out at about three days. Yup, no tolerance. Oh well. Self preservation. What can I do.

I’ve been getting a lot of home items crossed off the list as well. Tina kept dropping hints about chucking our old Sealy sleeper sofa that was taking up precious living room space (it’s 7′ long). John bought the couch when he had first moved back to the States in 2006, and it was the most comfortable sofa ever but the damn thing weighed about as much as an elephant. In my slow but steady shift towards a clean house, I resolved that the damn boat just had to go. Like immediately. But OMG, what a fucking ordeal this was. Seriously, I tried to get rid of the thing like four times in the past. The last time I gave up, because it was just too much of a hassle. The thing is, folks here are ultra deluxe: they can’t even be bothered with a nice, free couch. Really. I scheduled a pickup with one of the local charities. Two dudes came by, took the cushion out into the sun to examine it (yeah, can you believe that shit??), came back and INSISTED there was pet fur and stains on it (the dogs don’t even jump on our furniture), and then they left. St. Vincent’s my ass. We paid like $300 for the thing two years ago, and it’s in mint condition. Seriously. And they didn’t even want it for free. Picky as hell. Whatev.

After St. Vinny’s, I became even more determined to jettison the damn thing, so I posted on Craigslist. Got four or five bites in like 1 hour, followed by four people frickin’ flaking or giving me attitude for insisting that it go by 8:30 a.m. the next day. Whatever, woman. This awesome piece of furniture is FREE. Fork over some cash to hire movers to haul it to your house, ok? Lazy, cheap bastards. I’m frugal but that is a whole different level. The good news is, eventually, a fellow Asian came through. And this chick busted ass calling movers all over the place. They came the next day and the monster couch was finally out. Now there’s this odd space in my living room, but whatever. I need some freaking room to breathe, know what I’m saying?

So how are things with the hubby, you ask? Well following my 2.5 weeks of living alone, I had some trouble readjusting to sharing the space again. But the larger issue this past week has been his decision to go back to work sooner rather than later. Personally, I don’t feel like he’s done due diligence A) returning to a place that was the source of all his hell B) developing the necessary coping mechanisms to prevent this from occurring again in the future. In other words, is his balanced lifestyle regimen solid enough to withstand a full work schedule? I’m not trying to be negative. I’m not trying to piss on his parade. But I had to witness and suffer the consequences too you know, and I’m not about to go through that shit again.

And if this last week is any indication, this is only the beginning. Last Thursday, he attended a two-day off-site meeting, as a way of “wetting his feet.” Hmm let’s see: the first night, he said he would come home late. How late is late? Try 11:30/midnight. He said “late.” Fair enough. The second day, he said the agenda items ended at 3:30 p.m. I had dinner plans, and he said he would be home for the dogs. While I was at dinner, he texted that things were running late. He got home around 8:30 p.m. Four plus hours late? Are you fucking kidding me?

Earlier in the week, we had talked about going berry picking on Saturday, because he’s been whining about getting fruit at the “source” for making jams. Manual labor (farm work) is not my idea of weekend fun, but I figured we’d try it. On Friday, he tells me that a potential hire is staying through the weekend and he’ll need to meet him for lunch on Saturday. Oh, ok. Guess I was supposed to be happy I didn’t have to do manual labor. Fine. I got shit to do. So today, before he goes to lunch, he tells me he’ll be done around 1:30. When does he call me? At 3:30 p.m. Oh, and btw, can the guy come over. Some nerve. Yeah, I’m independent and I do do my own thing. But I didn’t know I would be doing it from 11:30 to 4 rather than 11:30 to 1:30. Great reintroduction to his work, right? Can’t wait. Whatever. Going to Maryland next week. Who the fuck cares. Over it.

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